Illustration by the supremely talented Mr. Stuart Linfield.

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T he zombified Miss Havisham dragged herself uneasily to her feet, and slowly advanced upon me. There was something about her that led me to believe that she dearly wanted to open up my cranium and feast hungrily ‘pon the brain-matter within – perhaps it was the fact she was moaning ‘BRAAAAAIIIINS!’ and flailing wildly at my head that made me think so.

“What is going on?” I cried, as I fended off the horrifying haridan with my walking-cane. “Why am I under attack from a fictional creation?”

“It’s some kinda infection, or something,” Hellsinger replied as he draw out and checked a gun from the recesses of his coat. “Musta started with Dickens – when he bit someone, that person mutated into one of his characters, and when they bit someone else, so it went on, and on. I guess there must be some dark magic behind all this. Mind your head, Likely!”

I promptly moved to the side, and watched as Hellsinger took aim and fired a bullet straight through Havisham’s head. The creature groaned and slumped to the ground, dead. Or at least, more dead.

“You killed my strumpet, you swine!” I remarked.

“She was dead the moment she was bitten, I’m afraid,” Hellsinger mused sadly. “There was nothing left of her after that.”

“There’s even less of her left now,” I observed.

“Um, milord,” Botter interrupted. ” It looks like we’ve got company.”

I looked behind me to see a large group of the undead stumbling out of the door to the publishers, slowly making their way to us.

“I see,” I said straightening my tie, and grasping my cane with both hands. “In that case…BRING IT FORTHWITH.”

Hellsinger beamed, and drew out a large axe from a holster on his back. “This is gonna be FUUUUUN,” he cackled.

With that, we ran up to the gaggle of ghouls, and set about dispatching them as quickly as we could. Hellsinger roared with joy as he chopped his way through the crowd, heads and limbs flying each and every way, while Botter deployed the tried and trusted method of shooting the zombies through their fiendish heads.

I, meanwhile, took to driving my cane with great force through the skull of a zombified Martin Chuzzlewit, before spinning around and deftly smashing in the face of a rather surprised, beastly Fagin. As I paused to wipe the blood from my cane with a handkerchief, a disgusting undead Tiny Tim hobbled up to me, using some poor chaps’ severed leg as a crutch.

“GOOODDDD BLESSS USSSS, EV’RRRRY ONNNNNE!” he groaned.

I calmly folded up my handkerchief and replaced it in my pocket, before taking my cane and, using it much like a golf club, I twatted the wretch, sending him spinning through the air, until he came to a rest impaled on the railings surrounding the courtyard.

“I’m an atheist, you insolent little bastard.” I quipped.

“That’s the last of ‘em,” said Hellsinger, walking up beside me, clutching what appeared to be the severed head of Nicholas Nickleby. I turned to survey the blood-soaked carnage behind me, Botter doing his best to pick his way towards us without slipping up on any entrails or guts.

“Very good, gentlemen,” I nodded. “I think it’s best we had a word with this publisher fellow, hmm? If he is indeed behind all of this, then I shall leave him in a similar condition to one of his cherished paperbacks….WITH A BROKEN SPINE.”

*****

WE burst into the dimly-lit office of the publisher, weapons primed (Hellsinger having now opted for a lightweight crossbow instead of his heavy axe), only to find that our arrival had already been anticipated.

“Ah, Lord Likely,” cooed a figure at the other end of the room, gazing out of a window. “I’ve been expecting you.”

“Well, that shall certainly save us wasting time on introductions then,” I replied.

“Oh? But don’t you want to know who I am?” the figure asked.

“Not really. I don’t plan on getting very well acquainted with you, to be honest.”

“Ha. Such arrogance,” the man answered, turning to face us. He was a tall, lean fellow, with a thin, angular face, and an eye patch covering his right eye. His black hair was slicked back over his head, and the black motif was carried on by his clothing, clad as he was entirely in black, with a black frock coat and trousers. And, as if he already did not look preposterous enough, he had a crow perched on his left shoulder. “I am Arial Black,” the man grinned, nodding slightly.

“Hmmm,” I mumbled, disinterestedly. “I thought your name might be something ridiculous like that, judging by your appearance. I mean, I do understand you’re trying your best to look villainous..but the crow? That is rather overdoing it, I fear.”

“Crow? What crow?” said Black.

“The one on your shoulder, sir.”

“What? Agh!” cried Black, shooing the bird away. “Bah. They’re always flying in and doing that, damn things. I really should demand that the cleaning staff close the windows in the evening.”

“I see.”

“So, I assume you’re here to try and stop me and save the day, etcetera, etcetera.” Black smiled, walking around a large desk (black, naturally) and picking up a piece of paper off of it. “But I’m afraid there really is nothing you can do, it is all perfectly legal, you know.”

“Perfectly…LEGAL?” I spluttered.

“Oh yes…I believe you know my client, Mr. Chalres Dickens…” Black smiled, clicking his fingers. At the click, the undead Dickens appeared from behind a curtain, shuffling into the centre of the room.

“What the?…DICKENS?” I exclaimed.

“In the rotting flesh, your lordship. You see, back at the end of 1869, Mr. Dickens here signed a contract with us, to provide us with twelve instalment of his latest work, ‘The Mystery of Edwin Drood‘. Here is the contract, see?” Black held up the piece of paper, revealing it indeed to be a contract, signed by the author himself.

“Of course, Mr. Dickens failed to deliver on said agreement,” Black sniffed, “which is really bad form, you know.”

“He died!” Hellsinger interjected. “It wasn’t somethin’ he did on purpose!”

