THE FIFTY-YEAR OLD VIRGIN'S MERRIEST CHRISTMAS

I wrote a novel about ten years ago called, “IF IT AIN’T NAILED DOWN.” In it, I describe a supporting character as a fifty-year old virgin. 

Nothing…from a writer’s perspective…and I do mean NOTHING, is more galling that coming up with a great, original idea and something else coming along later that gives the impression that your vision was inspired by it. In this case, I’m talking about the movie, “THE FORTY-YEAR OLD VIRGIN.”

STEVE CARELL STARRED IN 2005's, "FORTY-YEAR OLD VIRGIN," TWO YEARS AFTER I DEVELOPED MY CHARACTER.

The gist of the today's blog represents excerpts from my book that chronicle the life of Joseph George Singletary, (aka George Joseph "Piss" Pisarcik).

An intensifying snowstorm managed to make the Depression-era Christmas Eve more dismal. Together with the last wisps of dwindling sunlight, the shopkeepers’ hopes to cash-in a few more pennies from last-minute shoppers vanished.

On Manhattan’s desolate West End Avenue, in a sea of snowy whiteness, a solitary black dot persevered against the stinging wind. This dot was a hunched woman in a thin, black, flannel coat, shrouded by a black babushka. She clutched a black satchel as she followed the faded tracks in the snow made by the messenger who had summoned her.

The woman faced a severe crosswind as she cautiously turned on slick pavement, up West 28th Street. From the corner, only three burning lights could be seen in the usually bustling business district. Across the way, muted laughter brought her attention to a tawny light glimmering through a greasy, nicotine-stained, shamrock-shaped window of Walden’s Frolic Tavern.

Next, buried in a mounting snowdrift were the three stairs that led down to Bu Dun Yu’s Curio Shop. Safe inside, under a bare forty watt bulb, Mr. Yu looked up at the frozen urban wilderness.  He caught eye-contact with the woman and gave her a disconsolate nod. The austere woman did not respond and persevered.

Beyond other closed shops, the woman’s destination was identified by a glowing red lantern, in a tenement’s second floor window. She paused to peer up at the four-flight walk-up.  The woman climbed the snow-covered mortar stairs. Carefully, she followed the beaten-down, center path that surrounded the virgin blanket. At the icy top step, she felt cracks in the cement underfoot. A sudden howling gale disturbed the ghostly silence...she lost her balance. Luckily, she grabbed the doorknob to prevent tumbling down.

The woman was not greeted in the dingy, unlit foyer as she bypassed the locked doors of four apartments. Up one flight, a garish mauve carpet replaced the stark hardwood floor. Frilly scarlet lampshades and cherry-red floral wallpaper gaily enlivened the hall’s parlor-like ambiance.

The doors to the apartments were all open as young girls in open housecoats revealed various levels of undress. The devoutly Catholic woman in black shivered as she looked down at a tiny Christmas tree and grasped her rosary beads. She avoided any dignifying glimpses at the fallen women as she murmured prayers for their absolution.

Madam Nellie appeared. In a robust Hungarian accent she said, “You must be the midwife. My Sonja usually handles these matters but she’s more suited to…” In a hushed tone she added, “How you say…getting rid of…” The midwife was nauseated by the crassness and was seething by the implication as the madam continued, “You know…ending such matters.” The holier-than-thou midwife extended her hand and said, “Three dollars.”

Croatian-born Lucy Pisarcik was the mother-to-be. The difficult, painful delivery would last long into the night. The storm knocked out the electricity and by candlelight, the baby boy was born a few minutes before midnight. Nellie was comforting the new mom and asked, “What will you name him?” In broken English Lucy groaned, “My father’s name was Šimun Tomislav.” Nellie rolled her eyes, “Perhaps we can make that great name sound more American…” Suddenly, the midwife broke the tranquility, “There’s second child!” Lucy fainted.

In the stillness of the pristine Christmas Day morning, Lucy was introduced to her fraternal twin sons. Named by Madam Nellie, the elder (by an hour) Samuel Thomas was a healthy six pounds. The second, Joseph George was a scrawny two-pounder struggling to breathe. The boys were given the name Singletary, in the hope that Lucy's favorite customer Joseph George Singletary would support them...but he didn't.

In a couple of months, the girls of the house had arranged a rotation to communally attend to the boys while Lucy worked. Sammy was strong but little Joey didn’t take well to the breast. He was weak from undernourishment and it was feared that he would be susceptible to disease. So when a shrill hacking cough woke up the house, the ladies feared the dreaded baby killer, whooping cough.  They rushed to Joey’s aid. The women found tiny Joey sleeping peacefully until another distressed bark turned everyone’s attention to Sammy.

Lithuanian Mary was sent to the Frolic Tavern.  She was told to promise anyone a fifty-cent piece who could come back and do some doctoring. A low-life barfly accepted the proposition.  On the way up, he groped several girls.  When saw the baby he shrugged, “It don’t look good…where’s my four bits?” A real doctor was sent for. He diagnosed Sammy as having diphtheria and before the summer, the big brother died.

Two years later, impish Joey became the whorehouse's mascot. He was playing with one of his many mothers when a violent shriek rang-out from the third floor. There was the sound of a struggle...then a scream of finality. A john bounded down the stairs.  Moments later, Lucy Pisarcik was discovered dead...with a knife in her neck.

The working girls tried to keep Joey but social services shipped him off to the St. Eustis Home for Children.

In 1944 Joey was fourteen. The crumbling orphanage was about to close and disperse its populace. The over-worked Monsignor, who had deemed the diminutive loner as incorrigible, now faced the dilemma of “sticking” another institution with the troubled boy or shipping him to a reform school.

In early June, Joey disturbed an arithmetic lesson and was beaten mercilessly by Brother Dante. But the punishment was far reaching. The next day, while waiting to board one of the buses for the school trip to the Brooklyn Navy Yard, Brother Dante jumped Joey from behind and dragged him back into the building.

A new student, Consuela Wood witnessed the attack. At fifteen, this bashful girl was the tallest person at St. Eustis. Due to her newness, height, Philippine/American parentage and acne plagued complexion, she was taunted by the other kids.  Soon like Joey, she became a withdrawn loner.

Consuela saw something heroic about Joey. All through the class trip as she dodged bullying barbs about her heritage, matured body and pimples, she had romantic fantasies about Joey.

While the student body enjoyed the outing, Brother Dante punished Joey by leaving him with the custodian, Carroll Inmen. Inmen (or as the kids called, Old Tomato Face), was a red-nosed old man who used to play Santa every year at Christmas, until a mysterious problem occured between him and a student. To everyone’s dismay, stoic Brother Dante became the new Santa.

Mr. Inmen was ordered to have Joey do his chores that day. While Joey mopped around the Ionic columns at the main entrance, Inmen smoked a few Chesterfields outside.

The old man came back, looked at Joey's half-assed, unfinished work and said, “Excellent job…now we can move on to something more important.” Joey growled in sing-song voice, “Yes Mr. Inmen.” Inmen gently lifted Joey’s chin and smiled, “Call me Cal.”

In the basement of the decrepit Pre-Civil War building, beyond stacks of text books, desks and chairs was a junk pile of broken items. Cal said, “To help fight the Huns and Japs, we’re gonna bring all the metal outside.” Joey said, “This mess helps fight Japs?” Cal picked up a bent bed frame and said, “Scrap metal guys take it, melt it down and bring it to the factories that make armaments…” Joey said, “Heh?” “You know airplanes, tanks and bombs.” The patriotic notion motivated Joey to talk about running away and enlisting as he hustled-up the day-long event into ninety minutes.

Cal wiped his brow and said, “Excellent job, kid. You deserve a reward.” He was rubbing Joey’s upper arm as the boy exclaimed, “Yessirree.” Inmen took Joey into the side-basement, an interior, four-foot wide, unlit alley. This brick-lined conduit ran parallel with the long basement. Despite Inmen’s flashlight, the walk in the damp darkness was nerve-racking as Joey inched slowly along. Inmen impatiently prodded Joey along from behind. Joey cried, “Are there rats and bugs in here?” Inmen sneered, “There are much worse things in life than vermin,” as he patted Joey’s posterior.

Joey didn't like being touched back there.  He remembered that Inmen had gotten in some sort of trouble before.  He was scared and wanted to punch Old Tomato Face...but where could he run to. In the near distance, Joey saw a thin silver line of light on the floor. At the same time Inmen said, “Here we are” and opened the squeaky door. 

To Joey's surprise, he wasn't being led to a dungeon.  The door opened to the sun-drenched boiler room but Joey still didn't feel safe.  He up to spied the row of street-level opaque windows that led to a small, latched opening that allowed for coal deliveries. He examined the coal chute and decided to scale it and use it as an emergency escape route.

