Moustache No.1: ‘Absolute Ruddy Perfection’
Taken from ‘Lord Likely’s Extra-Ordinary Inter-Active Moustache-O-Rama‘.

“A MAN without a moustache is like a pub without beer – sorely lacking, and more than a little sickening,” so said a wise man. Who was that wise man? ME, just then. Honestly, are you not paying attention?

Of course, I myself am most assuredly not lacking in the moustache department, having sported a fine soup-strainer for my entire life (which certainly took my mother quite by surprise during childbirth). I mean, just LOOK at my moustache, dear readers. I mean, REALLY look at it. Examine each and every hair closely, and revel in the magnificence and perfection of my top-lip topiary. Is it not the finest moustache you have ever seen?

Not only does it LOOK tremendous (and not only does it tickle many a lady’s fancy!), but my moustache is also a valuable WEAPON, a weapon which I shall turn to the greater good this month, as I attempt to take down that tumorous toe-rag CANCER, using nothing more than my fine, facial fuzz!

I shall be showcasing a selection of my myriad moustaches every day of the week for the rest of the month (that is a moustache a day for twenty-two days, chums!) along with a little back-story or history about the chosen style. Should you like the day’s selection (as you undoubtedly shall), then all I ask is that you simply donate a small sum to my charity fund-raising efforts for ‘Movember’, so that through the money raised we may DEFEAT that cad cancer once and for all, or at least give it a dashed good DRUBBING!

As the old saying goes, ‘a moustache a day keeps the tumours at bay!’

Of course, if YOU think you can sport a better moustache (you cannot, by the way), then why not grow your own and set up your own fund-raising account? ‘Tis for a good cause, after all! And if you DO grow a particularly magnificent moustache, why not share it with me so I might share it with the world, and judge it for myself? Alternatively, if you are so pitifully inept at growing facial hair, you can use my Moustache-O-Rama to create a new look for my glorious self, and send that along.

Send your own moustachioed masterpieces to hislordship@lordlikely.com, or deliver them to me via the Twittering Device or my page in the Book of Many Faces. The very best one shall win a PRIZE, no less! A prize of inestimable worth!

So, there you have it. Let us join together, and with our moustaches bristling with pride, perhaps we can help defeat cancer once and for ruddy all – and looked DAMNABLY HANDSOME while doing so!

HUZZAH!

- Lord Likely.

LIKED today’s ‘tash? Then please DONATE for Movember!

From the diaries of Herbert J. Bottsworth (‘Botter’).

First of June, 1890.

MY HEART was pounding so hard, I half-expected it to burst through my chest, through the door, and bounce off down the road to find a rock to cower under. I was home alone, and there were a couple of criminal ne’er-do-wells outside, who seemed to want to be inside the house – and they certainly weren’t about to let me get in their way.

I listened carefully as I heard the men continue to plot their assault.

“Right, these rich toffs always keep their money either in a safe, or stashed under their mattress. So, I’ll take the front, you go and try and force your way in ‘is back entrance.”

I smirked. ‘Force their way into my back entrance’ indeed!

I paused. My word, I thought, I have been in his lordship’s employ for too long! This was no time for cheap innuendo! This was time for decisive ACTION!

*****

I CALCULATED that I had a few minutes to spare before the criminals organised themselves and successfully picked the locks on the doors. It wasn’t a lot of time, but as I knew the layout of the house back-to-front and inside-out, and knew precisely where all the tools I required would be, it was enough for me to implement my plans to fend off these rogues.

Indeed, no sooner had I finished setting up my first booby-trap, that I saw the front door fall open, and a tall, filthy, heavily-stubbled fellow slid into the hall, brandishing a bag in one hand and – considerably more worryingly – a pistol in the other. He glanced about and let out an impressed whistle at the sight of the many great items his lordship owned. He gazed around in awe for a moment longer, then noticed the winding staircase, and headed towards it – thereby also heading directly into my trap.

From my vantage point looking over the railings on the first floor, I watched the man slowly ascend the stairs. I waited until he was at exactly the right point, and then I threw a paint-can attached to a rope over the railings. I watched with glee as it arced perfectly through the air, coming to an abrupt halt at the thief’s head, sending him tumbling backwards onto the floor, where he lay, unconscious.

I took a brief moment to congratulate myself on the perfect application of some basic mathematics, and then I remembered I had another felon heading around the back of the house. Wasting no time, I untethered the rope from the railings and the paint-can, and dashed off through the house, pausing only to grab a candelabra from the dining-room table as I passed through…

*****

THE door handle on the back door turned slowly, and then the door was gently pushed open to reveal the face of a shorter chap, with a dusty old bowler hat, and a straggly beard. He peered through the gap in the door, and satisfied that no-one was around (having failed to spot me crouching behind the sink) he pushed the door open further. I smiled as I watched the rudimentary pulley-system which I had just set up move into action, the rope attached to the door-handle tightening, causing the other end to tip the lit candelabra on its side, the flames directly coming into contact with the cad’s bowler hat.

The man remained in the doorway for a few more seconds, evidently suspicious of his surroundings, but not suspicious enough to notice that his bowler was quickly setting ablaze. He was about to venture fully into the kitchen, when he stopped, and sniffed at the air.

“Woss burnin’?” he said out loud, and then, realising it was his hat, began screaming and yelling, while frantically trying to remove his flaming head-wear without burning his hands. As he leapt about, he failed to notice that I had scattered several marbles about the floor, until his feet came into contact with them, and he wound up slipping up and falling with a heavy thud onto his back.

I waited to make sure the man was out-cold, and then slowly inched forward. Suddenly, the man’s eyes flicked open, and before I knew it he was back on his feet, and brandishing a gun in my direction.

“So, fink yer pretty clever with all this gubbins, do ya?” he sneered. “Well, let’s see if yer ‘alf as smart when it comes to dodging bullets!” And with that, he fired at me, and I fell to the ground.

“Huh, not very smart at all, then?” the thief sneered as he approached me, still pointing the gun at me. “Better luck in the next life, mate!” he chuckled, but in a flash I kicked the pistol from his hand, and was standing before him, unharmed.

“B-but how? Are you a GHOST?” the dim-witted cad blurted.

“No, I am a SERVANT!” I corrected, flinging open my jacket to reveal a serving-tray strapped to my chest, which I duly unfastened. “And as for the ‘how’ – solid silver serving-tray!” I beamed, showing the dumb-struck fellow his bullet lodged in the tray. “I do believe that you have been served, sir!” I exclaimed, before whacking the criminal about the head with the item.

*****

I TORE back through the house again, reasoning that if I could get outside, I might be able to alert a local police-man, and have the thieves taken into custody. But as I rounded the corner from the drawing-room into the hall, I saw the first felon standing in front of the door, his pistol aimed squarely at my head.

“Where do ya fink yer off to, eh?” he grinned. “Fink you’re pretty clever, with all this gubbins, do ya?”

“Oh please,” I sighed. “I have just this moment heard the same speech from your colleague. Can we just not move onto the point where you are unconscious again?”

“Oh-ho!” He cackled. “An’ what makes you think I’m gonna be unconscious, eh?”

“Because,” I said, pointing to the grand-father clock by the wall as it chimed two. “I have just noticed that it is two o’clock in the morning.”

“And?”