“Whatever the circumstances, Mr. Dickens did not uphold his end of the bargain, therein lies the point. I was left without the work I had been promised.”

“You poor bastard,” I said.

“However, I do not give up that easily,” Black continued. “When I sign an author, I expect them to deliver, your lordship – no matter what! And so I turned to the ancient practice of voodoo to help me out.”

“You do voodoo?”

“I do do voodoo, too true.”

“Who knew?”

“Anyhoo, I met up with a fellow who knew something about black magic and such like, and he informed me that it was quite possible to resurrect someone from the dead, and have them live again! Oh, imagine my delight, your lordship! I could bring Dickens back, and have him complete Edwin Drood at last! What a coup!”

“That’s one word for it,” I mused.

“Book sales always go through the roof after an author dies, you know. Have you ever noticed that? It’s a curious phenomenon. People like their celebrities, but much prefer them dead, it seems. Here I was then, primed to capitalise on this, with England’s greatest novelist of all time, and his great, unfinished masterpiece, no less! How could I not try it?”

“Is this rambling anecdote coming to an end anytime soon, Black?” I huffed. “Else I fear we shall all die of boredom.”

Black glared at me haughtily, but carried on. “And so I set about bringing Dickens back from the grave, using this very contract, a lock of his hair, and an ancient spell. Needless to say, it worked PERFECTLY…well, aside form one unfortunate incident where my associate got a bit mauled…”

“You are sick and twisted, Mr. Black,” I noted, quite correctly. “What about all the poor people who have died in the meantime, just to further line your pockets?”

“In the war for more readers, there shall always be some tragic losses, I’m afraid,” Black ginned, placing the contract back on his desk.

“Right, I’ve heard enough from this freak,” Hellsinger snapped, drawing up his crossbow.

“Oh, I wouldn’t do that,” Black smiled, clicking his fingers. At the sound, Dickens snapped into action, lunging forward and grabbing Botter from my side. “One wrong move, and I shall have Mr. Dickens here make your friend here rather dead. He does anything I tell him, does Mr. Dickens. And he won’t harm a hair on my head, either. I’ve added a few clauses to his contract, just so nothing can stop me.”

Hellsinger looked at me. I looked at Botter, who was pleading me to save him, then I looked back to Hellsinger.

“Lower the bow, Hellsinger,” I said. “I don’t fancy having to get a new man-servant just yet.”

“Good, good,” chuckled Black. “You are finally seeing sense, your lordship.”

“Mmmm ,” I pondered. “I really think I am. I must say, I am awfully impressed by the whole scheme. Now you’ve talked me through it, I truly appreciate what a marvellous money-making scheme you have here. Top notch work, sir. Top notch!”

“I try my best,” Black bowed.

“You have excelled!” I cried, clapping my hands together. “I think this calls for a celebration. Won’t you join me for a cigar, Mr. Black?”

“Do you know, I don’t mind if I do, your lordship!”

“Excellent!” I beamed, producing a couple of fine cigars from my coat pocket, and offering one to Black. “You are to be commended for your sterling work, I feel!”

“I am so glad you see it that way,” Black said, lighting his cigar.

“I see it all,” I grinned, lighting my own cigar. Then, as quick as a flash, I dashed over to the desk, scooped up the contract, and put the lit cigar to it, and watched with satisfaction as the paper caught alight.

“What are you…Nooooooooo!” screamed Black, fear filling his eyes (and possibly his trousers too, I shouldn’t wonder). “Mr. Dickens, stop him!”

But Dickens did not respond, and released his grip on Botter as the contract went up in flames.

“Mr. Dickens,” I shouted. “You are hereby officially freed from your contract!”

“Muuuuuuuuuuuh!” Dickens groaned.

“You may now dispense with Mr. Black services as you see fit.”

With that, Dickens ambled over to the publisher, arms outstretched.

“Keep away from me, Mr. Dickens! You…you keep back now!” Black stammered, as he edged back from the undead author. “Ah, bugger it!”

Black made to flee, but Hellsinger was prepared, and taking up his crossbow he fired an arrow straight through the sleeve of Black’s coat, pinning him to the wall.

“Gotcha!” Hellsinger beamed.

“Keep back, you devil! Keep back, don’t come any nearer…” Black exclaimed, kicking pathetically in the vague direction of the oncoming Dickens. “Back, you bastard! Back! BACK! BAAAAAAAAAAAAARRRRRRGGGGGHHHH!”

There was a sickening squelching and crunching as Dickens fell upon Black, and feasted upon his former publisher. Black screamed and flailed uselessly, and then was silent, leaving Dickens to gnaw away happily at his brains.

“Good work, Likely,” Hellsinger beamed, slapping me rather too heartily on the back. “For a moment there I thought you really DID think Black was some sort of genius.”

“Well, to be honest, it wasn’t all that bad a plan. But Dickens? Eugh. Could never stand his work. All that whining about the working classes. Complete, stultifying drivel.”

The reanimated Dickens stood up, his mouth covered with Black’s blood. I could not say for sure, but it seemed like Mr. Dickens performed a small, grateful bow, before the last of the contract turned to ash, and he collapsed to the floor, at peace once more.

He might have bought me a drink though, the bastard. Typical author.

~ The End ~

- Lord Likely.

AS to-day is my birthday (be sure to celebrate wildly!), this cracking conclusion is only the first of a special, DOUBLE update to my esteemed journals! Be sure to return to enjoy the first part of my ALL-NEW audio adventure, ‘The Filching Fog of Finsbury Park’.…

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AND SO, there he was – Mr. Evan Hellsinger, that smug-faced, toss-brained, so-called ‘vampire slayer’, wafting back into my life like a bad smell, and about just as welcome.