Inmen's lair featured a cot, a rectangular table and a beat-up easy chair hidden behind the massive boiler. Cal told Joey to sit in the comfy chair as he grabbed something from inside the cracked, cinder-block wall. Joey was curious but couldn’t see what it was.  Inmen lit another Chesterfield, pulled up a busted, three-legged stool and said, “Here’s the reward I offered you.” The old-timer produced the pint of Canadian Club rye. Joey trembled as he took a slug, spit it out and had a coughing fit. Mr. Inmen laughed, “Take a drag off my cig…” Joey smiled, “Next time you wanna give me a reward, get me an orange Nehi.”

The next Sunday morning was cloudy and breezy.  After mass, Consuela approached Joey. She was complimenting his bravery as he surveyed her and the shapely body that the older boys thought was so appealing. Joey was in shock that any girl would talk to him as he remembered what a jock said; Consuela’s perfect, skinny with big tits…as a flow a blood to his genitals resulted in an erection. When he saw her adoring smile, Joey realized it was Cal's day off.  He got a wild idea and suggested an adventure to Inmen’s man cave.  She agreed to go.

He led the way with Cal's flashlight as Consuela fearlessly followed behind holding his other hand. The boiler room was filthy. But despite wearing her best white blouse, she overlooked the dirtiness and marveled at the secret hide-away. He offered her the comfy chair, found the rye and pulled-up the broken stool.

Consuela turned down the liquor. Ever so carefully, Joey let one droplet of rye into his mouth.  She closed her eyes, puckered her lips and said, “Do with me as you wish.” Joey was a devious, guilt-ridden problem-child.  He never cared about the scoldings, punishments and being beaten.  But this time, he truly knew that taking the next step was a sin.

Joey invisioned being beaten to death by Brother Dante and eternal damnation from God as he stared at Consuela's soft throat, past her dangling crucifix, the “V” shape formed by her open collar and down to her breasts. He was still ogling her as she breathlessly said, “I'm ready.” Joey ignored his fear of going to hell and leaned forward.  His inexperienced hand reached for her bosom as a crack of thunder startled him. His hand accidentally clawed across her chest and the top button popped off. When she let out a little shriek, he panicked and scaled the coal chute. She cried out, “It’s okay,” as he opened the latch, pushed himself through the narrow slit and into the street.

Consuela mended the button, washed the soot off her blouse and never mentioned the incident. Joey wasn’t missed until dinner yet despite police involvement, the scared boy never returned. All he had was the clothes on his back, a tattered photo of his mother and his Student Index File Card that he had stolen from the Monsignor’s file cabinet. This card included his December 25th birthday, mother’s name, George Singletary as his father and identified Samuel Thomas as his deceased brother.

In the weeks that followed Joey lived by his wits in streets and slept in Central Park. In August, St. Eustis closed and the students were reassigned to different orphanages. But because Joey’s ID card was missing, he fell through the bureaucratic cracks and was never missed.

Summer gave way to autumn. The chillier weather and the abundance of enlistment posters since D-Day (June 6, 1944) gave Joey the idea to join the army. He switched to his middle name and his mother’s name and marched into the Times Square recruitment office. Joey wasn’t fifteen yet but looked a lot younger plus he had no ID. He was shooed away.

He tried again at a naval enlistment center.  This time, young George Pisarcik was taken serious…so serious that he was detained. When the boy refused to give parental information or an address, the police were called. Before they arrived, George bolted out the door. He kept running until he got to the freight yards, hopped into a boxcar and never returned to New York.

For over twenty-five years, George Pisarcik led a hobo life. This fit his loner lifestyle. He was around few women in that time and because of his guilt over “molesting” Consuela and the eternal damnation drummed into him by Brother Dante…he eventually stopped achieving erections...and didn’t miss them.

The best place in the country for hobos was Las Vegas Nevada. Glitter Gluch became a Mecca for drifters because it offered meager jobs (handing out leaflets or casino coupons), inexpensive food and liquor and a comfortable climate. It was so popular that a hobo shantytown sprang-up in the downtown train yards.

George overheard other bums fantasizing about scamming casinos. So he decided to see what life was like inside. He became a fixture at the Tropicana and developed a down-on-his-luck “rap” that would encourage patrons to spot him a few dollars. Soon he formed a route through other casinos so he and his “schtick” wouldn’t be so apparent.

Years later, casinos started cracking down on hustlers like him.  Now that his “job” was more difficult, he tried something new…by staging a fake fall at the Sahara.

His ploy worked well because the best interest of the casino was served by indulging this nuisance.  So after a paltry out-of-court settlement, the Sahara fortified their defenses against such nonsense in the future while side-stepping bad publicity.

For George, the actual cashing-in became more complicated because he had no ID, no past and no identity. So in the hospital, he had to add amnesia to his list of physical maladies. Then through the unwitting help of Ms. Nilson, an altruistic social worker, his scam net over ten thousand dollars.

George confessed to Nilson that he lied about the amnesia.  He cut-off the name from his St. Eustis student identification card and said he wanted is new name to be George Pisarcik. The spinster didn't like being "played."  She assumed he was from New York because of his accent but her investigation found no hospital that matched the births with the dates.  So rather than undo the mess, she decided to make it her mission to save George's soul.  One of her stipulations included George taking the tiny apartment over her garage…which he did. And get a real job…which he did not.

MS. NILSON WAS MOLDED FROM NANCY KULP (1921-1991).  SHE PLAYED MISS JANE HATHAWAY, A STICK-IN-THE-MUD BANKER'S SECRETARY ON THE LONG-RUNNING, "BEVERLEY HILLBILLES," TV SHOW.

George without considering the comfort of a woman squandered the whole ten thousand gambling. In that time, he became a fixture at the Stardust Casino’s sports book, (race horse and sports betting parlor), and was exposed to a criminal element that included loan sharks, drug dealers, pimps and thieves. At times of extreme poverty, he accepted small jobs from these lowlifes.

Outside the casinos, George spent years dodging Ms. Nilson and her prying questions...while desperately trying to maintain the only solid roof over his head since St.  Eustis.

To avoid the criminals, when he was broke, George developed a new talent as an independant tout.  He scratched out an existence by recommending race horses or sports teams to naive gamblers and receiving occasional commissions for his expert advice.

Still, he experienced tough times.  It was during one of those lulls that Dennis LaRue (the lowlife bell captain at the Stardust) recruited him, another hustler named Marco Del Toro and an English cripple named Cobby Webster to rob that casino, (no spoiler alert here…you’ll have to join CHARLIEOPERA, WTW, ZYMBOT, THELARCH, JERMAC and a couple of others who read my book).

IN THE TWO YEARS I DEALT CRAPS AT THE STARDUST CASINO, I OBSERVED THE ACTIVITES OF A PARTICULAR TOUT (HUSTLER). I NEVER KNEW HIS NAME, SO HIS LIFE STORY AND THE ROBBERY I DISCRIBE ARE COMPLETELY MADE-UP.

The heist involved Marco driving the getaway car, Cobby being the spotter and George grabbing the money, (casino chips). George was a regular at the Stardust, so it was important to disguise his looks. The least expensive way to do it was a few hours at Caesar’s Palaces's spa. He went in with an unhealthy pasty complexion, a wild hairdo, scraggly beard and clothes that looked like he was just rescued after years on a deserted island. Under LaRue’s tutelage, George came out clean-shaven, in a neat hair-cut and a spray-on sun tan. To complete the disguise, George was given new clothes from Goodwill and non-prescription eye glasses.

LaRue looked at George and Marco as perfect dupes because in his scheme, they would be taking all the risks.

LIKE RALPH KRAMDEN AND ED NORTON FROM "THE HONEYMOONERS," MARCO, (A HULKING EX-BOXER WHO WAS TOO SOFT-HEARTED TO RETIRE AS A MOB COLLECTOR) AND GEORGE (A FIVE-FOOT-TWO COCKROACH) WERE DUMB AND DUMBER LOSERS...EXCEPT LIKE NORTON, GEORGE WAS SMART ENOUGH TO KNOW HE WAS AN IDIOT.

The four-man Bad News Bears-like criminal team met at a round table in the Marina Casino coffee shop. The other two henchmen couldn’t believe George’s clean-cut transformation. With a new found confidence, George joked with the squatty battleaxe waitress. By the time she left to put in their order, her ornery disposition melted into girlish playfulness. Marco said, "That broad looks like Phyllis Diller.  And I bet she puts her make-up on with a putty knife."  In his gentlemenly English accent Cobby said, "You shouldn't call her a broad, she seems quite pleasant."  Marco snapped, "Okay, that train-wreck looks like Phyllis Diller..." Cobby snarled, "Don't listen to this wanker, she has the hots for you."  George shrugged it all off. 

PHYLLIS DILLER (1917-2012) WAS A COMEDIENNE WHO PARLAYED AN ECCENTRIC LOOK WITH A LOUD, OBNOXIOUS PERSONALITY TO CARVE-OUT A LONG SUCCESSFUL CAREER.

A couple of minutes later while delivering another party’s check, the waitress detoured to their table, glided her fingernails along George’s bicep and whispered in his ear, “You’re cute.”