“And…THIS!” I exclaimed, as, on cue, the door suddenly flew open rather violently and knocked out the burglar, while in staggered his lordship, clearly very inebriated, and seemingly covered in wine.

“All women are HARLOTS!” he declared, swaying uneasily on the spot. “At least, I WISH they were, then they would not get so terribly offended when I offer to pay them for sexual intercourse.”

“Good evening, your lordship,” I smiled, having never before been quite so pleased to see the old rogue.

“No, a terrible evening. A waste of a night! And…and what in the name of French ticklery has been going on here, Botter?” his lordship continued, surveying the scene before him.

“I…I shall explain in the morning, milord.”

“You better had, you wretch! ‘Tis a mess! Remind me to dock your pay and thrash you senseless for this!” slurred his lordship, as he made his way uneasily across the hall, and up the stairs. “Oh, and Botter?”

“Yes, milord?”

“I fear I may have vomited all the way down the path, so be a good fellow and clear that up as well, eh? Make yourself useful, you blithering arse-tube.”

I smiled. “Very good, milord.”

I do not know what it is that keeps me in the employ of such a rude, obnoxious and frequently drunk man. Nor am I certain why I risked my life just to save his property. It is certainly not the money, that much I know. Nor am I bound by contract to remain with him for ever more, I am free to leave whenever I please.

Thus, all I can conclude is that I stay by Lord Likely’s side because, in a peculiar sort of way, I actually rather like him. For all his bluster, I believe he is generally a good-hearted man, which is why he agreed to employ me in the first place, and why he has even saved my life on a fair few occasions. No-one has spared quite as much thought towards me as his lordship, which, I suppose, makes him the very best friend I have.

Even when I am cleaning up his vomit at two in the morning.

- Fin.

ATTENTION! Botter has now joined Lord Likely upon the Twittering Device – if you need any assistance, please do see if Botter May Help.

Alternatively, Botter may also be located within The Book of Many Faces, where he shall only be too happy to supply any assistance.

Enjoyed this? Please consider donating below, to help us bring you more Astonishing Adventures! Many thanks, chums!

Penned by Mr. A.D Fanton & Mr. Darren Craske.

The sun had barely squeezed out its first rays into the morning sky, when I found myself once again embroiled in a titanic struggle with another rogue. Crashing through the doors of a building located on Park Lane, this fellow and I crashed to the floor, limbs flailing, my cane striking the bounder about the shoulder blades in an effort to secure my release from his filthy grasp. Finally, the fellow relented, and disentangled himself from me. He adjusted his neck-tie and pointed a large, meaty finger at my noble form.

“You are officially banned from these premises!” he snapped. “You shall never darken these doors again!”

“I fail to see what the problem is, sir,” I replied, raising myself up on my elbows. “’Tis a gentleman’s, and I was merely relieving myself as was my need.”

“It is a gentleman’s CLUB!” cried the man, emphasising his point by pointing to a sign that read ‘Strong Fellows’ Gentleman’s Club’.

“Well, if that is the case, why on earth do you have that large urinal in there?”

“THAT is an ornamental fountain, you clod!” the man yelled. “My word, we shall probably have to have it destroyed, now.”

“Pfffft,” I snorted, hurling a small, empty bottle of whisky at the retreating man’s back as he returned inside the building, only for the bottle to shatter harmlessly upon the steps. I sighed and collapsed back onto the street, staring up at the sky. It had been almost a month since my last astonishing adventure, and I was missing the thrill of a good mystery. Certainly, I had pumped my way through a parade of pretty paramours in the interim, and drunk my weight in liquor ev’ry night, but adventure was always my favourite mistress, and it was a long time since I had been deep within her.

“Milord!” exclaimed my man-servant, his face hovering into view above me. “What are you doing down there?”

“Being in a state of complete horizontality,” I replied in my most matter-of-fact-tone. “Now stop asking such ridiculous bloody questions, and help me up.”

“Pee-yoo!” Botter gasped as he helped me to my feet. “If I may say so, milord, you smell like someone has vomited in a brewery.”

“You are very astute sometimes, Botter,” I responded, swaying uneasily on my feet. “I did so not but two hours ago. Furthermore, no, you may not say that.” I added, twatting my servant about the head with my cane for his insolence.

Botter rubbed his sore head gingerly. “Milord, I do hate to see you like this! You must do something!”

“Ah, Botter, you feeble-minded fool! Were it so simple! I need an adventure! I need mystery! I need EXCITEMENT! Without all this, I fear my brain stagnates.”

“Stagnates?” mused Botter as he retrieved my topper from the floor and dusted it down. “With all the alcohol you have been knocking back, I’d have thought your brain would have been perfectly pickled by now.”

“Oh, very droll!” I snapped, grabbing my hat from my man-servant’s grubby mitts. “I am at a loss, Botter. I just do not know what to do.”

“Why don’t you go and see a magic act?” cried Botter, pointing to a poster he had just espied.

“Magicians are arse-pipes, Botter. A bunch of poncified poltroons, disguising mediocre trickery as spectacular feat. I hate them all!”

“But milord, I think you’ll be rather interested in this particular show….”

“Botter,” I sighed, teetering along to where my man-servant now stood. “How many times must I tell you, I am not in the mood for – BY THE KRACKEN’S KNACKER-SACK!” I exclaimed, as my eyes fell upon the poster in question. For this was certainly no ordinary magic-show, but a show featuring the crazed conjurer Silas Surprise.

“Egad!” I said as I continued to read. “I thought I had put an end to his twisted trickery long ago!”

“It’d seem not, milord,” Botter nodded. “He has returned, and furthermore, it seems he plans to make Buckingham Palace disappear!”

“Utter scrotum!” I snorted. “I’ll wager my own skeleton that he is up to no good! And naturally, it shall be up to me to stop him! We shall have to go to the Palace forthwith” I slapped Botter heartily on the back. “Ha-ha! I can feel the adrenalin pumping through my veins already!”

“I am surprised there is any room in them, with all the alcohol – “

Another sharp blow ensured that Botter never reached the end of that particular witticism, and we set off upon a fresh, new adventure – quite unaware that Mr. Silas Surprise’s audacious illusion was also attracting attention elsewhere…

*****

PLATFORM 9 in London’s Grosvenor Park railway station was typically abuzz with all manner of odd behaviour. Chinese acrobatic twins bounced about the place like rubber balls, garishly-attired clowns rehearsed a slapstick routine involving a ferret and a wooden mallet, and a gargantuan strongman lifted a young female knife-thrower high into the air as if she was a rag doll. This was a normal day for Dr Marvello’s Travelling Circus, but it was about to become bizarrely abnormal – even by the circus’s standards.

Master conjurer and circus proprietor, Cornelius Quaint, had seen many a spectacle in his fifty-plus years (many of which were of his making) but this day he was promised a spectacle like no other, if the poster for the forthcoming event at Buckingham Palace was to be believed.

“Have you seen this twaddle, Butter?” he growled at his Inuit squire, busily buffing the conjurer’s shoes. “This buffoon must either be clinically insane, a misguided fool, or a liar!”

Butter glanced up to see the poster that his employer referred to, and his narrow eyes scanned left to right. “This magician Silas Surprise is to make Buckingham Place disappear, yes?”

