SBNation.com User Blog: Lycurgus

Candide: A Retelling (Chapter I)

Lycurgus — Fri, 26 Oct 2012 22:33:17 -0000

Chapter I

How Candide Was Brought Up in the Hawkeye State and How He Was Expelled from the Same

In the state of Iowa in Middle Westlohlia there lived a youth, endowed by his Norwegian Mother's overbearing Nature with the most gentle character. His face was the expression of his soul, black and gold as it was. His judgement was quite honest and he was extremely simple-minded; and this was the reason, I think, that he eventually agreed to attend Luther College. Old farm hands and tractor dealers in the state suspected that he was the son of one of Gable's daughters and a decent honest wrestler from Columbus Junction, whom this young lady would never marry because he could only prove seventy-one victories, and the rest of his matches were lost, owing to deficiencies of the spine. Iowa was one of the most powerful states in Middle Westlohlia, for its residents possessed both teeth and shoes. Its Great Rest Stop was decorated with a piece of pornography. The hogs in its lots formed a pack of chops when necessary; its grooms were of both genders then; the state profligate was its Grand Trumpeter. They all called Iowa "Heaven," and laughed heartily at Missouri. The University of Iowa once fostered Tennessee Williams and Ashton Kutcher, was therefore greatly respected, and procured research dollars with an acumen which rendered it still more respected. The University's football team The Hawkeyes, under Kirk Ferentz, was wide-eyed, slow, plucky and endearing. The wrestling team performed in every respect worthy of its homeland. The blogger Puntloss was the oracle of the state, and little Candide followed his lessons with all the candor of his age and character. Puntloss expounded on athletico-theologo-hawkeyeoniology. He proved admirably that there is no effect without a cause and in this best of all possible worlds, the Hawkeyes are the best of all possible Iowa football teams. "Tis demonstrated," said he, "that things cannot be otherwise; for, since everything is made for an end, everything is necessarily for the best end. Observe that the Iowa roster is full of two star recruits; and so Iowa can only play with two star recruits. Footballs were clearly meant to be punted, and so we throw for one yard on 3rd and 8. Quarterbacks were not meant to be trusted with an offense, and so we provide them with little experience or opportunity; and as blitzes were meant to surprise us, we are surprised by blitzes all season long; consequently, those who have asserted that all is well talk nonsense; they ought to have said that all is for the best." Candide listened to the podcast attentively and believed innocently; for he thought the Hawkeyes extremely wonderful, although he was never bold enough to have declared his fandom outright. He decided that after the happiness of being born in Iowa, the second degree of happiness was to be a Hawkeye fan; the third, to see them win; and the fourth to listen to Dr. Puntloss, the greatest blogger of the state and therefore of the whole world. One year when the Hawkeyes were playing especially well, the fans observed Adrian Clayborn in the backfield, giving lessons in experimental turf science to Rich Rodriquez's waiting maid, a fairly plain and dainty brunette. The fans had a great inclination for science and watched breathlessly each week the reiterated experiments they witnessed; they observed clearly Mr. Clayborn's tumescent season, the effects and causes, and returned home very excited, pensive, filled with the desire of winning, reflecting that they might be the team's sufficient reason and the Hawkeyes theirs. One week, on the way back to the bus, Mr. Clayborn met Candide and waved; Candide also waved, and then blushed. Adrian bade him good evening; Candide replied without knowing what he was saying. Next day, when Candide left the cafeteria table and hid behind a door, he found himself removing a Hawkeye sweatshirt from his bag and pulling it over his head. The sequined TigerHawk shown with great vivacity, its eyes sparkled, his knees trembled, his mind wandered. A teacher, a former Iowa State cheerleader and current Cyclone fan, passed by the door, and, observing this cause and effect, expelled Candide from the school by kicking him in the backside frequently and hard, yelling "You cannot be a fan of the Hawkeyes if you have not attended the University of Iowa!" Candide was forced to leave the state to pursue his education and all was consternation in the noblest and most agreeable of all possible states.

Chapter I

How Candide Was Brought Up in the Hawkeye State and How He Was Expelled from the Same

My Rice Maker Rigmarole

Lycurgus — Fri, 10 Aug 2012 21:06:38 -0000

So, I think I played this story up a little too much in my initial postings. I am not sure how mysterious or hilarious it actually will seem to many of you, but the details of this story have, to this day, left me perplexed.

Our story, that is, my story-I have always been compelled to include others in my recitations and it is a habit that has often caused me angst-begins, quite simply, with a desire to expand my grain-based diet. I have never been that impressed with sorghum or millet as I never acquired the kind of indifference to flavor and texture that must be required of goats or low born Scots, wheat has always been a bit of a bourgeois staple and my complexion is far more that of the son of a humble, northern hog farmer than of the haughty scion of the southern, cotton oligarchies, and rye, the sweet, rich grain, has the unfortunate potential to lace one's daily bread with heady liquor of lycanthropic hallucination; no thank you. Given these givens, and perhaps a few more, my gaze turned eastward and, not unlike the intrepid spirit of the ancient mariner, my appetite sought satiation on the shores of a distant and unknown land. Rice, the culinary foundation of ancient and revered civilizations, was my choice and I committed myself wholly to eating just a shit load of the stuff. Now, fret not gentle Iowans, no mere aquatic grass could rival the sun-kissed, adventitious majesty our own, dear maize; the Swedish and Danish blood that marauds through my veins would not allow me to turn my back on the craft of my forebearers, the sweetness of my native land, the great, enduring substance of that ephemeral central sea.

So, my palate was keen for rice, but my hand was unpracticed and my execution poor. The first attempts at preparation were botched and the product nearly inedible, nearly. I soon resolved to remedy my cause and began the search for some mechanical aid that might rescue this quest for massive and, predictably unsustainable, rice consumption. I had vague recollections of a Japanese student who dormed down the hall from me in my early days at Beloit. He supped almost exclusively on rice balls that he prepared in his room; they were delicious. His rice maker, a contraption I had not until then known existed, provided him with excellent, low cost meals and I, as an older, paunchier man, knew that my answer lay, as many do, in the sweet whisper of my former life. I would buy a rice maker, but which one? I knew nothing of rice makers or their respective qualities. I searched the usual suspects: Walmart, Target, Bed, Bath, and Boredom, but to no avail. The obvious answer lay in the magical realm of the internet. My search term "Best Fucking Rice Maker Ever" yielded some excellent candidates, but alas, I did not have the $400-500 necessary to make one of these appliances my own. I set my sight a bit lower and opted for a $100 model, a very good price, of the Zojirushi brand. In just days, the great market of Amazon would deliver me a whole new world of starchy goodness.

I anticipated the arrival of my rice maker like few things in my life. I would say that the wait for my full set of Titus Livius may rival the rice maker, but then, what knowledge of Roman Republic do we not crave. Did I know that something was amiss at this stage, perhaps, but I paid little heed. These things often took a few more days than initially predicted. It was not until I received an email from Amazon that I began to worry in earnest. The missive clearly stated that Amazon had received no confirmation from the seller that the product had been sent. I was, at this moment, only mildly concerned and I requested direct contact with the seller. The merchant answered back quickly with an apology and a promise to send me my rice maker by the next day. I was satisfied with this response and went about busying myself with the trivialities of my day-to-day existence. It was a few days later when I realized that I had still received no shipping confirmation and the date of arrival was fast approaching. I began to see my dreams of steaming plates, heaped high with fresh drifts of white and wild rice, evaporate before my eyes. In my deepest despair only the day before I was supposed to receive my rice maker, I was again assuaged by a hastily written email, this time informing me that the rice maker had just been sent from Oregon in overnight mail. Ahh, soon the rice would be all mine, I naively thought.

Like many things in my life, the concept is far more intriguing than the reality. When the rice maker finally arrived I was ecstatic. I admired its smooth, silver exterior and clean, sloping lines. I felt that I beheld an agent of a better tomorrow, the redeemer of my own sad existence, an inanimate and amoral savior to light the dark recesses of my unhappy soul. I was embroiled in a waking dream from which I could not escape nor would I want to, even if the vanguard of some great, tuberiforous host were to suddenly appear on the horizon. And then…and then I did wake and took up my rice maker and placed it lovingly on my counter top where it sat, unused, for four days, like a fittingly modest monument to my own confused and impotent desires.

Four days passed without incident; four days of innocence that can never be reclaimed. Then it happened. I was working quietly at my desk in the afternoon when I received a call. I did not recognize the voice or the number.
"Hello" The man said. "Is this Lycurgus?"
"Yes it is. Can I help you?"
"Well, I am so-and-so and I am from Houston. You see, my wife has recently discovered that her credit card information was stolen. A number of anomalous charges appeared on her account, including one item that was shipped to your address. I saw that you work at Texas Tech and so I knew that you were not involved in the theft, but I wanted to let you know that we have talked to the police and an officer might be contacting you." Described the man.
"Yes, that is strange. I have recently received an item purchased off of the internet."
"Was it by chance a Zojirushi rice maker?"
"Yes, yes it was."
"Very strange. At first I thought someone near you may have had the item shipped to your address with the intention of claiming it before you knew it had been delivered."
"Yes, that would seem more plausible than the situation in which we currently find ourselves. Well, thank you. I hope we get this figured out."

As I hung up the phone a curious feeling took hold of me. I went to my computer and looked at my credit card statement. Yes, I had in fact been charged for the very same rice maker that I had received and that the man on the phone had described to me. I quickly called my credit card company and had them cancel my card, then I called the Lubbock police. The detective seemed less idiotic than I had at first feared. He listened to my strange story and decided to call the man from the phone himself. A few minutes later I received a call from the detective telling me that some sort of investigation was proceeding and that I should place the rice maker in a box and just forget about it until a law enforcement official contacted me. I followed this advice for about five days and then threw caution to the wind and started using the rice maker. I have never heard from the police or the man on the phone again.

The rice maker makes good damn rice, though.

Sherlock Holmes: The Story of the Missing Offense. Chpt. 6

Lycurgus — Wed, 06 Jun 2012 21:58:13 -0000

Chapter Six: The Thing is Done; the Bonds are Fixed and the Thing is Done

"The Devil began the game up three and I mean to put him everywhere behind the chains." - Sherlock Holmes

Charged by Holmes with the care of Mssrs. Podolak and Dolphin, I made my way to the hotel in which the gentlemen were installed. I arrived in the lobby at approximately 8 o'clock and was directed to a top floor suite. I found their number and proceeded to tap loudly upon the solid oak door. My approach was answered by an unintelligible grumble from inside the room and a loud shot that could not be mistaken for anything other than the discharge of a large caliber rifle. The sudden appearance of a gaping hole in the plaster next to the door frame confirmed my suspicions.

My momentary catatonia was broken by a shout issuing from inside the room. "Try that again, varmit!".

I swallowed a mouthful of air and rallied my nerves against the fear of friendly fire. As I approached the door, hand raised, I remembered that Holmes had instructed us on a special knocking pattern that might help differentiate between friend and foe.

"Of all the absent-minded… that nearly cost you, Watson. To survive the mad ghazis of central Asia only to be struck down by an American radio announcer. Holmes would never forgive you." I whispered to myself.