Ten minutes later, she dropped off everyone's food. She was staring down at Marco’s sparsely combed-over bald head when she was repulsed by his intense body odor. She gathered herself and announced, I saved best for last.” While setting down George’s eggs ranchero, she grazed her breasts along his cheek and said, “You’ll love these…” George felt something foreign inside him. This excitement soon blossomed into his first erection in decades.

George was interested but had no inkling how to close the deal so his sexual impulse wasn't acted on. But the waitress followed him outside and said, "Don't be fooled, I can be very spry when I want to be."  George didn't know what she meant as she added, "Are you a local?" When he nodded, she gave him her phone number. He read her name on the slip of paper and said, “Rayette, I have work out of town. It might be a while till I call.” She kissed his cheek, smiled coyly and said, “I’ll wait.”

George was neither arrested nor injured during the robbery. He came back, dated Rayette for a short time and at age fifty, lost his virginity to her. However, as part of the heist preparation, Marco stayed over at George’s apartment. Ms. Nilson caught them breaking her “no visitor” rule and changed the lock after they left.

After the job, George begged for his place back. Nilson demanded that he seek employment first. To soothe his relationship, George considered her offer of free blackjack dealer schooling. George stipulated that he would...only if Marco was bundled into the deal. Weeks later, he and Marco went to work as dealers at the California Club and rented a crappy apartment on seedy Chicago Street.

Ms. Nilson help didn’t come cheap. She required George to make monthly visits to her office, (as if he was a parolee) to make sure he was on the straight and narrow. Prior to one of those meetings, George saw an Asian woman, (about twenty years younger than him), in the waiting room. She was struggling to calm her screaming infant. George offered to help. The baby took to his silly noises and funny faces and stopped screaming.

He looked into the mom’s face and asked her name. She said, “Jing.” George knew of the plight of the Vietnamese boat people and understood the rough life they led, (later he would find out that she was Chinese but still led a difficult life).

Jing’s oriental features reminded him of Consuela as he said, “What’s the baby’s name?” She said, “Sammy.” He stammered, “S-s-sammy was my brother’s name.” They were frozen in awkwardness as they looked at each in mutual regard.

Later in their conversation, George found out that the child’s American father had run off and that Ms. Nilson was trying…unsuccessfully…to keep Child Services from taking the baby and possibly deporting Jing. George stepped in and used his influence on Ms. Nilson and got an extension. In that extra time, he spent a lot of his spare time and money on Jing and the baby.

At the casino, George’s personality flourished. He used his experience with Rayette to gain the sympathy of female dealers by saying, “Her addiction to nickel slots (machines) ruined our relationship.” He then sighed, “It was the best sex I ever had…” He also told unbelievable but true stories about being a hobo. He was so endearing that two of the divorcees he worked with fought for his attention. But it didn’t matter; he was falling in love with Jing.

On the other hand, Marco’s moodiness (bi-polar disorder) repelled the same coworkers. Plus he always smelled like he never bathed and was an unskilled, habitual liar.

Marco was estranged from his wife and adult daughter (he was unaware that they had recently moved back to South Philadelphia). So while George platonically sat most nights with Jing, Marco was alone.  Without his only friend, he went crazy with boredom. Their relationship then hit a brick wall when George announced he wanted to get an apartment with Jing. Marco felt betrayed and sealed their fate by calling George (Pisarcik) his long lost, hated nickname, “Piss.”

Within a short time of their split, Marco returned to gambling. Once his downward spiral hit rock-bottom, he started hanging out at the Stardust Race and Sports Book.  When he was completely broke, he reintroduced himself to the hustler lifestyle.  It didn’t take long until he owed the wrong people more money than he could handle.  So through the use of "favors," to pay down his debt, the novice gangster met with a painful, lonely death.

Ms. Nilson got Jing free training and she became a blackjack dealer too. While visiting Ms. Nilson’s office together, George proposed. A month after their wedding, George adopted baby Sammy and cried, “Sammy Pisarcik will live again.”

George, Jing and Sammy moved to a modest apartment in a better section of town. To celebrate, he invited Ms. Nilson to a luncheon. The happy couple surprised Nilson when they asked for baby name suggestions. The old maid excitedly said, “When are you expecting?” Jing said, “Around Christmas…” Nilson said, "Let's see...maybe Noel or Noelle would be a good name.” George and Jing politely shook their heads. “Well then,” Nilson continued, “If it’s a boy, he should carry your name…” George avoided eye-contact and coyly said, “Nah, everyone should have their own identity.” Nilson said, “Well, I’ve always been partial to the name Lowell…” George and Jing’s giggles signaled their disapproval.

Nilson wasn’t insulted as she said, “Okay wise-guys. What were you thinking?” George said, “We were thinkin’ Mark for my best friend Marco...may he rest in peace. But we're stuck for a middle name…” Nilson said, “You’re sure Lowell is out of the question?” George grinned, “Seriously, I know you how many years...and I don’t know your first name.” “It’s no secret, my full name is Leanne Gretchen Nilson…” George fought off another giggle and said, “I would like to honor you…but there isn’t much we can do with Gretchen.” Jing smiled, “Like Leanne, my father’s name was Lee.”

On Christmas Day, Jing gave birth to Lee Mark Pisarcik. In the hospital George was beaming when he told Ms. Nilson, "This is my merriest Christmas.  And even better, my baby boy will share the same birthday as me..."  Nilson said, "And...you both will have the same birthday as Him."  George scratched his chin, "Him who?" Nilson pointed upwards and smiled, "Jesus."  George shrugged, "Oh yeah, him too..."

Interestingly, because of the baby's stinky diapers and bald head, George and Jing began to call him Marco…and the name stuck.

                                           #     #     #     #      #                            

LET ME NOW IF YOU WANT TO READ MY, "IF IT AIN'T NAILED DOWN,"  BOOK, LET ME KNOW AN I'LL ARRANGE IT.  EITHER WAY, HAVE YOUR OWN MERRIEST CHRISTMAS EVER!  THANK YOU ALL FOR YOU CONTINOUS SUPPORT.

LAKE STUPID

Forbidden love…in my generation, the 1957 Broadway musical and smash movie of 1961, “WEST SIDE STORY,” epitomized the idea.

TONY AND MARIA ARE STAR-CROSSED LOVERS FROM OPPOSING NYC YOUTH GANGS.

A hundred years earlier, the romanticized family feud of the Hatfields and McCoys triggered bloodshed over secret liaisons of their young. However, the granddaddy of all forbidden love stories pitted the Montagues versus the Capulets. Written over four-hundred years ago by a William Shakespeare, we all know it was called, “ROMEO AND JULIET.”

THE ENDURING TITLE CHARACTERS FROM SHAKESPEARE'S CLASSIC TRAGEDY "ROMEO AND JULIET," (1591ca.), ARE THE ARCHETYPE OF YOUNG LOVERS AND FORBIDDEN LOVE.

Shakespeare is credited with this originating this timeless tale. But you are about to learn that the old Bard of Avon plagiarized Romeo and Juliet. Okay, time out! Perhaps plagiarized is too strong a word. Instead, let’s give Bombastic Bill the benefit of the doubt and say he used poetic license to inspire his greatest work, by borrowing from an old Native-Canadian saga…affectionately known today as, “THE LEGEND OF LAKE STUPID.”

Long, long ago…just beneath the Arctic Circle, in the northern-most wilderness of the present-day Yukon Territory, sits an Eden-like Valley. A freak of nature has warmed this narrow, ten-mile strip from the typical harsh weather of its thousand-mile radius and provided salvation for a wide range of vegetation, animals, fish and birds. Although the circle-of-life still exists, the wildlife seemingly has cut-out a reasonably peaceful niche.

TODAY, THE YUKON IS STILL SO VAST AND SPARSELY POPULATED THAT IT'S SECOND LARGEST TOWN, DAWSON CITY HAS LESS THAN FIFTEEN-HUNDRED RESIDENTS.

Unfortunately, humans have been far less charitable and unwilling to share this blissful outpost. Through the eons, to control this frosty paradise, tribal warfare has wreaked bloody havoc. Ancestral Aleuts of the west, Eskimos from the north, the Inuit of the east and Indians from the south all converged there. These conflicts caused the weaker clans to be wiped out and long forgotten.

The focal point of the area is Lake Chapultepec, (an indigenous term for; lake that never freezes). This over-sized, oval-shaped pond is sandwiched by lush forests on two sides and mountain walls on the other two. Due to its strategic placement, the lake acts as natural demilitarized zone for the last two warring tribes, the Narwhals of the south and the Vuntut of the north.

These two enemies knew that half the valley had enough resources to comfortably support their people. They also had a good idea of the valley’s lethal history. So they settled into a cautious, non-negotiated, closed-off, peaceful co-existence.

For several generations there was hardly any interaction. The hated rivals maintained a strict segregation while closely scrutinizing the daily activities of each other. And despite the perceived harmony there was always  an under-current of unrest. Especially if an over zealous potential chief needed to demonstrate his strength to his would-be constituents. Luckily, no accidental incident ever sparked more than a minor skirmish.

