[Lost Snail]

Synopsis: Me and my housemates return from a little holiday to find a strange mystery awaits us in the kitchen.

The Picasso Puzzle

"What the hell is it?" Queried Harry, the mystification in his eyes clearly showing.

"I think it's a ferret..." Sophie offered, as she poked the limp form with a wooden spoon.

I leant against the the door frame and lit a cigarette. Smoking always helped me think clearly, and this was most certainly a time for thinking clearly. My brow furrowed into a double knot as I tried to puzzle out the situation before me.

A ferret? I thought, Of all things, a ferret? Dead, on my kitchen floor, and arranged in such an odd fashion...

"Well, what the fuck are we going to do with it?" Selma interrupted my reverie, ever the practical one.

"This is sick. This is some kind of bad trip, man.... I don't like it, I want to get off..."

I could see Harry was beginning to get hysterical, so I strode up to him and took hold of his shoulders firmly, "Jesus Christ, man! Get a grip! You think that just because we come home to find some bizarre ferret ritual has taken place in our kitchen we're going to wilt like weak-old pansies?!" I let go of his shoulders and stroked my chin thoughtfully, "No... there's a mystery here, and we're going to get to the bottom of it..."

Allow me to fill you in on the last few moments of my existence. My companions and I had just returned from a long weekend in Paris, bright young things in the city of romance and dubious smelling cheeses. Dinner at La Majestique, drunken acrobatics on top of the Eifel tower, drag racing around L'Arc De Triumph in our clapped out little rental car, pottering around Le Louvre pretending to be intellectual... all the makings of a great trip, and a great trip it was. After three days and two nights, we wearily made our way back across the Channel and over the English country side to our little house in Surrey.

Upon entering our little house, we knew that something was amiss... the milk had not been delivered. As we entered the kitchen, we saw a sight that shook us to the very core of our being (wherever that is). In the middle of the white-tiled floor a small animal (that we have now deemed to be a ferret) lay sprawled on its back, quite dead. It lay in the center of a pattern of blood and an odd, irregular face had been carved into its belly.

"I knew a ferret once..." Uttered Sophie sadly as she sat cross-legged on the floor, her spaced-out eyes betraying a melancholy that crept over her far-away features.

"Well boo-fucking-hoo, let's get rid of it." Selma, the no-nonsense sort picked up a damp cloth and made as if to clean up the odd, wavy ring of blood that encompassed the deceased creature.

"Stop!" I half shouted. She looked at me quizically, an eye-brow raised, "Stop. That's evidence... these are clues... it means something... but what?" I studied the animal closely whilst pondering the gravity of the situation. Didn't anyone else understand? Didn't they see? This was the beginning of a great mystery... one that had many possible answers. Was it something as simple as a teen prank? Or was it something... greater?

"It means God hates us and we're all going to die!" cried Harry, his head in his hands. I told him he shouldn't of eaten those mushrooms before we got on the train.

"I knew a God once..." Sophie continued, oblivious to what was taking place.

"Oh shut up you drugged-up biddy!" snapped Selma. She then turned her dark features towards me, "Ok Sherlock, you solve your bloody mystery if you want, but you can clean it up when you're done!" With that she nimbly swept a bottle of red wine up off the kitchen surface and went through to the front room, snatching a glass from the cupboard as she did so.

Such passion... such fire! I idly thought to myself. T'was a dire shame she did not share my interest in this puzzle, for she would be a truly valuable ally. I collected my thoughts and turned my attention to my remaining compatriots. Sophie was gently swaying back and forth, her golden hair dancing around her shoulders like a halo, whilst Harry was also swaying back and forth, but in a much less tranquil fashion. Hmm, well I shall have to make do. Afterall, I was not going to let someone just come into my house an leave-wait- Someone was in my house! For all I knew, they might still be in my house! They might've taken something! I wasted no more time.

"Harry... listen to me," I kneeled down in front of my friend, ignoring the TV set blaring from the next room, "Harry, please, I have a task for you, one of the uttmost importance..." I was beginning to get through, as he stopped his convulsing and peeked out from behind his hands tentatively.

"Me?" He asked, "What can I do? I've got the fear, man..."

"No, Harry, listen to me... you know the precious things.. the precious things of the house? I need you to go upstairs, Harry, I need you to check that all the precious shiny things are still there... do you think you can do that?"

"Precious?"

"Precious."

He gradually stood up and stared around wildy, "Precious... precious things..." He cautiously crept out the room and into the hall, as if he were a secret agent, muttering under his breath as he did so. I was making progress.

Next I turned my attention to Sophie, who was still locked in her profound trance-like state. I padded towards her on all fours, like a cat. When I neared her I gently placed a whisper of a kiss on her soft, pale cheek. Her rocking gradually ceased and she opened her dreamy blue eyes, turning to face me as she did so.