I inched my fist closer to the door and clenched my teeth knowing that in failure I would hardly have time to hear a second blast from that frightening weapon before I would take up the cold, damp comfort of an English grave. Da Da Da Dum Dum Dum Dum Dum. I waited anxiously for a friendly response and was greatly relieved when I heard the click of the door handle and saw a frightened and sheepish looking Mr. Podolak before me.

"Oh dear, Mr. Watson!" He exclaimed. "I am so sorry, but we just couldn't take any chances and when you did not use the agreed upon knock we thought you might have been some sort of villain."

"It is quite alright, sir. I understand completely. One cannot be too careful in these dark days." I answered glancing at the hole in the wall. "Though, perhaps, I should be grateful that some care was indeed spared."

"I suppose we ought to do something about that before long. Wouldn't want anyone peeking in on us tonight." Mr. Dolphin observed as he entered the parlor from one of the two adjoining bedrooms.

"Quite right, quite right." I replied and promptly moved a small chestnut cabinet in front of the hole. "There, that might give us some protection."

Mr. Podolak nodded and smiled. The anxiety of the last few minutes was beginning to leave him and his warmer qualities began to show through once more.

"Gary and I were just about to play a bit of Gin. Would you like to join us, Dr.?"

"I am afraid I don't know the game gentlemen, but I was not raised in Her Majesty's service to decline a hand or ten of cards. Proceed with the rules."

Chapter Six: The Thing is Done; the Bonds are Fixed and the Thing is Done

"The Devil began the game up three and I mean to put him everywhere behind the chains." - Sherlock Holmes

It was shortly after 10 when my companions each excused themselves to prepare for bed. It was then that I began to prepare myself for the long night of vigilance that lay before me. I have heretofore neglected to describe the room in which I spent that restless night and will do so now. The main door opened into a large parlor decorated in very familiar and somewhat gloomy English style. A large window sat directly opposite the main door on the far wall and provided an excellent view of the city when it wasn't obscured by heavy, velvet drapes pulled tightly across its sash, as it was that night. The lack of light from the street was hardly overcome by the room, which was lit by a large, grey-stone fireplace on the west interior wall and two small oil lamps, which teetered precariously upon two bookshelves piled high with tomes, no doubt documenting past Iowa greatness. In any other room this might be thought sufficient for those purposes which abound in the common and carefree life, but not here. In this room the walls were painted a rich, dark wine color that seemed to drain the light from the very air. This made navigating the space of the parlor particularly challenging as it was cluttered with a peculiar overabundance of seemingly useless antique furniture. Foot rest upon foot rest and end table upon end table seemed to conspire with the darkness in a cunning idleness to prevent one from successfully reaching the lavatory without so much as a bruised shin or wrenched ankle. Amidst the dark walls of the parlor were two strong oak doors, one on the east wall and one on the west. Through these doors were the bedrooms in which my wards were to sleep; I prayed, safely.

Despite the general inconvenience of the dark, I was indeed grateful for the concealment it provided me against any detection by confederates who might seek to do harm of mischief. I placed myself in a comfortable sitting chair off in the darkest corner of the room and commenced my watch. The night passed slowly and quietly. Hardly a heart beat would not be thought a thunderous tumult in the eery silence of that room. It must have been nearly 3 o'clock when I began to slowly drift to dream. It is a curious thing about the nature of men that we should so often fear that which is unseen and unknown above that whose danger is plain, but surpassing. As my eyes closed and my breath relaxed, my mind came alive with the most frightful panoply. I found myself upon the northern wastes, alone and unclothed. My gaze was unfocused, but I was aware of a great threat beyond my sight. The specter moon glowed with an rusted shade that called to mind the diseased blood or rising bile of the piteous indigents I so often attended in my early practice. I strode across the spongy vegetation of the asian steppe, but the invisible threat followed, though did not attack. I felt that I could not escape the fear either through safety or death and my heart plunged into despair. It was then that the assault began. Before my blind eyes a great shadow rose up and, as it descended upon me in menace and rage, I found myself suddenly delivered far to the south. I reeled as I peeked below the quivering lids of my eyes and saw members of my old unit tramping about the earthworks of a frontier fort on the perilous border of the subcontinent. I pulled myself up to my feet and mounted the rampart to peer into the country about. Just then an ominous sound awoke in the hills beyond our perimeter. A slow, deep drum was pounding like the march of a great and terrible host. "Dum dum dum." The blood drained from me and, though my courage rarely failed in my waking life, I now felt the irresistible need to flee. My feet, however, had forgotten their uses and now adopted the nature of clay or brick. My strength waning, I pulled my legs into a slow trot and began to make my way from the fort. It was just as I had reached the gate that I was grasped by the shoulder and held firmly to my place. All hope of escape was lost.

"Watson, my friend, wake. You have forsaken your duty."

I woke in repose upon the chair that had been my post and a dark figure loomed above. My hand, acting alone among my faculties, brought my service revolver to bear upon the intruder.

The shadow spoke, "Watson, gather yourself. It is me, Holmes."

"Holmes?" I was dazed from sleep and had little sense of the familiar. "I see now, where have you been?"

"I will tell you, but first I pray you lower your pistol."

"My pisto… Quite right." I lowered the revolver and cleared my eyes of the fantasy in which I had been previously so engaged. Regaining my focus, I noticed that Holmes was dressed rather curiously. He was wearing a black sweater emblazoned with the visage of a sport-playing raptor on the chest. His pants were made of a rough denim that is so popular among the working peoples of this country. His customary pipe and overcoat were no where to be seen. He smelled strongly of pork and shoes were covered in a rich black dirt. "It seems you have had something of an adventure, my friend."

"Oh Watson, indeed I have." Holmes responded as he took a seat by the fire. "The night has revealed a great deal to me and in a few hours I believe our business here will be concluded."

"Excellent Holmes! Most excellent. Recount to me your discoveries."

"In good time, my dear Watson. In good time. Presently, however, I must find something to eat. I have been out all night and I am famished."

"There is some cheese and sausage in the ice box along the far wall. I will make you a sandwich while you tell me of your night."

"Very well, Watson, you have drawn it from me. I will tell you everything you wish."

"Should I wake the others?"

"No, let them sleep. We have time before the trap is sprung and the day ahead will be long for all alike. Now to my investigation."

I handed Holmes his sandwich and took up my place in the chair.

"Ms. Conners and I disguised ourselves as 'typical' Iowans, both in appearance and odor. Pork is something of an aphrodisiac to these people and its scent garnered us more attention than I would have liked. As I have informed you, I believe I know the identities of the perpetrators. Well, I should say that I was sure of two, but the third had me in doubt. With the help of my young street arab, Rambler, we discovered that they were staying at the Brown Street Inn. Ms. Conners and I picked up their trail there and followed two of the men to a meeting place behind the auditorium near the river. After some hours of waiting we saw a third man approach from out of the shadows. All three spoke in hushed voices, but Ms. Conners superior hearing was able to detect a few phrases that will be of immense use to us."

"What did they say, Holmes?"

"Oh, yes. They plan to kill Coach McCaffery." Holmes replied, more focused on the sandwich than the shocking revelation he just produced.

"What villains!" I ejaculated. "When do they mean to execute their plan?"

"I should think in only a few hours. Do not fear, Watson, we shall be waiting for them. I have already informed Detective Brewster and Mr. Barta has insisted on being there himself to 'crack some skulls', as he put it."

"So, it seems to be finished, Holmes, but you have not told me the identities of the criminals."

"Indeed, I have not. Would you like to know them, Watson?"

"Very much so."

"Well, I must say that I am disappointed you were not able to deduce their identities yourself, but I have come to accept that my talent for criminal investigation might be singular among the cultivated minds of the world. Very well, the two I have known of for some time are ex-coaches Dr. Tom Davis and Jim Zalesky. You may recall that the paper used to wrap the package sent to coach Brands was from the Pacific Northwest where Mr. Zalesky is the wrestling coach for the Oregon State Beavers. Mr. Bowlsby, the man who fired Mr. Zalesky in favor of Coach Brands, informed me that the termination was far from amicable and some threats were traded between the parties. Further, Mr. Zalesky was a student at Iowa in the early 1980's and would have been aware of the H.A.W.K. society. Dr. Davis has long harbored resentment over his own firing from the University and has had issue with those less academically credentialed than he taking up his mantle. You will recall, Watson, some mention to Coach McCaffery's lack of education in reference to his suitability to coach?"

"Yes, I do remember that comment."

"Well, those were the two I knew of, though, as I said, the identity of the third had eluded me until this night. For some time I was afraid that his identity would remain shrouded as he stood conversing with his accomplices, his face wrapped in shadow. Long I struggled to define his features in my mind and just as I thought to surrender the task, he stepped briefly into the moonlight. I recognized him immediately from my own research and once the meeting adjourned, Ms. Conners took me to the library to find out more on the man."

"I believe I know this man."

"Oh yes? Well then, my dear Watson, proffer your guess."

"It was Coach Norm Parker. The amputated leg at the O'Keefe crime scene was clear enough to indicate that. Not to mention that he had access to the Iowa athletic department."

"Very good, Watson. I had briefly thought it him as well. However, the weight distribution in the prosthetic tracks was all wrong. The gait was awkward and weight fell heavily toward the posterior. No, those marks were made by a man who wanted us to think he had had an amputation. In reality, his lower leg was intact and folded back against his thigh. It was a clever ruse and one that seemed to have worked on you, Watson."

"Who then is the despicable character at the heart of this conspiracy?"

"Coach Rick Kaczenski."

"Who?"

"He was a defensive coach at Iowa and has recently taken a position at the University of Nebraska."

"But why would this man want to harm the University?"

"That is a sordid tale of woe and insanity. Mr. Kaczenski attended the University of Notre Dame on a football scholarship and early in his days there, he became enamored with a football film called 'The Program' and one character in particular, a Mr. Alvin Mack. This character was an excellent player, but his career was cut short by an injury sustained while playing a game against the Iowa Hawkeyes. Apparently, Mr. Kaczenski was devastated by this injury to a fictional character, whom he idolised, and he became obsessed with revenge against all things Iowa. Mr. Kaczenski even went so far as to create a daily electronic pamphlet called "Alvin and the Quip Hunks". In a fit of delusion folded upon unreality, this 'blog', as it is known in America, describes itself as 'the witty musings of three attractive guys concerning the NFL career of one Mr. Alvin Mack'. Apparently, these men have taken to speculating on the hypothetical professional football career of a fictional character, including position, team, and statistics. He has never forgiven the University of Iowa for Alvin Mack's injury and his coaching position here was the perfect opportunity to destroy the athletic department from the inside. With his addition, the other two conspirators could finally effect the total destruction of Iowa athletics and exact their final revenge."

"That is terribly disturbing, Holmes. This has been a trying case and I am glad it nears its end."

"It is not finished yet, Watson. I suspect these men will not be cowed so easily."

"Perhaps not."

"But look." Holmes said as he pulled back the drapes swaddling the window. "The light breaks and our task is near. Soon enough we will discover of what stuff our American friends are made."

"Then let us be off, Holmes, and when their bonds are fixed, let the thing be done."

Holmes and I walked briskly toward the University athletic offices. Holmes and Ms. Conners had learned the location of the attack, a lot near Mr. McCaffery's office, and we thought to set ourselves nearby to intervene when the moment arrived. Detective Brewster and Mr. Barta met us near the lot and we proceeded to our hiding space in a row of bushes. It had been only a few minutes when I noticed Mr. Barta was repeatedly clenching his large and imposing fist.

