Detective Woolly and the Mystery of the Missing Sock

Detective Woolly, the ghost sheep, had been raised in a junkyard, and was unfortunate enough to see his mother get fondled and roasted by an old lady with wild, swinging breasts, on his birthday of all days. Or at least that was what he liked to tell people. In reality he was brought up on a lovely little farm, and his mother had lived to a ripe old age… and then she was roasted. There was no fondling involved, or at least if there was, Detective Woolly had never seen it. He liked to tell the other ghost animals that he died chasing the wobbly boobed woman through the streets of the city, where he was shot in a Mexican stand-off, whilst simultaneously also saving an orphanage from burning to the ground. In reality he had eaten a burger he’d found in the hand of a corpse which had been in the stream at the bottom of his field for about three months and had projectile-vomited himself into the next life. But this was Detective Woolly’s chance to impress his new ghost friends, and anyone could forgive him for exaggerating a little.

Having introduced himself as Detective Woolly for years, Detective Woolly had also never really been a detective. In his physical life he had spent most of his time eating grass and pooping, but had always dreamed of solving crimes and putting away those pesky sheep villains, of which there are undoubtedly many. Floating around in his ghost form now gave him the perfect chance to start afresh: he was invisible, fluffy and had donned a Sherlock Holmes hat and pipe in the spirit of things. He had also ordered a cape, but there had been a delay at the ghost sheep Post Office and it wasn’t coming for another week. If he’d had opposable thumbs he might have gone in and raised some Hell, but he didn’t have opposable thumbs. Also he was a ghost so there probably wasn’t a whole lot of damage he could have done… though of course he could have made the room go a bit cold and caused a mild annoyance. He didn’t think about it at the time.

Floating around as a ghost sheep does, one day Detective Woolly had found himself blown through the wall of a quaint looking cottage. Squirrel topiary lined the edges of the garden and a fresh cherry pie was sat upon the windowsill of the kitchen. Had Detective Woolly had any concept of societal clichés, he might have laughed to himself and pooped a little, but instead he drifted around the ground floor of the house, sniffing at the cereal in the pantry and nibbling at the curtains in the living room. As he passed by the laundry room, all of a sudden he heard an old lady cry out in distress.

‘Oh, Reginald! We’ve lost another blue sock!’

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