"Can I help you?" she asked, as if she were working in a shop.

"Sophie..." I purred softly, "Can you sing that song for me, the one that helps me think?" For surely I could not think over the blasted TV in the background. She smiled sleepily and closed her eyes, and softly began to sing 'Hit Me Baby One More Time' by Britney Spears.

Right then. I sighed sofly as I listened to the song, and marvelled at the fitting lyrics, 'How was I supposed to know... that something wasn't right...'

Because there's a dead bloody ferret on the kitchen floor! My own thoughts interrupted me, and I forced myself to focus on the ferret. Poor creature... though it looked almost peaceful, as if in its last, tragic moments it had somehow achieved something, as if in death it felt contentment at finally communicating something to the world around it. I observed the ring of blood. It was irregular, but there was something clearly deliberate about it. It was wavy around the top... like an uneven bubble, yet as you got to the bottom half of the circle it became smooth and rounded, with a slight point at the very bottom.

Was it possible that it had somehow done this twisted thing to itself?? Had it been frantically trying to communicate something, and lacking speech or any great intelligence, it had attempted to draw some kind of crude hieroglyph with its body? I focused on the face etched into its underside, on the strange rectangular mouth and odd, mismatched eyes. What really struck me was the nose... a thick line slanting downwards diagonally, climaxing in a the tiniest of curves... Gods. How could I have not seen it before!!

"Harry!!! HARRY!! Are you up there? Fetch the Picasso! Harry?"

"He's been talking to the staircase for the last five minutes," Piped Selma merrily as she appeared in the doorway, an empty wine bottle in her hand. "What's all the noise about?"

"The face, Selma. the face! Do you recognise it?" I was obviously very excited, "It's the same face we've been looking at every day for the last two years, it's the Picasso we've got hanging up in the bathroom! Do you see?"

She stared hard at the ferret but her eyes seemed unwilling to focus. She teetered unsteadily on her feet, "Errmm... I'll take your word for it. Do you want me to, like, fetch it or something?"

"Yes, do! We may be on to something here!"

"Ok!" She smiled, sharing in my excitement, before disappearing up the stairs, stepping over a prone Harry as went.

I was suddenly very tired... I hadn't slept in twenty-two hours and all these strange happenings were beginning to wear me down. I walked the few paces over to Sophie, who was still singing gently, and tapped her lightly on the head. She abruptly stopped and looked up at me expectantly.

"Follow..." I half suggested, half requested. She stood up serenly and followed me to the front room, where she sat down in a corner and began making mini-stone circles out of lego. Harry chose this moment to crawl in through the other door on his belly.

"Shit, man, I never knew the staircase felt that way."

"What way is that?"

"Well... sort of up... and down... a bit like me. We've got a lot in common..."

Before the discussion could continue a sharp cry from Selma echoed down the stairs, followed by a dull 'Thud' and an even greater sort of 'Whump!'. Sophie didn't look up, but instead flattened her creations with a slice of her hand, whilst Harry curled up into a ball and started whimpering. I was already out the door, racing up the staircase. I knew something terrible had happened, I blamed myself. How could I be so careless?

I breached the stairs and bounded across the landing, fuelled by dread. As I flung the bathroom door open, I was confronted by the most bizarre tableau. Selma was standing by the basin, shaken but not scared, holding a bronze statuette of Aphrodite. Sprawled at her feet was a small man of middle years, garbed in a brown robe. He was unconscious and had a nasty gash in his forehead. His arm was stretched out across the much talked-about Picasso.

Selma raised her hand and pointed at him, "This prick was here when I came in... he was trying to climb out the window with the Picasso..."

*****

"I told you! I'm a thief and I wanted to steal that painting."

I let out a sigh and massaged my temple. I desperately needed rest. It had been going on like this since he came round about twenty minutes ago. I had carried him downstairs and set him on the sofa. We had thought about throwing water over him, but that mystical creature, Sophie, had merely studied him for a few seconds, brushed her fingers against his wound and whispered in his ear, and groggily he had returned to life. He now sat in between her and Selma, the former was looking him up and down intensly, as a cat might survey a new piece of furniture, whilst Selma was brandishing a wicked looking kitchen knife in the general direction of his throat. Harry was sitting on a chair in the corner, twitching nervously as if this was somekind of job interview waiting-room. I was standing in front of the thief, in the process of interrogation.

"That's ridiculous. Firstly, it's a worthless replica. Secondly, you don't look like a thief, you don't act like a thief... you look more like a priest!"

"And what was that all about in the kitchen?" demanded Selma. I flashed a warning glance at her. One thing at a time.

"Honestly, I'm just a petty criminal!" He had a high voice, and sounded for all the world like an accountant or clerk of somekind. His dark hair was balding on top and greying at the sides, and he had a nervous though intelligent face. He was certainly not a thief. At least not a good one. Or maybe he was an exceptionally good one and this was all somekind of deeper game...