“Point of fact, Butter – this magician Silas Surprise is to make Buckingham Palace disappear, no,” corrected Quaint. “If he’s a magician then I’m a flipping Lord – which I can assure you, I am most certainly not! Pompous bunch of time-wasting fluffs, the lot of them. No, my Inuit friend, this deserves my attention. Not just out of professional curiosity but my own brand of decidedly unprofessional curiosity. Are my shoes done?”

Butter presented the brown leather brogues proudly. “Shiny shiny, boss, yes?”

“Exemplary as always, Butter,” complimented Quaint. “Now, get your coat on. We’re off to the palace to see exactly what this Silas buffoon has got to say for himself!”

Butter hovered on his heels by the door to Quaint’s office. “Boss, a thought sudden to strike my mind…this magician…we go see because we do not believe his claims, yes? And…not of in case he does perform this miracle and you are jealous?”

Quaint’s six-foot plus frame towered over the diminutive Inuit. “Jealous? Butter, do my ears deceive me? You actually believe that I’m…jealous? How dare you, I’m a professional illusionist and one of the best in the business – might I add – which is how I happen to know for a fact that making the palace disappear is impossible!”

“As opposed to impossible that you perform every day?” asked Butter.

“That’s totally different, Butter!” spat Quaint. “What I do is a stagecraft, whereas this…this is tantamount to fraud! Now stop dragging your heels. I’ve got an entire carcass of bones to pick with Mr Silas Surprise, and no one is going to stand in my way!”

*****

“I AM well aware that I am standing in your way!” I barked at the police-officer precluding me from gaining entry into Buckingham Palace. “And I shall not move until you let me pass! I am Lord Likely, Aristocratic Adventurer and Gentle-Man of Action, and I am a close acquaintance of Her Majesty! I have reason to believe that she is in great danger, so – “

“So you keep saying, sir,” the officer replied, scratching his nose. “But I don’t know what you think Her Majesty has to fear from a magician, I’m sure! Think she’ll get a playing card in the eye, do ya? Perhaps she might find herself cougin’ up a string of coloured ‘ankerchiefs, eh?”

“Oooh, I like that trick, I do,” piped up his equally cretinous colleague. “It’s amazing, and ever so pretty.”

“Look, just contact Inspector Spunkleford and he’ll – “

“Listen, sir – we ‘ave quadrupled the police presence ‘ere to-day, and we’ve got the Queen’s own Guard on high alert. This conjurin’ chap won’t be able to release so much as a dove in her majesty’s direction without us bein’ all over ‘im. I assure you, nothing can go wrong!”

“But! –“

“Sir! If you continue to make a scene we’ll have to take you into custody. Now move along, there’s a good fellah.”

I was scarlet with rage, but realised that to continue arguing with these fat-headed idiots would be a waste of my precious voice. Instead, I turned sharply on my heels, and strode back through the gathering crowd who were slowly filling assembling outside the palace in readiness for Silas’ big show.

“Absolute tit-bags!” I raged as I returned to my spot beside Botter. “They’re impossible! Impossible! I shall need a more cunning ruse to gain entry to the palace, I fear…”

“Hmmm?” said Botter, distractedly, watching the small stage that had been set up outside of the gates with considerable interest.

“You glorified gonad!” I spat. “You aren’t even paying attention, are you?”

“I was just watching the stage, milord…there’s a couple of chaps there who seem – “

“I do not give a flea’s piss-hole what is going on there! May I remind you that we are NOT here to gawk at some accursed conjuror’s stupid set-pieces! Now hand me my cane and my gloves, I believe I have formulated quite the plan…”

“You aren’t going to walk back up there and clobber the police-officers are you, milord?”

“No, Botter! Ha! The very notion!” I chuckled, taking my cane from my man-servants hands. “I am going to RUN back up there and clobber the police officers!”

*****

“BOSS, I might you ask a question,” said the Inuit squire, peering over at the ensuing kerfuffle by Buckingham Palace’s gates.

Cornelius Quaint was on his knees at the base of the stage where Silas Surprise was to perform his illusion, his keen eyes searching the apparatus for anything out of the ordinary. “Might you, Butter? Fire away then.”

“You say we must investigate stage for trickery, yes?” asked Butter. “You say Silas Surprise plans some sort of ruse, and is impossible for him to make palace disappear.”

“Indeed so,” answered Quaint, ever mindful of Butter’s loose affiliation with the English language. “And your question is?”

“Why you say the Queen smell fishy?”

“Keep your voice down, Butter, you’ll have me hung!” roared Quaint. “I said nothing of the sort! I said there was something fishy about this Silas chap, and I feared the Queen’s life was in danger! I have it on very good authority that Her Majesty’s personal hygiene is beyond reproach. Just do what you’re supposed to do, and make sure those policemen don’t see what I’m up to!”

Butter went up on tip-toes to get a better look at the ensuing fracas. “I do not think that to be a problem anymore, boss.”
“Oh? And why’s that?”

“They seem busy with someone else causing trouble,” Butter replied.

“What someone else?” snapped Quaint, scrabbling to his feet. “The man’s a lunatic! A well-dressed one, if the truth be told – but a lunatic nonetheless. Why the devil is he on that policeman’s back, thrashing him with a stick like a demented jockey? Let’s take a closer look.”

They had not taken but one footstep when they heard the lunatic’s tirade.

“But you don’t understand!” yelled he. “Her Majesty is in great peril!”

“That man seems most sure of that,” pondered Quaint. “Can it be that he’s got his own suspicions about Silas Surprise? In which case, he just became interesting. Come, Butter, we must speak with that man at once! Perhaps he’s not as much of a lunatic as I thought.”

“Too late, boss!” cried Butter. “Look! Police lock him in their wagon!”

“Then we’d better go and unlock him, hadn’t we?”

“But how, boss?” asked Butter. “Man is prisoned in iron cage, and policeman guards wagon! No way to rescue him. Is impossible!”

Quaint winked. “You forget, my Inuit friend…impossible is what I do best.”

Butter slapped his forehead. “Silly me.”

“Constable Pike, isn’t it?” Quaint snatched hold of the young policeman’s hand, seemingly doing his best to separate it from the wrist. “How’s your mother getting on these days? That nasty old thing with her hip any better?”

The constable looked up, checking the vicinity from where this broad-shouldered, silver-curled man had obviously just fallen from. “The name’s Mitchum, sir. Don’t know any Pike. And me mam’s hip’s still giving her gip, yeah. Now, if you wouldn’t mind moving along, there’s been enough trouble at this shindig as it is.”

“Not at all, Constable Mitchum,” said Quaint, striding away swiftly to rejoin Butter, a triumphant grin on his face. He lifted up a long, silver chain with a key attached. “This should give our friend back his liberty…and then he can answer a few of my questions!”

“How you get key, boss?” asked Butter, keenly. “Magic, I presume?”

“Of a sort practiced by many an urchin down Langdon Lane,” replied Quaint. “Now, all we need to do is wait for the good constable to move on. Now, Butter! Move!”

Keeping as low to the ground as he could, Quaint sprinted up to the police wagon’s rear. His gut instinct was buzzing like a wasp in a jam jar, and something told him that the prisoner was important if he wanted to prevent a tragedy. He tore back the canvas flap, and hastily unlocked the heavy iron door to the cage, ready to interrogate the wagon’s occupant – who clearly had other ideas about the matter, if his striking punch to Quaint’s jaw was any indication.