“I would say it is good to see you again, Hellsinger,” I remarked. “But that would be a terrible lie.”

Hellsinger grinned as he lit a cigar. “Shucks, you’re still as hospitable as ever, aincha Likely? An’ after I’ve jus’ saved your life, too.”

“I fear being reacquainted with you is a fate worse than death.”

“Well, if I didn’t know any better, I’d have said you was already dead. Or are you always this pale an’ cold?”

I bristled. “What brings you here, anyway? Has America decided it doesn’t want you back?”

“Heh. No, Likely. If ya must know, I’ve been branchin’ out since we last met. I don’t jus’ go after them blood-suckers no more – I’m a bona-fide all-purpose Monster Hunter now!”

“A Monster Hunter?” I snorted derisively. “And just when I thought you could not get any more ridiculous…”

“So, anyway,” Hellsinger continued, ignoring my excellent jibe, “I was jus’ passin’ through when I heard talk about ol’ Charlie Dickens walkin’ the streets again – sounded like somethin’ I should look into, y’know?”

“Well, you’ve looked…now kindly bugger off!”

Hellsinger opened his mouth as if to make some futile retort, but before he could waste his breath a scream echoed out from behind us. I quickly spun around, to see Bella pointing down the darkened street.

“”Ere comes another one of them beasts, Mr Likely!” she gasped, indicating towards another shuffling figure slowly making its way down the road. What fresh evil was this, I wondered. We watched as the creature staggered nearer and nearer, a putrid stench getting stronger and stronger with each shambolic step. I readied my cane, while Hellsinger cocked his rifle, and we braced ourselves for the worst.

But, as the figure ambled into the gas-light, I could see it was worse than I feared.

It was my man-servant, Botter.

“Oh, it’s jus’ your little servant guy,” Hellsinger observed, lowering his weapon.

“Oh yes,” I said, moving toward my man-servant. “So it is.” And with that, I clubbed him around the head with my cane, causing him to cry out.

“Owch! What the bleedin’ heck was that for…uh…milord?” Botter cried.

“I was just making sure,” I replied. “Plus I despise you, of course.”

“Very good, milord,” Botter sighed.

“So what brings you here, Botter? I left you in that public house for a very good reason, you know. I did not want to be seen out and about with you.”

“Well, I was sittin’ there all on my own, and thought I’d scan the news-papers to see if there was anythin’ curious like that might help us in our investigations.”

“Yes,” I said, completely disinterestedly.

“Well, I was lookin’ through this paper here, and look….look what I found,” Botter beamed proudly, thrusting the news-paper into my hands.

“‘Gentle-Man’s Hat Sold Into Slavery,’” I read aloud from the journal. “I hardly think this is relevant, Botter.”

“No, underneath that, milord. The advertisement.”

“‘Coming Soon – The Complete ‘Mystery of Edwin Drood’, by Mr. Charles Dickens.” I read.  ”All Twelve Parts in One Handsome Leather-Bound Volume.‘” I lowered the news-paper. “And?”

“‘The Mystery of Edwin Drood’ was never finished, milord.” Botter explained. “Mr. Dickens died before he could complete it, about half-way through. Doncha think it’s kind of odd that they’re offering the complete story – by the author himself – around the time that all these sightings of Mr. Dickens have been reported?”

“I find it odder still that you seem so knowledgeable about literature, Botter. Don’t you working-class types eat books, or something?”

“I think Botter may be onto something, Likely,” droned Hellsinger. “I’ve learnt of numerous sightings of ol’ Charlie around the Bloomsbury area, near some of the publishing houses.”

As much as I hated to agree with either the American arse-pipe or my miserable man-servant, the evidence presented before me was rather too compelling to ignore.

“Alright, gentlemen,” I concurred. “Let us pay this publisher a visit – I rather suspect he is not doing everything by the book…”

*****

WE flagged down a nearby hansom cab and hurried along to the publishing-house in question.

“Right, here we are, then,” I said as we pulled up outside a tall, dark and imposing building. “Gentlemen, I suggest you arm yourselves. Bella, I shall pay the cab-driver to take you on home now.”

“Oooh, I don’t want to be alone tonight,” Bella whined. “Not after all the fings I’ve seen!”

“But earlier you said – ”

“Please, Mister Likely! I can’t bear the thought of being on me own! What if one of them fings gets me?”

“Fine,” I acceded. “Heavens, the female mind really is as changeable as the weather. And both are more than capable of ruining a picnic.”

WE descended from the cab and made our way up to some rather formidable-looking steel gates. Botter quickly made short work of the lock thereon, and we slipped through them and into a large courtyard.

“Alright,” I whispered, “Everybody stay together and try not to get – ”

“LUMME!” exclaimed Bella. “I’m bein’ bloody eaten!”

I swung round to see the poor girl under attack from what appeared to be some sort of zombified Ebenezer Scrooge. Without a moment’s pause, I ran across and pulled the apparition off of Bella, hurling it to the floor. The creature groaned and hissed, as it struggled back to its feet.

“BAAAAAAH….HUUUUMBUUUUUUUUG….” Scrooge moaned.

“I am fresh out of humbugs, I am afraid,” I replied. “But feel free to SUCK ‘PON THIS!” I roared, whipping out my pistol and shooting the demon straight through the forehead.

‘Suck ‘pon this’, I mused. I really am most frightfully witty.

As the creature collapsed to the floor, I rushed to Bella, who was nursing a rather nasty wound on her neck.