"Look, you," growled Selma, "You couldn't of gotten in through the bathroom window, so you must've been in here when we got home, in which case why didn't you leave as soon as we got back?!"

He shifted uncomfortably, edging away from the knife, "Well...errrmm... it's because..." He visibly drooped, and it became clear his creativity had reached its limit, "Ok, fine. I'm not a thief... at least not most of the time... I'm... well, I'm a monk."

"A monk."

"Yes... and the reason I hadn't already left was because I was performing the sacred rites of my order."

Selma looked sceptical, "Sacred rites? You expect us to believe that bullshit!?" She pressed the blade against his jugular and he let out a squeal.

"No! Please! It's the truth! It's called Corperal Gratification..."

A brief silence followed this proclamtion, as a look of mortification slowly made its way across Selma's face.

"You were wanking in our bathroom!? Come here you sick fuck!!" She launched herself at him, the knife flashing like a holy blade, and she looked the picture of a foul-mouthed, dark avenging angel. I caught hold of her just in time and stopped another murder being commited that night. The monk thief had hopped behind the sofa, and was snivelling somewhat.

"Selma, please! Let's be rational!" I cried as I struggled with her. "There are still questions that need answering. Sophie, help me."

Sophie, who had moved to the floor and was staring at the Picasso painting as if they were locked in a battle of wills, looked first at me, and then at Selma.

"Calm." She said quite simply, before going back to the painting.

I instantly felt Selma relax in my grip, and the tension in the air melted away like toffe on a car bonnet. She shrugged me off and sat down sulkily, toying with the kinfe and staring at the monk hungrily.

"Now, sir, please sit down," he slowly complied, keeping as much distance between himself and the blade-wielding fury at the other end of the couch, "Thank you. Please tell us your name."

"Errmm, it's Philip, nice to meet you."

"Well then... Philip, perhaps you'd care to tell us why a monk was attempting to loot a cheap replica Picasso from the house of four students?"

"I never wanted to do it!" He sobbed, "My order made me! Oh please don't call the police, I'll go, I'll never bother you again, I promise!"

"That's all very well, but it still doesn't answer my question. Just what sort of monk are you anyway? What order do you belong to?"

"I can't tell you! We're a secret order! Please don't make me tell you, I'll be kicked out the brotherhood, maybe never allowed Gratification again!"

Selma bristled at this but I took no notice. This wasn't getting anywhere, if anyhting, things seemed far more convoluted and clouded than when I first began to solve the enigma. What did Holmes say? Something about once eliminating all probabilities all that can remain are the impossibilities... Well thanks a lot, that helps. I bet Holmes never had to deal with a kleptomaniacal monk and a dead ferret though. I studied Philip's eyes closely. They kept shifting about, not meeting mine... not just aimlessly shifting, but bouncing to and fro between my eyes and a point just above my left shoulder... or a point just behind it. I looked at him curiously, and then looked round. Nothing but a wall, with one solitary poster of Bob Dylan to occupy it.

Well, I suppose he'd rather look at anything than to meet the eyes of his inquisitor, this cowardly monk. I turned around and studied the poster. It had been there for as long as I could remember, it may have even been here before we were. After all, this had been a student house for at least three decades, and what student house would be complete without an image of the great folk rock legend that was The Dylan? I examined his features carefully, in the hope that his face would inspire me as much as his music had done over the years.

It was taken in his younger days, his smiling eyes hidden behind purple sun shades. I followed the outline of his fuzzy afro hair, and then it hit me. Wavy around the top... like an uneven bubble... smooth and rounded at the bottom... I turned to Selma and snapped my fingers, "Watch him! Don't let him move." I walked up to the poster and prized it off the wall, taking care not to let the years-old blue tac rip the material. I flicked my eyes over it searchingly, "Torch! I need a torch..."

Sophie appeared beside me dreamily and slipped a small narrow-beam torch into my hand. I simply nodded my thanks as she sat down and began leafing through a colouring book. There was a time when I might have asked her where on earth she procured a torch so hastily, but after a few years I knew better than to question this enigmatic being in such a blatant fashion.

I set the torch up on a shelf at one end of the room, so that the beam shone brightly against the wall opposite. As I picked up the Picasso, Philip jumped up and cried, "No! You musn't, great harm will come of it!" He made as if to try and stop me, but Selma, ever the warrior, grabbed his arm and twisted it behind his back, producing a squeal of pain from the poor monk. I swiftly turned my attention back to the matter at hand. I placed the Picasso in front of the beam of light, the front of it facing towards the opposite wall, so that the face cast an eerie shadow of its features. I then placed the poster of Dylan over the Picasso, facing the same way. The result was an odd blur of shadows that looked like slurred writing. I experimented with the postioning of the two images, and gradually something legible came into focus.