*****

“HA-HA! Chinned the bugger!” I cried triumphantly as the figure fell to the floor. “That shall teach you to lay your grubby fingers upon my noble form, and – oh!” I stopped as I looked at the well-dressed, grey-haired figure lying on the ground beside the wagon. “Hmmm, you don’t look much like a police-officer, I must say.”

“That would be because I am not one, you ignorant fool!” the man snarled, as he was helped to his feet by a small chap who seemed to be dressed in preparation of a sudden Arctic snap, or something. “I am, in fact a conjurer, sir!”

My fist flashed out and caught the bounder on the chin again, knocking him to the floor once more.

“What on EARTH was that for?” he spat.

“I think I may actually hate conjurers more than police-officers,” I replied, as Botter helped me down out of the police-wagon. “Both dress in the most absurd manner, both make shocking use of handcuffs, and both are prone to wild acts of deception. But conjurers are just so much -” I was silenced by the tall man lashing out with his own fist, sending me spinning into the back of the wagon.

“One thing you need to learn about a conjurer is they always have something up their sleeve!” growled the man, straightening up to his full six-feet of height.

“Oh, really?” said I, wiping a drop of blood from my lip. “Well, I’d wager that you also have something up your trousers, too,” I smirked, before delivering a swift boot to the conjurer’s crotch. ‘Twas a cheap shot, but worth doing, I felt, especially as I watched the cove double over in pain.

“I…I think these gentlemen were trying to help you, milord,” Botter said as I turned away from my fallen foe.

“Nonsense, Botter! The man’s a damned magician! Never trust them, you know. Probably out to steal my wallet or something.”

“It’s no doubt full of I.O.U’s from all the dirty-arsed whores in the East End of London,’ the cad retorted upon me, his fist not only brushing against yours truly’s face, but making an almighty mess of it too.

The next physical object to strike my person was my cane in my posterior as I fell upon it, the hooked end threatening to tear me a new one.

“I do not hide the fact that I make frequent use of harlots, sir,” I rose to my feet and winced slightly at the pain in my backside, whilst addressing the other pain in my backside. “Whereas I dare say the only ladies you have handled come printed on playing cards.” And with that, I cracked the bounder around the head with my cane, sending him hurtling backwards once more.

In an untoward fashion, he kicked back like a mule, sending his trajectory in my personable direction. Fists out in front, as well (the cad). Both of them connected with my chest, sending my lungs screaming for air, and then it was my turn to hurtle backwards. But I had witnessed his little trick, and I too kicked back against the wall. My interpretation of the move was slightly less synchronized with the wall’s vicinity than his though, and I unded up on my (already painful from the cane near miss) posterior.

The fiend towered over me.

“I know everything there is to know about you, Likely, and I have to say, I don’t like what I hear,” said the conjuring cadster. “You womanize and philander your way across this city like a fly seeking a turd to perch on. You squander your inheritance likes it’s going out of fashion…on nothing more than booze, birds and bacon butties! You drink like a fish, and you indulge yourself in what you in the minority refers to as ‘Astonishing Adventures‘? Really? Astonishing? They’re semi-amusing at best, and highly derivative it has to be said. If you want to truly have an ‘astonishing adventure’ then I suggest you to join me on one of my little exploits one day. Now they’re truly astonishing, let me tell you.”

“Oh,” I replied, heaving myself back up, my bones crying out in protest. “So…you HAVE heard of me then? Well, I cannot say that I am surprised, sir. I AM really rather important and well-known throughout the Empire, you know. So if that was supposed to be some sort of mystical mind-reading trick in a futile attempt to impress or awe me, then I am afraid it was all for naught. It seems you know nothing of me that millions of people do not already know.”

“Oh, really?” the magician replied, his black as coal eyes glinting with hitherto unrevealed knowledge. “I beg to differ…Ouranos.”

- To Be Furthered…

His lordship and Mr. Fanton would like to thank Mr. Craske for joining them in chronicling this most astonishing of adventures. Huzzah!

Darren Craske is the author of the Cornelius Quaint Chronicles amongst other things, and lives in Hampshire with his wife and two children. His first published work was ‘The Equivoque Principle’ to be followed by its sequel, ‘The Eleventh Plague’ on March 4th, 2010. His website can be found at www.darrencraske.com and he is on twitter as @DarrenCraske.

‘The Eleventh Plague’ (book 2 of the Cornelius Quaint Chronicles) – is released in paperback by The Friday Project, an imprint of HarperCollins on March 4th 2010 and can be bought (amongst other fine retailers) here, and  ‘The Equivoque Principle’ (book 1 of the Cornelius Quaint Chronicles) can be bought here.

As well as a little sneaky peeky at ‘The Eleventh Plague’ – ‘The Equivoque Principle’ is being offered as a FREE download for a limited time via this link and also on Kindle via this link.

12:00am, 29th of January, 1891.

“AH, IT’S Lord Likely, is it not?” someone asked, their voice cutting through the hubbub of the crowd like a word-knife cutting though air-butter.

“Gug-gak! Yes! ‘Tis…’tis me! Eck-excuse me if I don’t get up,” I grunted, finding myself trapped beneath the hulking great form of Mr. Wallops.

“It’s a pleasure to meet you at last,” said a pair of black leather shoes next to my head. I craned my head slightly and saw that the shoes belonged to Sir Rhubarb Muddick, the press baron and host of this charming shindig. Which was something of a relief, for talking shoes were not something I was quite prepared to deal with at this juncture. “Come on, Wallops, do get up off of our guest,” Muddick continued. “You’ll have to forgive Wallops, he’s a little hard of thinking, I’m afraid.”

“No, no, not at all,” I said as I was helped back to my feet. “Nothing wrong with a little bit of exercise before a night of drunken revelry and debauchery, eh?”

“Precisely!” chuckled Muddick. “May I get you a drink, your lordship?”

“I’d much rather you got me several, frankly,” I quipped, although I was actually being deadly serious, for I was drier than a nun’s mimsy and wanted lots, and lots of BOOZE.

“Ha!” Muddick laughed, snapping his fingers to summon a nearby waiter. “Ah, there you are – could you get the esteemed Lord Likely here a…whisky, is it not?”

“Indeed! You know me well!” I nodded.

“Ha, well you have had many column inches in my news-papers, you know!”

“I have done no such thing,” I snapped, before realising what the fellow was talking about. “Oh, yes! I see. Yes, I suppose I have!”

Muddick gave me a hearty slap on the back, before turning his attention back to the waiter, who had decided to go precisely nowhere.

“What are you waiting for, waiter?”

“It’s my job, sir.” came the lightning-fast riposte.

“No, I mean…why are you still here?” Muddick clarified. “You have our order, now go and fetch it for us, you cretin.”

The waiter, who was rather  a thin man with a thin face, a thin moustache and thinning hair, just smiled slowly, before dropping his serving-tray to the ground, and pulling a pistol from within the pocket of his apron.

“How ’bout this,” he snarled, his personality transforming in a flash. “You take OUR orders, and no-one gets hurt, right?”

I sighed again out of complete and utter dismay. When, when, when, WHEN was I going to get a cocking drink to-day?