“Are you alright, m’dear?” I asked sympathetically.

“‘Course I’m not bloody alright! Some bleedin’ monstah’s just taken a chunk out of me effin’ neck!” she retorted. It was a fair point.

“Likely,” said Hellfinger softly. “You should probably step away from her now.”

“What are you jabbering on about, you cock-trumpet?”

“She’s infected.” Hellsinger intoned seriously.

“I thought as much,” I sighed. “These whores usually are. Herpes, is it?”

“No…it’s worse than that, Likely….”

Hellsinger was cut off, however, as Bella started coughing profusely, blood spraying from her mouth. I stepped back in horror – and so as to not to get blood on my expensive suit, of course.

“What the? – ” I began, and then Bella fell silent, her head flopping forward as if she were made of rag. She was dead. I felt rage consume me, but kept my stiff-upper lip intact, and merely took off my hat and bowed my head out of respect for the deceased.

“YYYYOOOOOU SHALLL NEVVEEEEERRRRR LEEEEEAVEEEE!” rasped a voice. Looking up, I saw that where beautiful, voluptuous Bella had once sat, there was now some mean-faced, wizened old crone with milky-white eyes glaring at me.

“Who the arse is that??” I yelled.

“It’s Miss Havisham, from Great Expectations!” Botter exclaimed. “And she’s hungry for brains!”

- Lord Likely.

To be concluded!..

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“PLEASE SIR, can I have some more BRAAAAAAIIIIIIIIIINNNNS!” the diminutive demon repeated, as it leapt up at me, jaws slavering, eager to feast ‘pon my noble form. I, however, was reticent to feed the poor at the best of times, let alone with my own flesh, and so I  managed to grab the child by the arms, and hurl him away from me, leading him to crash noisily into a pile of rubbish at the end of the alley-way.

“Hmph,” I said, as I dusted myself down. “I’d wager I’d have been too rich for that urchin’s tastes anyway!” I quipped, wittily.

“Oooh, me ‘eart!” gasped Bella Butterlegs, the harlot with whom I had been hoping to spend some quality nookie-time. “Gave me quite a start, I can tell you.”

“Never fear, my dear,” I smiled, as I assisted her to her feet. “I do believe that is the last we have seen of that little toe-rag!”

“‘E’S GETTIN’ BACK UP!” screeched Bella, right into my lordly lughole. I spun around, and sure enough the blasted boy had managed to recover, and was slowly making his way to us once more, braying for brains.

“Persistent little blighter,” I mused, readying myself with my walking cane. I waited for the shambolic spectre to get within striking distance, and then with all of  my (quite considerable) might, I bought my cane sharply across his legs, forcing him to tumble to the ground. As he lay sprawled on the concrete, I delivered another powerful blow to his shins, which shattered with a satisfying crack. That would certainly put him out of action for a while, I thought.

“There, there, my dear,” I whispered to Bella, who was quite clearly shaken up by the whole affair. “The nasty young devil shan’t be bothering us any – ”

“E’S STILL COMING!” shrieked Bella, pointing behind me. And lo, the damned lad was now crawling across the ground towards us, his hunger for our grey-matter as undiminished as ever.

“For cock’s sake!” I exclaimed, and then I swiftly drew out my pistol and shot the bastard boy clean through the head. The creature howled, and collapsed face-down on the ground, completely still. I slowly moved up to the body, and gingerly prodded it with my foot. There was no movement whatsoever.

“Did…did you see his face?” Bella sobbed. “I don’t fink ‘e was ‘uman, you know. He looked like somefink from me night-mares!”

“I sincerely hope he wasn’t human,” I replied, holstering my pistol. “Else I shall be in an awful lot of trouble.”

“Oh, yer lordship!” Bella wept. “This ‘as been awful! I want ta go home, now.”

“Jolly good idea, m’dear!” I brightened. “A spot of rumpy-pumpy will help us forget this whole business!”

“I’m sorry me lord, but I ain’t in the mood no more. Just please take me home, sir!”

I cursed under my breath. Not only had I nearly had my beautiful brain torn from my skull by a lower-class wastrel, but now I was not going to get my end away either. Just my arseing luck.

However, being the gentleman that I am, I agreed to see that Bella got home safely. But as we left to seek out a hansom, an ominous creak emitted from the dark of the alley.

“What in the name of twattery is it now?” I sighed, peering into the shadows. I could make out that a door had swung open, but nothing else of import. I pondered the possibility that the noise had perhaps come from a cat (a terribly arthritic one, I reasoned), but suddenly, to my horror, another dozen or so monstrous children poured through the doorway, shuffling and groaning, arms outstretched, their voices crying for brains.

This was more than a little inconvenient.

However, just as I was about to re-equip myself with my pistol, a voice suddenly barked out from behind me.

“Sir, m’am, you may want to get down – NOW!”

For some reason, I found myself obeying this blunt order, dragging dear Bella down to the floor alongside me. As she huddled close to me, I looked up at the oncoming  horde, and watched with astonishment as a series of sharp blasts rang out through the darkness, and then one by one, the fearsome fiends’ heads exploded in a shower of flesh and bone.

As the last, lifeless body slumped to the ground, I picked myself up off the ground and turned to face our mystery saviour.

“Well thank you, sir,” I said. “That was some rather good shooting, I must say.”

The figure stood, head bowed, his large hat covering his face in shadow.

“Well thank you, Likely,” the man replied, tugging at the brim of his hat. My heart sank. That accent. American. NOW I recognised that voice.