On a mid-September morning, long after the short summer had ended, the first hint of winter invaded the valley. Through dawn’s mistiness, a lone female Narwhal knelt where the stream of melted glacial water entered the lake’s western side of the south shore. This young squaw, on the verge of womanhood, was attracted to that spot by the nearby natural hot spring that prevents the lake from freezing.  She leaned over the bank and stared at her gawky reflection. Her whimpering broke the silence until her gush of tears threatened to overflow the calm waters.

Her name was Delicate Flower. But this bit of sarcasm was bestowed on her the same way you might nickname a giant; Tiny. But Delicate Flower wasn’t crying about her awkwardness, she was unhappy because she had come of age to begin the courtship rituals of the tribe but was deemed unsuitable.

Delicate Flower’s low status was represented by her new responsibility as a laundress. The tribe had a pecking order within the laundresses and it was she alone who scraped the “racing stripes” off the men’s loin clothes.

Soon a group of giggly laundresses gathered fifty feet away. They directed their laughter at the poor girl’s misfortune as they used rocks to the pound the community clothes clean. Delicate Flower knew she was being shunned but what really bothered her was their adolescent chatter about the young boys who they hoped would court them.

Delicate Flower wasn’t dainty and was still having difficulty getting used to the clumsy hatchet she was using to do such fine work. While her hormones raged inside, her outward situation worsened when she dropped the big scraper into the murky water. The other girls laughed and pointed at her as the humiliated girl waded knee-deep trying to locate the valued tool.

At the same time, across the lake, on the western side of the north shore, the equivalent of a drill sergeant ran fledgling Vuntut warrior cadets out from the woods. Twelve young bucks, breathing heavily from their rigorous training proudly stood in a straight line. For two long minutes, the boys remained at attention staring at Chapultepec, waiting for the order that would set them at ease.

A rustling in the woods caused the instructor to look behind his troops. The erect cadets feared recrimination and strained their eyes, in the hope of seeing behind them without turning their heads. Suddenly, Brown Trout, a thirteen boy emerged. The rotund lad entered a small clearing and hopped over a fallen log but skidded on a slanted stone and fell.

The trainer had some unkind words for his group as they laughed at their flawed, Gomer Pyle-like comrade. When the chubby boy finally joined the others, the sergeant roared profanity into his face, poked his engorged belly and pointed to where a left moccasin was supposed to be.

JIM NABORS AS GOMER PYLE (right) WAS A SIMPLEMINDED, COUNTRY BUMPKIN MARINE CANDIDATE, IN THE TV SHOW THAT BORE HIS NAME, (1964-1969). THE 1987 MOVIE, "FULL METAL JACKET," USED GOMER PYLE AS A NICKNAME FOR IT'S FOOLISH, TRAGIC CHARACTER, PRIVATE LEONARD LAWRENCE.

Brown Trout was so dense that when the other boys were excused, he needed two explanations before understanding that his punishment included taking a miniature Vuntut totem pole, by canoe, to the center of the lake. He was then required to stand up and taunt the Narwhals with it. The true measure of the ordeal was that he wasn’t provided the luxury of a paddle.

By the time Brown Trout reached his destination only Delicate Flower saw him . She watched with confused curiosity until he rose up, shook the symbolic artifact with malice and shouted vulgarities in his alien language. His silly intimidation attempt ended abruptly when the canoe started to list side-to-side. The kid kept the boat from capsizing but he fell and cracked his head on the wooden seat. He was afraid to look back at his village and see who might have witnessed his bumbling ineptitude. So he looked towards the enemy camp.

Delicate Flower saw the boy’s bloody forehead. She stood up and gaped in sympathy, causing Brown Trout to interpret her tender reaction as concern. Out of embarrassment, he smiled. When she smiled back…they both experienced a mutual regard...it was love at first sight.

For several weeks, Brown Trout under the pretense of practice, started every morning by maneuvering a canoe closer, in the hope of catching a better glimpse of Delicate Flower.

One day, Delicate Flower in the name of romance, decided to walk around the lake. She claimed to be gathering berries and lost her way when she was discovered too close to “enemy” lines. She was sent to the Shaman. She remained obtuse throughout the questioning so the medicine man thought she was crazy.

December ushered in a thick blanket of snow that covered the land. In the distance, Brown Trout spotted his beautiful Delicate Flower framed by the purity of the white background. As was his custom, he set out by canoe, to get a better look at his forbidden love. On this morning, his surging testosterone compelled him to paddle near enough to talk to her. His spirits and libido were ricocheting between his lower abdomen and his heart as he bravely thrust his vessel into the bitterly cold water.

Brown Trout hadn’t gone thirty feet when one of the elders called out, “Where are you going?” The boy was caught off guard. His high-pitched, prepubescent voice cracked as he stammered said, “I-I-I’m taking this totem to the center of the lake, t-t-to taunt the Narwhals.” When he realized that he didn’t have the symbolic talisman with him, he shamefully made a U-Turn.

The wise man grabbed Brown Trout under his armpit and forcibly led him back to his lodge. The cowering boy was thrown to the ground.  The elder said, "I'm disappointed in you Brown Trout.  Last year, I had a high opinion of you when you asked for an audience with the chief.  You showed maturity, made a reasonable request and presented a good case...and were granted an irregular favor."  "Yes, that was when I asked the chief how he named new born children."  The elder said, "That's right, the chief leaves the tepee of each new child and names the baby after the first thing he sees."  Brown Trout said, "The chief used my sister and brother as examples."  The elder said, "Your brother Silver Moon and sister Leaping Fawn were indeed named in that manner.  In the same way, you were named, Two Wolves Humping.  But you didn't like that name and the chief renamed you."

Brown Trout hung his head low as a long interrogation about his strange escapade with the canoe began. But the kid made no sense as he blithered in circles but never divulged his true mission. So the elder forbade him from using the canoes and came away from their meeting convinced that the boy was a bigger moron than he ever imagined.

The next morning was two degrees below zero. Despite some minor icing along the far shore, (away from the stream carrying the hot spring water), the always thawed lake lived up to its name.

Brown Trout saw his beloved in her usual place and decided to risk everything. But the elder had hid the canoes. The love sick warrior-in-training wasn’t clever enough to think out a better plan...and dove into the lake.

Motivated by horniness, Brown Trout swam like an Olympic champion.  His first fifty feet would have given Tarzan goose pimples. But soon his progress slowed considerably until he was floundering. Delicate Flower recognized her beau's panic-stricken attempt to stay afloat and pushed a canoe into the lake. She had never used one in her life but when she saw her sweetheart thrashing about, struggling to keep his head above water, her adrenaline took over. She focused on saving her man and cut through Chapultepec like an expert.

Soon tribesmen from both sides converged on Brown Trout’s limp body. He had succumbed to hyperthermia and drowned. The corpse was dragged back to the Vuntut village. Members of the Narwhals instinctively followed Delicate Flower into the enemy camp and nobody stopped them. To the surprise of everyone, she embraced the boy’s head and in a hysterical crying sob, professed her love for him.

The Narwhals and the Vuntut continued to lead separate lives until Delicate Flower assumed the role of goodwill ambassador.  She frequently visited the Vuntut and shared cultural nuances. Over time, her familiar face brokered many meetings between the tribes...and hostilities evaporated.  Her greatest accomplishment was getting the two chiefs together on the first anniversary of Brown Trout’s ill-fated death. From that powwow, the day was proclaimed a holiday and open communication, trade and socializing became officially acceptable.

The chiefs also liked Delicate Flower's idea to change Chapultepec’s name, in honor of Brown Trout.  But she didn't quite get exactly what she hoped for.  With hierarchy of both tribes in accord, the name was changed...to Lake Stupid.

THE CLOWN OF THE BASKERVILLES

In celebration of the 74th anniversary of its theatrical release (March 31st), I dedicate this blog to, "THE HOUND OF THE BASKERVILLES," (1939).  It was the first (best) of the Basil Rathbone, Nigel Bruce,  fourteen movie-series, based on the Sherlock Holmes novels by Sir Arthur Conan Doyle.  For the purposes of my story, please try to imagine those actors in the starring roles, in the specific time period from Wednesday September 28, 1938 until Sunday October 2, 1938.

RATHBONE AS HOLMES (center) BRUCE AS WATSON (seated) AND MARY GORDON AS MRS. HUDSON.

Sherlock Holmes leaves his bedroom at 221-B, Baker Street and enters the living room.  He finds Dr. Watson with one knee on the settee, craning his neck around the half-drawn drapery as he spies on the late-morning street scene below.  "Well old man," starts Holmes, "I see you decided to wait for the postman up here."  Watson stammers, "W-w-whatever left you that impression?"  "Here, here my good man, your motives are as obvious as the origins of Stonehenge are mysterious."  "Out with it Holmes, if you have something say...just say it."  "Very well, you are timing a rendezvous."  "What?"  "Yes Watson, autumn is upon us but spring is in the air.  And this awkward position you struck...resembling a Norwegian Blue pining for the fjords...can only mean that you are hatching an intricate web of intrigue designed to procure the company of the opposite sex."  "Holmes you are daft?"  "But before I complete my thought on the subject, one other thing.  Why after all these years do pretend to be an British subject.  What do you have to gain by turning your back on your native Brooklyn?  Just because your mother dropped you on your head several times..." "Holmes, you are unmistakably, an insignificant heap of parrot droppings."  "Once again doctor, you've tickled my fancy with your acumen.  But let's not digress, why do you insist on hiding that perfectly lovely accent that was ever so ingrained in you from birth...in the hamlet, you so eloquently call, Greenpernt?" 