"Are you alright, sir?" I whispered.

Mr. Barta responded with a devilish smile and nod. If it is possible, his confidence at once both frightened and comforted me. Shortly before 7 o'clock we saw Coach McCaffery approach in his automobile. He parked and stepped from the vehicle. I expected the attack to commence, but we saw no sign of the conspirators. Mr. McCaffery pulled a few items from his vehicle and then began to make his way across the lot to his office. It was when he had nearly reached half way to the building that he was assailed. Two, somewhat short, men came running from behind a building, wielding very large knives yelling in deep, angry voices. Mr. McCaffery dropped his things and prepared to defend himself.

"Now, Mr. Holmes? We must go now." Mr. Barta was nearly to his feet in anticipation.

"No, I do not see the third. We must make sure we capture them all."

"There Holmes, behind the tree. I see him." I pointed to a hunched shadow behind a large oak tree.

"Indeed, that is he. Go Mr. Barta, go Mr. Brewster!! Rally to our cause and capture the villains!!"

Upon hearing Holmes' shout the two assailants stopped quickly, perhaps rethinking their course. It was, however, too late. For just then Mr. Dolphin, Mr. Podolak, Mr. Brands, and Mr. Ferentz appeared behind the attackers, cutting off all hope of escape. The fight was short and vicious. Mr. Barta used head strikes to subdue Dr. Davis, while Mr. Brands engaged Mr. Zalesky in a lengthy match of strength and skill. Holmes and I ran toward the hiding place of the third conspirator. Mr. Kaczenski had quickly noticed that his plans had gone awry and was trying to make his escape. Despite the false prosthetic, which was still attached to his leg, Mr. Kaczenski was a limber man and both Holmes and I were gaining little ground on him.

"Watson…I fear…we may lose this fellow." Holmes said, breathing heavily.

We had just crossed into a grassy field and could see our quarry some ways ahead when a shout was heard from a stand of trees to the east.

"Grass him, JP!" A short boy, no older than 13, ran from behind the trees and drove himself into Mr. Kaczenski with such force as not often seen but in a great hunting beast. The man fell roughly upon the ground and did not move again until we were upon him. As we approached, we saw young Rambler emerge from the trees and lend the other boy a hand.

"I hope you don't mind, Mr. Sherlock Holmes, but I thought my friend, j-to-the-p, might be of some help on this errand."

"Mind, no I do not mind. You are both most appreciated. Thank you for this service, my dear boys." Holmes said chuckling as he handed both boys silver dollars.

"You are a strong boy. I have seen none the like as you." I directed my amazement to JP.

"I had me scrapple this morning, sir, and I am as right as rain. With pig bits in me belly, no husker of corn nor of catholic girls can weather me strike."

"Bless you son."

Detective Brewster approached, red-faced and covered in perspiration.

"How have you done then?"

"We have done well, Mr. Brewster. And how are you? Have you got them?" Responded Holmes.

"Yes sir. We have them both. Mr. Zalesky fought like a tiger, but with the addition of Coach Brands' brother we were able to capture him."

"Good then, it seems our job is finished." I said to Holmes.

"Nearly, Watson. We must present our evidence to the authorities, but I think that it will be more than enough to place these men in prison for a very long time."

Mr. Brewster took hold of Mr. Kaczenski and escorted him to a waiting constable.

Holmes turned to me and with a smile he said "America is not a bad sort of place. It seems the criminals here might be of a class worthy of my talents." With that he walked slowly back to the lot and I began to think once again about a nice roast goose and my dear wife Mary.

Sherlock Holmes: The Story of the Missing Offense. Chpt. 5

Lycurgus — Fri, 02 Mar 2012 20:13:35 -0000

Chapter 5: Mortifera Fraternitas

Mr. Sherlock Holmes and I found Detective Brewster pacing near the library exit. His face was a pallid color and perspiration rained down upon his unkempt brow. His face wore a look of befuddled contemplation. I recognized such a sweet innocence in the man, one wholly incompatible with his recent transition to such an unpleasant and serious line of work. When he saw my companion and me approach, a slight, languid smile grew from the corners of his mouth.

"Mssrs., what have you discovered? Is the case solved?" Cried out Detective Brewster.

"Not quite yet, my dear fellow, but a resolution is in the making." Replied Holmes.

"Where must we go next, then?"

"You sir, must hasten. You must reach the constable's office and make free Mr. Johnson-Koulianos, for it should now be obvious that he had no part in this evil business." Holmes gave his instructions, but must have sensed some apprehension in the Detective's face. In a moment of hard-boiled humanity, Holmes grabbed Mr. Brewster by the sleeve and spun him back until the two men met gazes at only a few inches remove. "Mr. Brewster, make no mistake, the dark clouds are gathering and the devils are marshaling a strength that may very well lay us low. You sir, must act the Thunderer. You are the master of the storm, the mighty champion of bloody chaos. With Watson and I your steadfast, hircine companions, you will prevail. Now steel yourself, Mr. Brewster, for this tempest will blow fiercely, but not at any length. Each of us must be prepared to strike at the enemy's very throat when the time arises. Now go sir and take comfort in the running of the course."

Detective Brewster turned away, his expression visibly buoyed by Holmes' speech.

"I fear he is not up to the task before us, Holmes."

"We will need all the friends we can muster over the coming day. The detective is not bright, nor courageous, but he is proud and the fear of humiliation to a proud man can be a powerful motivation."

Chapter 5: Mortifera Fraternitas

"Quite right, Holmes. Here is to hoping that Mr. Brewster's vainglory is maintained"

"Now Watson, shall we proceed to Mr. Ferentz's office?"

It was late morning when we arrived at the coach's office. Holmes and I entered the chamber and found Mr. Ferentz, red-eyed and sullen, standing at his window, staring blankly into the grayness of the late winter day. His hands trembled, but his countenance was fixed. Grief hung thickly in the still air and belied the loss of a simple acquaintance or colleague. It then struck me that Ken O'Keefe meant much more to Mr. Ferentz than one might initially assume by their professional relationship and it became clear that Sherlock Holmes' knowledge of this relationship was the reason for his insistence on our visit.

"Mr. Ferentz, we are sorry to disturb you on such a lamentable day, but Watson and I continue our search and a short conversation may go far in helping us to conclude this terrible business."

Mr. Ferentz remained at the window and responded with a meekness that I had not expected from a man of such resolve. "Of course, good fellows. Please, sit. I will tell you of anything you would like to know."

Holmes stayed standing and replied. "First, let me offer my condolences on the loss of your brother this morning."

Mr. Ferentz appeared quite startled by Holmes' admission, which was likely meant to elicit such a response, and I cannot say that I was any less surprised.

"Mr. Holmes, but…but how could you have known? Only a few are privy to the true nature of my relationship with Ken."

"It is simplicity itself, good sir. Your behavior at our meeting in London first aroused my suspicion. You seemed vehement in your attempt to avoid any investigation concerning your football program, which suggested to me that there might be some information that you wished to keep secret. As a matter of routine diligence, I wired your home town in Pennsylvania for your family records and found that there was a child, not born to your mother, who resided in your home until his eighth birthday and then, subsequently disappeared."

"Ken was sent away. As a child, he was something of a dullard, spending most of his day running head long into walls or feeling a constant need to reverse his direction of purpose like a confused yard bird. My parents could not handle these difficulties and, at eight years of age, Ken was sent to an institution from which he was adopted a few years later. I always maintained fond memories of when my older brother lived at home and I swore that we would reunite some day."

"He was not born to your mother though. Did you know that?"

"No, I was not aware. There had been rumors in my family, but nothing was ever confirmed to me."

"Your father had an affair with a young Amish buttermaid. Because of his pronounced difficulties, which you have already described, the resulting child was given to your mother and father to raise."

"Mr. Holmes, I know not from what depraved humor do you presume to tell such lies about my father. I would ask you to stop before our meeting comes to blows!" Mr. Ferentz exclaimed as he rose to his feet and shook his fist at my friend.

"It is no lie, sir. My own investigation proves it out. I spoke with the woman myself and she confirmed the tryst and its eventual product."

This response seemed to slow Ferentz's rise in anger. The man returned to his seat in a confused retreat. Following only a few moments of silence, his head rose again and his watery eyes met those of my companion. "This is all so troubling. What does any of this have to do with Ken's death or the loss of our offense?"

"I do not believe Mr. O'Keefe's death was a case of mistaken identity. He was killed by someone who knew of your kinship and the grief you might experience upon learning of his death. Who knows you were brothers?"

"Aside from my family, only Norm Parker and Hayden Fry, the previous head coach at Iowa. Neither of those men would commit such a horrendous act."

"I am not indifferent to your thoughts on the matter, Mr. Ferentz, however such sentimentality will not influence my pursuit of the guilty in this case."

"I understand, Mr. Holmes."

"Now sir, let us find the quick in this matter. I believe you and your staff are in grave danger. The culprits grow bolder by the day. They will make some attempt on your life or on those of Coaches Brands and McCafferey very soon."

"What must we do?"

"Remain vigilant and wait for word from myself or Watson."

"Yes Mr. Holmes. Of course I will and thank you both for your help. This is a most trying time for myself, my family, and our university."

"It is quite alright sir. Now we must take our leave. There is much work to be done tonight."

"What are your plans Holmes?" I asked as we left Mr. Ferentz's office.

"I mean to surveil tonight and capture the villains on the morrow."

"So, you know them by name?"

"I believe so, yes. My net is closing."

"I should accompany you then?"

Holmes laughed heartily at this suggestion, which proved somewhat irksome to my present mood. "What trivial task would you leave to me then?"

"Oh Watson, to not be cross with me, I beg you. I only laughed at thinking of your utter lack of deceptive ability."

"You do not ease matters, Holmes."

"Watson, you have many brilliant qualities, but espionage is not among them. No sir, you will be much more useful as a bodyguard. Together with Mssrs. Dolphin and Podolak, you will protect Coaches Ferentz, Brands, and McCafferey. You must keep them from harm until I am able to locate our quarry and drive it to ground."

"Very well, Holmes. I will serve in whatever capacity you think best. When will you start your undercover work?"

"Very presently. I must first locate Ms. Conners. Good luck to you, sir. I should think you will see me again in ten to twelve hours. Remember Watson, be prepared for anything."

Sherlock Holmes: The Story of the Missing Offense. Chpt. 4

Lycurgus — Tue, 31 Jan 2012 15:51:32 -0000

[A-bump. Bump. Bumpity bump. A-bump bump bumpity bump. -- PTV]

Chapter Four: The Corpse in the Copse

I awoke the following morning with such a sense of foreboding as I had not experienced since I was on campaign in the Kush. The events of the previous night had well robbed me of a peaceful sleep and my own nerves, which had served as faithful faculty on many previous Holmesian adventures, were in outright, tremulous rebellion. The day was calm and moist. The early spring air seeped into my bones and only exacerbated the shaking first caused by my neurotic affliction. I found Holmes in the common room; he was staring rather intently at a set of chess that was placed on the desk near a great window.

"What do you think of these pieces, Watson?" Holmes called out without turning away from the object of his question. "Peculiar, are they not?"