“Think that’s the second time I’ve had to save your limey ass, huh?” beamed Evan Hellsinger, raising his head, grinning like the cocky little scrote-ball he was.

And just when I thought this night could not have got any worse…

- Lord Likely.

Continue on to Part Four…

* APOLOGIES for the delay in getting this latest chapter to you so tardily, friends. My scribe, Mr. Fanton, esquire, has recently found some sort of gainful employment, and has thus been occupied of late. Needless to say, I have flayed him for his insolence, and our schedule is slowly resuming. Please do bear with us! Many thanks!

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~ Lord Likely and the Bloody Nuisances: Parts Nine and Ten ~

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“I AM afraid the wedding’s off, lady,” drawled Evan Hellsinger, as he trained his stake-loaded pistol upon my would-be -wife (and vicious vampiress) Helena Handbaskett. “But you’re just in time for your funeral!”

“I’m already dead, foolish mortal!” hissed Helena, baring her fangs.

“Oh yeah,” Hellsinger remembered. “Well, uh…prepare for your second funeral, then!”

Helena rolled her eyes in despair, and then in one swift, effortless motion, she grabbed Hellsinger by his collar and hurled him out of one of the stained-glass windows. I watched with dismay as the only vampire-slayer in the building crashed through the window and disappeared into the night outside, leaving a Hellsinger-shaped hole in the glass, through which bright, brilliant moonlight streamed into the church.

“It has risen!” Helena proclaimed excitedly.

“Well,” I smiled, getting increasingly frisky as the five bottles of whisky I had earlier consumed started to make their presence felt in my system. “You ARE wearing a very low-cut dress, m’dear…I am bound to get rather excited…”

“SILENCE!” Helena screamed. “The Blood Moon…it has risen! The time is here…the time is UPON US!”

I watched with mounting confusion as the various vampires in the building surged forward to revel in the moonlight, dancing and skipping in the beam like over-excited schoolchildren playing in the rain.

“This…this doesn’t look good,” I muttered to Inspector Spunkleford, who had come to my side to behold the freakish spectacle himself.

“I’ll say,” Spunkleford replied. “That window will cost hundreds to replace!”

I was about to refer to Spunkleford as a ‘blithering great anal-fissure’ when I suddenly noticed that Helena had gone very quiet, and was basking in the moonlight, her head tilted back,  almost as if she was absorbing the light through her very skin. Then she slowly began to rise into the air, gently turning in the beam as she rose up, until she came to a stop a few feet short of the church’s ceiling. She hung in the air for a moment, then her head suddenly snapped forward, and her eyelids flicked open, to reveal two blood-red eyes.

“LET THE BLOODENING…COMMENCE!” she growled.

“Oh dear,” I said to Spunkleford. “Either it is her time of the month, or she is planning to feast on our throats…either way, this is going to be an unpleasant experience for all concerned…”

“And so, my children!” Helena gestured to the vampires below. “It is coming to pass, just as the prophecy foretold! In the age of steel and smoke, on the night of the Blood Moon, a new queen shall rise in God’s house, and lead her followers into a new era of blood and darkness!” She paused as her blood-thirsty audience whooped and cheered their approval. “All we need now is the blood of a virgin, and the blood of a nobleman..” she smiled, turning to look at me.

“Well, I can certainly supply the noble blood, but if it is virgin’s blood you want, then I am sorry to report that you’re rather barking up the wrong tree. In fact, I’d go so far to say that you’re not even in the right ruddy forest…”

“Oh, we have our virgin, your lordship!” Helena grinned. “BRING THE WOMAN!” she cried, at which point two burly vampires appeared from the vestry, dragging a rather stout woman along with them. She was kicking and screaming quite loudly, demanding that she was unhanded immediately, and loudly proclaiming that the entire affair was such an outrage that she was going to write to her Member of Parliament post-haste to complain in the strongest possible terms.

“A-Agnes?” gasped Spunkleford, recognising his wife as she was led to the altar.

“ALBERT?” snapped Mrs. Spunkleford. “Is this your doing? Who are these people? Friends of yours, I suppose…”

“Hold on,” said I. “Mrs. Spunkleford is…a VIRGIN? Good heavens, Spunkleford! No wonder your dear lady wife is filing for a divorce!

“Well, I…ahem…I’ve been…busy,” Spunkleford blustered.

“BUSY? For twenty-three years?” screeched his wife. “Honestly, I think he’d have rather married the job than me, you know.”

“Now now, Agnes, do not be silly! One cannot marry an intangible entity…or at least that is what the registrar told me.”

“See?” Agnes snapped. “This is what I am talking about! It’s all work, work work with this man! He never treats me, never takes me out…”

“I beg to differ!” Spunkleford replied indignantly. “I took you out only last week!”

“Albert, it may shock you, but a trip to the morgue to examine a corpse is not every lady’s idea of a dream date, you know.”

“Well, that’s gratitude, all I – ”

“Ahem!” coughed Helena, who was still floating in mid-air. “Sorry to interrupt this little marriage guidance session, but might I remind you that I AM trying to bring about a new era of darkness and terror here?”

“Oh yes,” said Spunkleford sheepishly. “My apologies. Do carry on.”

“SO! Who’s blood shall I take first?” smiled Helena, nodding towards me. “The nobleman’s, or the virgin’s?”

“Well, as a gentleman of impeccable breeding, I have to say ladies first,” I replied, motioning at Mrs. Spunkleford.

“Likely!” hissed Spunkleford.

“‘Tis just the booze talking, Spunkleford!” I beamed, removing a hip-flask from my coat pocket. “Of course, I shall go first.”