How many roads must a man walk down before you call him a man?

I stared in wonder whilst Philip let out a sob and held his head in his hands. Sophie merely look up and nodded once, as if it simply confirmed a belief she had long since held, and went back to her colouring. Selma was as dumbfounded as I was. Harry, who until now had been lost in his own imaginings, was the first to speak.

"Duuuuude... that's heavy, man! This like, turns everything upside down! Dylan didn't write those words, man! What can we believe in now??" His eyes were full of amazement, he had lost the fear, and had it replaced by an emotion more sublime...

I turned to Philip, "You knew about, this didn't you? This is what you were trying to hide..."

He looked up at me sullenly, "Yes... it's true. I belong to a secret order sworn to protect the world from the knowledge that Bob Dylan didn't write any of his major lyrics, and that it was in fact Picasso who conjured such great words as 'One more cup of coffee for the road' and 'Lightning strikes, the lights go out.' Please don't tell anyone! We'll even make you part of the order if you want..."

"I'm not sure, I think the world needs to be told about this..." I ventured, "But why come to us? Are you somehow trying to confiscate every image of Dylan and painting by Picasso in the land?"

"Well... not excatly, you see, your house was the only one we've ever heard about that had both the painting and the poster under one roof..."

Selma interjected, "And you didn't think for a moment that if you hadn't broke in and lead us down the trail, we probably would've never discovered it in the first place?"

"Yes, I suppose you're right," Philip blushed. "But I had my mission from my superiors and I've failed terribly. No more Gratification for me..." He added wistfully.

A lucrative glint came to Selma's eye. "You know... I bet the media would pay a lot of money for this... unless of course your order plans to silence us." The grip on her knife tightened.

"Oh I doubt that," said Philip, ruefully amused. "There's only three of us and one's got arthritis and the other has gout... it's why I was chosen I suppose..."

"Man... I can't believe it was lie," Harry said dejectedly, "My life... just a lie..."

I was lost in thought of this discovery. Certainly, things would be seen in a new light. But did I just want to ireverently cash in? Think of how many people who would be crushed, like Harry, bearing the burden of the knowledge that their life-long idol was a plagirist. Yet I couldn't carry the secret with me... perhaps I could release it more subtley, as half-fact, maybe write a novel about it...

"I suppose I should be going now," Philip broke my reverie as he stood up, gathering his robes about him. "I'm sorry for all this bother... you'll never hear from me again." He walked to the door with a resigned air, as if a guilty man going to face sentencing.

"Good riddance." Snarled Selma angrily.

Sophie looked up briefly and waved before going back to her habit of spinning pins on their heads.

Harry hugged him warmly, much to Philip's surprise, "You're a prophet man, a prophet... you bear terrible tidings, but... you're still a prophet. Farewell!"

Just as he was walking out the door my final question struck me like a shovel, "Wait!" He froze in his tracks, clearly fearing further recrimination. "Wait... what on earth was the dead ferret in the kitchen all about?"

A look of confusion graced his brow and the bafflement was clear in his eyes. "Dead ferret... what dead ferret?"

*****

[Hagetaka]

Bout time someone wrote a parody and satire... haha, mauds gonna be furious!

[Lubesh]

You're a Picasso that was a masterpiece! The sherlock Holmes Character was superb and all in all it reminded me a little of Scooby Do..without the dog...and sophistication and other plaudits...excellent.

[Lost Snail]

lol, I definitely had scooby doo in my head when I wrote this, along with many other things.

[Peppy]

I fixed it up a bit. Uh huh' Plot was weird but good. Hmmmmmm... This almost reminds me of Scooby Doo and The Da Vinci Code(Hmmmmm... is right)

haha excellent Lost Snail. more parodies please.

[Lost Snail]

On the way Mr. Duncan, on the way.... And thanks Pepp, it reads a little better.

[seebaruk]

That was excellent man, the wanking joke had me laughing, I'm a man of great intellect clearly The final revelation of the lyrics was quality too, never woulda guessed that one!

[Lost Snail]

lol, that's probably because I didn't until I actually got to that part.

[Syrah]

Well, I can honestly say this is the best and worst story in the parodies section as of yet lol

[Wordsmyth]

Funny. What more can I say. Isn't that what it's susposed to be.

[Storiesmaniac]

Fantastic...good work....very funny....

[Peppy]

you know lost snail. I like the character Sophie. Ahhhhhhh... her characteristics change all of a sudden. She's this person who's freaking out and the next she's a "mystical" being. That's so cool

[Lost Snail]

lol, she's my favourite character of the piece. At first I intended her to be this spaced out hippy but she sort of evolved into a magical fairy.

[Syrah]

Magical Fairies much better than spaced out hippie.

[bigchase]

nice. i like how the hippie on shrooms started off as a golem-esque character.