- Lord Likely.

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11:00pm, 28th of January, 1891.

“GOOD EVENING, sah. And whom might you be?” sniffed the snooty butler who came to Sir Rhubarb Muddick’s door.

“WHOM MIGHT I BE?” I exclaimed, almost apoplectic with rage. “Egad, sir, your master owns a news-paper or two, does he not? I dare say my face has been on the cover on more than a dozen occasions!”

The butler looked me up and down dismissively. “Can’t say I recognise you, saaah. Are you on the list?”

“On the – ?” I snorted dismissively. “I do not need to be on any list, sir. I AM the list!”

“Your name, saaaah?,” droned the bounder.

“Pah! This is RIDICULOUS! Fine, my name is Likely! LORD LIKELY!”

The tedious little man scanned up and down his precious list a few times, while I impatiently tapped my foot.

“You’re not on the list, saaaaah,” he whined.

“Have you tried looking under ‘A’, for ‘Aristocratic Adventurer and Gentle-Man of Action’?”

The man slowly took his eyes off me again, and consulted his sheet again. “You’re not on the list, saaaaaah,” he repeated.

“How about under ‘H’ for ‘Handsome’?” I ventured hopefully.

“You’re not on the list, saaaah,” the weasel intoned.

“Then the list is ARSE!” I raged, swiping the list from the butler’s hands and tearing it into a thousand, tiny pieces. “HA! Now what do you propose to do, you pathetic little whelk?”

“Nothing, saaaah,” said the man.

“HA! I thought not.”

“But Mr. Wallops might,” the butler continued.

“Mr. Wallops?” I repeated. “Who is…” Suddenly, a large, dark shadow fell over me. Turning around, I saw a very tall and very wide fellow sporting an ill-fitting tuxedo, his large brow suggesting minimal brain-capacity, his large fists suggesting maximum punch-capacity. “Ah, Mr. Wallops, I presume?” I smiled, tipping my hat.

People have often remarked on how I always know how to enter a party. Indeed, I have earned the nick-name ‘the carpenter’, on account of my uncanny skill at making an entrance. And this evening was to be no different, as I came crashing through a large, bay window, accompanied by Mr. Wallops, out of whom I was trying my level best to beat the living excrement.

We landed with an almighty crash on a table laden with food and drink, before rolling out into the centre of the room, to the utter bewilderment of the shocked party-goers.

“Ack..ah, good evening,” I wheezed to the assembled guests, as Mr. Wallops held me in a excruciatingly tight head-lock. “I..ack! I wonder if someone might guh-get me a drink?”

- Lord Likely.

*WE are at the HALF-WAY point of our 24-hour adventure, chums! REJOICE, and thank you for your support thus far. HUZZAH!

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So there we were: Lord Loathsome, murderous villain and knob-end of the highest order, and myself – Lord Likely, Aristocratic Adventurer and all-round ruddy fantastic fellow indeed, facing off against one another in the bell-tower of my old school, St. Bumthrusty’s.

Loathsome, being the utterly indefensible weasel that he is, had already gotten the first blow in, sending me flat on my back, leaving me now looking down the troublesome end of a pistol pointed at my handsome face by the cad himself.

Meanwhile, my dithering man-servant, Botter, had gotten himself kidnapped by Loathsome, and was currently manacled to the inside of the school’s mighty bell, facing a gruesome pummeling from the bell’s clapper when six o’clock came around, which was in less than four minutes’ time.

Truly, things were looking distinctly shit-coloured for your noble narrator.

“Where shall I shoot first?” sneered Loathsome. “Shall I put a hole right through your face? I am sure the incredibly vain Lord Likely would not approve of that….no, wait! I have a better idea! Why don’t I blast your precious cock-end right off? Let us see how popular you prove to be without a penis, eh?”

Luckily for me, Loathsome’s inane prattling had bought me sufficient time to regain my breath, and so as he pointed his pistol at my proud Lord Palmerston, I swung a leg up and kicked the weapon from his hand, sending it ricocheting off of the school bell, before it disappeared down the hole below.

“Bastard!” hissed Loathsome.

“Lord Bastard, if it is all the same to you,” I retorted as I clambered to my feet. “Now, shall we proceed? I am rather keen to kick your posterior into next week.”

“Gladly,” replied Loathsome, and then he charged at me.

Despite having been rather winded from Loathsome’s earlier assault, I managed to deftly dodge the cad as he lunged at my good self, and delivered a most powerful punch to his face, which sent him crashing to the floor.

With Loathsome momentarily out for the count, I scooped my cane up off of the floor and headed behind the school’s bell, where there was a rather large and rather complex clockwork mechanism, which I assumed operated the bell when the clock struck the hour. After deliberating whether or not my man-servant’s miserable life was worth ruining a perfectly good cane for, I decided that seeking new help would be far more bother than seeking a new stick, and so thrust the cane inbetween some of the cogs operating the machinery. There was a low moaning sound as the cogs tried to continue turning despite the presence of my rigid rod, but happily, my cane held firm, and the entire mechanism ground to a juddering halt.

As I proudly surveyed my excellent handiwork, I was suddenly sent tumbling to the ground once more as that nefarious prick, Harold Loathsome, snuck up on me and swept my legs from beneath me. I was getting rapidly tired of being acquainted with the floor so regularly, and so kicked the swine in the knee, and then booted him in the chin. The cad fell to the floor like the sack of shit he so clearly was.

“You shall pay for your loathsome acts…Loathsome,” I declared, rather inelegantly.

“Oh really? And who is the real villain here, Likely?” Loathsome coughed as he struggled back up from the ground. “Is it really me, just because I murdered a few people? Or is it you, for creating me by bullying and mocking me through all of my school years?“

“I would have to say it is you who is the real villain,” I reasoned, quite reasonably. “Yes, yes. ‘Tis definitely you, no question about it.”

“Well, then…I shall feel no remorse about sending you to your grave then,” Loathsome exclaimed, and then he was suddenly brandishing a knife, which he tried to plunge into my chest. I put up an arm to block such a move, and then roared in pain as the blade entered my limb.

“You cocking piss-hole!” I yelled. “That really rather stung, you know.”

With Loathsome’s knife still protruding from my stricken arm, I grabbed the fiend by his lapels and then hurled him against a nearby window, which had been boarded up for reasons unknown. The wood splintered as Loathsome’s body slammed against it, but before he could recover I was upon him again, grabbing him by his lank, greasy hair, and slamming his head into the remaining boards.

“This…is…for…ruining…a…perfectly…good…suit!” I cried, each word punctuating a fresh attempt to batter Loathsome’s bonce against the wood. “And…this…is…for…ruining…a…perfectly…good…arm!” I continued.

Loathsome, somewhat bleary and bloodied by now, somehow managed to struggle free from my grasp, and then he took me by my injured arm and flung me against the window. The rest of the wood broke apart, and I was left half-hanging out of the glassless window behind. I felt a chilly, autumnal breeze across my face, and saw the considerable drop waiting below. However, I had no time to observe the view before I was pulled back in by my enraged nemesis, who spun me around to face him.

“This is it, Likely!” he cackled, an evil smirk upon his lips. “This is where we must part ways, I’m afraid. I would say it has been a pleasure to see you again, but frankly, it has not!”