Eager for reprieve from my own depressed thoughts, I walked to where Holmes was standing and attempted a feat of observation for which my companion was well known and I, myself, had gained some skill.

"I see nothing peculiar. They are of the Staunton design and appear perfectly regular examples of Jacques' fine craftsmanship." I said in a rather defeated tone.

"Quite right, Watson. To a man suffering infirmity of the eye or to a simple child these pieces would be exactly as you have said."

"Holmes! Really, I must protest!"

"However, to a trained eye, one familiar with the equine nostril flare specific to over one hundred and twenty different master chess designers, this set is an obvious, ill-executed forgery."

My companion rattled on regarding the intricacies of the St. George carving style, but I had ceased to listen. It was clear that Holmes was exhibiting the same diversionary train of thought that had oft times served to relieve his mind during a stressful case. That we did not have his chemical apparatuses available to occupy him and smother me in fumes was something for which I was exceedingly grateful.

"Shall we proceed to breakfast Holmes? I am sure that our guests will be waiting for us."

"Yes, of course Watson."

We entered the HotelVetro's dining room and met Mssrs. Podolak and Dolphin and Ms. Conners. The mood of the gentlemen appeared much improved from the previous night, as they both, following our greeting, embarked on a surprisingly jovial, salutatory circuit of the hotel's other patrons.

"It seems that the pillow has worked its somnial wonder yet again. Our friends seem refreshed anew." Said Holmes.

"Alas, that is only partly true, Mr. Holmes. They are brave men and in the light of day they may act as they once were, but their own brightness does not last. This malignancy hangs about us like a dense fog and it is inescapable. It is a villainous hand that blinds and wounds, but has, itself, no form to behold and no heart to strike." Replied Ms. Conners with a sad desperation in her eyes.

"There is no denying the truth of what you have said; nevertheless, I hold that even in the deep of earth the spring knows there is light and seeks its warmth and so must you my dear." Said Holmes, displaying a depth of compassion starkly absent from his usual calculative process.

This kindness was short-lived, as a clamor near the hotel's lobby drew our attention. In my haste to investigate the commotion I walked squarely into detective Brewster, who was in a state of intense agitation.

"Mr. Holmes, where is he? I must speak with him."

"What is it my good man? What could have you in such a fluster?"

"Mr. Holmes? I must speak with him, Mr. Watson. It is of the utmost importance."

"I am here Mr. Brewster. What is the matter, dear man? You have disrupted our breakfast"

"Mr. Holmes, there has been a development." Said Detective Brewster. By this time, Mssrs. Podolak and Dolphin had returned to the table to learn more of what had caused such tumult in the dining room. "A body has been found and I believe it is connected to our case."

[A-bump. Bump. Bumpity bump. A-bump bump bumpity bump. -- PTV]

Chapter Four: The Corpse in the Copse

"A body? Where? Have you identified the victim?"

"At Finkbine Golf Course. The corpse belongs to the offensive coordinator, Mr. Ken O'Keefe."

"We are too late, Watson. I shall never forgive myself." Holmes spoke to me in a hushed voice.

"This nefarious business must be brought to an end. We must try our wits, fight this evil, and win the safety of this town and these people." Said Brewster.

"Quite right, Mr. Brewster. I must inspect the scene of the crime immediately. Do you have transport to the Golf Course?"

"My automobile is just outside the hotel. Accompany me, gentlemen, and we shall be there shortly."

The body lay beside the trunk of a great oak near the green on the third hole. We found Mr. O'Keefe on his back and covered with a light layer of early morning snow. His face was arrested in a look of serene, childlike innocence, which was in shocking contrast to the grisly nature of the wounds about his torso and lower limbs. Holmes asked that we remove ourselves from the scene and then proceeded to examine the body and its surroundings. Just as we hoped that he might have finished his investigation, Holmes stood and proceeded quickly down the fairway in pursuit, no doubt, of some elusive clue. When Holmes finally returned to us almost two and a half hours had passed and Detective Brewster, unused to my companions eccentricities, had grown quite short of temper.

"Well, Mr. Holmes, what say you? What is your conclusion? You have certainly taken up much of my day with your scrounging about the grass."

Holmes smiled at the characterization of his technique. "Why, Mr. Brewster, it is simplicity itself. Mr. O'Keefe was killed between three and five this morning by at least three men; two or more followed him to this place and one was waiting here when he arrived. The assailants were mistaken in their target, with their intended victim being a man of some amicable bond to Mr. O'Keefe. You should be looking for three men of average to below-average height. Of the two that chased the victim, one is physically well-developed and has had extensive training in martial combat. The man who waited here wears a false leg and is likely our confederate within the athletic department."

"You are a conjurer of the first rate, Mr. Holmes. Your theories are, no doubt, popular for entertaining the patricians of London society, sir, but they carry no weight in America, I assure you." Cried Brewster in a fit of jealous skepticism.

"Perhaps, if I detail the facts that have led to these conclusions, Mr. Brewster, you will see that they represent no deception on my part." Said Holmes defiant in the face of Brewster's accusation. "The time of the murder can easily be placed between three and five this morning. At three I heard a succession of wind gusts, which felled small branches and leaves outside of our hotel. I imagine this was the case throughout the city. The snow, which was found covering Mr. O'Keefe's body, began falling near five and ceased only fifteen minutes later. As you may have noticed, below the body there are a number of leaves and twigs, which would have been removed by the course's caretaker only yesterday evening. Also, the thickness of the snow on the body is near exactly the same thickness as that which fell on the surrounding grass. Thus, the body must have been placed here after the wind gusts and before the snow fall. As for the assailants, the snow and hardness of the soil obscures any sign of footprints, however you can see by his wounds that Mr. O'Keefe was killed by two weapons, wielded simultaneously by two very different men. Judging by the length and depth of these wounds, I would say that the suspect weapons are a short handled axe and the saber of a naval officer. The bruise on the victims cheek and eye suggest a series of rather brutal strikes to the face. One of these men was familiar with the infliction of pain and was built well for this purpose. You see that the victim was first struck lightly behind the legs, which indicates that he was fleeing and his attackers meant to immobilize him. In this orientation his face would have been hidden from their view and, given that Mr. O'Keefe wore the clothes of another man, I should think that he was not the intended target of their misdeed."

"By heavens, what would compel one to venture out on a night such as the last in the guise of another?" Asked Brewster.

"Kinship, Mr. Brewster. This man was loaned these garments by one close to him." Holmes said as he knelt by the body and motioned that he might show us some illuminating fact. Holmes opened the man's jacket and pointed to the initials scrawled across the tailor's tag.

"KF! The man they intended to kill was the head coach, Mr. Kirk Ferentz!" Exclaimed Brewster.

"Yes, I am afraid that is the case."

"But why would Mr. Ferentz give his clothes to Mr. O'Keefe?"

"Why indeed. There is something about these initials that must be investigated. Mr. Brewster, would you be so kind as to see Watson and me to the coach's office? I must speak with him forthwith."

"Certainly, Holmes. Though first I must ask you to explain one last detail. What of the waiting man?"

"Oh, yes. Well, I said that the snow and frozen soil obscured footprints, but a false leg distributes weight much more specifically and may leave a mark even in the dead of winter. The ground near the oak tree is covered with such marks, though they do not extend out into the fairway, removing him from the initial chase. This crumpled note, found near the edge of the fairway, likely dropped there by one of the attackers, reads 'FB at 2:30 Bring equipment'. The paper is marked with the insignia of the Iowa Athletic Department, suggesting the note was written by the university confederate and leader of this conspiracy. That the one-legged man did not participate in the violence, again evidenced by the distance of the false leg marks from the body, would suggest to me that he was the principal in this murderous detail. It is a curious thing that the captains of men so often abhor their own involvement in the savageness they so willing order."

"Splendid Holmes!" I ejaculated, having never ceased to marvel at my friend's abilities to unravel the truth from the most Gordian of entanglements.

"Now, if you please, Mr. Brewster, I must speak with Kirk Ferentz."

"Of course. Right away, Mr. Holmes."

We had been in Mr. Brewster's automobile only a few minutes before Holmes suddenly cried out. "Watson, the time!" Before I could respond he called out to our chauffeur. "Mr. Brewster, we must first stop at the university library. The special collections and archives department."

We arrived at the library and were met there by a man so old that he might have well shook hands with the pharaohs themselves. Holmes took the man aside, leaned close, and whispered something in his ear. The man turned to my friend with a quizzical look and then, with his exceedingly wrinkled right hand, grabbed Holmes by the arm and led him into the bowels of the archives. I started to follow, but, just before I saw the pair disappear into the stacks, I saw Holmes turn to me and hold up his hand in a sign that I should wait for him there. It was a half hour before Sherlock Holmes returned to the main desk. He was alone and wore a slight smile upon his face. Following a short greeting, he handed me a slip of paper.

"Read and translate please, Watson."

I unfolded the paper and read its content. "Horrifici Accipitris Virtutes Conservamus. My latin is somewhat out of practice, but I believe it says: we preserve the virtue of the dreaded hawk."

"Excellent Watson. That is an superb translation. Do you see? Now we have our answer."

"To what, Holmes?"

"To the meaning of that mysterious acronym, H.A.W.K."

"I see, but these initials do not match."

"Phonetics Watson, phonetics. You know as well as I that in latin the 'v' is pronounced as a 'w' and the 'c' as a 'k'. According to the university archives, this is the moniker of an old society, one started in the early 1920's by the famous football coach, Howard Jones. At that time, it was meant to commit young men to a calling greater than themselves, greater than their sport. The initiates included Iowa athletic luminaries such as Cal Jones, Aubrey Devine, and Nile Kinnick. It continued as a benevolent organization, working for the good of the university, until the 1960's when the spurned athletic directory, Forest Evashevski, bent it to his nefarious purpose. In a bid to regain his coaching position, Evashevski and the society sabotaged the efforts of the football program and enforced a climate of hopelessness and terror. The society was eventually dissolved when coach Hayden Fry and his acolytes, in a legendary campaign, defeated the society and forced its adherents to disband. Now Watson, it appears as if someone has revived this old curse and is using its specter to exact some terrible revenge."

"Holmes, we must act. We must search out this one-legged man and effect his arrest."

"With what evidence, Watson? No, my dear friend, though your enthusiasm is laudatory, I think we must wait until my net has fully closed around these villains. As of yet, we cannot make a case against any."

"What then, Holmes?"

"To Mr. Ferentz's office. I feel that he holds a key to this business and we must have it from him."

Sherlock Holmes: The Story of the Missing Offense. Chpt. 3

Lycurgus — Sun, 22 Jan 2012 22:25:21 -0000

[While we pull ourselves together after a weekend of general malaise, read another remarkably well-done fanpost from Lycurgus. -- PV]

Chapter Three: The Lady, The Loquace, and The Lout

Our quest to seek out Mr. Brands met with a small hindrance, as we found that he had abandoned his office for the afternoon and had engaged his athletes in intense training in the arena. Nevertheless, we were able to locate our quarry with small delay and continue on our mission. We found Mr. Brands in Carver Hawkeye Arena, at the top of a large stadium bowl. The contemplative, worried man we had met in London was nowhere to be seen; he had been replaced by a great, fearsome bear who seemed to be preparing for a battle of such singular ferocity that it would have Mars yield before its end. In those first minutes, as we approached, Mr. Brands was not aware of our presence and we were able to observe the man as he assaulted his charges, a rather dour-faced group of youths I must say, with the most caustic of verbal utterance and wild gesticulation. From this display I was struck by the curious fact that, though his words themselves were not indecent, his delivery rendered the whole impressive reproach positively obscene. I could only marvel at the frustration that was borne out before us, but, before we could hear more, a sideways glance from one of his hulking, humbled grapplers betrayed our presence and put an end to the spectacle. Mr. Brands turned and, seeing Holmes and me, his look of anger broke and was replaced by a slight half-smile, more an indication of mischievous pleasure than an appreciation of the warm bonds of manly kinship.

