The shades are drawn inside the brick London townhouse and the sun begins to rise like a grey cloud. The wet streets begin to fill with people and sound and this was why the townhouse is shut up like it is. He wakes and immediately fills his mahogany pipe with dark tobaaco. Surveying his room, he tries to piece together the events of the previous evening. He remembers the cocaine and how Watson freaked out and ran out of the McKieser's Pub naked and screaming but the rest of the events seem like a mystery. He's usually good with mysteries but this time both culprit and crime allude him. He moves to bathroom intending to have a good vomit and a cold shower.
After drying himself, he considers, in his mirror, whether or not a moustache would suit his character when the cold air of the morning comes in through his thrown-open front door and the smell of fire fill his sensitive nostrils. Being a curious man by nature, Sherlock Holmes wraps himself in his flannel robe and lumbers to see what the disturbance and the commotion is all about.
Sherlock's feet pad their way across the wood floor, find their way out the front door and into a spectacle. Men and women scream "bollocks!", undertrained police bustle and give directions and a strange vehicle with flaming tracks is parked indiscreetly on the sidewalk in front of his stairs. Seeing that the people, and more importantly the cops, begin to notice his prescence, he commands his newly-cleaned feet to return him to his less lighted, more familiar dwelling. Logically, more questions about the night before arise in his large frontal lobe. He recognized the vehicle on his stairs as a Delorean, but cannot recall how. Just as he's about to chalk up his knowledge of fine automobiles to being so incredibly well read, he hears a scuffle and a profanity come from his study.
He notices a crazy-haired man in a trench coat murmuring and moving through each of his once-locked desk drawers with quick, flailing arms. Papers scatter the heavy air and cover the red carpet.
"Who the hell are you, and what are you doing?" Sherlock asks with a cough, thinking that whatever happened last night could in no way reasonably lead to him being legitamitly looted. The man turns around with a half start.
"What?" the man answers, both surprised and confused. "Oh it's you. And half nude no less."At this, Sherlock make sure his robe covers him in all the places it suitably should.
"I'm Dr. Lloyd, and I'm looking for the man in the funny hat himself, Mr. Sherlock Holmes," the crazy haired man says approaching quickly with an extended hand. Sherlock cautiously shakes the self-proclaimed doctor's hand and wonders out loud again what he was doing there. "Ah, good question, but I guess that's what you're known for. I've come from the future. I am involved in a frantic and delicate situation and am here to reference one of the cases you solved. 'The Case of the Kidnapped Transvestite Cocker Spanial' I think it was called." These words strick Sherlock strangely, as the man returns to rifling through his secret files and things.
"I say, are there not libraries in the future?" Sherlock asked, not really buying this whole rediculous mess, "And couldn't you have just found the book you needed there?"
"No," responded the doctor, "It was late and they were all closed. Say have you any vodka? I came quite a way and am beginning to sober up."
"A good idea," Sherlock nods." It's very early, yet only alcohol could make rhyme or reason of this of this bizzare matter." Doctor Llyod follows the scuffling old detective into his kitchen.
"Look here," begins the doctor after Sherlock pours two large shots but before he had a chance to propose one of his standard, practiced, witty, English toasts. "I've come to either enlist your aid or to kidnap you, you see I'm involved in a delicate and complex situation which involves the most..."
"You said that already," the hungover but still quick-witted detective states before throwing back his head and the shot into his open mouth and throat.
"Right. Right right," confirms the doctor, taking his shot with less enthuziasm and more pain. "Well, I've found myself in quite a mess and since I grew up reading of your exploits, I thought you would be the perfect man for this imperfect and difficult job. You see," the doctor starts, holding out his glass and looking at it for his host to give him a generous refill, "I'm a genius but I have a few mental problems." Sherlock looks up from his pour, wondering what sort of thing this mental patient was going to say next.
