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- Story Listed as: Fiction For Adults
- Theme: Horror
- Subject: Comedy / Humor
- Published: 03/25/2022
Warlock Holmes An Impish Dream Come True
Born 1972, M, from Essen, Germany![Warlock Holmes An Impish Dream Come True](/storage/story/651D1C04-5B87-1797-07DE-FF7C544E2D9B_1648262643-image(285x285-crop).jpeg)
Teaser - Pietroschek's Warlock Holmes aka Warlock Holmes - An Impish Dream Come True
2020, 2021, 2022 © Andre Michael Pietroschek, all rights reserved.
The story begins:
The imp limping through the streets of London still wore the uniform of a soldier. A handful of medals attached in the chest height of the uniform signaled military service. The imp walked through the streets, straight towards a well-known coffee-house.
Some alley-spawn of an opportunist mugger stared at the imp, clearly seizing it up in the typical stupor fueled by greed, and the wishful thinking that consequence would remain benevolent.
The imp wriggled itself for a moment and tightened the grasp on its walking stick. But before the moronic brute could realize that he provoked the wrath of a battle-hardened veteran, and not the helpless squealing of a craven civilian, a voice was clear to hear.
“Dr. Watson? Dr. John, Hellbent, Watson?”, nigh-shouted a fat and less muscled imp wearing glasses, and reeking of clearly academic lifestyle.
The limping imp cocked its head a little bit, obviously not interested in letting the wanna-be mugger out of sight.
“Yes, indeed. I am John Watson.”, stated the limping imp quite proudly.
The mugger withdrew into the side alley, clearly uncomfortable with the loud arrival in tweed and cotton clothing.
“It is me, Dr. Stanton Muffin. Nice to meet you, it must have been ages since we last met at university.”, chatted the fat, less muscled imp with glasses.
The two exchanged their greetings, and without much ado, they made it into the coffee-house. Inside they ordered their favorite brews and continued chatting.
“John, how do you do?”, asked Muffin.
“I just returned from the battlefield, kinda have to readjust.”, answered John.
“I am certain you will. London is still the pulsating metropolis it has made itself to be, John.”: evaluated Muffin.
“Yes, you may be right about it, but right now I must find a lodger to share rooms with. Else I would have to sleep under a bridge tonight.”, unleashed the imp calling itself John.
“Weird you say so.”, replied Muffin.
“What do you mean, with weird, Muffin?”, inquired a puzzled John.
“Well, you are the second guy telling me he needs a room, and I am on my way to check if the first guy found a partner for a flat-share here in London. Prices did not precisely lower themselves in those last years, John.”, told Muffin.
“Lord below, you are the man I needed to meet, Stanton Muffin. Let me be the one joining up to get those rooms rented. It can't be worse than sleeping outside.”, decided John.
Smiling, the imps finished their coffees, paid, and ventured forth through the streets of London. Breathing heavily the two lazybones finally stopped before the door of a gentleman's club.
Perceiving the confused look on John's face, the imp calling itself Dr. Stanton Muffin shrugged and said:
“Nothing to worry about. These clubs are established parts of society by now. And we will meet your contact inside, John.”
Entering without further debate the two passed through a welcome area and a corridor, before Muffin opened a door and gestured for John to step inside.
Inside, in a large room lit only by four lanterns and a small fireplace, a regal and stylishly clad imp, totally not looking like a blasphemous mockery of any Benedict, was seemingly still oblivious to their approach, as he seemed quite busy banging a dead crow nearly his size.
“Lord below, what innovative pathology!”, babbled the imp named John.
That statement triggered a reaction from the unnamed imp, the one totally focused on carnal crow studies.
“A military one, interesting. Rome, Jerusalem, or Mecca?”, asked the impish lover of the dead crow.
“Excuse me, what?”, inquired the imp named John.
“As if uniform and medals do not signal of proud membership already: Your body language speaks of military drill, and you flinching telltales of a recent injury, so a soldier forced out of service due to being wounded in the line of duty, am I right?”
While being asked that the unnamed imp threw a vial at the imp named John.
“Lord below, careful with the holy water!”, alerted Muffin.