“Excellent!” Helena grinned. “Soon, the world shall be mine…”

“Do you mind if I just finish this first?” I asked, waving my hip-flask gently in the air. “A dead man’s final wish?”

“Likely! What are you doing?” whispered Spunkleford. “You are already stupendously sozzled – I hardly think this is the – ”

Spunkleford’s protests were cut short as Helena nodded her approval of my proposition. I duly raised the flask to my lips, and chugged back the last of the whisky therein. As I did so, I felt the booze flow through me, causing every part of me to relax (yes, even THAT part) until, as the last drop slid down my throat, I was completely calm, and really rather drunk.

“Now, my dear,” I said as the warming whisky began to course through my veins. “I believe you were talking about sucking something, were you not?”

Helena drifted gently back down to the ground beside me. “Indeed I was, my lord,” she grinned.

And then, she sunk her fangs right into my noble neck.

~ Part Ten ~

From the Diary of Inspector Albert Spunkleford.

I WATCHED, horrified, as that damned vampire woman plunged her fangs into Likely’s neck, and began to drain the very lifeblood from him. Likely did not resist in the slightest, and simply  stood there with a rather sloppy grin on his face. Poor fool, I thought. The beggar’s too drunk to realise what’s going on. Either that, or he is getting some sort of pleasure from the whole exchange.

“Right,” gasped Ms. Handbaskett, as she let Likely’s unconscious form drop to the floor. “Now it is time for the virgin’s blood…” she continued, advancing toward Agnes.

“Now, stop there!” I protested, holding a wooden cross in front of me. “And…erm…get back, you…uh, fiend!”

“Oh, Albert!” squealed Agnes. “You’re so brave!”

Ms. Handbaskett cocked her head and then burst out laughing. “HA! A cross? Ha-ha! We are in a CHURCH, you silly little man. Do you think we’d have come here if we were terrified of crosses? Ha-ha! Now please, move out of the way so I can – HIC! – ” Helena stopped short, taken aback by her involuntary hiccup. She put her hand to her chest, and looked rather embarrassed. “Excuse me,” she apologised. “I must have drunk his lordship’s blood rather too qui – HIC! ”

I observed with increasing curiosity as Helena thumped her chest in an attempt to stop her hiccuping, but rather than abating, they seemed to increase in frequency. In addition, she started to stagger rather wildly, almost as if she were…

I looked at the comatose from of Likely, now being looked after by his ever dutiful man-servant, and smiled. The sly old dog! For once, his lordship had not been merely getting drunk – he’d been formulating a dashed cunning plan! Either that, or he HAD just been getting drunk, and had gotten rather lucky.

“Musht…HIC! – musht have the virgin’sh blood,” slurred Ms. Handbaskett, wobbling uneasily towards Agnes and I. “Musht – HIC! – musht feed again!”

“Get behind me, Agnes!” I warned my wife, as I feebly tried to keep the decidedly sloshed succubus at bay with my crucifix while I tried to think of a suitable course of action. Fortuitously, my decision was made for me, as Helena attempted to rush at me, but in her inebriated state she instead tripped over her own feet, and impaled herself upon the very cross in my hand.

Ms. Handbaskett let out a blood-curdling scream as she pulled away from me, the cross wedged firmly in her chest. She began to writhe in pain, an act mirrored by the other assembled vampires, and then, one by one, they all exploded in a spectacularly messy fashion, until just Ms. Handbaskett was left.

“Currrrssssse you!” she snarled. “I curse you all to He – HIC!”

And then, with that final hiccup, she too burst apart before our very eyes, like an evil balloon, covering me in smatterings of gore and guts in the process. I picked a kidney from my hat, and then turned to check on the wife.

“It’s all over now, Agnes,” I said, placing a reassuring hand on her shoulder. “There there.”

“Look at the state of you, Albert!” Agnes barked, wiping a lump of flesh from my collar. “This will take me an age to put right, you know! You really should be more careful!”

“Does…does that mean you aren’t going to…” I began.

“Well, I’ve been doing some thinking, Albert…I’ve seen you in a whole new light tonight, all dashing and brave and that. I…I think I’d like to stay, yes. We can give it another chance, can’t we?”

“Agnes,” I said, holding my wife’s hands in mine. “If you can spare five minutes in between washing bits of dead vampire from my clothes and cooking me a hot meal, I would very much like to attend to an oversight I have made on my part these past years…”

“Oh, Albert! I say!” blushed Agnes.

“Oh, Agnes!” I sighed, contentedly.

From the Journal of Lord Likely, Aristocratic Adventurer and Gentle-Man of Action.

I AWOKE to find Botter’s awful face baring down on me, concern etched all over his miserable little face.

“Milord! You are alive!” he beamed.

“So it would seem,” I said, disappointed not to find myself surrounded by comely angels in the afterlife. “Please, Botter, do stop fussing so!” I snapped as Botter tried to help me up. “One pain in the neck is more than enough, thank you very much.”

I hauled myself up to my feet and took a moment to get my bearings. “Eurh, how revolting,” I remarked as I looked about.

“I know, milord. They all just burst apart – it was really disgusting.”

“No, not that – THAT,” I clarified, pointing ahead of me where Inspector Spunkleford and his wife were currently locking lips. “Now there is a sight to turn one’s stomach! Egad, what a turn up, eh Botter? An adventure where Spunkleford winds up being the one to walk off with the lady! What is the world coming to?” I shook my head sadly and picked up my hat and cane from the floor. “Well, enough with the slaying, and on with the laying, I say! Let’s get out of here and find me a couple of whores, hmm? Everything seems to have been wrapped up nicely here…”

- Lord Likely.

