Info: In meiner Freizeit schlage ich mir mit einem Sherlock-Rollenspiel auf Twitter die Nächte um die Ohren. Meiner Feder entstammen dabei eine Molly Hooper sowie ein Charles Augustus Milverton.
Da ich für beide Charaktere hin und wieder längere Texte veröffentliche, dachte ich, ich teile diese einfach mal in dieser Kategorie mit anderen außerhalb der Twitter-Rollenspielwelt. ^^
The Roebuck. Great Dover Street. London. The event: Bang Said The Gun. A so called stand up poetry and comedy event, which took place every Thursday.
Absolem was basically part of the fixtures. He came every week. And “Bang Said The Gun” wasn’t the only event on his list. Tongue Fu, Chill Pill, A Spoonful of Poison, Girlfriend in a Comma where only one of the many poetry and open mic events in which he participated. Waiter by day, writer and wordsmith by night.
Everyone knew him and everyone knew his weakness. Money had always been tight, and no one really knows how a waiter could afford a flat on Wardour Street. One or two /close friends/ mentioned gambling once, but also a rich uncle who passed his whole wealth (plus the flat) on to Absolem.
Absolem was a quiet man and usually talked in short and sometimes rather rude sentences. On the stage, he was a completely different person. Spending his money all for himself didn’t help him to find friends or a partner, and only his fans were crestfallen when he didn’t show up at his usual events for over a month. But no one came to look for him. As eccentric as he was Absolem never opened his door when someone unannounced rang the doorbell. He didn’t answer his phone either. Sometimes he just vanished from the surface of the earth for a few days or even weeks. No one cared. And no one came to look after him.
Joshua Tenniel had been her neighbour for about four years. She didn’t meet him often, they didn’t talk much but when she met him he always offered to carry her bags and helped her with the shopping or repared something in her flat. He was strange but not in a creepy way. He loved poetry and literature and attended such modern events where everyone can present his work on a stage.
Claire Meyers got suspicious after about a month. She noticed bugs on Mr Tenniel’s doorstep, and this house wasn’t a dosshouse, oh no! It was a decent house with decent people. Claire called the house owner, barely able to keep it together. What if the bugs are crawling down the stairs and into her flat? She shuddered. No. This wasn’t going to happen. Never.
The houseowner arrived and together they opened the door to the flat. Oh, she will never forget what she saw there in the bedroom. And the smell! It took her breath away. And the bugs. All over the floor, on the walls, on the windows. Some dead, some still alive and crawling. Crawling, buzzing and humming. An awful sound.
And then the /thing/ she saw on the bed. Mr Tenniel. At least she thought it was Mr Tenniel. Who else would lie on his bed? Later, Claire Meyers loved to tell the story of her corpse discovery while having tea at five with the other ladies. Oh how she loved to make them shiver and grimace. Oh how she loved to be called “Braveclaire”.
The dead body of Joshua Tenniel was spread on the bed, fully clothed, arms and legs tied to the bedposts. His shirt had been ripped apart, buttons where scattered all over the covers. His chest was opened, but only a bit, to place the foot of the hookah inside and prevent it from falling down. The small tube didn’t went into his mouth, no. It went straight into the hole of the gunshot wound on his right temple. His mouth was sewed together with a chunky blue-ish thread. Claire still felt slightly sick when she thought about the poor Mr Tenniel.
They called the police, of course they did. Scotland Yard took care about the whole affair, recorded her testimony and sealed the flat. But Claire kept her eyes and ears open, curious how this whole thing will turn out.