I tried to think of a witty retort, but I was beginning to feel rather queasy and light-headed as my precious blood seeped from the wound in my arm.

“You wanker,” was all I could manage, before Loathsome pushed me back out of the window. As I fell backwards, however, I grabbed Loathsome’s wrist, which took the cove quite by surprise.

And then we fell together.

I awoke with a start, and saw nothing but sky. Where was I? What was going on? Was I in Heaven?

I moved my head to the left, and saw Loathsome lying next to me, seemingly unconscious. Clearly I was not in Heaven, then. Was I in Hell? Curses, I thought. I knew all that masturbating would catch up with me one day.

I slowly sat up, wincing as pain shot through every muscle in my body. Once I was sat upright, I saw that I was not in Hell, either. I was sat outside St. Bumthrusty’s, surrounded by a group of shocked onlookers. Clearly, I had not been out cold for long.

“What are you doing down there?” a voice cried from above. I gingerly looked up, to see Inspector Spunkleford looking down at me from the bell-tower window from which I had just plummeted.

“What are you doing up there?” I shouted in return.

“I came up to help you out!” Spunkleford yelled.

“Well, better late than never, I suppose.” I replied.

“What?”

“Oh, never mind! I shall talk to you when you get back down here!”

“What?”

“I said…”

“Never mind, Likely!” Spunkleford echoed. “I shall talk to you when I get back down there!”

I rolled my eyes in disbelief at the detective’s deplorable dimness, then all of a sudden I found Loathsome back upon me, his hands wrapped firmly around my throat.

“I”m not finished with you yet, Likely!” the wretch snarled, his grip tightening. “I shall not be finished until you are finished!”

“Fucking hell!” I gasped. “Why are you not ruddy well dead?”

“I shall not rest until I’ve completed my life’s work, and ended the life of the Lords Likely!”

“Luh-Lords?” I wheezed.

“Why yes,” Loathsome grinned, his grip as solid as steel. “After I have wiped you off this earth, I shall go after your father…”

“I…I think yuh-you’ll find muh-my father’s already duh-duh-dead, Loathsome!”

“Oh no, Likely. No, no no. He’s very much alive, at least for the moment. I saw him in – “

Suddenly, there was a loud cracking sound, and Loathsome’s eyes rolled upwards in their sockets, and then he slumped off of me, unconscious once more.

“Apologies for the delay there, Likely,” said Spunkleford, standing in front of me, proudly brandishing his truncheon. “We took a wrong turn and wound up in the toilets.”

“Spunkleford, you anus!” I coughed, as air filled my lungs. “That bloody cock-bag was about to tell me where my father is!”

“Oh,” Spunkleford said, evidently crestfallen. “Um, sorry, old boy.”

“Well, I suppose you did mean well,” I said, as Spunkleford helped me to my feet. “I shall refrain from kicking you in the plums this once.”

“Jolly good!” Spunkleford brightened. “By the way, did you ever find Botter?”

“Oh!” I exclaimed, as I remembered that my man-servant was still shackled to the inside of the school bell. But then I also recalled the amount of uneccessary worry he had caused me, and decided that leaving him where he was might serve as a clear reminder that he should not get kidnapped again. “Yes…yes I did, Inspector. He is fine, we can retrieve him…later. Much later.”

“Oh, well, huzzah!” Spunkleford cheered. “Well then, I sppose we should get you to a hospital, eh?”

“Not right now, my dear inspector,” I said. “Right now I think I would very much like to have a rather more intimate school reunion with that delightful young lady I met earlier…”

Spunkleford raised a quizzical eyebrow.

“By that I mean I plan to pump her roughly,” I added for clarity.

Spunkleford shook his head in weary resignation, and I staggered off to get my noble end away.

- Lord Likely.

Next Time in The Astonishing Adventures of Lord Likely: Come one, come all, and celebrate the Likely Bicentennial!

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Just as I was contemplating the possibility that my wretched man-servant, Botter, might be out to kill me, a hansom cab drew up beside us and out hopped the bastard in question.

“Milord!” beamed Botter. “I have something for you!”

Then, to my utter astonishment, Botter placed his hand into his inside coat-pocket, and drew out a ruddy great knife.

“I should have done this ages ago, my lord,” Botter continued, as he advanced towards me, knife in hand.

“Ruddy bollocking hell!” I spluttered. “You were right, Spunkleford! That little toss-bag really is trying to do me in!”

“I say, that is rather bad form, is it not?” Inspector Spunkleford exclaimed.

As Botter moved towards me, I realised that it was time for action. It was going to be me or him, and there was absolutely no way in a month of cocking Sundays that it was going to be me. It was time I’d better batter Botter.

“Take this!” Botter cried, as he raised the knife up.

“I would much rather that you take this, if you would be so kind!” I bellowed, and I thrust my fist right into the grubby urchin’s stupid face.

Botter stumbled back, blood streaming from his nose, and collapsed in a rather pitiful bundle on the floor.

“Ah-ha!” I cried, triumphantly. “Thought you could best me, did you? You treacherous little twat-pipe! You despicable little Judas!“

“Whu-what are you talking about, milord?” Botter stammered, trying in vain to stem the flow of blood from his nose with a handkerchief.

“What am I talking about? What am I talking about? I’m talking about you trying to stab me to death, you anus! Well, not to-day, Botter! Not to-day!”

“I…I wasn’t trying to stab you, milord,” Botter whimpered. “I was just going to give you your knife back. You asked me to get a new blade for it a few weeks back, and I only got around to doing so to-day. Look!” Botter gingerly held up the weapon for my inspection.

“Hmmm…” I said, as I exammined the knife. “Yes…that does rather look like my old hunting knife, I’ll warrant you that. And yes, it does seem to have a rather shinier blade than before, too…”

“See, milord? I would not try to kill you! How could you think such a thing of me?”

“I do not know. Please, imagine that I have apologised for this outburst, and let us say no more about it!”

“Very good, milord,” Botter said, lifting himself up off the ground. “And now you can have THIS!”

In a split-second, Botter whipped a pistol out from another pocket, and had it pointing straight at my noble form.

“By Beezlebub’s Bulging Ball-Bag!” I cried. “The fiend is at it again!”

“You’ve had this a long time coming, my lord,” Botter grinned. “And now it is time.”

“I am afraid your watch must be running fast, Botter, for the time is in fact two-thirty!”

“Two-thirty?” Botter replied quizzically.

“No, but it shall in a moment!” I yelled, and socked my murderous man-servant right in the mouth, sending him reeling back onto the ground. “Do you see what I did there, Spunkleford?” I said, turning to the Inspector. “I made a frightfully witty play on the time ‘two-thirty‘ and the phrase ‘tooth-hurty‘. Ingenious, yes?”

“Most amusing indeed,” Spunkleford agreed.

“Wh-what was that for?” Botter whined, nursing his badly-bruised jaw.

“That was for trying to shoot your superior straight in the face, you cretin.”

“Shoot you, milord? Nothing could be further from my mind! Look, it’s one of your duelling pistols…I took it in for cleaning, as you requested,” Botter explained.

“Oh good heavens!” I sighed, recognising the fire-arm in question.

“Why would you send me out to run errands for you, and then punch me in the face repeatedly when I have done them? I am so confused, my lord.”