The doctor scoffed, "Greenpernt?  Of all the impertinence..."  "No really Watson, tell me again how you address local inquisitors who question where this so-called English accent of yours is from?"  "I tell them I'm Welsh...from the north end of Cardiff..."  "No, no, no Watson, I know that part, please delight me and tell me where exactly?"  "Does it really make you feel better about yourself, to embarrass me every chance you get?"  "So sorry but anytime I need a belly laugh, I imagine you telling people that you're twang is specific to the tiny section in North Cardiff, on or about a Hundred-Twenty-Fifth Street and Broadway."

Watson opened his pocket watch before sneaking another peek out the window.  Holmes said, "Don't think I forgot our original topic..."  Watson squashed tobacco into the bowl of his pipe and barked, "If you must make a fool of your self..."  "On the contrary, what you have is a healthy appetite for female companionship..."  "Holmes..."  "No, no Watson, let me continue because I specifically know the object of your affection...our landlady, Mrs. Hudson."  "You have crossed the line sir!  This wild assertion challenges your worth as my friend, confidant and shudders the very fabric of what it means to be a gentlemen."  "Doctor you may find it convenient to deny my revelation...but can you look me in the eye and tell me why you are suddenly sending your shoes out to be shined and using a musky fragrance that masks your perfectly normal body odor?  More importantly, can you tell me why you waited in the downstairs foyer yesterday, as well as last Tuesday to meet the postman?"  When Watson groaned Holmes plowed on, "You did so...so that you would have an ideal vantage point to gape at Mrs. Hudson's undulating posterior as she scrubbed the marble vestibule on her hands and knees." 

Watson shook his head, "The residual affect of all that cocaine has increased your already acute repression and now has left you delusional as well as ..."  "This isn't about me or my voluntary abstinence...not everyone wants to avoid having their clarity distracted, corrupted or challenged.  What you are experiencing is, a common case of vanity that has manifested itself, in the form of a mid-life crisis or as you Americans like to say, if you don't use it, you'll lose it." 

"Well," Watson countered, "I'm neither a priest nor a germophobe hence I've never taken the utterly unnecessary vow of celibacy that seems to have invaded your psyche.  And, and, and!  Let me make this perfectly clear, I have no problem with close inter-personal contact."  "Ah, you are playing into my hands.  So you do pride your self in being a skoit-chaser?"  The doctor's eyes bulged out of his head, "No shit Sherlock!" "Elementary my dear Watson, so why don't you just admit that you have a thing for Mrs. Hudson."  "You are a loathsome boor and an absurd...little man."  "Trust me, I do not revel in discomforting you but all right then, I will prove my point.  A mere moment ago, you were looking out the window because you know that the postman arrives about now...within a ten-minute grace period.  You also know that the newspaper is coincidentally delivered in its own ten-minute interval that is slightly later than the mail."  Watson was nervously pulling at his mustache as Holmes continued, "And occasionally an over-lap occurs when the postal delivery runs late and the newspaper is ahead of schedule.  Ergo, before you developed your scheme to woo Mrs. Hudson, you'd wait downstairs for both the mail and the paper...to kill two birds with one stone, as it were.  Now, except on vestibule scrubbing Tuesday, you anxiously press your face...starting promptly at 10:10 in the morning, against the glass in the anticipation of the post man.  But do you race downstairs to meet our reliable postal carrier, Mr. Caleb Jennings and relieve him of our daily correspondences.  I say NO!  And that Watson is the crux of the matter.  You idly remain up here.  Thus, causing Mrs. Hudson to interrupt her other responsibilities, to trudge up here...as to hand our communiques to you...so you might have a private moment with her..."  "Holmes, despite your earned reputation for an astute gift of discernment, you have the mind of a hamster."  A wry smile came over Holmes face, "I've never seen such piety turned towards oneself...but nevertheless I will persevere to make my point.  If...as I said...you became cowardly in this private moment...you have devised a fail-safe procedure that would provide you a second opportunity 'to get somewhere' when she trudged up again, approximately ten minutes later with the newspaper."

The two men simultaneously stopping talking when the bell over the front door downstairs jingled.  Seconds after it jingled again, Watson scurried to their flat's entrance and put his ear to the door. When he heard Mrs. Hudson's familiar footsteps getting near, he jumped back to the settee and feigned innocence by tapping the raw tobacco he never smoked...out of his pipe.

In an unnatural, cross-legged pose, Watson coyly remained seated as his comrade responded to the gentle but rhythmic rap on the door.  Mrs.  Hudson appeared in the door jamb, extended a collection of envelopes and a small parcel towards Holmes and said in a sweet Irish brogue, "Good morning gentlemen."  Holmes took on the role of wingman when he asked her inside.  "Mrs.  Hudson, Watson and I were just discussing the possibility that you have added new ingredients to your even more delicious Yorkshire Pudding..."  He stopped in mid-sentence when the jingle of the downstairs bell signaled the arrival of the LONDON TIMES.  Holmes was gallant as he bowed to the woman and said, "While you are chatting, I'll retrieve the newspaper."

For three minutes, Mrs. Hudson pleasantly explained the new subtleties in her recipe as Watson twitched in anticipation of divulging his social invitation.  During a pause in Mrs. Hudson's report, the doctor cleared his throat as his voice faltered, "M-m-my dear Mrs. Hudson, I was wondering..."  At that precise time, Holmes returned holding the newspaper.  Without looking up from his reading, he crossed the living room and said, "The cricket matches in Ceylon were postponed due to a typhoon," before he disappeared into his room.

The kindly woman waited for the door to close before saying, "Dr. Watson, you were wondering..."  "I was er-uh-umm...w-w-wondering, why after all these years, you never call me John."  Mrs. Hudson adjusted her apron and puffed up her hair before saying, "That would be fine...John.  Is there anything else you might be wondering about?"  The shrill, amateurish sound of Beethoven's, "ODE TO JOY," in the form of violin music from Holmes' room filled the air as Watson nestled a bit closer.  In a hushed tone he stiffly stated, "I would like to get to know you better Mrs. Hudson."  She smiled, "What did you have in mind?  And please...call me Margaret."  "Yes of course...I thought perhaps Mrs...I mean Margaret...that we could stroll through Hyde Park this Sunday afternoon.  If all goes well...we could also go punting on the Thames.  In the early evening, we could sup together in the restaurant at the Savoy.  Then if I could be so bold, it would be my esteemed priviledge to have your accompaniment, to the crackerjack show they have at the Odeon."  "Why John..."  "If it isn't too late, we can end our lovely evening with a nice glass of sherry."

Margaret Hudson's nodded in approval before bursting out in a screeching laugh, "Funny, I've had my eye on you for years.  I hoped this day would come but I gave up because I assumed...you two...how should I say it...kept to yourselves."  Watson harrumphed, "Madame, really?" Mrs.  Hudson apologized, "Please excuse me...no honestly, I didn't mean to imply anything sordid. Let me start over. I accept your suggestion, it would be wonderful to get to know you better, this Sunday."

Watson was still confounded by her squeal of delight and queer assertion so he changed the subject, "What sorts of things do you like?"  "Aye," she started, "Travel for certain but I haven't left the district in quite some time.  In my youth, I was told that I was quite a lively dancer.  Alas, I'm not as spry as I used to be so these days, I enjoy doing macrame...but I'd  rather dance."  "I've seen you twisting those coarse fibers into interesting patterns."  "Nae John, macrame may look like twisting but it's actually knotting lacy chords into designs...but I'm glad you like it."

"Margaret," Watson said louder as Holmes' violin butchery of Beethoven continued, "I would also like you to know, that I'm really from Brooklyn, in the USA.  Also, I don't gamble, rarely smoke my pipe and only drink socially."  "Well Johnny boy, I don't care where you're from.  And if being from Brooklyn is supposed to suggest you're tough....remember this, I was right in the middle of Belfast's Bloody Sunday and the only reason I survived all those other riots into 1922 was, I'm a scrapper.  That means, I knew how to handle my self...and still do.  But more importantly,  if you think you're going to lure a woman of my high-standing up here after hours using sherry as bait, you are sadly mistaken...I like gin!"

Watson was smiling as he tried to compose himself.  Mrs. Hudson looked towards Holmes' room and added, "Don't you think 'what's-his-name' might object to you having a landlady with benefits?"  Watson robustly said, "Old 'what's-his-name' might know everything about the human spirit but he doesn't know how to enjoy it.  Besides, after he has his nightly glass of warm buttermilk and a scone or two, his sleep is so deep that any hibernating bear would envy him.  Believe me, after he dons his ridiculous night mask, an orchestra playing the crescendo from the "1812 OVERTURE" next to his bed, wouldn't stir him."