"I had this shrink who helped me with my ethical and emotional shortcomings while encouraging my creative and brilliant ideas. He called them brilliant. Those are his words not mine. I wouldn't say such good things about myself, although I easily could because the things that I have... Anyway, enough about my brilliance, I'm standing drinking with Sherlock Holmes in his kitchen! Well, needless to say, my shrink, although brilliant too, had his own ethical and emitional shortcomings. He was a cannibal. He would exercise great wisdom and intelligence during the day, advising patients like me, but a night he had a taste for killing and a an even greater taste for human hamburgers and human intestine stew. That in itself is not the problem. Although the society from which I come does not exactly encourage that kind of behavior. The problem is that I told him, in some detail, about my study of dimensions and time. He always seemed interested. How was I supposed to know that he would later betray our shrink-patient confidence and steal into my warehouse one night and take my amazing but delicate creation. He stole my time machine and disappeared. Here lies my problem and this is what I know. In our last session he told me of his deviant behavoir and that he had always wanted, for he was deeply versed in Roman history, that he would do anything to go back in time and take a bite out of Ceaser's fat stomach and swallow a piece of Cleopatra's thigh. He thought it would always be just a dream, but I made that dream come true. The next night my time machine was stolen, fifteen people were mising, and the cops were after me for questioning and arresting. This is my fault you see, and I want nothing to do with fall of the Roman empire. So I've come to look for him."
Sherlock stands a bit stunned. He'd taken four shots during this speech and was beginning to sway back and forth. The only thing he could think to do was question, so he did his best. "If this beast..." Sherlock tried, looking at Dr. Lloyd for a name.
"Oh, Lecter. Hannibal 'The Cannibal' Lecter he is called in the papers."
"Well," Sherlock says unsure of the direction he wants to follow. "Well, if this Cannibal the Lecter stole your time machine how the hell are you here swallowing my drink and what the fuck is that beautiful contraption that is perched on my doorway?"
Dr. Llyod asks for another shot with his arm and responds hurriedly. "I've always thought, 'Why make one of something when you can make two.' So I made two. That's a Delorean, the second time machine. Lecter took off in the first one which was a skateboard. So I think if we leave immediately we could catch him easy."
Dr. Lloyd grabbs hold of Sherlock's arm. "We've got to get moving," he says and leads him towards the bedroom. Approaching the stairs, they notice a woman hopping down toward them. Her long brown hair wrapped behind her head and she's covered in Sherlock's other robe. She smiles a glorious smile at the two speeachless men and lands with a band on the wooden floor. Throwing her arms around the astounded yet chauvinistically-proud Sherlock Holmes, she whispers, "Thank you so much for last night," and then was out the door. The doctor looks at the detective for an explaination and the detective looks at the doctor for some kind of clue. Once in his room, Sherlock Holmes dresses quietly, trying one last time, this time with effort, to remember what happened the night before. Dr.Lloyd brakes in, tells him to put on his cap, grab his pipe and to meet him outside. Sherlock does this and was amazed at the carnival scene that taking place outside his dark home.
"Detective Holmes, Detective Holmes," cry the policemen, waving their little batons and trying to manifest some sort of order out of the whole somewhat fictional scene.
"Over here!" shouts Dr.Lloyd, standing under the open door of the Delorean. Sherlock moves with his head down to his new acomplice or customer.
"If I'm going to accompany you on this diabolical quest we must discuss a price" Sherlock says while standing next to the open Delorean and the smelly doctor from the future.
"Two things," Dr.Lloyd says while pushing Sherlock Holmes into the driver's seat, "I can't go with you because I'm afraid that Lecter might see me and want to have me for lunch. And second, I've already recruited you some help. Hold on to the stearring wheel and when the ride stops get out and look for a short man named Al." He starts to swing the door closed.
"What about price?" laments Sherlock, who was starting to feel like he was getting hustled.
"Oh yeah," the doctor remembers, looking around quickly and preparing to run. "There's a pound of cocaine in the glove compartment. That should do it." He starts to close the door again then asks, "Hey, what was the name of the pretty thing that I met in your stairway?" Sherlock shruggs. "Well, I'm going to go look for her," he says throwing the car in gear and slamming the wieghty door. And just like that, the detective, whose fame was second to only Angela Lansbury's, was off through the cosmos.
He arrives on Lakeshore Drive, in the heart of Chicago, in 1928, with a head full of the kind of strange images you see while time-travelling, and a nose full of fine uncut powder from the future. He's wired. He throws open the door and takes to the street with a mision and smoking pipe.