"Ah, gentlemen. It is good to see you again. Why don't we step away from the training, so that we might speak in peace?"

"My dear Mr. Brands, you seem very much at odds with the day. I fear we have chosen a particularly poor time to approach you." Holmes stated.

Mr. Brands laughed deeply and replied "Not at all. Not at all my friends. In fact, as you see me here I am very much more myself than that whimpering fool you met in England."

"Then things here are on the mend?" I asked.

"Oh dear no, my good fellow. Very much the opposite. We have performed poorly in three contests and quite badly in one since our last meeting. This is a most distressing predicament in which we find ourselves."

"Then, I do not understand your improvement in mood." I replied.

"My dear Dr. Watson, my mood seems improved for two important reasons. First, I am doing what I love, what gives me breath, what nourishes my very soul. Second, I recognize the same fire in others and I see it here in your companion, Mr. Holmes. I do not doubt that you will succeed in solving this mystery and help to return us to the glory which we have held dear for so long."

Holmes smiled at this, a public recognition of his abilities. "Mr. Brands, you are most kind. The tenacity which you display in such abundance will be, I think, very useful in furthering our cause. Now sir, I need from you a history of events, as you may recount them."

"Certainly, where should I begin."

"Begin with the circumstances surrounding your installment as head wrestling coach at The University of Iowa."

"As you say, Mr. Holmes. I was a three-time national champion here at the University of Iowa and, following my days as a student, I served as an assistant coach under my mentor, Mr. Dan Gable. I believed I was destined to be the future head coach for the Hawkeyes, but once my mentor retired I was maintained as an assistant to his successor, Coach Jim Zalesky, an extremely well-accomplished wrestler in his own right. You might say that Coach Zalesky and I did not agree on the direction of the program and, in 2004, I left to become the head coach at Virginia Tech University. In so doing, I took a number of highly talented athletes with me. Upon my departure, the success of the Iowa program continued to decline in such a way that was anathema to most Iowa fans and alumni. Eventually, the losses became too much and Coach Zalesky was fired, with myself as his replacement. The first year of my head coaching tenure at Iowa we finished eighth in the nation and that was followed by three straight first place finishes. Last year we finished third and this year I am worried that we will not be in the top five. It is most troubling."

[While we pull ourselves together after a weekend of general malaise, read another remarkably well-done fanpost from Lycurgus. -- PV]

Chapter Three: The Lady, The Loquace, and The Lout

"Indeed." replied Holmes. "Where is this Mr. Zalesky now?"

"He coaches at Oregon State University and has done quite well there."

"I see. Do you feel there is any ongoing dispute between the two of you?"

"Mr. Holmes, I believe that I am a good man, but I am not a man given to the ways of boon fellowship and that has resulted in many strained relations. I respect the man, Zalesky, but I cannot speak for his feelings toward myself."

"What of Mr. Gable? I would expect that former coach and athlete would maintain a close bond."

"Sadly, no. I think their bond is somewhat more strained than it once was. You see, Mr. Gable had a hand in Mr. Zalesky's removal."

"One more thing. Are you sir, familiar with any ancient dialects?"

"No, I should think not. I know but one word in Latin, exitium, and I seek to visit it upon any who stand before the black and gold."

"Very good, sir. Very good. I think that is all I require today Mr. Brands. Now, if you would be so kind as to direct Watson and myself to our hotel. We are quite tired and could use some rest before we continue our investigation."

Holmes and I left the company of Mr. Brands and his wrestlers to once again chance the streets of this strange American city. As we walked from the arena, I was struck by the appearance of a woman strangely familiar to me. She passed with an easy, youthful grace and seemed to return my gaze as one might to an old adversary.

"Holmes!" I cried. "That is the woman from the train. Or rather, as she appears somewhat younger, it could be her very daughter."

"Excellent Watson. Your powers of observation improve by the day. Though you were right the first time, that is the same woman."

"Impossible. The woman on the train was a score older than she. I would swear on that."

"Then you would bear false witness and fall in with the unfortunate damned. I tell you Watson, it is the same woman, though you are right that she appears different today. It is a wonderful thing, the art of concealment, and her skills are so developed that only the most trained eye may see through the ruse."

"She was disguised, but why?"

"Yes Watson, that is the very question. Quickly, let us trail her in hopes of discovering her motives."

The woman was obviously aware of our presence in the street and maneuvered accordingly. I would have been quite lost without Holmes' expertise in matters of tracking and surveillance. His stratagem was simple; we were to let the woman think she had evaded us and, all the while, maintain her within our sight. The plan was good, but the execution lacking and the woman finally did escape us as she passed through a Levantine dining establishment with a rather unfortunate name.

"That is an admirable woman, Watson. I should not worry about losing her though, for we will be dining with her and her employers this evening."

"Holmes!" I exclaimed. "What a boast you make."

"Watson, really. It is no boast, you shall see."

Later that evening, after being installed in our lodgings, there came a loud, impatient knock at the door of our room. Having a familiar, impertinent quality to it, I was not surprised when I opened the door to the same street Arab I had encountered on the train. The youth ignored me and crossed the room quickly to confront Holmes.

"Here sir, what you have asked for." The boy said as he handed Holmes another roughly folded note.

"Very good, young Rambler. Your payment." Holmes replied as he handed the boy another fifty cent piece.

As the boy scampered out of the room, I asked "Holmes, what does it say?"

"It is the location of our dinner companions, Watson." Holmes said as he turned his head towards the window in contemplation.

We arrived at our evening's destination shortly after seven. The place was a quaint, little bistro with few patrons. On the far side of the main room sat our woman and two companions. The darkness of the room made it difficult, at first, to characterize our targets, but, as we approached the table, they became quite clear. The young woman was seated with two gentlemen, each old enough to be of her father's age. They listened intently while the woman busied herself, no doubt, in describing the travails of her day. The man on her left wore a great, grey mustache that overhung an endearing, but devilish smile. I noticed that his leg was held out straight to the side of his table, instead of being bent under it as the other. This was no doubt the result of some serious injury. The other man had a sweeter disposition and his voice boomed with a melodic tone that, at once, commanded attention and respect. It was clear, by their clothing which was emblazoned with all aspects of The University of Iowa trademark, that they were both native denizens of this city and loyal adherents to its University.

"Halloa Watson. Why, if it is not Mr. Edward Podolak, Mr. Gary Dolphin, and Ms. Katherine Conners. Well hello there gentlemen and lady." Holmes announced, giving quite a start to the three at the table.

"Excuse me sir." Said the man on the left. "You have us at a disadvantage. I am Mr. Podolak, but I am afraid I do not know your name."

"Oh, tut. These lies will not do. You know me well, sir. For you have engaged the employment of this young woman to trail my friend and me from London."

"Very well, you have us Mr. Holmes. What do you intend to do?" Asked the man on the right, who must have been Mr. Dolphin.

"Do? Why nothing, sir. I know or presume that you are not the culprits in any standing matter. I merely want to sound out the depth of your knowledge in the case of Iowa's missing offense."

"As you said, Mr. Holmes, we are not culprits, but our knowledge of these evil doings renders us marked nonetheless. We hoped that by following your movements we might learn something of the deep truth in this matter and gain some upper hand over our tormentors." Explained Mr. Dolphin.

"You men are right to be concerned, but I think you rather clumsy in your movements. It is quite possible that your involvement of Ms. Conners in this case will only result in a greater danger being visited upon you and her."

"You are right, sir. Excuse our missteps and allow us to aid your investigation in any way."

"It is alright. We may begin again, as friends. Tell me what you know and I will promise myself and Watson to your safekeeping."

"We know rather more than is safe to discuss in a public place such as this, sir." Said Mr. Podolak.

"Let us retire then, to a safer location."

Our new companions escorted us out of the restaurant and into the night air. We walked over a mile before we came to a bridge which spanned a dark, meandering river. Holmes and I followed our guides to the middle of the bridge where they stopped and commenced their story.

"My friends, you have come to this place in evil times." Spoke Mr. Podolak. "I speak of an evil that lurks in the shadows of mens' minds and haunts the borders of our happiness, ever ready to encroach upon that which we hold most dear. The trouble with this place, gentlemen, is beyond mortal, but it has mortal agents. The acts committed upon this institution were done by vengeful men in the service of some great power, awakened by our own blind hubris."

"Good god man! Of what horror do you speak?" Holmes exclaimed.

"I believe it an ancient evil. One that has visited this land before. It has been nigh on three and half decades since it entered its slumber, but it seems it has awakened and we are the worse for it. I fought this evil when I was a student here and its recurrence is an event too horrible to be endured."

"Calm yourself, sir. It may be best if we confine our discussion to these human agents of which you speak."

"Yes yes, of course you are right." Mr. Podolak uttered quietly. "As I have said, they must be men of the darkest designs and intimate position."

"You mean to say that they are installed within the University?" I asked as the man nodded in response.

"I presumed as much." Said Holmes.

"This agent permits the others access to visit upon us their calamitous deeds. They are all men of power and their convictions wash away any reluctance to violence." Explained Mr. Dolphin.

"Who is this man?" I asked.

"We do not know, Dr. Watson. Though he is near the top, he keeps himself well hid. We know that one of the men is rather well educated."

"How is it you have come by this knowledge?" asked Holmes.

"Last year, I was injured by an automobile as I attempted to cross a street in Arizona. Just before I was struck I heard a bit of Latin that I believed was directed at me." explained Mr. Podolak.

"You are familiar with the language then?"

"No, sir. I recalled the phrase and asked Gary here to investigate its meaning for me."

"And the words?"

"I only heard the last two clearly. They were 'virtutes conservamus'."

"Good, very good, Mr. Podolak. That is a keen observation and we are fortunate for your memory."

"And now good sirs, I am quite tired from the day. Perhaps we can continue our discussion over breakfast?"

"Of course Mr. Podolak. How does eight suit you?"

"Quite smartly. Eight it is."

"Excellent. We will see you then at our hotel."

With that, we parted company with our three new companions. The night air had grown close and the long shadows, menacing.

"Holmes, what do you make of it all?"

"The case unwinds, we should be careful we do not follow suit."

"Do you believe that Mr. Podolak's unfortunate accident was connected with this case? Perhaps it was a coincidence."

"No, I am quite convinced that the attack upon Mr. Podolak was closely connected to the present case. Remain alert, Watson. The danger of our situation grows by the minute. I should be wholly lost if something were to befall you, my friend, before I am able to secure these depraved criminals."

"Then you have hope of success?"

"Rather more than that, Watson! I am very close to unraveling this whole sordid business. Let us hope that it is in time."