From the Journal of Evan Hellsinger, Vampire Slayer

SO I woke up to find myself lying in among hundreds of tiny shards of colored glass, in a churchyard, in the early hours of the morning. Groggily, I got to my feet as the previous night’s events began to filter through my aching head. Oh God, I thought – the vampires!

I picked up my pistol and ran around the side of the church, and burst in through the front doors, my weapon primed.

“Everyone get down, I’m back and I’m ready to – oh!”

The place was empty, save for a few messy piles of guts and bones gently smouldering away on the floor. Damn, I thought, looks like I missed one helluva party.

I holstered my pistol and walked out of the church. What now for Evan Hellsinger? What does a vampire slayer do when the vampires have been slayed, I pondered as I sat up on the church wall.

As I sat in deep contemplation, I suddenly became aware of someone standing near me. The figure coughed gently to better attract my attention, and looking up I saw a smartly-dressed man stood on the street.

“Yeah?” I said wearily.

“Good day, kind sir,” said the man, doffing his hat. “I am Mr. Jonathan Harker. Sorry to bother you, but I wondered if you could help me…I am trying to locate this Count, and I -”

“Listen, pal – you want the police, okay?” I replied wearily. “I think there’s a station a few streets that way…”

“Oh, right…I…I see,” said Mr. Harker. “Um…thank you, sir.”

I shook my head sadly as I watched this Mr. Harker disappear down the road. Some people – they just don’t know how to find that which they seek. Damn fools…

The End.

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~ Lord Likely and the Bloody Nuisances: Part Eight ~

For the previous chapter, do please click here.

AND SO after a rather prolonged carriage journey from Scotland Yard (which seemed to take a good week and a half, though I am sure it was only a matter of minutes) we finally arrived outside St. Christopher’s church, wherein I was due to be married to Ms. Helena Handbaskett, my blood-sucking bride-to-be.  With all the grace and poise one would expect of a gentleman of my considerable breeding, I tumbled out of the carriage and landed in a rather undignified heap on the road, clutching a now-empty bottle of whisky. To say that I was not particularly relishing the prospect of getting wed would be an understatement so enormous that it would easily warrant its own flag and system of government.

“Good heavens, Likely!” exclaimed Inspector Spunkleford as he picked me up. “Look at the state of you! Did you drink all of this in the carriage-ride down here?” he asked accusingly, prising the bottle from my hands.

“Yesh…yesh I did,” I slurred. “That, and five other bottles as well.”

“My word, Likely! It is a wonder you are still alive! I can only imagine that your blood must be at least ninety-nine percent proof by now…” Spunkleford fussed as he helped me up to my feet.

“Unhand me, sir!” I bellowed, shrugging Spunkleford off of me, which then left me dangerously unsupported, and thus I quickly found myself becoming closely acquainted with the road once more.

“What ails you, Likely?” Spunkleford asked as he helped me up again. “You do not need to be a master detective to notice that something is clearly playing upon your mind.”

“‘Tis just as well in your case,” I mumbled, swaying gently on the spot. “‘Tis this confounded wedding, Spunkleford! Wedding! Do you have any idea what that word does to me? It pierces my soul like a ruddy great knife piercing…” I faltered momentarily. “Piercing my…soul.”

“Oh, Likely!” sighed Spunkleford. “Calm yourself down! You aren’t really to be wed to-day, don’t forget! This is all just a ruse to help us get close to this evil devil woman, so that Mr. Hellsinger here may slay her and rid the world of her dark influence.”

“But…but you do not know this fiend!” I exclaimed. “She managed to convince me to marry her in the first instance…what if she pulls off the same trick again, and I find myself waking up as her husband? She is curiously persuasive, almost hypnotic…”

“That’d be the hypnosis,” Hellsinger interjected, loading the inside pockets of his jacket with various vampire-slaying accoutrements. “She does that, y’know. Just don’t look her in the eyes, y’lordship. Divert your gaze, an’ you’ll be just fine! Besides which, when the vicar gives the whole ‘anyone know why these two should not be wed’ bit, we’ll make sure to make our objections known!” Hellsinger beamed, slapping me heartily on the arm. “Now come on, ya big lummox, let’s go do this thang!”

“‘Thang?’” I repeated as I watched Hellsinger dash up the path to the church. “You know, Spunkleford, sometimes I cannot tell who is the most blood-thirsty: the vampires, or Mr. Hellsinger with his infernal insistence on massacring the Queen’s English.”

*****

THE church was a tall, stone building with stained glass windows and…well, it looked rather like a church, to be frank. I shall not insult your collective intelligence by describing what a ruddy church looks like, they all seem to be much the same. So just imagine a church, and there you have it – that is where we were.

As we entered the building I could not help but notice that the congregation was weighted firmly in the bride’s favour; row upon row of pale-skinned, shallow-eyed faces turned to face us as we strode in, all of whom were undoubtedly despicable vampires. Either that, or the nearby university was missing an entire class of students.

On my side of the church sat Botter, all on his own, looking increasingly uncomfortable in the presence of so many demons. As soon as he noticed our arrival, he started waving wildly at us, and beckoned us over frantically.

“Thank goodness you did that, Botter,” I said sarcastically, as I took my seat beside him. “Otherwise we might not have known where to sit.”

“My pleasure, m’lord,” Botter replied, slightly too pleased with himself. “Milord,” he continued, leaning in to converse with me in rather more subdued tones. “Can I be the best man?”

“Botter,” I sighed. “You are barely a man, let alone the best man, so my answer to that would have to be a resoundingly conclusive ‘not if you were the last bastard on the planet’.”