"Al. You know, Al? Hey, where's Al?" he asks every stranger that passes him in the crowded, city sidewalk. Huge buildings surround him and strange electronic carriages gallop through the street. He looks at this new world around him with the eyes of child or a hippie at Woodstock. Eventually, he meets someone who knows Al and is taken into an alley by three large men, dressed in suits, and beaten up a little.
When he regains conciouness and focus, he finds himself in a lavish room full of smoke and whispering people. He lights his pipe and concentrates on the little fellow who had a tommy gun pressed to his nose. "Where'd you get the coke?" said the little man with force. "That's my racket and nobody else is going to compete with me."
"Uh," Sherlock stammers, not sure who he was explaining himself to." I've got a whole glove compartment full. Some crazy doctor gave me a Dolorean, a pound of cocaine, and sent me off to look for some killer. First, I must find Al." The little man removes the gun from his face.
"You must be the esteemed Detective Sherlock Holmes. I should of known by the funny hat," the man says going behind a large desk and falling in to a big leather chair across from the coke-head foreigner who was beginning to get angry at all the comments he was getting on his favorite yet tasteless chapeaux.
"I'm Al," says the man, putting down his gun for a woman who's standing close by. "I'm the man you are looking for. The doctor and I are close friends. He helps me with my bets and I let him have his way with my drugs and my women." Al looks up and smiles at the woman who stands a good three feet over him. "His proposition of hunting this animal down intrigued me. We planned the whole thing over dinner on the Hindenberg. I've tired of hunting the goofy people of this time. Tracking down a known killer and madman from the future I find fascinating. But since I'm not the smartest man alive, I can't even do my taxes, I thought it would be smart to recruit someone. We decided first on Matlock but then thought you would be better because you don't require diapers."
After furtur explaination, a few drinks, a quickie with one of the waitresses, and an understanding between the two of them, they're off through time in the Dolorean. But something doesn't work. Rather than ending up in the time of the Egyptian and Roman Empires, they finnd themselves in Santa Fe, New Mexico, circa 1900.
"Shit," says the little gangster with the impatience he was known for. "This ain't right. Do you think they have phones now? I should call my uncle or at least my Godfather." Sherlock surveys the dusty scene outside the passenger window and surmises that the situation wasn't right at all. "No shit, Sherlock," Capone says, getting out of the time machine knowing that there had to be a saloon around somewhere.
Walking through the main dirt street of Santa Fe, Al Capone wishes he had on spurs so he could make that spur sound while walking. Sherlock Holmes is struck by that same impression of madness that hit him when he went out his door that fateful day. Or was this the same day? Sherlock is confused and the circus surrounding him didn't help things. Unshaven men run and ride through the streets firing pistols and half-dressed women whistle at him and yell, "Hey you, in the funny hat!"
The whole scene hit his already exinguished nerves hard and the last straw is when Al starts off after a tumbleweed like a giggling kid chasing a stray cat. The saloon is in sight now and Sherlock makes a B-line toward it, content with the opportunity of trying that Western whiskey that he heard could burn a hole through a living tree.
He's immediately nervous when he enters the swinging doors and everyone, and the piano music, stop to surmise him. He feels better when Capone joins him. After all, Al Capone is a gangster and has a two-foot tommy gun under his coat. They make their way through the silence to the bar. The shots they take almost put them on the floor. Any novice drinker would've surely died. The music starts back up, dancing resumes, and a card game was ends with a "Cheater!" and a gun shot.
Capone's enthralled with a certain chorus girl who lifts her dress up extra high and gives him a wink when she saw the manner in which he was dressed. Sherlock's perplexed with their situation. Having ended up in the wrong time zone with no perspective as to to where their imfamous target might be, the detective pulls on his pipe hoping it will give him a helpful hint like it had so many times in the past.
A gun shot and everyone hits the floor. Entering the bar is Dr. Lloyd himself, accompanied with an unidentified cowboy who Sherlock later confirmed was Billy the Kid. Noticing the historic duo, the doctor approaches them.