Sherlock Holmes: The Story of the Missing Offense. Chpts. 1 & 2

Lycurgus — Thu, 12 Jan 2012 02:49:28 -0000

(BUMP. -- Ross)

Chapter One: The Letter From Iowa [This is a slightly rewritten version of the chapter I posted the other day. I wanted it to fit better with the rest of the story]

It was January in London and I had been shut in for many days owing to persistent and infernal throb in my leg. This month is particularly ill-at-odds with the Jezail souvenir I acquired in Afghanistan, quite against my preference, which remains lodged in my lower extremity. Having had her fill of my loitering, my dear wife Mary had shooed me from the door with instructions to return with a fat goose, a round of roquefort, and a decidedly more pleasant disposition. On my return from the day's errands, I found that the handsome in which I was a passenger had turned down Baker Street and, with my mood somewhat buoyed, I requested the driver halt so that I might visit my dear friend, Mr. Sherlock Holmes.

I found Holmes, much to my delight, in a positively manic state. He had not slept the night before, which was evidenced by the strong smell of acid emanating from his laboratory and the great volume tobacco usings heaped upon the mantle. His cheeks were of a vibrant hue that often comes to him when in the midst of a thrilling mystery. He paced near the fireplace, clutching his clay pipe in the corner of his mouth, no doubt in deep contemplation of some murderous vexation.

"Watson! You have come at precisely the right moment. I know that you may be of great assistance to me in resolving a matter of the most peculiar and troubling nature."

Familiar with his many entreaties, I found this request singularly urgent and it drew me quickly inside the chamber so that he might produce the details of the case. As I took my seat near the fire, Holmes handed me a brandy and a large yellow envelope.

"Engage yourself with the particulars Watson. You know my methods, read aloud from the letter enclosed and then offer your thoughts on the matter."

Holmes continued to pace as I took up the envelope and examined the outside.

"The University of Iowa?" I exclaimed on examination of the return address.

"Yes! Quite intriguing Watson, is it not? According to my files, it is a middling school of no great repute, located deep in the heartland of America."

"America." I said softly to myself. "But what country crime could command your attention, Holmes?"

"I believe the most heinous. Watson, you know my opinion on the depravities that must exist…nay, are allowed to exist among country folk. The more bucolic the setting, the closer one is to evil." Holmes stated ardently.

I proceeded to reading the letter.

(BUMP. -- Ross)

Chapter One: The Letter From Iowa [This is a slightly rewritten version of the chapter I posted the other day. I wanted it to fit better with the rest of the story]

Dearest Mr. Sherlock Holmes,

I hope this correspondence finds you as well as it leaves me ill. My name is Garibaldi Barta and I hold the honored position of Athletic Director for the University of Iowa. It is in this position that I find need of your services, as I fear some great evil has befallen myself and my employees. I have recently confided my fears in my close friend, Mr. Joe Paterno, and it was he that recommended I contact you, as he has had some reason in the past to enlist your services. I do not wish to go into great detail in this letter, but you must know that the matter concerns the very heart of our University and its future. Because of this, I have dispatched three of my representatives to relate the particulars of the case to you in person. They will call upon you at 5 pm on January 10th. I thank you sir for any assistance you may provide.

Sincerest Thanks,
Garibaldi Barta
Athletic Director
University of Iowa

"Dear me, this man appears to be in the direst of circumstances; however, I cannot fathom what could frighten a man of such position so. The whole affair puts me ill-at-ease Holmes."

"Quite so Watson. It seems most unpleasant from the beginning. Though, perhaps we may be able to provide a satisfying end."

"Yes, Holmes. I know that if there is a man alive who may help poor Mr. Barta it is my companion in this very room."

"You are kind, sir."

"Mr. Paterno? I do not recall that case." I asked.

"Yes, yes. It was quite before we became acquainted, Watson. The Case of the Missing Turkish Delight as I recall. I must admit it was embarrassingly simple to solve. The suspect candies, for which Mr. Paterno had acquired a taste while serving in the Crimea, had absconded with a particular oafish man of Madison, Wisconsin. The critical clue had been a phrase written upon the wall of Mr. Paterno's office in cream filling."

"Cream filling!" I ejaculated. "A strange case, indeed. What was this phrase, if I might ask?"

"It read, 'The card commands me'. The case was easily solved from that alone." Holmes explained. "Nevermind the past; we must move to the case at hand, Watson. What are your thoughts on the letter?"

"I must admit that I see nothing extraordinary. It seems a standard piece of correspondence, even if the content is so unusual."

"Again Watson, you see but you do not observe. What of the dampness at the bottom of the letter? Salty taste, do you see?"

"Yes, but what could that mean?" I asked.

"Tears Watson, the man was crying when he enclosed this letter. I have researched this Mr. Barta and I think him a man of granite constitution."

"Crying would indicate otherwise."

"Aye, that or the gravity of this case which weighs heavily upon him." Holmes responded.

As I turned back to the letter, I was interrupted.

"Goodness!" Sherlock exclaimed. "It is very nearly 5 pm now and if I am not mistaken our new clients approach the front door."

After a short interval, the door to the room opened and in walked three serious and purposeful looking men. The man furthest to the left was bearded and rather shorter than his partners. His eyes were keen and shown with an intensity often credited to the meanest predators of the dark jungles of the subcontinent. His ears were mangled, but healed, and his body was well-muscled. He was powerful and instilled in me a kind of nervousness that one would feel around any creature who would make his living by tooth and fang. The man in the middle was taller than the others and had a lean face. He seemed of an Irishman as his cheeks grew red easily from cold or drink or anger. He wore a suit of an unknown fashion, but did not project the outward appearance of high station. The third man stood apart, quiet, but masticating furiously upon a piece of chewing gum. He appeared older, more worn by life than his partners and there was was an air of defiance in the man that suggested to me a troublesome temperament.

"Come in, come in my good fellows. May I offer you a brandy or cigar?" Holmes addressed the visitors. All declined.

"Well, I have here the letter from Mr. Barta and I am eager to hear of your troubles gentlemen. I know you must be tired from your journey, but the matter seems serious and it would be imprudent to wait until you have regained your full faculties."

The man to the left stepped forward with his hand outstretched. "I am –."

"I know you, Mr. Brands." Holmes interrupted, much to the shock of his visitors. "I know each of you."

"But how sir?" Asked the middle man. "I presume you do not follow our business here in England."

"Quite right, Mr. McCaffery, I do not. I know you because I have observed you and have researched a little about your case." Holmes explained.

"Mr. Holmes, perhaps a demonstration of your deductive process will put our guests more at ease." I encouraged.

"As you say, Dr. Watson. Upon reading the letter from Mr. Barta, I quickly did some research into the University of Iowa Athletic Department. As Mr. Barta stated, three men would be coming to see me and so, I identified the three most high profile programs at the University, American football, wrestling, and basketball. All three of these had seen some struggle within the last few years and I surmised that I would be meeting the coaches of these teams in a few days." Holmes then turned to the man on the left. "Mr. Tom Brands, you are the wrestling coach. This is a simple deduction given the state of your ears, the bite marks upon your arms, and the faint smell of urine that wafts from your person. 'Cauliflower ear' is common condition among wrestlers, caused by the build up of fluid in the cartilaginous portion of the ear. The bite marks and urine smell are tell-tale signs of a recent encounter with Oklahomans, as biting and urination are martial defense techniques employed by that nasty race. As you know Watson, I have made a study of such things in my younger days. I even admit to being something of a grappler myself and have met few, but the strangest of primates, who could best me. If I am not mistaken, you have recently engaged in a contest with Oklahoma State University."

"Yes sir." Mr. Brands responded.

Holmes then turned to the man on the right. "You sir, are Mr. Kirk Ferentz, the football coach."

"Yes, exactly right. How did you know that?"

"You have, on the tread of your shoe, a few stray pieces of artificial grass, which is used to surface the pitch of American football stadiums. You also have the faint smell of urine upon you, but it is much lighter than that coming from Mr. Brands. Your contest with Oklahomans was some weeks ago. If I am not mistaken this scent was acquired during the Insight Bowl, in which you were overcome by the Sooners of Oklahoma."

"Right again, Mr. Holmes." Said the startled man.

"You are Mr. Fran McCaffery, the basketball coach." Holmes said turning to the middle man.

"Yes. Amazing, simply amazing." Responded Mr. McCaffery.

"Not so amazing, sir. It was through a simple process of elimination that I was able to identify you. Though, I also know the habits of an Irishman when I see them." Said Holmes, gesturing to Mr. McCaffery's hand where the man held a small, half-eaten potato.

"Well, however you divined such knowledge, I now believe you the right man to assist us with our problem." Responded Mr. McCaffery.

"I will do my best. Now tell me about your troubles gentlemen. Spare no detail, I must have it all."

"Mr. Holmes, it is a matter of offense, sir." Said Mr. Brands.

"Who has offended you good fellows? While the insult grieves me, I must confess that such concerns do not usually warrant my attention."

"No, no. Offense, sir. It is a matter of offensive production. Each of our teams has experienced varying declines in offensive production over the preceding years. This year has been especially troubling and we each fear that the offense may never return." Mr. Brands stated earnestly.

Just then Mr. Ferentz sprang from his seat and shot across the room to the window. He was visibly angry and made quite a clamour as he walked. I caught sight of a small writing pad in the his hand and noticed him scribble vigorously upon it as he spoke.

"Do not listen to these fools Mr. Holmes. I beg you. There is nothing wrong with my team, sir, you must believe me. No one believes me" The last Mr. Ferentz spoke softly, as if to himself. His voice then regained its command of the room "I know precisely where my offense is and it is well protected. I need nothing from you, sirs."

"Come now Kirk. Your team is more anemic than ours." Said Mr. McCaffery.

"Gentlemen, calm yourselves. I must have details. The story if you please, I beg you." Said Holmes with some exasperation in his voice.

"My troubles, sir, are recent." Stated Mr. Brands. "They have begun only these last two years with the loss of our best wrestlers of the last decade. Last season our best man was beaten by a one-legged wrestler."

"An ill-omen if ever there was one." Interjected Holmes.

"Quite so, and now the losses seem to continue. We have finished second in our conference and third nationally. Now, we find ourselves ill-used at the hands of the hated Cowboys. It seems all for naught sir. My team has seen the height of success, but now I fear the fall like nothing before." Continued Mr. Brands.

"All will be well Mr. Brands. We will regain your offense, sir." I said, trying to comfort the poor man, just as Holmes shot me a glance indicating uncertainty in my claim.

"I believe that the cause is supernatural. It is most assuredly that David Taylor and his horrid horned donkey that are to blame for this calamity. I know this for certain, because it was shortly after I received the most disturbing package that my team began to decline."

"Did you bring the package?" Asked Holmes.

"Yes sir. I thought you might like to see it." Mr. Brands responded as he produced a small box, covered in heavy brown paper.

Sherlock Holmes opened the box and removed the most offensive piece of sculpture I have yet laid eyes upon. It was a small toy horse with a cone taped to its head and it appeared to be forcing itself upon a doll, made in the likeness of an anthropomorphized black and yellow bird. Holmes took out his powerful magnifying glass and examined both the package and its contents.

"The return address is State College, Pennsylvania." Stated Holmes.

"Yes sir. The home of that detestable Taylor and my nemesis, Cael Sanderson."