Soldier through and through the imp named John had not failed to move though. The vial still in midair the imp named John surged upwards, small wings flapping, rebounding the vial back to its sender! But that imp dodged as if having expected the counter.
“Excellent! Reliable combat reflexes. Say, can you tolerate pipe smoking and violin music at odd hours?”, asked the imp close to the crow.
“WTF?”, asked John, while giving a puzzled look to Muffin...
“If we team up in a flat-share we should know each other's darker aspects, wouldn't you agree?”, spoke the mysterious, crow-loving imp.
“Of course, I...”, replied John before he was interrupted.
“Splendid!” spoke the crow-loving imp while withdrawing towards the room's window.
Muffin and John still were distracted by the noise coming from the floor outside the room, when the third imp had already reached the window.
“The name is Warlock Holmes, tea-time today, don't be late, and the flat-share is at 221 Baked-Baker Street!”, spoke the cryptic imp, just before it flew out of the window...
Ignoring the bashing of the door Muffin and John looked at each other.
“Yes, he is usually just like that.”, declared Muffin.
“Let's follow his idea, and quickly so.”, spoke John.
The two imps flew out of the window before the security ever managed to bash the door open.
Still, before John could focus his mind on that introverted, lucid dreaming once more the dream was intercepted, as his physical body twitched and moved, preventing any more participation in the 'Morpheus Theater' made possible by the human mind...
Maria Magdalena Watson had discovered her snoring husband and started her reconquest, while John was still busy over there in dreamland. Her well-trained and gorgeous body crept up onto a couch much too small for the both of them. Hence pressing her weight unto the ungrateful husband, who denied her feminine sensuality once again.
John woke in a maelstrom of colliding brain functions, as those devilish imps still seemed real, but contradicted the hand gliding across his pelvis-area 51 nonetheless! In good time, along with his erection, he attempted to rise only to find Maria's weight on him, and her tongue invading his mouth in a passionate albeit aggressive kiss.
The duties of marriage were indulged, the mess cleaned up, and, when the steps were finally heard coming up the stairs the Watson's had both regained their composure and straightened their clothing. Two vultures in human guise, traditionally going moralist on their soon arriving, unsuspecting target: Warlock Holmes!
THE END
Warlock Holmes An Impish Dream Come True(Andre Michael Pietroschek)
Teaser - Pietroschek's Warlock Holmes aka Warlock Holmes - An Impish Dream Come True
2020, 2021, 2022 © Andre Michael Pietroschek, all rights reserved.
The story begins:
The imp limping through the streets of London still wore the uniform of a soldier. A handful of medals attached in the chest height of the uniform signaled military service. The imp walked through the streets, straight towards a well-known coffee-house.
Some alley-spawn of an opportunist mugger stared at the imp, clearly seizing it up in the typical stupor fueled by greed, and the wishful thinking that consequence would remain benevolent.
The imp wriggled itself for a moment and tightened the grasp on its walking stick. But before the moronic brute could realize that he provoked the wrath of a battle-hardened veteran, and not the helpless squealing of a craven civilian, a voice was clear to hear.
“Dr. Watson? Dr. John, Hellbent, Watson?”, nigh-shouted a fat and less muscled imp wearing glasses, and reeking of clearly academic lifestyle.
The limping imp cocked its head a little bit, obviously not interested in letting the wanna-be mugger out of sight.
“Yes, indeed. I am John Watson.”, stated the limping imp quite proudly.
The mugger withdrew into the side alley, clearly uncomfortable with the loud arrival in tweed and cotton clothing.
“It is me, Dr. Stanton Muffin. Nice to meet you, it must have been ages since we last met at university.”, chatted the fat, less muscled imp with glasses.
The two exchanged their greetings, and without much ado, they made it into the coffee-house. Inside they ordered their favorite brews and continued chatting.
“John, how do you do?”, asked Muffin.
“I just returned from the battlefield, kinda have to readjust.”, answered John.
“I am certain you will. London is still the pulsating metropolis it has made itself to be, John.”: evaluated Muffin.
“Yes, you may be right about it, but right now I must find a lodger to share rooms with. Else I would have to sleep under a bridge tonight.”, unleashed the imp calling itself John.
“Weird you say so.”, replied Muffin.
“What do you mean, with weird, Muffin?”, inquired a puzzled John.
