This is a Holmes and Watson story and features the machine and a red herring...
Image by mohamed Hassan from Pixabay
TWISTS AND LOCATIONS
+++This is the machine talking: ‘we are spreading the irresistible for you to fall into; we know where you live and we have your number.’
You don’t say.
Oh my head hurts.
Where do we go from here?
They say there’s a rabbit hole around here somewhere.
Are you on the trail?
Oh, oh, the gravy is ringing in my head.
What gravy?
Why, the new age gravy of course.
I am boggled.
As boggled as can be?
Almost…
So foolish are the hungry that come to cry: ‘do it again.’
So put it on a dinner plate and serve it to me through a straw, all I would behold, to observe what cannot be seen any other way.
Hey, Dadio…
Oh, oh, here comes trouble.
I’m looking for the common self, can you help me?
Not really.
He was last seen rowing down the Champs Elysees; and then many people sent him messages to grow up or else, to which he replied: ‘or else what?’
After many days of waiting for an answer to this and none coming he rode off on his bike whistling a merry tune.
So he’s a sportsman then?
Could be.+++
Is it coffee time yet Watson?
Don’t know Holmes, is it coffee time yet?
Image by mohamed Hassan from Pixabay
PUMPING THE MOANING
+++The living room safety committee had heard all they could take and so took to the street with placards and a marching band to the tune of: ‘no more dodgy dealings.’
The standards committee, who all to a man and woman were guilty as hell were lined up at the other end of the street with trumpets and machine guns and a huge death machine in the middle that towered over all and was winding up its pocket-watch and counting down the minutes.
‘Are we to meet head-on then, or live in denial?’ was the thought of the day.
As the two sides closed in on each other with their mouths opened noisily, the fake news commented a running commentary on it all.
Image by OpenClipart-Vectors from Pixabay
Physically by about a month, the truth serum that had been injected into the water supply was taking effect and causing everyone to lean one way or the other, until they fell over and lay there forever and not moving anymore.
On hearing of this slight situation, the rustic slave of happenstance gave a rousing performance and provided the chips and soda to any still alive.
The dead ghost moaned in his grave of course as was his wont as he lay there all Longfellow in his pride.
Three steps into this idea and pulling his trolley of perceptions came the idiot for all he was worth.
‘Ding-ding,’ went his bell, while on the sidelines a gaggle of nuns were pumping their prayer machine for all they were worth and singing: ‘we must remember to take our medications.’
Sometimes later, at the end of a long tunnel, a five pounce mouse had got a-hold of the rest of this thing and was gobbling it all up into its belly so far down below.
Now, chained to her wedding in her black and tan grief, a lonely Gothic girl, heavily pregnant was shedding tears as the priest began the performance of the ceremony.
And next door to her, her husband to be, was grinding his teeth and taking nervous glances at his weeping bride composing poetry for the angels to take her away, far, far away.
Ah, the angels…
Image by Nina Garman from Pixabay
Anyway, a thousand pieces of gold later a new book on the market was revealing what everyone was thinking and was called: barking mad by the author, and though it didn’t have wings to fly it was doing the rounds of all the ale houses it could find before the government pulled the plug and banned it forever as not suitable for human consumption.
It was a quarter past three and dark as hell in a coalmine when the new book found itself staring at two eyes glowing in the dark…oh the dark…
The dead ghost moaned on and the noisily fake news crew grew their beards very long.
Sounds like a song.
It does, doesn’t it?
Hmmm…
And then what happened?
It is just here in this thing that the 1000 pieces of gold turned into the two sides facing each other in the street and gave a cry: we are not here; we were never here; but until then, let’s have at you.
Cowards turn chicken at this kind of event and run fast away from this thing that comes to cry their name: Oh where are my wings?
The devil knows; who cares?
The angels maybe did…
“Take me away from here,” said the Gothic girl in her poetry and weeping.
Well, the living room safety committee had objections that they objected to but went ahead anyway to say: humph!
Is there nothing more the spirit can challenge, said the snooze news, airing their briefs outside.
Oh you wealth of fecundity you.
Thank you very much I’m sure.
Image by mohamed Hassan from Pixabay
The other side: ‘the standards committee,’ was and were, but maybe more was, were not happy with this outcome and said so in no uncertain terms with their death machine that had become so bored with its lot that it was whirring and looking upwards towards the clouds.
Looking down on all the goings on by the beauties was the fake news crew in their whirly going around again and again and again.
When another huge moaning hove into view, the abbreviation without a comma said: I cannot go on like this.
So, the Gothic girl in her pregnant warning slapped the rest of this thing out of sight, and that was that, a majority decision in pumping the moaning.+++
Was that a red herring Holmes?
You must make up your own mind about that.
Image from Pixabay
@wales, The beauty of Story and Fiction writing is, our Imagination takes us for an ride of Imaginative Realms. Stay blessed.
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You're right, thank you...
Thank you and welcome.
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