Edgar Allan Poe awakened again in the dark room and wondered what day it was. He’d lost all sense of time since being imprisoned in the lab, and his sleuthing cellmate wasn’t much for conversation.

“How did I ever get into this mess?” he asked no one in particular.

Holmes frowned.

“One minute I’m sailing through space and time with Steamboat Willie, and the next I’m forgotten in some abysmal junk heap of a warehouse.”

Holmes closed his eyes and tried to pretend he was asleep.

“Am I doomed to wait here forever, rusting, wasting away the remainder of my artificial life?” The room was slowly filling with the poet’s spewing emo. “Oh, I’m so bored in here. So very, very bored. And woeful. So very, very woeful.”

Holmes rolled over and buried his head under the pillow.

“Once it smiled a silent dell
Where the people did not dwell;
They had gone unto the wars,
Trusting to the mild-eyed stars,
Nightly from their azure towers,
To keep watch above the flowers—“

“For the love of God, shut up!” screamed Holmes.