Saturday, July 19, 2014

The Wet-Dry Affair

I have no intention of describing the method by which the following account came into my possession.

Being as how neither Mr. Sherlock Holmes nor myself were ever actual people but were instead fictional characters, we occupied our own little peculiar space in the multiverse after Dr. Doyle passed away. This enabled us to shape things quite according to our fancy, which was to say that our corner of that particular space greatly resembled the good doctor's description of our lodgings at 221B Baker Street in the London of Her Majesty Queen Victoria's day.

One day while we were enjoying an afternoon of reading Holmes called my attention to the peculiar item of news on something he read on one of those screen things which he has taken to greatly and which I cannot stand, preferring the reliability of my favorite newspaper. Surely, he does not have to fold his device, but I on the other hand have never dealt with the infernal problem of the Blue Screen of Death. I have suggested he use a more reliable device, but he insists that his mind, at least, should be capable of mastering this "OS" he calls "Windows."

In any event, the item concerned a couple living in a suburb in the American state of California. That region being under significant pressure because of a drought, the state assembly passed a law restricting water usage so as to save enough of the substance that necessary uses would not be curtailed. "Sensible," I said, and Holmes agreed with me.

"But listen further, Watson!" It seemed the suburb in which the couple dwelt also has regulations, which prohibit residents of their community from having lawns of unsightly or abandoned appearance. I fear my consternation showed plainly, and Holmes seized upon it.

"You see it too, then, do you not?" he cried. "One law will fine them if they use water on their lawn, but another will fine them if they do not! Every action is prohibited and they cannot win. A diabolical choice such as this can have but one author!"

"You mean...," I began, but he interrupted.

"Yes! That most evil of men, that most brilliant criminal Moriarty lives, Watson, and he is in California! We must be off at once; the game is afoot!"

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