Mycroft Holmes walked into the Smithsonian National Gallery of Art only to discover that a new and unwanted artwork had appeared overnight. Instead of the giant recursive painting of Steven Colbert over the water fountain, a new display of multiple frames had appeared. The British Government took a few pictures of it with his phone, and promptly sent them to his assistant director of special museum projects and national security, Althea.
“Althea, those Tumblr fucks got in again. Please take care of it”. His daemon, a ginger sugar glider who had a cell phone permanently attached to her hand, poked a view times and gave him a thumbs up. The spontaneous secondary mutation that gave all daemons opposable thumbs of some sort had been by far the best thing to come out of Genosha and the mutant wars. Daemons, even the tiny ones like bees had become texting machines.
Mycroft stared for a moment at the cryptic symbolic meaning of the five fandom paintings and contemplated the fact that he had been forced to accompany his parents to a special showing of Seven Brides for Seven Brothers the night before. Three hours of the music, the dancing, the syncopated rhythms of an elaborate homage to situational incest and rape culture. He called his brother.
This case was definitely worth of the attentions of the worlds (not so) only consulting art detective. After all, it involved Comic Sans.
An interlude entirely in txt.
- Art obviously forgery by people trying to discredit Tumblr fucks- SH
- You didn’t need me to tell you that. Look for the woman with the red hat and yellow gloves who has regular access to Tumblr on the museum servers. Probably an employee, possibly an intern. Has an interest in the prints of the Meiji era. Daemon aquatic- MH
- Why the fucks are we in the Smithsonian? I’m staring at bad mermaid porn- JW
- Bad Mermaid porn that represents CRIME John! - SH
- This isn’t my division- GL
- John, want to get a drink- there is a football game on the telly. Green Bay is going to take on the Seahawks, noon Sat- GL
- Greg- Sure just have to make sure that I’m not having my heat. - JW
The worlds not so only Consulting Art Crime Detective and his Blogger/Omega/Husband/General Dogsbody (Blogger/Omega/Husband/General Dogsbody not aware of at least one of those labels applying to him), stood facing the new images over the water fountain outside of the ground floor men’s loo.
John’s daemon, a pink hairless cat wearing a cream cabled jumper that matched John’s wandered off to a corner to take a nap in the imagined sunlight of the hall. Sherlock’s daemon, a rather embarrassingly large flightless bumble bee sat in its usual positon in the baby carrier attached to Sherlcoks’ chest. One day one of John’s heats would take, and the baby carrier would be already occupied by an actual child. The bee planned for this alternation between relational and just thinking that a back pack made out of scarf material would be nice.
The first painting was done in a rough, untrained style. MS Paint was the traditional medium, or possibly a clever facsimile of MS Paint done with oils. Sherlock should have gotten lab work done, but instead he swiped his daemon across this image. She was as good as any test strip to determine the nature of an image.
A pink mermaid type creature with a giant pile of blue hair, or possibly sea snakes, or maybe some sort of demented otter, was crying out in sorrow as near by a pair of dolphins flipped, and an island appeared. The island had a lone palm tree, what appeared to be the legs of a giant elephant, and a bund of little dark green people labeled “not racist”. Mostly they were deformed smurfs.
None had daemons. But the dolphins did appear to fucking in the background so at least there was some sort of artistic merit.
Many days later, the actual team from Scotland Yard would be examining the images in their elaborate frames. 8
Smurfs were a society of 99 men, and one woman. Greg Lestrade tried to contemplate that and boggled. Didn’t they smell? All that many men and no women. Even if half of them were omegas, it didn’t make much sense. Smurfs were a creepy sign of Belgian imperialism and Greg was happy to no longer have to stare at them.
Sally Donovan started at the “paintings” for a while, looking at what seemed to be some sort of golden haired god fucking some sort of pastry? Was that a croissant? Or just an unfortunate éclair? She thought about her life, thought about her choices, and seriously considered the merits of transferring to a tiny village in the Cotswolds’ where the only thing that ever happened was 80 year old women poisoning people. It’d be lovely.
The second frame, a glorious green color, was where once upon a time a very bad artist made some sort of bullshit attempt at a social statement. Rodney McKay and John Sheppard dancing on a stripper pole, while a pair of women with rainbow hair and skirts made out.
Sherlock had no idea what to do about this one. The sight of uniform clad men spinning on pole was strangely erotic and gave him ideas for John’s next heat. But the women were off putting, exposing their terrifying mammary glands to the air. The nipples made him profoundly uncomfortable. Either John found them arousing, or he was really into the green tentacle creature in the foreground.
