When I was a kid I went to school and did my homework. When I became a father I no longer went to school but I had to do twice as much homework because I had 2 kids.

LOOK! Chinese men wearing Scottish tartan kilts. This is cultural appropriation of the worst kind. They must be stopped from doing this by some fully justified public outrage. Quick we should immediately start a social media storm and bring this to the attention of other mindless idiots with meaningless knee jerk opinions. Then we must hunt these men down and kill them for their crimes. Or alternatively we could just: GET A FUCKING LIFE.

(All image rights belong to Nationalist Notebook where you can find dozens more examples of either cultural appropriation or wearing something you think looks nice)

A SHORT STORY Part 2

Previously on A SHORT STORY: The worlds greatest detective Flintlock Hums and his companion Dr. Whereson; having accepted a commission by Lady Horriblee Badly-Beaten, of the Sussex Badly-Beaten's; have been assaulted by an unknown felon. Fortunately for them Hums was merely slightly hurt having only received a bullet to the face at point blank range. READ ON.

Having returned to 220A Barker Street for a light lunch, and lots more drugs, Hums and Whereson were now making their way to Charing Cross Hospital. The doctor having been unable to dislodge the bullet from Hums's skull with his cranial mallet. They'd decided to head to the hospital which was Whereson's alma mater. Only there would they find the surgical equipment necessary for such a delicate operation. Hum's had not only needed to change his shirt but had also donned a hat to hide the mark on his forehead. Nursing his aforementioned head carefully Hums strolled alongside his friend and confidante.

"I say Hums." gasped Whereson struggling to keep up with the pace. "I can understand why you had to change due to the soiling of your cravat but why did you insist I changed as well?"
"Is it not obvious to you Whereson?" The medic shook his head. "Immediately we exited 220B we were set upon by a vagabond. Someone knows we are on the case. That someone is intent on preventing us from catching the whitemailer. This is our disguise. Now, if you don't mind, could we please pick up the pace."

Whereson was already puffing hard and had reached the end of his strength. He was a Victorian British man though and that meant he couldn't allow this kind of foreigners weakness to delay them. He brushed his mustache then took a deep breath before hoisting his petticoats upwards. Hoping this would increase his velocity sufficiently to satisfy Hums. The corset was digging into his short ribs in untold ways while his wig was making him sweat like a horse in a sauna. This was Victorian London therefore there were a lot of Victorian Londoners crowding the busy streets. A situation further complicated by the fact Victorian London was always foggy. Not foggy in any normal sense but in the Victorian London sense. The smog was thick enough to eat and stung the nostrils like a swarm of psychopathic wasps. The sulfurous stench having the benefit of , in all but a few cases, rendering this mass of unwashed humanity stench, and thus vomit, free.

Luckily for them the hospital was exactly where they'd left it. Which was often the case where hospitals were concerned, but could never be relied upon in Victorian London. In order to remain incognito Hums and Whereson entered Charing Cross Hospital through one of its side doors. In this way they could avoid any close scrutiny and hopefully escape unwanted attention that might compromise their disguises. They were barely through the door when they were accosted. The rough, uncouth voice of a hospital porter stopped them in their tracks.

"Excuse me, but where exactly do you think you're going?"
Hums superior intellect moved into overdrive.
"Oh we're only here to play with the surgical instruments and do weird stuff to all the dead bodies."
He explained. The porter rubbed his chin then spat on the cat gnawing a lung on the floor.
"That's alright then. Operating theaters are second on the right, opposite the mortuary. They've got some fresh ones in to."
Hums and Whereson strolled down the corridor side by side.
"Does it bring back memories old friend?" Hums inquired.
"It most certainly does. Everything I know about medicine and surgery was learned within these walls Hums. When I look back now, across the intervening years, I can safely say those were the best 3 days of my life. There's a lot of studying involved in a Victorian medical degree. Even more blood and organs, but mostly I remember the hard 3 days studying. Here we are. Lets get that bullet out of you." Whereson paused at the doors to surgical theater number Death. "One thing though, before I get the surgical corkscrews out. Most Victorian men wouldn't be able to brush off being shot in the head as lightly as you do. In fact a few might have even had to go and have a lie down for a while. Yet all you got was a headache."
Hums smiled, knowing exactly where this was going.
"Simplicity itself. I've managed to train my brain to duck. Now let's get this slug corkscrewed out of my head as quickly as possible. It will give us more time to play with the cadavers."