“Well, you are the second guy telling me he needs a room, and I am on my way to check if the first guy found a partner for a flat-share here in London. Prices did not precisely lower themselves in those last years, John.”, told Muffin.
“Lord below, you are the man I needed to meet, Stanton Muffin. Let me be the one joining up to get those rooms rented. It can't be worse than sleeping outside.”, decided John.
Smiling, the imps finished their coffees, paid, and ventured forth through the streets of London. Breathing heavily the two lazybones finally stopped before the door of a gentleman's club.
Perceiving the confused look on John's face, the imp calling itself Dr. Stanton Muffin shrugged and said:
“Nothing to worry about. These clubs are established parts of society by now. And we will meet your contact inside, John.”
Entering without further debate the two passed through a welcome area and a corridor, before Muffin opened a door and gestured for John to step inside.
Inside, in a large room lit only by four lanterns and a small fireplace, a regal and stylishly clad imp, totally not looking like a blasphemous mockery of any Benedict, was seemingly still oblivious to their approach, as he seemed quite busy banging a dead crow nearly his size.
“Lord below, what innovative pathology!”, babbled the imp named John.
That statement triggered a reaction from the unnamed imp, the one totally focused on carnal crow studies.
“A military one, interesting. Rome, Jerusalem, or Mecca?”, asked the impish lover of the dead crow.
“Excuse me, what?”, inquired the imp named John.
“As if uniform and medals do not signal of proud membership already: Your body language speaks of military drill, and you flinching telltales of a recent injury, so a soldier forced out of service due to being wounded in the line of duty, am I right?”
While being asked that the unnamed imp threw a vial at the imp named John.
“Lord below, careful with the holy water!”, alerted Muffin.
Soldier through and through the imp named John had not failed to move though. The vial still in midair the imp named John surged upwards, small wings flapping, rebounding the vial back to its sender! But that imp dodged as if having expected the counter.
“Excellent! Reliable combat reflexes. Say, can you tolerate pipe smoking and violin music at odd hours?”, asked the imp close to the crow.
“WTF?”, asked John, while giving a puzzled look to Muffin...
“If we team up in a flat-share we should know each other's darker aspects, wouldn't you agree?”, spoke the mysterious, crow-loving imp.
“Of course, I...”, replied John before he was interrupted.
“Splendid!” spoke the crow-loving imp while withdrawing towards the room's window.
Muffin and John still were distracted by the noise coming from the floor outside the room, when the third imp had already reached the window.
“The name is Warlock Holmes, tea-time today, don't be late, and the flat-share is at 221 Baked-Baker Street!”, spoke the cryptic imp, just before it flew out of the window...
Ignoring the bashing of the door Muffin and John looked at each other.
“Yes, he is usually just like that.”, declared Muffin.
“Let's follow his idea, and quickly so.”, spoke John.
The two imps flew out of the window before the security ever managed to bash the door open.
Still, before John could focus his mind on that introverted, lucid dreaming once more the dream was intercepted, as his physical body twitched and moved, preventing any more participation in the 'Morpheus Theater' made possible by the human mind...
Maria Magdalena Watson had discovered her snoring husband and started her reconquest, while John was still busy over there in dreamland. Her well-trained and gorgeous body crept up onto a couch much too small for the both of them. Hence pressing her weight unto the ungrateful husband, who denied her feminine sensuality once again.
John woke in a maelstrom of colliding brain functions, as those devilish imps still seemed real, but contradicted the hand gliding across his pelvis-area 51 nonetheless! In good time, along with his erection, he attempted to rise only to find Maria's weight on him, and her tongue invading his mouth in a passionate albeit aggressive kiss.
The duties of marriage were indulged, the mess cleaned up, and, when the steps were finally heard coming up the stairs the Watson's had both regained their composure and straightened their clothing. Two vultures in human guise, traditionally going moralist on their soon arriving, unsuspecting target: Warlock Holmes!
THE END
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Andre Michael Pietroschek
03/25/2022During the enforced home-office time of #coronavirus aka #covid19, I had crafted an improvized synthetic-voice audio version of this story. It is still (cost-free) available at: https://archive.org/details/sfxteaserwarlockholmes
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