Chicken Holmes did not wear a deerstalker; it clashed with his comb. Instead, he wore a look of intense, brooding concentration. He was currently perched on a velvet stool in the town’s only tavern, The Molting Ego , nursing a thimble of fermented grain.
"It's not a cage," Grigor hissed. "It's a limited-run engagement!" Chicken Holmes – Sussurri di Chanislavski Downl...
Watson, a stout, anxious Bantam with a limp from a run-in with a spinning wheel, nodded fervently. "But the whispers, Holmes! They say the shadows in the woods are reciting Shakespeare. They say the wind smells like greasepaint!" Chicken Holmes did not wear a deerstalker; it
"You’re late for the rehearsal, Holmes," Grigor purred. "The missing chickens aren't dead. They are immersed. They are currently playing 'The Silence of the Grain' in the basement. They have found their inner truth." "It's not a cage," Grigor hissed