The entire piece could be seen as an elaborate social statement on gender roles, and conformation. Sherlock thought it was more likely the result of some sort of Finnish ship war, where the spares had been paired. No smurfs that was an improvement.
As he watched the tentacles moved, touching each other with an audible BOOP!
Image three was a giant evil man who lives in the sun being confronted by Adam Lambert in a battle for the soles of the RPF writers of the years 2009-2010. The sun might have represented the trolling of Simon Fuller. Or Simon Cowell. One of the damn Simons.
As the art detective secretly loved reality TV, this took mere minutes to discover. Unless it was Pete Wentz. But, as John mused ‘eventually we are all Pete Wentz’.
“You do know you do that out loud”, said Sherlock.
John’s daemon wandered over and hacked a fur ball on Sherlock’s’s shoe.
Image four was the one that would stump them all and require the intervention of one Dick Booping, PI.
What Sherlock, and oddly Mycroft had seen as an idyllic scene-?
Llama. Llama. Llama. Lenny & Bruce were mostly pampered pets in the sprawling Roman style Villa that belonged to Marcus, Esca, and Cottia. Up in the North of Britain, just on the Roman side of the wall but within vacation distance of Esca’s people they were growing corn and tomatoes and running gluten free pizza joint. It was a glorious life and only slightly resembled Southern California.
As Dick Booping would later declare, it was actually some sort of elaborate storytelling in microscopic images of an anime, Moe girls, shonen boys, a panda or two, even film strips of transformation sequences, again with the tentacles.
By this time the Holmes brothers didn’t care. The perpetrators Tumblr accounts had all been hacked, the notes removed, and the images replaced with loving images of the patriarchy.
The final image was an allegorical piece, with the trolling Winter Soldier turning Natasha into a purple ferret haired creature who made Leonardo cry. The turtle just wanted to fuck Thor, and was denied. It was like the presentation of the head of John the Baptist, but more sad and with more pop tarts.
And finally, the author used the highlights of MS Paint- the 21st century equivalent of a message printed with cut up magazine piece. Eat a Muffin You Dirty Cow. Mycroft only wished he could eat a muffin. His attempts at breakfast pastry had been horribly short circuited by the existence of a random street dog that knocked him over and took the pastry.
“Comic Sans Killed my parents.” declared Derek Hale, his eyes tearing up. “The note sent to me about their deaths was also in badly formed rainbow letters. Fonts are the mortal enemies of the Hale Clan”. He turned to face Stiles, his pectorals bare, his muscles flexing.
“Stiles, I hate Comic Sans the way you hate condom.”
Shouldn’t these images make some sort of compelling narrative, with a deep meaning? Man’s inhumanity to man, shipper’s inhumanity to shippers, proof that those bitches in the other community are wrong in their interpretation of cannon?
“In a just fair world they would”, said Dick Booping, PI. “But this here? This is Bad Bang. Let it go.”
“But what if I don’t want to let it go. What if I demand satisfaction?” asked the Original Male Dog.
“The author of this piece had three days to work on creating the worst and most miserable bad fic ever. Instead” and a with this Dick Booping looked directly to the face on the other side of the screen, and not in a fun Boop! kind of way, “She choose to try to watch three seasons of The Wire and get into a number of faults about the central futility of policing the modern declining city state, the interconnected networks of decaying authority that bind us together, and how stupid the fucking duck was.”
OMD turned to the screen, stood on his hind legs, and put his hands on his hips. “The duck was stupid. But I deserve better. Dick Booping deserves better. Styles, his condom phobia, and the llamas deserve better.” He dropped back to four legs and sat down. “The crudely drawn stick figures and pensii of the artist didn’t create themselves. The Wire’s been off the air for seven years….” a dramatic pause for effect occurred “And IT DOESNT MATTER. All those years of crime fighting and working to make the city better and it end up exactly how it always was. The way the game is played. The rich get richer and more powerful, and the people of Baltimore and metaphorically America are crushed. Fuck this. I want a pony ride. Anyone saw Consolation?”
“Consolation is back at the compound. His book group is doing the Great Gatsby today, and how Gatsby and Stringer Bell were both social climbers brought down by the forces of the establishment with the intent of keeping wealth and power concentrated and perpetuating the forces that oppress us.”
“Don’t take this the wrong way Dick Booping? But I fucking hate you so much right now”.