ALTHOUGH SHERLOCK HOLMES DID PREFER HIS VICTORIAN BLACK,  SILK SLEEPING MASK WHEN HE WAS OUT OF TOWN, HE ALMOST EXCLUSIVELY WORE HIS FRILLY LAVENDER ONES AT HOME.

The giggling couple ended their frivolity after the downstairs bell rang. When the music from the other room stopped, Holmes came out with the paper under his arm and said, "Tomorrow, the Prime Minister will be taking a big chance signing the Munich Agreement with the Huns." Mrs.  Hudson winked at her Johnny, switched back to her Spartan facade and matter-of-factly said, "Will you require anything more Dr. Watson?"  Watson beamed as he discretely said, "No thank you."

Moments later, Watson answered a stern knock at the door.  A man handed Watson a card, introduced himself as Dr.  James Mortimer and said, "Sherlock Holmes I presume?"  Holmes approached the door, ushered the man in and said, "I'm Sherlock Holmes."  Mortimer said, "I represent Sir Henry Baskerville of Devonshire.  In honor of his son Edgar's fourth birthday, Sir Henry is putting together a rather large party...pony rides, a magician and so forth"  Watson interjected, "Why in blazes would you need us at a kiddie party?"  "Banshees," cried Mortimer.  "Banshees," Watson cried, "what's that!"  Mortimer said, "Banshees are female spirits whose wailings warn of impending death."  Watson said, "I knew that, I was just surprised that anyone believed in that sort of rot." Mortimer said, "It's the Baskerville family curse and I've been dispatched here to secure your services, to assure that the proceedings go smoothly." Mortimer removed two, twenty pound notes from his pocket and added, "To cover your time at Baskerville Hall and expenses, here's a good faith retainer." 

Holmes scratched his head in disbelief, "My colleague is right.  There is no supernatural evil.  Certainly a man of you stature should realize such apparitions don't exist."  Mortimer said, "It's not a superstition, the estate has a long history of heinous, unexplained deaths.  The unfortunate placement of the grounds are along the desolate, foggy, swampy moor, between Grimpen Mire and Dartmoor Prison.  Many a man has lost his way in the moor and with one missed step was never seen again.  Plus, death shrouds the entire area. A mere hundred meters from the property line, archaeologists have unearthed Neolithic ruins and an altar in which countless souls were sacrificed to appease the Gods.  Not to mention the real and perpetual threat from escaped convicts.  Even back to the first world war when the property was used as an allied aerodrome, death surrounded the hall. So when I state that I am not an ethereal man please realize that after being repeatedly exposed to the bedeviling Banshee's wail, all I can say is that I'm glad to be out of the house."

"I will take your case," Holmes said.  But I have an appointment with Inspector Lestrade and this pressing business will keep me from returning with you and Watson.  So until I catch up to you on Saturday, keep your money till we get results." 

AS A DODDERING FOOL, ENGLISH ACTOR DENNIS HOEY (1893-1960) PORTRAYED LESTRADE.

Holmes informed Mortimer of the finer details.  Only he and the Baskervilles would know Watson's true identity. The men made travel arrangements for Friday night and Mortimer left.  Holmes said, "Watson, remember make no mention of your association with me.  While you are there you will simply be called Uncle John.  When you get off the train, telephone me here. Then report your findings at noon, before bed or on a needs basis."  "Right Holmes."  "And one more thing Johnny boy...where did you come up with calling me, 'what's his name'?"  "Confound it man, how can you play that infernal fiddle, read the newspaper and simultaneously eavesdrop on personal whisperings?'  Holmes shrugged, "A wise man never reveals his sources or his secrets..."

On the tedious train journey, a strain developed between the doctors when Mortimer asked, "Where is your accent from?"  "It's Welsh."  "I spent a bit of my youth in Wales...but I can't place..." I'm from North Cardiff..."  When Watson added the non-existent cross streets, Mortimer who was familiar with Cardiff became acutely suspicious.  When Watson sensed the distrust, he became weary of Mortimer.

On Saturday morning, birds were chirping and the sun was shining brightly when they stepped off the train.  Mortimer seemed confused when he was approached by an antique coach driver.  "Tuffle, where is Wethbee?  And where is the Bentley?" 

THE 1937 BENTLEY WAS THE ESSENCE OF WEALTH.

Tuffle said, "Sir, it seems Wethbee (the chauffeur) was so frightened by the Banshees last night that he disappeared...and took the car.  Mrs.  Baskerville suggested I take the brougham and meet you."

DRAWN BY ONE OR TWO HORSES, A BROUGHAM WAS AN ELEGANT, FULLY ENCLOSED, FOUR-PASSENGER CARRIAGE.  IT SHOULD NOT BE CONFUSED WITH A SINGLE-HORSE CALASH, FEATURING EXPOSED SEATING WITH A FOLDING HOOD OR A SINGLE-HORSE HANSOM CAB THAT WAS ENCLOSED BUT ONLY ACCOMMODATED TWO PASSENGERS.

Before they left the station Mortimer said, "John..."  When Watson realized that they hadn't rehearsed a surname he spat, "Hudson, John Hudson...I mean John Hudson Baskerville."  Mortimer continued, "Uncle John, this is Tuffle, the new butler.  He has been with us since Mitchell resigned last week, due the Banshees."  He turned to Tuffle, "Is the staff still intact?"  "I'm afraid not sir.  The last of the charwomen left last night and the laundress was packing as I left."  "How about Mrs. McKegney?"  "I can't put myself in her mind, sir. I've never had the opportunity of speaking with her.  So as far as I know, she's still with us."  Mortimer said, "She's a recent replacement herself..." 

Tuffle was loading the baggage as he said, "Honestly gentlemen, the agency didn't say anything about me being the chauffeur or gardening but these Banshees...if I get scared half way to kingdom come again, I'm afraid I too will resign."  Watson forgot to contact Holmes as he stepped into the carriage and said, "Come now, you look like a reasonable chap, you shouldn't be intimidated by something you can't see."  "Begging the gentleman's pardon, but decent people have been dying at the Banshee's behest at Baskerville Hall for hundreds of years."  "Come, come that's merely a legend...a veritable fairy tale."  "Gentlemen, I saw the beast."  The two doctors were frozen by the pure fear that throttled Tuffle's voice.  "That's right and as God is my witness, this vicious, spectral she-demon burned my skin with her fiery eyes and chomped at my face with its razor-sharp teeth.  I'm ashamed to say that only someone with a weaker resolve such as myself would hesitate from fleeing."

MANY ARTISTIC. RENDERINGS OF BANSHEES ARE REPRESENTED AS GHOSTLY, FLYING PHANTOMS.

Two hours later, the weather had made a dramatic turn for the worse when Mortimer announced, "That's the moor on the left."  Watson peered through the fog as Mortimer continued, "Don't let the beauty of the heather tempt you. Even natives get disoriented going through and fall to an excruciating death off steep cliffs.  Plus there are landslides, cavernous sink holes and the menace of getting sucked into quicksand."

Up a slight grade in the topography, medieval Baskerville Hall was placed on a beautifully manicured, long and narrow plot of ground.  Mortimer pointed into the moor and said, "In the distance, you may be able to catch a glimpse of the ancient ruins I mentioned."

At the main entrance to the great hall, Watson noticed that other than the occasional whistle of the wind, there wasn't a natural sound to be heard. Inside, the two doctors were met by the Baskervilles, Sir Henry and his wife Lucille as well as the housekeeper, Mrs. McKegney...who was now pressed into service as a cook.

McKegney was a gaunt and austere woman who looked fifty but was probably younger than forty.  Her constant pained expression was associated with some sort of permanent neck injury. Therefore she had a limited range so anything beyond normal peripheral vision, required her to move her feet or contort her torso.

Doctor Mortimer was told that the governess had resigned.  He was shaking his head as he got the Baskervilles up to speed on Holmes later arrival. Mrs. McKegney then escorted undercover Watson to his second floor room.  Along the way he asked the dull hag, "Aren't you afraid of the Banshees?" "It is my understanding that all the servants have deserted the Baskervilles at their hour of need except for that Mr. Tuffle and myself." "That Tuffle fellow said he was chased by the Banshee last night."  "If he says so...well then you should take him at his word.  But I've never spoken to the man so I can't attest to the quality of his character."

She handed him a skeleton key for his grand oak door and asked, "How shall I address you sir."  "John Baskerville."  "Very well Mr. Baskerville, can I be of any further service now?"  "Yes please, do you have a copy of today's London newspapers and where might I place a long distance call?"

Watson wanted to open up the lines of communication with Holmes but the telephone seemed as bedazzled by Banshees as everyone else.  Watson spent the day touring the property with Sir Henry and Mortimer.  Later during dinner, Watson unsuccessfully tried to get the Baskervilles to consider postponing their child's party.