It took barely half an hour to corkscrew the unwanted bullet from Hums cranium, although Whereson did need to judiciously apply a couple of hammers, a cold chisel and some corks. This left them enough time to desecrate half a dozen bodies and play 3 games of "How many eyeballs in my back pocket", which in Victorian times was a very popular children's game for all the family. As long as the children's family were grave robbers. Eyeballs weren't cheap in those Victorian days.

That very evening Hums was standing at the entrance to a blind ally his spirits restored. He had a pipe full of rough shag he was enjoying. Which was more than you could say for Whereson. His rhythmic animalistic grunts echoed from the dark passage behind Hums. A messenger boy approached the greatest detective.
"Telegram for Mr Hums. Telegram for Mr Flintlock Hums."
The defective eyed the 4 year old suspiciously. Surely the lad was of an age when he should be up a chimney instead of swinging the lead doing a 3 year old's work.
"That is I boy."
"I'm a girl sir."
So that explained it.
"Tell me girl, why are you not delivering this missive to my residence in Barker Street."
Hums snatched the telegram from her outstretched hand.
"Your telegram service provider has introduced a new service sir. It's called roaming sir. So they're rolling out a free trial to see if it takes off sir. Is it alright if I go now sir only my consumption is playing me up quite bad sir?"
"No. You can wait there in case I need to reply."
The telegram read thusly:
Accident compensation!!!!
You have still not claimed the compensation you are due for the firearm accident you recently had. To start the process please reply YES. To opt out send STOP.
"Will there be a reply sir?"
The messenger asked between blood filled coughs.
"No but here's something for your trouble boy."
Hums punched the message bearer firmly in the face sending the tiny figure sprawling.
"I'm a girl sir. I thought we'd established that shortly after I first arrived sir."
"Oh. In that case." Hums unbuttoned his fly and drew forth his famous Victorian detective penis before urinating all over the supine child. A couple of firm shakes. "Alright off you go."
"If it's alright with you sir, I think I'll just lie here and die. Thank you kindly sir. This is the warmest I've been all day."
"Suit yourself." Hums responded before kicking the youngster to the other side of the road.

He was refilling his pipe as he strode back across the street and 3 sailors strutted out of the alley with smiles all over their grizzled faces. A short while later Whereson followed them wincing with ever step he took. The disheveled sweating figure adjusted his wig and straightened his fake breasts as best he could. Hums offered his tobacco pouch.

"Rough shag Whereson?"
"No thank you Hums. I've just had several... Oh I see. I'll take a pipe if I may. Damn I've got seamen's semen all over my bloody mustache. That's something I never thought I'd say again after the Siege of Kabul."
The doctor handed back the pouch.
"How many is that now?"
Whereson eased his legs further apart with a pain filled grimace. His brow furrowed as he calculated.
"Well with those last 3 that makes 26 all told."
"You must have made a pretty penny then."
Whereson looked at his friend aghast.
"You mean I was supposed to be charging them."
Hums chuckled as he drew on his pipe. Puffing forth a cloud of blue grey smoke.
"We'll call it a night then shall we? Pull up a dead prostitute and take a seat."
"If it's alright with you I'll remain standing Hums."
"Oh yes. I take your point."
Flintlock took another satisfied puff while his companion lit his own pipe.
"The one thing I don't understand about this is what it has to do with the whitemailing of Lady Horriblee Badly-Beaten of the Sussex Badly-Beaten's. What have we learned from all this?"
The greatest detective in the world stared thoughtfully into the darkness.
"Hopefully you've learned not to let some cunt run up to me in the street and shoot me in the face. You fat, stupid, prick. That's not all though. I've also learned that I have possibly come up against the greatest foe I can possibly imagine."
"Eileen Adder?"
The great Victorian detectives friend exclaimed.
"No."
"Then you must mean Merrymorty, but I thought he'd died in the Rickenbricker Falls incident."
"No Whereson. This foe is far more cunning than either of my former nemiseseses... my nemisiouses... Than either of them."
"You mean...?"
"Yes. Merileen Mortyadder."

Who exactly is the mysterious Merileen Mortyadder? What does this newly introduced character have to do with the case? When will Whereson be able to sit down again without shuddering? What will Whereson wear soon? How many fingers am I holding up? For the answers to these questions and less tune in again for next week's exciting episode of A Short Story.