“WHO THE FUCK DO YOU THINK I AM?” screamed Sherlock Brolmes into his cell phone before flinging it across the room in a drunken rage.
“Another black North Face jacket?” I asked.
“I am a FUCKING DETECTIVE. I don’t have time to find fucking jackets – I need to find REAL SHIT!” It was the third time Scotland yard and Security asked him to find such a jacket that day. He sat down in his chair with a thunk and looked straight at the ceiling for several minutes.
We were both members of the Alpha Alpha fraternity. As pledges, we were given unique frat names. He was called Sherlock Brolmes because of his incredible detective skills and also because of his addiction to opium. For reasons unknown, I was named Broprah.
“I can’t take this anymore, Broprah!” Sherlock wailed, not looking away from the ceiling. He was wearing his signature baseball cap, emblazoned with the phrase “No Shit Sherlock,” though he added punctuation to it, so now it said “No Shit” — Sherlock, as if he is constantly stating through indirect discourse that he’s sick and tired of your shit.
At once, Sherlock’s cell phone buzzed alive, and he ran across the room to check it.
“Here we go here we GO Here we GO HERE WE GO!” he yelled, pumping his fist. “Broprah, get me that case of Keystone – we’re in business! Tri-Zete’s composite’s gone missing. Quick, we must prepare!”
“Do you really need to pregame the investigation this time?”
“Shut the fuck up, Broprah!” Sherlock said as he shotgunned six Keystones. I wasn’t sure exactly what would happen next, but three things were sure: Zeta Zeta Zeta was going to get their composite back, someone would pay, and everyone involved would be very, very inebriated.