by TheOrphans » Fri Dec 19, 2025 8:02 am 
The parcel arrived at dawn, thumped onto the crooked stoop of the Shiv Alley Cutters Detective Agency, right beneath a peeling sign and a WANTED: BOB DOLE notice with no picture, because, as everyone knew, no one could agree what Bob Dole looked like, Guvnah. Some said he was tall, some said short, some said he was three boys in a coat, Guvnah, and others whispered he was an idea, Guvnah—an idea that stabbed back.
Inside the orphanage-detective-agency, Robby Shankleyston II adjusted his coat and smiled the way only a handsome, evil orphan manager could smile. He looked like John Locke if John Locke had grown up stealing lunches and union dues, Guvnah. Robby opened the parcel, sniffed once, and sneered.
“Oi, Guvnah,” he said, poking Dr. Meta F. Watson in the chest. “Take this parcel down to Carles Willoughbury in the mines, Guvnah. Tell him I want a new shiv. Not a normal shiv, Guvnah. A shiv that scares God.”
Dr. Meta F. Watson—kind, simple, loyal to a fault—nodded immediately. “Right you are, Guvnah,” he said, though he had no idea what was in the parcel and even less idea why it smelled faintly of sea brine and bad decisions, Guvnah.
Deep in the mines, Carles Willoughbury cracked open the parcel and laughed so hard soot fell from the ceiling, Guvnah. He forged and hammered and muttered, Guvnah after Guvnah, until sparks flew and the bronze screamed. What emerged was no shiv at all, Guvnah—it was a monstrous bronze sword, thick as a dock beam and ugly as sin, forged specifically to kill things that should not exist, Guvnah. Especially the great white, Cthulhu-adjacent whales that haunted the deep and owed everyone money, Guvnah.
Thus armed, Eartholomew Holmes shoved off in his makeshift Snekkja—a boat held together by rope, prayer, and stolen planks, Guvnah. The sea rose against him. The white whale rose higher. Eartholomew raised the sword and yelled, “OI, GUVNAH,” at the universe itself, and rammed the blade straight where no whale ever wants a blade, Guvnah. The sea went red, the sky went quiet, and the whale knew regret, Guvnah.
When Eartholomew returned, the orphans did not waste time mourning or philosophizing, Guvnah. They butchered the great white whale in Shiv Alley itself, Guvnah—boiled it, fried it, argued over the best cuts, and fed the leftovers to smaller orphans who hadn’t earned names yet, Guvnah. Robby Shankleyston II smiled again, wiping grease from his hands.
“Good work, Guvnah,” he said to no one in particular.
And somewhere, far away, Bob Dole remained wanted, unseen, and probably very worried, Guvnah.