“Well, if you will insist on waving weapons in my face whilst making incredibly threatening-sounding statements, then a hefty punch to your awful fizzog is only to be expected, Botter,” I replied.

“I suppose so,” Botter concurred. “Now I think about it, I can see where the confusion arose.”

“Quite.”

“Well, then…” Botter continued, reaching into a bag he had bought with him. “All that is left for me to do now is to PLUNGE THIS AXE RIGHT INTO YOUR FILTHY, OLD CHEST!”

“Egads! You shall not claim my soul, you grimmest of reapers!” I exclaimed, and then I lashed out once more, catching Botter square in the nose.

I paused.

“Ah, wait. I do faintly recall asking you to buy me an axe, so that I might use it to smash open that filthy, old chest I found in the attic last week, didn’t I?”

“Yes!” snapped Botter.

“And I take it that was what you were actually referring to just now, and you were not, in fact, threatening to slaughter me?”

“Yes!”

“Ah. It has happened again.”

“You seem incredibly tense to-day, milord,” Botter sighed, his face caked with blood. “What is it that is troubling you, exactly?”

I patiently recounted the day’s events to my man-servant, explaining how there had been a murder at St. Bumthrusty’s, how a note had been pinned to the body, and how that same note had singled me out to be the next victim of this unidentified assassin.

“I see, I see,” Botter saw. “Listen, my lord if I was going to kill you, I would not go through all the bother of murdering other people first, and leaving cryptic notes behind. I would probably just lace your food with arsenic, or replace all the whiskey in the house with rat-poison. Either that or I’d sneak into your bed-chamber at night, and set fire to you as you slept.”

“Really?”

“Really.“

“Well, that is good to hear, Botter. You have set my mind quite at ease,” I said, slapping my man-servant on the back. “I feel much more relaxed now!”

“That is all fine and dandy,” Spunkleford interjected, “But we are still left with the mystery of who this bloodthirsty blaggard is, and why he wishes to see you dead!”

“You are quite right, Spunkleford,” I nodded. “And there is only one way to track down this cad – we must venture back to St. Bumthrusty’s post-haste! Botter, flag us down a cab immediately!”

“Right away, milord!” Botter said chirpily.

“Oh, and Botter?”

“Yes milord?”

I punched Botter right between the eyes once more.

“That is for making me look like a complete and total bum-crack in front of the Inspector. Now, go and get that cab, if you would.”

- Lord Likely.

Next Time in The Astonishing Adventures of Lord Likely: Back to Bumthrusty’s!

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It was a typical, completely unremarkable after-noon in London Town; carriages clattered noisily up and down the cobbled roads, smartly-dressed gentlemen doffed their hats as pretty ladies glided past them, cheeky cockney urchins weaved in and out of crowds, laughing and screaming as they did, while high above their heads Big Ben loudly signalled the hour with three, booming chimes. Meanwhile, Mrs. Eleanor Grunderson stood outside Tightfist & Son’s bank, looked up and observed (to no-one in particular) that it rather looked like it was going to rain.

Completely unremarkable, you see.

Of course, I am not here to chronicle the ordinary and banal. Who would desire to read a publication entitled ‘The Ordinary and Banal Non-Adventures of Lord Likely’? No-ruddy-one, that is who. No, my duty is to regale you with adventures of a distinctly more astonishing nature. Happily for us, shorty after Mrs. Eleanor Grunderson had made her trite observation, something astonishing did indeed manifest itself.

As Mrs. Eleanor Grunderson contemplated the skies, the window of Tightfist & Son’s bank shattered with an almighty smashing sound, as two men crashed through the glass and tumbled into the street outside, where they wrestled and struggled with one another in front of dozens of stunned onlookers.

Mrs. Eleanor Grunderson, however, was more concerned about whether or not she should nip home and retrieve her umbrella.

One of the gentle-men who had just made such an explosive entrance was, of course, my glorious self – Lord Likely, Aristocratic Adventurer and Gentle-Man of Action. The other (considerably less than gentle) man was a bare-knuckle boxer who went by the name of Finnegan ‘Fists’ O’Fury.

O’Fury had, until recently, been rather successful in his chosen sport, earning himself a clutch of awards and trophies for his pugilistic prowess. However, during his last fight, O’Fury sustained a twisted ball-bag, an injury that was to prove so serious that he was unable to continue his brawling career any further.

As his earnings dwindled, O’Fury had decided that he would deploy his skills elsewhere, namely in pursuit of a life of crime. Thus began O’Fury’s reign of terror, where the former boxer robbed several banks over the course of a few weeks, holding the cashiers up with nothing more than a loaded fist, which he threatened to use if he was given any trouble. One foolish banker who refused to cooperate is still looking for his jaw to this very day.

Naturally, as all the police’s efforts to capture the elusive O’Fury had failed, I was bought in by Inspector Albert Spunkleford of Scotland Yard, in the hope that I would succeed where they had cocked it right up. Naturally, I had quickly concocted a brilliant scheme to lure O’Fury to a nearby bank, and well, to cut an increasingly long story short, it ruddy well worked, which is how I wound up smashing through the bank’s window with the fellon in my grasp.

I know. I am cocking well amazing.

“Give it up, O’Fury!” I roared, as we disentangled ourselves from each other. “Your life of crime bally well stops here!”

“Feck you, you stinkin’ bag o’ shite!” spat O’Fury, wiping the sweat from his brow.

“Oh, for the love of buggery,” I sighed. “Can you not just come quietly, you irksome sod? I am really rather exhausted, and I have to be at the opening of an envelope in approximately twenty-seven minutes…”

“If ye want me to stop, yeh’ll have to make me stop!” snarled O’Fury, raising his fists.

“Fine.” I said, and then I calmly strolled over to O’Fury and kicked him right in his injured scrotum.

O’Fury winced, then grimaced, and then gently shook his hips. A broad smile crept across his battered face.

“Bloody hell!” he beamed. “I think ye’ve put me bollock back in place! Yes! I can feel it! Ye’ve feckin’ well cured me, so ye have! Ah! I’ll be able to go back in the ring again! I can win back me title! And maybe, just maybe, I can get back together with me sweetheart Mary, and see little Finny Junior. Thank ye! Oh, thank ye!”

But just as O’Fury was celebrating the realignment of his misplaced man-package, Spunkleford emerged from the bank with several burly policemen, who all decided to pounce upon the boxer, knocking him to the ground, where they then enthusiastically set about his head and body with their truncheons.

“Well you certainly took your cocking time,” I said curtly as Spunkleford strode up to me.

“Sorry, Likely. I thought that I should pay off a couple of bills, being in a bank and all. Saves me getting my ear chewed off by the wife, you know? Still, it looks like you handled yourself pretty well out here.”

“Naturally.”

“Good show, Likely. Good show!” Spunkleford smiled, slapping me heartily on the back.

“Please, do not touch that which you cannot afford, Spunkleford,” I said.

“Ah-ha! Likely, you crease me up!” chuckled Spunkleford. “Oh! And talking of creasing, I believe I have something to show you…hold on…”

Spunkleford rifled through his suit pockets, and then with a triumphant cry removed a wedge of folded-up paper from his coat pocket.

“Here it is! We received news of the murder of a school-teacher that took place last night,” Spunkleford informed me, unfolding the sheets slowly. “I wouldn’t bother you with this, of course, only I believe that this case may be of particular interest to you.”

