trash

"What? Danny! Did you find another body?"

"Shiiit man, you can't be finding more of em. I thought you patched up the holes."

"Evidently not—" Danny spluttered, taking an armful of a man floating in the Ghost Zone. There was a deep v-cut in his spandex suit, with a domino mask pressed over the bridge of his nose.

He looked horrific. I mean, not physically, he looked physically fine minus being in the literal Afterlife. It's just his outfit was horrific.

"It looks like someone tried to make some DC vigilante and dressed him up for the 70s disco. It's so ugly, guys. I can see his like, pecs."

It took all the strength of his teenager self not to drop this strange, unconscious man and let him float away into the great beyond. His outfit deserved that fate, but the dude beneath it probably didn't.

"So. Do we have to go to the 70s? Because if we do, you know I'm going to woo the ladies with my futuristic tech."

"Number one, shut up, Tuck, and number two, I don't know. Guess we'll have to wait for Disco Batman Boy to wake up."

Primarily based on these images

But also because I want Holmes and Morticia to speak French, and for him to fence with Gomez, and teach the kids about poisons and criminals

Holmes folded down the top of the newspaper he was reading so he could see me. “A letter from whom?”

“Not sure.” I turned it over to study it as best I could. The envelope was thick and expensive, postmarked from America. The ink was rich and black, and it smelled unexpectedly floral, with an odd sulphuric note underneath. “Looks to be a woman’s writing, I’d say.”

“If you would.” He held out a pale hand. I passed him the envelope and he neatly sliced it open with his pocket knife. A single page slipped out onto his breakfast plate. He unfolded it with a flick of his wrist, then smiled. “Ah! Morticia.”

“Morticia?”

“Addams. She is my second cousin.”

I was immediately intrigued, for Holmes so rarely talked about his relatives. It had taken several years after our meeting for him to bring up the subject of his elder brother, who lived and worked barely an hour’s walk away. I wasn’t surprised that a second cousin in America had gone unnoted until now.

“Unusual names run in the family, I see.”

Holmes smirked. “Her grandmother was my great-aunt Séraphine, who met and married a quite singular gentleman named Algernon Frump while travelling. They settled over in the States many years ago, and dear Morticia now resides there with her husband.”

“Why does she write you?”

“She is arranging a sort of family reunion on All Hallow’s Eve. Apparently it has been far too long since we have all seen each other.”

“How long is that?”

“Several years at least. It was certainly before you and I met.” 

“And will you oblige her?”

“I suppose I will.” He folded the letter and placed it neatly back in its envelope, tucking it into his inside pocket. “You’ve been angling for a holiday, my boy. Would this satisfy you?”

“Wouldn’t it be terribly rude?” I asked, startled. “She has invited you, not me.”

He tutted. “Nonsense, Watson! Morticia knows we live together, of course.”

“How?”

“She will have read your book.”

“Oh! Well that is kind of her. But a family reunion, Holmes, I am not—”

You get a Common Clownfish