Both Baskervilles, Mortimer and Watson adjourned to the library. An hour later a night cap was served.  Watson took a small swig.  Rather than complain about the acrid taste, he camouflaged his activity and dumped the remainder into his tobacco pouch.  When Tuffle returned, Watson extended his glass towards the butler and said, "Truly excellent."  He stood up, proposed a toast to the Baskerville's toddler and added, "May tomorrow's festivities go untainted by otherworldly nonsense."  The others said, "Here, here."  Watson took the refill to his lips, pretended to drink and said, "And here's to the end of the Baskerville curse."  He then secretly emptied his glass into a flower pot.

In his room, Watson started drinking water from the pitcher next to the basin. Due to his failure to contact Holmes, to avoid forgetting minute details, he wanted to chronicle both mundane and extraordinary events with an exact timeline.  Towards the end of his documentation, he was gulping down water at a feverish pace.  His last entry was a description of the aperitif he was served after dinner as having a lilting scent of burnt almonds.  He worried that the aroma might be associated with poison.

Watson intended to force himself to stay awake all night.  He turned his attention to the newspaper. He finished the LONDON TIMES article on the big anti-war summit in Munich between Great Britain, France, Germany and Italy. He was taking pride in Prime Minister Neville Chamberlain's talent for diplomacy as it was laid out in the DAILY MIRROR. 

CHAMBERLAIN RETURNED FROM MUNICH, A HERO. IN THE FAMOUS PHOTO (above), HE TRIUMPHANTLY HOLDS THE NON-AGGRESSION AGREEMENT HE AND ADOLPH HITLER SIGNED.  A FEW DAYS LATER, THE GERMAN INVASION OF CZECHOSLOVAKIA SIGNALED THE BEGINNING OF WWII. 

Halfway through the article, Watson heard a heavy, metallic thud.  He struggled to his feet in anticipation of the Banshee...when no other noise followed, he woozily looked out the window.  In the distant blackness of the moor, he saw a small light turn off, back on and off again. Seconds later, the light began a code-like cadence of discordant blinks.  He put on his coat, checked to see that his revolver was loaded, stumbled downstairs and around to the back of the hall...where the party was to be.

Watson crossed the croquette pitch and stopped at the edge of the moor.  He dared not venture into the wilderness but upon closer examination, he concluded that a flashlight, in the area of the Neolithic ruins was signaling the house.  Watson squinted back at the house and from the last window on the second floor...he saw similar blinks.

Dr. Watson held his pistol at his side as he tip-toed back up to his room.  He left the door open just a crack and started a vigil to see who or what would come out of the farthest room.  Then it started, the wail of the banshee.  At first, Watson was thunderstruck until he realized that the sounds were coming in through the vents.  More importantly, he discerned the background scratchiness of a phonograph record.  From his post at the door, Watson watched the corridor for twenty minutes, until the faux-fright show ended.  His patience paid off when the so-called strangers, Mrs. McKegney and Tuffle came out of the last room. The diabolical duo were passing Watson's lair as Tuffle reached under his waistcoat and adjusted what looked like the hilt of a dagger inside his pants.

Watson scribbled some entries into his notebook including that the metallic thud might have been the dagger falling on the parquet floor, three doors down.

The morning of the party, Sunday October 2nd, was breezy, sunless and drab.  At 6:45, Watson awoke in desperate need of the toilet. While clambering out of bed, he recalled the fear of being poisoned and was surprised to be alive. He was so roused that he ventured downstairs.  He was relieved to see Mrs.  Baskerville.  She greeted him with a tiresome sigh, "Aye, the Banshees were running last night."  He said, "Did you see them?"  She shook her head, "But they were in our bed chambers.  Mr. Baskerville heard them too as well as my little boy."  Watson was scratching his head as she handed him an envelope and added, "A special messenger just brought this for you."

The note was from Holmes, "I understand that the telephone is not working...I wanted you to tell the Baskervilles that I regrettably can not cut away to assist them."  Dr. Mortimer was coming downstairs as Watson informed Mrs. Baskerville.  When she shared the disappointing information with Mortimer, he became angry at Watson, "Sir, I am the advocate of this family.  I demand to know why we wasted all this time and energy to have the incredible Sherlock Holmes get to the bottom of this insidious mystery only to wind-up with a do-nothing like you."

Watson was perturbed.  He shushed the other doctor, guided him outside and said, "Be that as it may, we ought not contradict his strategy.  Now sir, did you see the Banshee last night?"  "No!"  Watson lost his temper, "What else...come, come now, answer the friggin' question!"  "I have never seen the Banshee but it was in my room last night."  "How many night caps did you have last night?"  "Are you implying that I was incapacitated by liquor...or are insulting me by calling me a liar?"  Before Watson could respond Mortimer said, "I never trusted you.  Your occasional unsophisticated choice of words suggest that your pedigree is not of an English gentleman.  And I wouldn't give a lead farthing for that phony accent of yours either.  I say it's from nowhere in Wales." Before Watson could make a rebuttal, he was cut-off.  "And far worse, you stand before me and accuse me of being intoxicated."  Watson tried again but Mortimer continued, "And sir...and I cringe at the thought of calling you a gentleman...where did you go this morning?"  "I came downstairs minutes before you."  "If that's the case, where did you go last night after we went to bed?" Mortimer could tell he was lying when Watson said, "I never left my room."  Mortimer pointed down, "I see.  I'm no detective, but why are the perfectly shined shoes you wore to dinner, so muddy now?"

Watson whispered, "I'm forced to confide in you because I am desperately in need of an ally. Sir, we were all drugged last night.  I would have liked to analyze the after dinner drinks because initially, I feared we were being poisoned.  But now it's fair to assume that an hallucinogen laced our night caps.  Therefore I conclude that Banshee was merely a piped-in sound-effect.  You can imagine that with our perceptions altered, the threat gained more validity."  Watson referred to Tuffle and McKegney as the primary culprits and added, "Moreover, I suspect that they are acting in collusion with a malevolent third party."  Watson explained the signaling in the night and said, "Somewhere near the ruins, I would expect to find hard evidence of a conspiracy against the Baskervilles."  Mortimer exclaimed, "We must contact the constables in town."  "Under normal circumstances, I would say yes.  But the telephone has been cut off, the car was stolen and its too far to go on horseback...and the party will be starting in two hours."

Watson flashed his gun and said, "The time for action...is now." Mortimer said, "I haven't been in that part of the moor in years, but I'm certain I remember the way." The men set out on the treacherous half-mile route through swampy territory as well as the hazardous narrow, chalky inclines that seemed to disintegrate under foot.

They avoided one last mud puddle as they approached their destination. In front of a cave that faced away from Baskerville Hall, the only thing out of order in Mortimer's mind were the charred remains of a fresh fire.  In the cold residue, the tiny edge from a piece of paper was found.  Both men agreed that the three discernible words were in German.

They were anxious to warn the Baskerville's of the peril they projected.  Despite the dangers, the two doctors hurried back. They were emerging from the wasteland as early arriving vendors set up for the party.  Amid the growing festive clamor, they were accosted by a panic-filled Henry Baskerville, "Where were you...?"  Watson cut him off, "Sir you must postpone the party!  Tell all your guests and vendors to leave immediately and alert the authorities."  Baskerville read them a note, "Your wife and child will be returned to you unharmed after the party.  Tell anyone who asks that the boy is sick and is being tended to my his mother..."

Watson said, "Have you any handguns?"  "Yes I have two."  "Perfect, get one for yourself and one for Mortimer...and don't forget the ammunition."

Mortimer looked around and said, "I don't know any of these blokes."  A man in bib overalls was unloading two ponies from his lorrie. A short man in a roly-poly clown costume was stretching balloons as his tall, gray-bearded cohort, in a tattered tuxedo assembled a booth labeled; ARBUCKLE'S BALLOON ANIMALS.

ARBUCKLE'S COSTUME WAS A WHITE, DIAMOND -SHAPED FAT SUIT WITH LARGE, PINK, PURPLE AND ORANGE DOTS.

In the shade of Baskerville Hall, a pudgy chef with a gigantic mustache that obscured his face was singing Italian opera as he rattled pots, pans, dishes, cups and silverware.  At the gazebo, a ten-piece musical band was arranging their chairs and warming up.

A spattering of neighbors, family, friends and business associates were arriving as Watson whispered, "We may have already been infiltrated by the Huns.  Mortimer said, "I don't many of the guests and all the vendors could be impostors."  Watson said, "This is quite a sticky situation.  I'll feel better when we are armed and we see what these pricks...I mean black'earts really want." Mortimer reflected, "Now that I think about it, I'm certain Mrs. Baskerville didn't hire musicians."