"Mmm, I see. Did you notice this small marking on the bottom of the package?" Asked Holmes as he pointed to a scribble near the edge of the box.

"It says, 'The eye of the H.A.W.K. is upon you'. What could that mean?" I asked as I read aloud.

Each of us in the room seemed unsettled by the contents of the package and the discovery of the curious inscription. Mr. Ferentz stood close to the window, peering into the night and obviously trying to appear uninterested in the scandal that unfolded before us.

"I have inherited my situation from my predecessor." Stated Mr. McCaffery. "It seems the basketball team has been absent offense for some years. I do not know the circumstances surrounding its disappearance, but I do know the consequences. We had been improving as of late, that is until we were recently beaten very soundly by the Buckeyes of Ohio State. It was shortly before this outing that I received an anonymous letter, I have brought it and the envelope with me."

Mr. McCaffery handed them both to Sherlock Holmes who examined both with intense interest.

"The letter states that I was woefully under-educated for my position and went on to threaten me and my team with continued failure. I do not understand the exact meaning, but the letter filled me with deep foreboding."

"Heavens! The same mark is upon this envelope." Holmes exclaimed.

We all, even Mr. Ferentz, moved close to observe that the same tiny phrase that had haunted Mr. Brands' packaging was upon that of Mr. McCaffery. The owner's face took on a pallid character and I encouraged him to sit in the hopes of avoiding any fall.

"The letter is typed, but that will be of little matter." Said Holmes, unaware of his guests concern. "I find this all very interesting gentlemen. Watson and I will most surely take your case."

Mr. Brands' concern quickly left his face upon hearing Holmes' words and he jumped from his seat to embrace us.

"Thank you Mr. Holmes. Thank you Dr. Watson."

"That is quite all right. We will be leaving for America first thing in the morning. That is if your wife is so inclined to see you off, old fellow."

"I do not see why she would object. She grows tired of my moping at any rate." I replied.

"Good then. Gentlemen, I bid you a good night and a safe journey home. We will meet you again upon our arrival in Iowa."

"Thank you sirs, so much. Mr. Barta will be so pleased to hear the news." Stated Mr. McCaffery.

The men began to leave the study when Mr. Ferentz turned around abruptly and flashed us a cold stare.

"Neither of you will get an ounce worth of cooperation from me. I dislike this whole business and I loath your inclusion in it."

Though startled, Sherlock Holmes and I shrugged off this rebuke and regained our bearings.

Facing me before the fire, Holmes stated "Ah, Watson. What a mystery? One surely worthy of my talents. I am so glad you will be with me on this adventure. I presume that there is much more to this matter than we have been led to understand."

"What could be more sinister than that which we have already heard?"

"I fear we will see. Pray Watson, if you still possess your service revolver, see that you pack it. We may require it before this thing has seen its end."

Chapter Two: Steam Conveyance and Arrival

Sherlock Holmes and I arrived in New York City on February 12th, having left Liverpool on a steamer three weeks prior, and endeavored to travel the rest of the way to Iowa by rail. Our rather minimalist sleeping car was nearly too small for the both of us; however, that mattered little as Holmes took to spending much of his time in thought in the dining car or engaging in seemingly trivial conversation with the other passengers. I expect he slept only a few hours a night and, as was his custom, barely spoke of our present mission to me or any other. One night I awoke with a start at having fallen victim to a particularly vicious apparition of a ghazi soldier wielding a fearsome sword and howling like a mad dog. After regaining my wits, I noticed that Holmes was again absent the car, though the clothes that he had been wearing earlier were laid out on his bed. Curious to this, I decided to search him out in whatever odd corner of the train he could be found.

I reached the dining car a little after 2 AM and soon abandoned my night's errand for a sip of brandy and a cigar. I gave the barman my order and turned to look about the car. At the far end sat a middle-aged woman of exceeding beauty. Her auburn hair was done up in curls and was topped by the most stunning emerald hat. Her dress was of like color and its elegance, along with the brilliant ruby necklace she wore, indicated a station that near passes for royalty in America. She stayed seated during my time in the car, all the while peering ceaselessly into the inky darkness. She seemed not at all bothered by the commotion at the other end of the car.

Just behind my right shoulder sat the cause of this commotion, two men whose appearance could not be further from that of their female cohabitant. They looked like deranged philosophers and carried on a conversation that seemed to confirm my diagnosis of mental defect. Both men wore long, unkempt beards which were topped with great red noses. The man facing me had silver hair, which fell in great, chaotic heaps down the sides of his face and served to frame two eyes of a wild and frenzied nature. He was dressed according to the best fashion, but his clothes appeared dirty and disheveled. He drank corn whiskey, pouring it down a great cavern of a mouth. The occasional drop would catch a stalactite whisker and run along the side of his cheek onto his jacket. He appeared a man of powerful action and mercurial temperament. His companion, who had a less imposing stature, wore a grey frock coat and a bowler, which did little to contain a mass of greasy brown hair. I could hardly see his face, but pictured the near double of Whitman or Tolstoy in their most obscene moods. Both men spoke, not in conversation, but more in simultaneous diatribe, producing a curious and slightly unsettling harmony of madness that serves both to repel and attract the casual listener. The jeremiad of the silver-haired man was delivered almost entirely in a haphazard meter.

"Winter, spring and summer
so far from you
my autumn lover

count me lost to you forever!
The winged hawk
all bonds to sever"

The brown-haired man spoke quietly, almost in a whisper.

"Two owls are in the house. Two owls have seen the mouse. Which owl will eat tonight? And which is forced to flight? Two owls…two owls to come to arms. Two owls to ply their charms. Which owl will have the day? And which owl will the other slay?"

The silver-haired man continued.

"Once a man with many a plan
I am lost once more
with no hope in store
to wander throughout the land

The book was written of Zook
he won a few
and lost to Purdue
his name they quickly forsook

The hawk is made of chalk
it writes my name
erases fame
and breaks my head with greenish rock."

I turned back to my drink, more than a little confused by this strange manner of conversation. I finished my glass and resigned myself to ending my hopeless search for such a master of concealment as my friend, Sherlock Holmes. Not long had a walked after leaving the dining car when I felt a tug at my coat sleeve and was startled to see the brown-haired man at my back. I began to chastise him when he pulled at his beard and to my surprise it came free of his face. At once I recognized my good friend and my nerves were immediately settled.

"Holmes! You rascal. In what sort of mischief have you been engaged?"

"Lower your voice Watson. I believe my fellow conversant to be much more lucid than he lets on. That is Mr. Ron Zook, formerly of the University of Illinois. He was recently relieved of his position and has taken to riding about the country as a sort of gentleman vagabond."

"But what do you gain by listening to that lunatic?"

"Information Watson, data. Though his decline seems to have been of his own doing, I believe that the same shadowy figure that hangs over our clients had a hand in Mr. Zook's demise."

"Goodness, that is unsettling. What have you learned of the case, Holmes?"

"I believe we are dealing with not one man, but a group. A cabal, if you will, that seeks the destruction of the Iowa Athletics Department. Their resources are great and their motivations are most certainly personal. Their moniker is the very hawk that was referenced in the writing on envelope and package I examined."

"Could it not be David Taylor? The man who sent the troubling package to Mr. Brands."

"Possible, but unlikely. Pennsylvania State University is located in the eastern portion of the country. The paper which enclosed that package was of a rare kind only found in the Northwestern United States. The address posted on the package was a blind, meant to mislead us and abuse our valuable time."

"This case has become more troubling by the day."

"Yes Watson, very troubling indeed. I fear that things grow worse for our clients as well. I have been told that, during the course of our journey, Mr. McCaffery's team has suffered another humiliating loss and Mr. Ferentz, the defection of his most prominent offensive player. The consequences of these events demand the keenest wit and most steadfast courage. Now, I suggest we both return to sleep, so that we may be refreshed for our arrival in Iowa City in the morning."

The next morning I was awakened by a loud banging at the door.

"Message for Mr. Holmes! I have a message for Mr. Sherlock Holmes!" Cried the voice of young boy.

I opened the door to confront my tormentor. "My dear fellow, get a hold of yourself. Mr. Holmes is not here. I presume he is in the dining car."

The young lad scampered away in the direction of the dining car and I grabbed my coat to follow close behind. We Holmes lounging in a corner booth with his breakfast laid out and a newspaper stretched before him.

"Mr. Holmes. I have the message you were expecting." Said the boy, slightly out of breath.

"Good lad. Here is a fifty cent piece. Run along now, but do not stray far. I will need you once we reach Iowa City."

"Yessir!" The boy exclaimed as he ran off.

"Holmes, who was that child?"

"Him? Oh, I found him at one of the stops we made as we passed through Pennsylvania. He claims he ran away from a enclave of Amishmen who treated him quite cruelly. He calls himself Rambler and he is properly boisterous for an irregular."

"You mean to engage him in the case then?"

"He is already engaged. He has brought me this message sent by the Athletic Director at Stanford University."

Holmes unfolded the paper and glanced over its contents.

"Just as I suspected!"

"What is it?"

"Nothing to concern you with now, but it may provide the key to this whole business. Let us eat quickly, for we are almost to our destination."

We reached Iowa City shortly before midday and took a cab directly to the office of Mr. Garibaldi Barta. The city was quiet and the streets unobstructed by pedestrians or vendors. The air was brisk and bit sharply at my face. To escape its assault, I pulled my scarf over my mouth. Holmes, however, seemed unaffected as he jabbered away about the classical history of wrestling and the roots of American football in our own English sport.

We were escorted into Mr. Barta's office by his secretary and told to wait until he returned from an errand. Once we were left alone Holmes went immediately to snooping about the place, turning around photographs and digging in potted plants. He returned to his seat only moments before we were joined by two men. The first to enter was undoubtedly our host, Mr. Barta. He carried himself as a man who did not turn from action. His silver hair was shown incandescent in the light of the room and set off an immaculate suit that would produce envy in the finest tailor of Savile Row. He smelled of leather and bourbon and greeted both Holmes and me with a yeoman's handshake and a stout slap at the back.

"Hello boys. It is so good of you to come."

The man that followed Mr. Barta was so much the lesser example of virile composure that his cherubic appearance had an almost comical effect. He was dressed sloppily as a man who owns fine clothes, yet has no sense to wear them appropriately. He carried himself similar to a street beggar and had an air of false confidence that was sure to elicit confusion and embarrassment in friend and foe alike.

"Mr. Holmes and Mr. Watson, I would like you to meet Detective Tim Brewster. I hope you do not mind, but I thought to engage another's services in this matter, considering its great import."

"Not at all, Mr. Barta." Replied Holmes. "The more minds on this case the better, in my opinion. I am sure Detective Brewster has many useful qualities that may be applied to this matter."

"I apologize Mr. Holmes, but I am not familiar with your work. I presume you are with Scotland Yard?" Questioned Mr. Brewster.

"No."

"Then you are a private detective?"

"No. I am a…I am the world's only consulting detective. I provide insight to other detectives when they have reached the end of their wits."

"I see. I can assure you that your skills will not be needed in this case. In fact, I have just informed Mr. Barta that I have solved the case."

"Excellent!" Holmes ejaculated. "Pray tell us of your culprit."