“Oh, really?” I asked, my interest piqued. “What makes you think that?”

“Well, firstly, the murder took place at your old school – St. Bumthrusty’s School for Boys!“

“Really? Good heavens!”

“Quite. And secondly, there was a note was left on the body, which was addressed to you…here,” Spunkleford said, handing me a small piece of paper. I raised a quizzical eyebrow, and opened up the note.

This is what it read:

“By Goliath’s gonads!” I cried. “This is awful. Simply awful.”

“I know,” Spunkleford agreed, shaking his head.

“Look at this! Whoever penned this missive has used the possessive pronoun ‘your’ as opposed to the correct, contracted form of ‘you are’. It renders the whole thing nonsensical! I mean, ‘Likely, Your Next‘? Your next what? The writer clearly is a meat-headed poltroon. I am surprised he could even hold a pen, to be honest.”

“Never mind that, Likely!” Spunkleford cried. “This fiend clearly has plans to murder you!”

“Oh yes. Well there is that too, I suppose,” I replied.

- Lord Likely.

Next Time in The Astonishing Adventures of Lord Likely: His Lordship Goes Back to School!

Hungry for more inter-net based fiction? Then may I suggest you peruse The Web Fiction Guide, Pages Unbound or The Blog Fiction Blog, all of which are thoroughly excellent, due in no small part to the fact that I am listed with them all. Huzzah!

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March, 1857.

Having been left a homeless wretch, caked in vomit and piss and with my natural sense of style and grace rent asunder, I was naturally more than a little displeased with those vagrant swines who had placed me in such a position.

In fact, it would not be a terrible understatement to say that I was fucking livid, and dearly wished to crack open some skulls with the nearest blunt instrument.

Talking of blunt instruments, my man-servant Botter met me at the scrap-yard residence of the blasted beggars, as I stormed in later that afternoon. My first inclination was to smash him right in his awful mouth for deserting me in my hour of need, but as he shuffled up to me I noticed he was holding my precious cane, long thought missing by my good self.

“Oh, be still my beating heart! ‘Tis truly glorious to behold you once more! I had feared I had lost you forever, old friend!” I cried out joyously.

“It’s good to see you too, milord,” Botter answered.

“I am not referring to you, you bumbling cock-shaft,” I snapped. “I am referring to my wondrous cane! Give it here at once!”

Botter meekly handed over my prized possession. “There y’are, milord. It got dropped in the tussle, earlier.”

I stroked the top of my cane lovingly (and for once, I am not referring to my penis at this point), and then thwacked Botter across the back of his head with it. Botter yelped in pain.

“Ah, good. It still thwacks properly,” I smiled. “That was for abandoning me earlier, and not coming to my immediate and prompt rescue, you tiny bastard.”

“I-I’m sorry, milord! It just happened so fast and I was trying to hide and – “

Another thwack, another yelp.

“Just be thankful that I have a score to settle with these homeless scoundrels, Botter, else you’d be receiving a full thrashing for your woeful incompetence. As it is, I am saving my full rage for these rough-sleeping rapscallions.”

“Thank you, milord. You are much too kind.”

“I know, I know. Now, where are these wretches hiding? We must go forth and…oh!” I stopped, espying an unopened bottle of beer on the floor beside me. “Hmm, there can be no harm in having a quick drink before I embark upon a vigourous bout of fisticuffs…”

I cracked open the bottle, and raised it to my lips, but before I could sample the golden goodness encased within, Botter leapt at me and knocked the bottle from my hand, sending it crashing down onto the ground, where upon it shattered into a thousand pieces.

Naturally, I punched my man-servant squarely in the face for his troubles.

“What in the name of Captain Fellatio Hornblower do you think you are doing, man?” I roared.

“The beer, milord!” Botter replied, nursing his bloodied nose. “The beer is contaminated with tramp’s piss, don’t forget!“

The stinking oaf was right, of course, but I refused to let him know as much, and simply punched him in the face again.

“That is for using the word ‘piss’ in my presence, when you could have said ‘urine’. I am a very sensitive fellow, you know.”

Botter mumbled an apology from his resting place upon the ground.

“Don’t be too hard on the poor fellow,” came a voice behind me. “There is plenty more beer where that came from, your lordship.”

I spun around to face that filthy cur, Kenneth the Hat, the erstwhile leader of the vile vagabonds. He was joined by a good thirty or so other skanks, all of whom seemed to be cradling a makeshift weapon of some sort – broken sticks, disused mops, discarded bicycle spokes and so on and so forth.

“Oh fuck, fuck and double fucking fuckity-fuck,” I whispered.

“I think the beggars are revolting,” Botter observed.

“Revolting?” I answered. “They are positively vomit-inducing.”

“Go on, your lordship,” Kenneth said, smiling a horrid, broken smile whilst offering me another beer. “Just one more for the road, eh?”

“NEVER!” I roared defiantly. “Your beer is nothing more than an errant fraud, concocted from piss and stink.”

“Heh. You’re very observant, my lord,” Kenneth chuckled. “I should imagine that at this point, you’re wondering exactly why we are making beer out of our own piss, Lord Likely. Well allow me to explain my brilliant plan to you…”

“Do not bother yourself,” I sniffed. “I think I have figured it out. You are brewing a beer so potent it renders a chap completely insensible, and with no recollection of his former life. You no doubt plan to flog this beer to everyone in the land, thus bringing the entire population of Great Britain down to your own awful, shit-stained level, blah blah blah, etcetera, etcetera. I have heard this sort of thing a thousand times over, so if you do not mind can we simply move on to the climactic skirmish, as I am an awfully busy man and I have a party still to organise..”

“Uh, milord,” Botter interjected. “About the party…you went missing for a few days, you see, and the scheduled date for your planned ball has since elapsed quite considerably, so…”

A red mist began to form before my eyes.

“Are you telling me, Botter, that these reprobates have made me MISS my own PARTY?”

“I…I’m afraid so, milord,” Botter confirmed.

I do not know precisely what happened next, as I was suddenly consumed with a rage so powerful that it controlled my every action. From what I have been able to determine from Botter’s eyewitness account, I let out a deafening roar and, cane in hand, ploughed into the amassed vagrants with considerable gusto. It would seem I became something of a blur, swiftly working my way through the rabble, sending bodies flying left and right as I battered them viciously with my cane. Skulls were indeed cracked, noses broken, limbs shattered and organs pulped as I tore through the swine like an ‘Oriental warrior’, in Botter’s own words.

Once that was over, I apparently dragged Kenneth the Hat to the warehouse-come-brewery, wherein I drowned the maleficent miscreant in a vat of his own piss.

“Rest In Piss,” I quipped, as Kenneth The Hat’s body floated lifelessly atop the urinary waters. “Well, Botter, I think I am all done now.” I said, as I returned to my usual, well-composed self. “A jolly fine day’s work, too. I say, this calls for a celebration, don’t you think? We must throw a massive party to-night, and invite all the very classiest people I know. Of course, we shall need some booze…”

I turned to Botter, only to find him running out of the warehouse at top speed, screaming at the top of his filthy lungs.

What a peculiar fellow.

- Lord Likely.

Next Time in The Astonishing Adventures of Lord Likely: Something completely different.

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