[Comprehensive Yingmei] Genius Lianmeng

Chapter 12 Drunken Teddy

"It's hard for me to talk about old-fashioned British cuisine, little John." Hannibal took a panoramic view of the dark tide of the two, just like storing treasure in a dark, deep, dark cave, He still had a conversation with Watson with his inherent calm posture, "Put the unseasoned meat in the oven and bake it thick and firm like the Bible; Dropped in water, then served with French fries, mashed potatoes and lettuce salad, topped with gravy and salt and pepper, everything is a waste of ingredients and a humiliation to the senses, just like the Holy See of supporters of the heliocentric theory So stupid and cruel."

"God above - if God exists and not just a phantom that provides jobs for fools - what does it matter what the earth goes around? Even if the earth goes around the moon like a teddy bear goes around a garden Turn around or John around me, what will happen to us? Isn't it, my John?" Sherlock opened his hands radially. "The tone made it very annoying.

A rough look at Sherlock's hands gives the impression that they are white and slender, but when you look closely, you will find that the hands are very soft and thick, not bulky or bony at all, but with the sensuality of a cat and the aura of a musician .His high browbones and cheekbones make the whole face more three-dimensional, and the deep-set eyes are more profound.The sharp, changing colors of the eyes were hidden in the shadows, making Sherlock seem even more unpredictable.

Watson looked away helplessly, buried his face in the plate, and murmured: "Let's not discuss the heliocentric theory, but please stop insulting your appetite. You always refuse to eat, and rely on analysis to digest strange things. The more bizarre the case, the more energetic you will be. For the sake of the case, Sherlock, foodie is a popular occupation from ancient times to the present, and its existence is the shining point of human nature. Eating is a way of life, we are not We are eating, but we are feeling the gift of life and thanking the world for the gift. Buddhists should chant scriptures before eating, and Christians should pray before eating... Food can save the world. When we are committed to eating, There will be no wars in this world, no disputes, no disturbances, no..."

"There will be no Sherlock Holmes, because he's bored to death."

"It may be a relief to the people of London." Watson curled his lips, turning his attention to the plate.

The confrontation between Sherlock and Hannibal continued, but they were all conveyed through Watson, as if face-to-face serious conversation would only tarnish their universe's top-notch mind and unlimited mouth.

Hannibal has a femme heart and quick wit, and a suave exterior that doesn't seem to match it.Sherlock is the strength and agility of a feline, but also willful and vengeful that fit his style very well.Their dialogue is as quick and sharp as a fencing fight.

Watson's head was buried deeper and deeper.

These two long-winded, plausible, show-offs, show-offs for fun, and out-of-this-world bastards!Whether you regard reason as paramount or regard the senses as a lifelong pursuit, have you simply deleted "tolerance" and "respect" from the memory palace permanently?

Finally, the former special soldier + former military doctor cleared his throat, slowly got up from his seat, took steps that were evenly measured by a vernier caliper, took the pourer from the other end of the table, and poured himself a full glass of wine .

The soul in Teddy's shell - genuine or pirated - had always had a deep aversion to alcohol, but tonight Watson found himself in need of a drink.

Two troublesome roommates at the level of nuclear bombs, let's save them for tomorrow, if he can still have any thoughts left in the cracks by tomorrow.

So he got drunk and passed out like Harry.

When the teddy bear was hugged back by Sherlock with a smirk (Sherlock planned to hold him, but because of the height difference, he decided to hug him instead), Watson was so drunk that he didn't even notice that someone was holding him.He could only vaguely hear a muffled complaint: "My God! It's almost nine o'clock, and the landlady is nagging us to make pea soup at 07:30. Watson, you are always smoking, and you still don't know what to do." Don't eat on time. I think the landlord will notify you to check out, and I will be unlucky with you..."

What an absurd accusation and complaint!Skate the jokes of the world!It is obviously Sherlock Holmes who keeps smoking and eating on time... Sherlock Holmes...

He was exiled from a dry, hard and warm place to a damp, soft and cold place.

Watson frowned and twisted, constantly leaning towards the dry and warm heat source.He leaned closer, hugged, sighed with satisfaction, and fell asleep obediently.

In the deep sleep swallowed by alcohol, Watson heard the call.

This was the first time in his two lives that he heard the call of the dream, as if the dream was surrounding him, floating around him, waiting for him.

Watson could already see it, he could feel it, and it only took ten seconds of silence for him to walk in.

Then, a sharp and long cry, like the roar of a night owl, caused Watson to flip over like a carp jumping over a dragon gate.

