Chicken Holmes did not wear a deerstalker; it clashed with his comb. Instead, he wore a look of intense, brooding concentration. He was currently perched on a velvet stool in the town’s only tavern, The Molting Ego , nursing a thimble of fermented grain.
"The secret, Watson," Holmes clucked, his voice a low rasp that sounded like gravel in a blender, "is not in the tracks they leave. It is in the motivation. Why does a fox cross the road? To get to the other side? No. That is a pedestrian observation. He crosses to escape the crushing weight of his own predatory nature." Chicken Holmes – Sussurri di Chanislavski Downl...
: A master of disguise and psychological deduction. Chicken Holmes did not wear a deerstalker; it