HOLMES & WATSON CASE NUMBER 307 - The Case of The Bear-Faced Bratislavan
It was a shivering late september evening, and outside, the gold and crimson autumn leaves whistled down chilly Baker Street. To the occupants of number 221b however, all was post-prandial contentment. A roaring log fire blazed in the hearth, as famous detective Sherlock Holmes and his trusty companion Dr. Watson relaxed after supper in their favourite leather armchairs, a brandy each by their side. Holmes, who had been quietly admiring the fascinating undulation of the fire's flames, twitched perceptably as Watson broke the torpor-induced silence:
"I say Holmes, did you by chance read today's Tatler?" he enquired. Holmes, feigning interest, shook his head and began probing his quilted smoking jacket for tobacco. "Most remarkable thing." continued the doctor, "Most extraordinary. Slobodan Slivowicz, a bear trainer in Bratislava who had recently fallen on hard times, has been found eaten to death by his own bears. Apparently the animals who turned on him were two of his favourite bears Stazi and Ratko, whom he had raised from cubs. Unfortunately, due to financial constraints, he had been forced to sell them to Hag Hogstramm, the Norwegian travelling bear-salesman who supplies most of Eastern Europe's bair baiters with suitable baiting-bears. Hogstramm duly arrived to take them away, but as he was loading them on to the bear wagon, they suddenly broke free, tore off their muzzles and attacked Mr Slivowicz, fatally biting off his face before completely devouring him. His poor wife was distraught obviously, and when the police interviewed her, all she could manage to say was 'Slobo Loved Bears. He lived for bears. For him it was all bears bears bears. Bears were Slobo's life, especially Stazi and Ratko, he was a father to them' Tragic irony what? It strikes me Holmes, that these so-called dumb animals, these beasts of the wild, must have forged such a close, intense, almost emotional relationship with Mr. Slivwicz, that somehow they knew they were being betrayed. I mean, can you imagine what that poor devil must have gone through in his final moments?"
Holmes, who had managed locate his briar and tobacco during the Watson's discourse, crammed the cherrywood stem between his firm jaws and applied a match to the bowl. The room rapidly filled with the filthy, familiar, black noxious fumes of Simpson & Tutenkahmen's Fine Olde Pharoe No.2 Shag - the dectective's specially prepared mixture. After what seemed like an age,the sleuth removed the pipe from his face and spoke through the dispersing fog:
"We all have our cross two bears" he said, picking up a copy of The Times and pretending to read the obituaries.
Watson eyed Holmes contemptuously, sipped his brandy, and waited. As soon the great detective leaned forward to place another log on the fire, Dr.Watson noislessly slipped a whoopee cushion on to the seat of his chair.
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