Mr. Baskerville returned empty handed, "My guns are all missing!  Even my hunting rifles.  I also did a quick search and my family does not seem to be in the house."  Watson said, "It seems they have the upper hand." Mortimer asked, "How many guests did you invite?"  "Thirty or so kids, we told the caterer to prepare for a hundred people."  Watson said, "Can you account for the validity of everyone here?"  He was shaking his head when a passerby with two youngsters said, "In the village, they said your estate was haunted...a lot of folks are afraid to come...but we wouldn't miss a Baskerville party for the world."

At eleven, the band started playing silly songs. Arbuckle the Clown twisted the first balloon animal into a pig and used a scissor to curl a piece of ribbon into a tail. At the same time, his partner posted a schedule of games that included, Pin the Tail on the Donkey, Simon Says, Musical Chairs and a scavenger hunt. Far away from the food station, the ponies took their riders on an elongated oval path as the chef started doling out generous portions of spaghetti.

At ten minutes till noon, the band was playing, "LONDON BRIDGES FALLING DOWN," as a dot appeared over the farthest eastern horizon.  The gray-bearded man interrupted Pin the Tail on the Donkey and called out to the children, "SCAVENGER HUNT!"  As rehearsed, the kids dispersed in every direction.

This unidentified flying object was incredibly high in the sky and seemed headed directly at Baskerville Hall.  When Watson  realized that it was an airplane he muttered, "This is bad ju-ju."   Henry Baskerville quizzically arched a brow before responding, "Might be a bomber." In that instant, Tuffle appeared from out of nowhere, locked Baskerville's neck in the crook of his left arm and threatened his back with the dagger in his right hand. As a part of the synchronized assault, suddenly several armed men emerged from the moor.  Arbuckle made a screeching laugh that was familiar to Watson as shots rang out.  A guest fell. The band dropped their instruments, picked up their own weapons and fired back at the incoming marauders.

Bullets were flying everywhere as the Italian chef brandished a machine gun and ordered the nearby guests against the wall. At the balloon line, Mrs. McKegney wrung a little girl's wrist and pushed the other children towards the chef.  The previously mute Arbuckle, pounced on McKegney from her blind side and in a female voice shouted, "Kids, run away!"

The plane flying over head, bearing Nazi markings began dropping paratroopers. Watson drew his pistol on Tuffle but in the ensuing struggle, dropped it.  Watson was pinned down as Tuffle cocked the dagger over head.  It was coming down at Watson when the doctor smashed his skeleton key into Tuffle's eye.  The two wrestled for control. Tuffle was futility flailing the blade at Watson.  Watson shifted his body to the left and then lunged back at his attacker. Tuffle yelped in terrible agony as the key tore off a section of ear skin.  In his full-blown Brooklyn accent Watson cried, "Drop da fuckin' knife yuh fuckin' asshole or I'll drill a fuckin' hole tru yuh eardrum wider dan duh Holland fuckin' tunnel!"

From afar, most of the parachutists were firing machine guns before they set down because a crosswind caused them to drift into the moor.   At the same time, four civilian cars roared up the road from the village.  Scotland Yard's Inspector Lestrade leaped out of the first vehicle and led the charge of local police.

Hand-to-hand combat was breaking out in several places.  Dead and injured bodies littered the ground as the scavenger hunt organizer, from behind the wall of the balloon animal hut shot at the paratroopers.  He looked back towards the house and saw the Italian chef crack the butt of his machine gun against an adolescent boy's skull and then shoot the victim's protesting father.  The games man exposed himself to enemy fire by standing erect.  He took careful aim and shot the chef in the upper arm.  He chased down the fleeing yellow-belly.  When he grabbed the mustachioed cook's injured shoulder, Sherlock Holmes threw off his disguise and exclaimed, "Ah, we meet again Moriarty...I see you have now stooped to the depths of treason..."

PROFESSOR MORIARTY WAS A MASTER CRIMINAL AND HOLMES ARCHENEMY.  GEORGE ZUCCO (left) AND LIONEL ATWILL WERE TWO OF THE ACTORS WHO PORTRAYED  HIM.  INTERESTINGLY, THE PROFESSOR MANAGES TO BE KILLED IN THREE SEPARATE MOVIES IN THE SERIES.

Mrs. McKegney was trying to strangle Arbuckle but her pre-existing neck injury prevented her from getting enough leverage to finish the job. In the skirmish, the clown spotted a croquette ball, momentarily wiggled free and grabbed it.  With a last gasp of energy, it was smashed into McKegney's temple.  Arbuckle got on top of the housekeeper and pulled the scissors from a compartment in the costume. The clown screamed, "I'm going to slice you deep, wide and forever...now, where's Mrs. Baskerville and little Edgar."  The femme fatale was in excruciating pain but wouldn't give in. She tore at the top part of Arbuckle's costume and ripped it partially off as she spat at her assailant and barked profanity in German.  The clown's under shirt revealed that she was a woman.  With heightened inspiration, the she-clown went for the jugular by shoving the shears up against McKegney's throat.  The fake housekeeper strained her neck away from the points until the torturous neck pain was too much to endure.  Suddenly she screamed, "STOP, STOP! A cave in the moors, they're in a cave near the ruins."

Arbuckle called out in an Irish accent to Dr.  Mortimer and a police officer.  The three of them stepped around Henry Baskerville's bloodied body as they hurried into the moor.

The gun-fire had died-down significantly. Lestrade's brigade shot most of the paratroopers before they could free them self of their chutes. Several surviving Nazis surrendered while others fled in all directions.  The shooting vseemed over until only an occasional shot rang out.  One of the last, felled Sherlock Holmes.  Moriarty took the opportunity to limp around the far side of the house and commandeer a car that the local police came in.

Watson borrowed handcuffs from Lestrade to restrain Tuffle.  Under the promise of leniency, Tuffle confessed to being a German spy.  Further, in coordination with the invasion of Czechoslovakia (that was happening simultaneous with this attack), he admitted that the Luftwaffe, under the guise of a supernatural curse, wanted to vilify Baskerville Hall.  Once they controlled the property, young Edgar was to be held hostage as the Baskerville's were extorted to act in the Nazi's behalf. Then the German's would have free reign to take advantage of the hall's rural setting and use this forgotten outpost as a secret air base.

Watson was called to Holmes' side.  Blood was dripping from the corner of his mouth as he uttered, "You did it.  This time you're the hero."  "No old boy, we figured it out but we still needed you to rescue us. But how did you know?"  Holmes spit-up bloody gauze and bellowed, "Where's Moriarty?"  "The professor was here?"  "Yes, he was the Nazi's inside man..."  "Sorry, there's no sight of the blighter now...but how did you figure out this attack?"  "Elementary my dear Watson, when Mortimer..."  A coughing spasm stopped Holmes.  In a weaker voice he said, "I deduced that this estate was used in the first world war as an aerodrome, I put it together with the heightened foreign spy activity all over Britain and that twit Chamberlain negotiating peace with that warmonger Hitler.  Luckily for all of us, Lestrade had faith in my instincts and was able to muster enough brave men, on short notice, to stem the tide."  Watson shook his head in amazement, "Once again your intuitive mind is correct, the spy posing as the butler just said that the Germans are invading Czechoslovakia, right now." 

One of the remaining unmarked cars drove through the croquette pitch and stopped near Holmes. A squad of plainclothesmen brought a makeshift stretcher and lifted Holmes on it. Watson joked, "Before they take you to the hospital, don't you have a snappy colloquialism that questions my mother's virtue?"  "You're a saint Johnny boy...hence your mother was a saint as well." "One last thing Holmes..."  "I know Watson, you want to know how Mrs. Hudson got involved..."  "Precisely..."  "Well, you know I never reveal my sources...or my secrets."  "Your a pip Holmes, a fuckin' pip."  A spasm of pain tore through Holmes' innards as he huffed, "If the mood strikes me, I'll tell you later."  "Very well then Holmes.  But you lost a lot of blood.  But I gather that after an extended convalescence, you will make a full recovery.  I'll be along post haste to give you a transfusion...if the mood strikes me." 

At the same time, Arbuckle, Dr.  Mortimer and the constable emerged from the moor...with Lucille Baskerville and little Edgar.  They were happily re-united with Henry Baskerville as his wounds were being attended to. Suddenly a sniper's random shot rang out and killed Dr. Mortimer! 

Watson turned from Holmes and ran to Mortimer's aid as Lestrade's men raced into the moor.  A short volley of shots ended abruptly. Watson looked down at Mortimer and shook his head.  The clown embraced Watson and cried, "Oh John."  Watson pulled back focused on Arbuckle and smiled, "Mrs. Hudson? I mean Margaret."  He returned her hug with several hard kisses on her mouth as the band struck up, "RULE BRITANNIA."

                                                # # #    THE END   # # #

CLICK ON THE LINK BELOW TO HEAR THE SONG.
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=1XPHL4Q86t4

"RULE, BRITANNIA," often confused by Americans as the English national anthem was a patriotic poem, written to music in 1740, by Thomas Arne. If you want to sing along, here's the first stanza.

When Britain first, at Heaven's command

Arose azure main;

This was the charter of the land,

And guardian angels sang this strain:

"Rule, Britannia! rule the waves:

"Britons never will be slaves."