"Certainly. It is none other than the dastardly DJK, Derrell Johnson-Koulianous. The scourge of the Hawkeyes and a notorious member of the Iowa City underground crime community. It is a revenge case, I am afraid. DJK was unhappy with his dismissal from the football team and has since endeavored to destroy its success."

"Ha. Very good Mr. Brewster. You will make a fine detective, sir. Though I am afraid you are quite wrong regarding this case."

"Oh, am I?"

"Yes. You fail to consider the loss of offense on the other teams."

"A blind, to confuse the issue."

"Possibly, though why go through the trouble to send threatening letters to the other coaches? No sir, I think this goes much deeper than one disgruntled former player."

"Well, that may be Mr. Holmes, but I have already instructed the local authorities to arrest Mr. Johnson-Koulianous." Stated Mr. Barta.

"I see. Unfortunate business." Holmes said rather dejectedly. "Well, Mr. Barta, have there been any other developments?"

"Not of which I am aware, sir."

"Good, then we will leave you gentlemen to your day and call on Mr. Brands, if you don't mind." Said Holmes.

"Not at all. Good day to you gentlemen."

As we left Mr. Barta's office, Holmes turned and whispered in my ear, "Watson, we must work vigorously to reverse this injustice. I shall not see this DJK convicted for the crimes of those much more sinister than he."

I nodded in agreement and together we proceeded on to Mr. Brands' office.

Sherlock Holmes: The Story of the Missing Offense. Pt. 1

Lycurgus — Mon, 09 Jan 2012 01:02:34 -0000

(Well this is a jolly good read. Easy bump. -- Ross)

It was January in London and I had been shut in for many days owing to an persistent throb in my leg. This month is particularly ill at odds with the Afghan souvenir I had acquired, quite against my preference, and which remains lodged in my extremity. Having had her fill of my loitering, my dear wife Mary had shooed me from the door with instructions to return with a fat goose, a round of Roquefort, and a decidedly more pleasant disposition. Upon returning from my days errands I noticed that the handsome had turned down Baker Street and with my mood somewhat buoyed I requested that the driver halt as I would like to go visit my dear friend, Mr. Sherlock Holmes.

I found Holmes, much to my delight, in a positively manic state and once he saw me begged for me to enter and allow him to tell me of his latest and most troubling case.

"Watson, you have come at precisely the right moment. I know that you may be of great assistance to me in resolving a matter of the most peculiar and troubling nature." Holmes said in an excited and serious tone.

His words struck me as the most serious and drew me quickly to his couch so that he may proceed with his story. I sat and Holmes tossed a large envelope into my lap.

"Engage yourself with the particulars Watson. You know my methods, read aloud from the letter enclosed and then offer your thoughts on the matter." Holmes paced purposefully as he listened.

"The University of Iowa?" I asked as I noticed the return address on the envelop.

"Yes, according to my files it is a middling school of no great import, set deep in the heartland of America."

I proceeded to the letter itself.

(Well this is a jolly good read. Easy bump. -- Ross)

Dearest Mr. Sherlock Holmes,

I hope this correspondence finds you as well as it leaves me ill. My name is Garibaldi Barta andI hold the honored position of Athletic Director for the University of Iowa. It is in this position that I find need of your services, as I fear some great evil has befallen myself and my comrades. I have recently confided my fears in my close friend, Mr. Joe Paterno, and it was he that recommended I contact you, as he has had some reason in the past to enlist your services. I do not wish to go into great detail in this letter, but you must know that the matter concerns the very heart of our University and its future. Because of this, I have dispatched three of my representatives to relate the particulars of the case to you in person. They will call upon you at 5 pm on January 10th. I thank you sir for any assistance you may provide.

Sincerest Thanks,
Garibaldi Barta
Athletic Director
University of Iowa

"Dear me, this man seems to be in the direst of circumstances. However, I cannot fathom what they might be. The whole matter puts me ill at ease."

"Quite so Watson. It seems unpleasant from the beginning. Though, perhaps we may be able to provide a more comforting end."

"Yes, Holmes. I know that if there is a man who may help poor Mr. Barta it is my companion in this very room."

"You are kind, sir."

"Mr. Paterno? I do not recall that case?" I asked.

"Yes, yes. It was quite before we became acquainted, Watson. The case of the missing Werther's Original as I recall. I must admit it was embarrassingly simple to solve. The suspect candies had all been eaten by 'The Media', unbeknownst to the coach."

"I see."

"Well sir, what are your thoughts on the letter?" Asked Sherlock Holmes.

"I must admit I see nothing extraordinary. I seems a standard piece of correspondence, even if the content is anything but standard."

"Again Watson, you see but you do not observe. What of the dampness at the bottom of the letter? Salty taste, do you see?"

"Yes, but what could that mean?" I asked.

"Tears Watson, the man was crying when he enclosed this letter. I have researched this Mr. Barta and he is not the sort for over-emotion."

"Crying would indicate otherwise."

"Aye that, or the gravity of this case which weighs upon him." Sherlock Holmes responded, dancing about in front of the fireplace.

I started to speak again when I was interrupted by Sherlock Holmes.

"Goodness!" Sherlock Holmes exclaimed. "It is nearly 5 pm now and if I am not mistaken our new clients approach the front door."

Very shortly there was a knock at the door and some quiet words were exchanged before we heard footsteps up the stairs. The door to the study opened and in walked three serious and purposeful looking men.

"Come in my good fellows. May I offer you a brandy or cigar?" Sherlock Holmes addressed the visitors.

Each declined with gesture and stood solemnly as if waiting for another in his party to speak. The man who stood furthest to the left was bearded and short. His eyes were keen and shown with an intensity often credited to the meanest predators of the dark jungles of India. His ears had been mangled, but healed and his body was well-muscled. The man in the middle was taller, with a lean face. He seemed of an Irishman as his cheeks grew red as easily from cold or drink or anger. The third man stood apart, chewing loudly upon some substance. It was clear to see that all were men of substance and worth.

"Well, I have here the letter from Mr. Barta and I am eager to hear of your troubles gentlemen. I know you must be tired from your journey, but the matter seems serious and it would be imprudent to wait until you regain your full faculties." Sherlock Holmes announced.

"My name is Tom Brands and these are my colleagues, Messrs. Fran McCaffery and Kirk Ferentz. Are you Mr. Sherlock Holmes?" Spoke the short, bearded man on the left as he introduced the men to his right, respectively.

"I am pleased to meet you all. I am Mr. Holmes and this is my indispensable friend Mr. Watson. Together I pray that we may help you gentlemen and your University out of your current predicament."

"Oh, I hope so Mr. Holmes. This circumstance has us all so vexed." Replied Mr. McCaffery.

"Mr. Brands, I hope that your recent altercation did not put you too-long indisposed. Natives of Oklahoma are always formidable opponents." Sherlock Holmes stated.

The men sat back with a start.

"Sir, then you know me? I would not have thought you would be familiar with our recent defeat at the hands of Oklahoma State here in England."

"Not at all. I merely observed the bite marks on your wrist and the faint smell of urine upon your pants. Both biting and urination are known to be martial techniques employed by the Oklahomans, such nasty creatures. As you know Watson, I have made a study of such things in my younger days. I admit to being something of a grappler myself and have met few, but the most troublesome of primates, who could best me" Sherlock Holmes responded.

"Well, however you divined such knowledge I believe you the right man for the current task." Stated Mr. McCaffery.

"Tell me all about it. Spare no detail gentlemen. I must have it all."

"It is a matter of offense sir." Said Mr. Brands.

"Who has offended you good sirs?"

"No no, offense. It is matter of offensive production. We each coach a sports team at the University and over preceding years we have seen varying declines in offensive production. This year has been especially troubling and we each fear that the offense may never return." Mr. Brands earnestly stated.

Just then Mr. Ferentz left his seat and shot across the room to the window. He was visibly angry and wrote vigorously upon a small pad.

"Do not listen to these fools Mr. Holmes. I beg you. There is nothing wrong with my team sir, you must believe me. I know precisely where my offense is and it is well protected." Mr. Ferentz stated unconvincingly.

"Come now Kirk. Your team is more anemic than ours." Said McCaffery.

"Gentlemen, calm yourselves. I must have details. The story, please."

"My troubles are recent sir." Stated Mr. Brands. "They have begun only these last two years with the loss of our most experienced wrestlers. Our best man was beaten by a one-legged wrestler last year and the losses have continued since. Now, we find ourselves ill-used at the hands of the hated Cowboys. It is all for naught sir. My team has been to the height of success, but now I fear the fall like nothing before."

"Calm yourself Mr. Brands. It will be all right." I said, hoping to comfort the man.

"I believe that the cause is something supernatural. It is most assuredly that David Taylor and his horrible horned donkey that have caused this calamity. I know this, because it was shortly after I received the most disturbing package that my team began to decline."

"What was the content of this package and do you have the packaging?" Sherlock Holmes asked.

Mr. Brands looked about the room with embarrassment showing on his face.

"It was…it was a child's toy, a 'My Little Pony' with a cone taped to its head and it was forcing itself upon a doll with the likeness of our mascot, Herky the Hawk. Here is the paper and box in which it was enclosed. There was no return address. "

"Rascals!!" Exclaimed Sherlock Holmes. "Whether guilty for the loss of your offense or not, this Taylor must meet punishment for his sins against decency."

Brands appeared lightened by his admission and once again a resolute spirit returned to his face. Mr. Ferentz declined to speak about his troubles, blaming the whole matter on the overreaction of some sloppy journalists.

"I seem to have inherited the situation from my predecessor." Stated Mr. McCaffery. "It seems the basketball team has been absent offense for some years. I do not know the circumstances surrounding its disappearance, but I do know the consequences. We were recently beaten very soundly by the Buckeyes of Ohio State. It was shortly before this outing that I received an anonymous letter, I have brought it and the envelope with me. It said that I was woefully under-educated for my position and went on to threaten me with a full court press. I do not understand the exact meaning, but the letter filled me with deep foreboding."

"Was the letter typed or hand written?" Asked Sherlock Holmes.

"Typed, sir."

"Interesting gentlemen. I find this all very interesting. Watson and I will most surely take your case." Said Sherlock Holmes.

"Thank you Mr. Holmes." Exclaimed Mr. Brands as he shook both mine and my friend's hands furiously.

"That is quite all right. Watson and I will be leaving for America first thing in the morning. That is if your wife agrees, old fellow."

"I do not see why she would not." I replied.

"Good then. Gentlemen, I bid you a pleasant night and a safe journey home. We will meet you again upon our arrival in Iowa."

"Thank you sirs, so much. Mr. Barta will be so pleased to hear the news." Stated Mr. McCaffery.

The men began to leave the study when Mr. Ferentz turned around abruptly and flashed us a cold stare.

"Neither of you will get an ounce worth of cooperation from me. I dislike this whole business and I loath your inclusion in it."

Though somewhat startled, Sherlock Holmes and I shrugged off this rebuke and faced each other before the fire.

"Ah, Watson. What a mystery? One surely worthy of my talents. I am so glad you will be with me on this adventure. I presume that there is much more to this matter than we have been led to understand."

"What could be more sinister than that which we have already heard?"

"I fear we will see. Pray Watson, if you still possess your service revolver, see that you pack it. We may require it before this thing has seen its end."

End of Part 1

Blog Wrestling: Worlds Edition

Lycurgus — Sat, 12 Nov 2011 00:31:51 -0000

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