Although Sherlock is a good player in playing the sawing gun sonata, although he always uses the sofa as a cover to shoot at Mrs. Hudson's poor wall, and every shot is accompanied by the word "boring", although he often The laboratory that has lost the dignity of the kitchen is as bizarre as the explosion of Obama's love for Sarkozy... But Watson's animal instinct told him that this time, the sound came from the bedroom upstairs he let out.

He struggled for a while between the premonition of danger and the longing for sleep, opened his eyes decisively, rolled out of bed at the speed of a soldier hearing the call to assembly—and then tripped over a huge obstacle.

It was an obstacle about six feet long, hard and elastic, and Watson groped as he mentally sketched the lines of the obstacle.

Straight, undulating, sunken, straight, undulating, hairy...

"Although I know that you have always been infatuated with me, John, can you change the timing?" Obstacle made a familiar, low, lazy voice.

"Sorrrrrrrry! Iamsosorrrrrrrrrry!"

Dr. Lecter is immune to environmental influences.He could get it all out of his mind.The clacking of laptop keyboards, the moans of love from the same-sex couple next door, and the early-morning gunshots and piano sounds that would follow, were nothing compared to the hellish screams he endured in the violent ward , is nothing.

A single room in a double apartment is no stricter than a cell in a prison.

Dr. Lecter closed his eyes and threw his head back, as he had done so many times in prison, to wander off into his memory palace.Most of the places there are beautiful.

This palace of memory is built according to a system of mnemonics well known to ancient scholars—it is not unique to him in the 21st century, and the little Sherlock Holmes downstairs is also well versed in this—in which are stored the treasures burned by the Vandals after suffering catastrophe. Much of the material left over from the dark ages of the book.

Like the scholars before him and Holmes now, Dr. Lecter categorized his profound knowledge by content and stored it in countless small rooms.

But unlike the ancients and Sherlock Holmes, Dr. Lecter's memory palace has another purpose: he sometimes lives in it.There he had spent long years among the exquisite collections, when his body lay bound in a violent ward, screaming and shouting like hell's harp to the buzzing of the iron bars.

The stone cover of the stone prison cell on the ground floor of the palace flew up, and the dungeon opened its mouth wide to emit a smoky smell.

Hannibal Lecter's parents were killed by cannon and machine gunners.

The vast forest on their estate was devastated.Only a small number of animals barely survived.

That motley group of deserters used the distant hunter's hut to stew whatever they could get their hands on.Once they found a poor deer, very bony, with an arrow in it.The deer managed to find food under the snow to survive.They didn't want to carry it away, so they brought it back.

When they brought it back, six-year-old Hannibal Lecter saw it through a crack in the barn.The men did not want to shoot, but knocked its slender feet so that it could not stand, and then hacked at the throat with an axe.Fearing that the deer blood would be wasted, they needed to prepare a bowl, so they cursed each other in several languages.

Skinny deer don't have much meat.So two days later, maybe three days later, deserters in long coats, with their arms steaming and stinking, came across the snow from the hunter's house, opened the barn, and picked from the children huddled in the hay.None of the children froze to death, so they had to choose a living one.

They touched Hannibal Lecter's thighs, upper arms, and chest, and instead of picking him, they picked his sister, Misha, and took her away.They said they were going to play, but none of the people who took them there came back.

Hannibal wrapped his strong arms around Misha and they slammed the heavy barn door on him, breaking his uppercut and knocking him out of pain.

They took Misha away from the deer-blooded snow.

He prayed hard to see Misha again.That prayer exhausted his 6-year-old heart, but he couldn't drown out the sound of the axe.He saw again that his sister's prayers were not entirely unanswered.He did see some of Misha's baby teeth, in the recesses of the deserters' smelly bench.The benches were used by those men in the snow between their quarters and the barn where they kept the children they had captured and kept alive after the collapse of the Eastern Front in 1944.

Since his prayers were only partially answered, Hannibal Lecter has given up the gods.He only felt that his mere predation was pale and powerless before the great cause of God.From the perspective of irony, God's great deeds are indeed unparalleled, and God's violence is also unspeakable.

In this small and tidy single room, with his smooth head heaving slightly on the pillow, Dr. Lecter paused between the last glimpse of Misha walking on the bloody snow and the sound of the axe.He stayed there, and he couldn't take it anymore.His sweaty face broke out in 211B Baker Street, which was never short of startling noises, into a short cry, high-pitched and mournful.

When Watson climbed up the stairs with difficulty—and his roommate (who might be upgraded to a roommate now) reluctantly pulled him to obstruct him—knocked on the door and got permission, he found Hanni Dr. Blactor, an old hand who sleeps in prisons and lunatic asylums, rests on a bed that is much wider and more comfortable, propping up his body with his hands, with thin beads of sweat on his forehead and the tip of his nose.