"What the hell are you two doing here? You fancy yourselfs cowboys, eh? Well wait until you have to use the can. I see you found the little bastard gangster," Dr.Lloyd smiles at Sherlock. Turning to Al Capone who's still staring at his dancing flower, "and I see you found this badly dressed intellectual.” Dr. Lloyd smiles and steals a cigarette from the pocket of his young cowboy friend. Sherlock looks at him with sad eyes, not proud of the information he is about to give his new employer who paid with such fine currency.
"Regrettably, a mistake was made. After meeting up with Mr. Capone that damn time machine of yours brought us here. We haven't they faintest idea where your Lecter friend is or how in the world to get out of this..." But something occurs to him that causes him to stop. "Hey how did you get here? I left you in London, in the future. What the hell is going on and who is you're jumpy companion?" Billy the Kid does appear very nervous.
"Oh, right," Lloyd confirms. To Billy the Kid he says, "This asshole has no idea what has happened". Billy the Kid doesn't seem amused. "Alright, alright," the doctor begins, "well, you know how I said, 'Why make one of something when you can make two?' Well, I figured why make two when you can make three? So I made three. The third one is a shoebox and isn't nearly as comfortable or as fashionable as the means that you have been travelling in. Don't worry about Lecter, his time machine didn't work right either. I mean it took him back in time only not to the right place. He ended up in the middle of the Sahara Desert and was forced to eat himself rather than starve. But that means that I am going to be blamed for the crimes he committed back in the twentieth century." To say the least, these statements leave Sherlock aghast and the doctor hasn't even told him the strange part. "Well, I found your lady friend shacking up with Watson who claims to be your friend. With friends like that... you know. Anyway, she turned out to be a real femme fatale. Ah, I thought we were truely in love until we turned over the National Bank of London and she shot me in the leg and took of with the loot in my fourth time machine." Al Capone had begun listening and has a big grin across his face because the girl he had been oglling was now sitting on his lap and whispering her price and intentions into his ear.
"Fourth time machine?" Sherlock asks, hoping that this whole thing was just some drug-induced dream.
"Yeah, yeah, yeah. Can you believe it. But she fucked up you see. The fourth time machine was made out of a squeegee and hadn't been perfected. So you know where she is right now? Beethoven 9 in the Luna Di Luna neblua. She's got to be having problems. The asteroids have teeth out in those parts and locals aren't real friendly." Sherlock needs another hit desperately. Seeing this, Dr. Lloyd passes a bottle of ether under his nose which blurs his vision and wakes him immediately.
"So what's next?" asks Sherlock as he watches Al Capone follow his newly annoited lover up the rickety staircase leading to the rooms.
"I'm glad you asked," says the doctor, passing the ether bottle under the waning detective's nose again. "You're going to do me a favor since you did all my drugs. I need to find that tramp who robbed me and I'm taking Billy here along for protection and assistance. We need you to stay here and pretend to be him." And with that, Sherlock's again dragged into the alley and beat up a little. When he wakes, he has a dizzy head and is still in the wild west. He fnds himself dressed in clothing he deduces once belonged to the legend himself, Billy the Kid. Needless to say, a couple of weeks later he's shot in the back by Pat Garrett who doesn't believe his story about time machines, gangsters from Chicago, cannibals, or glove compartments full of cocaine.
"I swear that brothel girl back in Santa Fe gave me something," said Al Capone who has no idea that he'd contracted syphillis and the clap, but is aware of his new found need to constantly scratch himself. The three of them are leaving the Milky Way in a tuna can and Billy the Kid stares out into the lunar landscape that he's lucky enough to be passing under and thru. He knows that he'd avoided Fate and was supposed to be dead. Dr.Lloyd concentrates on driving the rickety mass of used metal. The cooler next to him contains the heart of Julius Ceaser, the left leg of the Queen Cleopatra, Jack Kerouac's liver, Humphrey Bogart's esophagus, the complete nasal passage of Sigmund Freud, and the decapatated head of James Dean. He'd sort of gotten sweet on Hannibal Lecter's idealism. But before he could begin his new life of cannibalism, he had one more dish that he wanted to prepare and the Luna Di Luna neblua is only a little farther away. After that he plans on destroying all his notes and knowledge of these damned time machines.
Brad Johnson lives in the margins of a Wes Anderson film. He has two chapbooks, Void Where Prohibited and The Happiness Theory available from Pudding House.