“Oh.” Botter fell silent. “Best Man-Servant?” he added, hopefully.

“Do shut your pie-funnel,” I hissed.

Suddenly, the main doors of the church flew open, and everyone turned to see Helena glide in, accompanied by an extremely old man whom I presumed to be her father. He looked older than the church itself, but in considerably less robust shape, and was clinging feebly to the bride’s train as they flew in.

Despite the fact that Helena was an evil succubus intent on slicing open my veins and feasting on my blood, I did have to conceed that she looked well considering her undead status, and was rather fetching in her wedding dress – although I had to baulk at her choice of colour. White? Who on earth did she think she was fooling, the enormous whore?

Helena descended gently to the ground in front of the altar, just as a wizened vicar popped up behind it, clutching a bible in his gnarled hands. He nodded to me to join them, and with a cursory glance to my companions, I made the dreaded walk to the altar.

“Excellent, we are all here!” the vicar smiled, revealing an all-too familiar set of fangs. “Now we can begin!”

And so the old coot waffled on about marriage and love and ‘a gift from God’, all of  which I paid little heed to (though I did perk up when he mentioned ‘the delight and tenderness of sexual union’.) Finally he got to the part that my companions and I had agreed upon as the moment when they would spring into action, and save me from a fate worse than death.

“First,” droned the man. “I am required to ask anyone present who knows a reason why these persons may not lawfully marry, to declare it now.”

I looked over to the trio sat on the pew beside me, only to find that Spunkleford had dozed off; Botter had become overly fascinated with a cushion, and Hellsinger was preoccupied with assembling some sort of garlic-based bomb. I rolled my eyes in dismay.

“No objections? Excellent!” croaked the vicar. “Then let us proceed!” He turned to face me. “Lord Likely, will you take Helena Handbaskett to be your wife? Will you love her, comfort her, honour and protect her, and, forsaking all others, be faithful to her as long as you both shall…live?” he concluded, letting the final word hang in the air like a thinly-veiled threat (which would also describe my would-be wife fairly well too, now I think about it).

I looked at Helena, who was staring at me very intently, those dark eyes tunneling and boring into my mind once more, trying to wrench my own thoughts and actions from my own control. I remembered Hellsinger’s words and fought desperately to avert my eyes…if only I could turn away…

Happily, Helena had chosen to wear a distinctly low-cut wedding dress, which meant my eyes naturally fell upon her heaving bosom, which was rather hypnotic in it’s own way, but did not make me want to do anything that I would not ordinarily consider. My attention thus diverted, I was able to focus my thoughts clearly.

“Well?” snapped the vicar. “Do you?”

“I do…I do…NOT!” I yelled, and before I knew it Hellsinger had finally prepared himself fully, and was at my side, brandishing a spring-loaded stake-firing pistol at my bride-not-to-be.

“Here goes the bride,” he grinned.

And then all bloody hell broke loose.

- Lord Likely.

Next time in The Astonishing Adventures of Lord Likely: No Wedding And A Great Many Funerals!

- Lord Likely.

Prepare for the big day by reading the previous, thrilling chapters of Lord Likely and the Bloody Nuisances!

~ Lord Likely and the Bloody Nuisances, Part Three. ~

For the previous chapter, do please click here.

From the Journals of Lord Likely, Aristocratic Adventurer and Gentle-Man of Action.

THE VERY notion that we might have to apprehend a vampire seemed frankly ludicrous and absurd in my mind. I am a reasonable and rational fellow, and have no time for such ridiculous flights of fancy and superstitious piffle. If I cannot see it, touch it, hold it and feel it, I simply cannot believe in it. Thus, the only things I really have one-hundred per-cent complete faith in are my penis, and ladies’ bodies.

However, there was no doubting that something decidedly strange had transpired in the city last night, and after having read Dr. Elton Whelkbladder’s diary I was suitably convinced that this mysterious Mr. Strix chap may well be worth investigating.

Plus there were other small matters to take into consideration; such as the two, small puncture marks in the doctor’s neck, and the fact that he also seemed to be now lacking a heart-beat or indeed a pulse of any sort, symptoms which struck me as rather unusual, and which led me to conclude that  some rum business may indeed be afoot.

*****

AND SO we thus found ourselves outside Mr. Strix’s stereotypically sinister-looking abode, readying ourselves to meet with Dr. Whelkbladder’s vicious attacker. Whether or not he was a vampire, Mr. Strix was certainly a violent and dangerous man, and was thus not someone I was prepared to visit without making sure I was equipped without at least three weapons, lest our conversation turned difficult and required a few bullet-points for clarity.

As I slotted some bullets into my trusty pistol, I noticed Inspector Spunkleford gently kissing a small, golden trinket he held in his hands.

“What is that you have there, inspector?” I asked.

“‘Tis a crucifix!” Spunkleford exclaimed, waving the cross proudly in the air. “If this Strix fellow comes at me, then he shall feel the full power of God, I tell you!”

“Mmmm,” I said, not entirely convinced. “Well, if it’s all the same to you, I shall take my chances with shooting him in the bollocks. That’s still got to ruddy well hurt, supernatural entity or not, eh?…Botter!” I exclaimed, suddenly noticing my man-servant cradling a lump of raw meat. “What on earth have you got there?”

“Well,” Botter began, earnestly. “If Mr. Strix is a vampire, I thought I’d better bring a steak to drive into his heart.”

I slapped my hand against my face and slowly drew it down over my proud features. “Botter, what you’ve done there is to…oh, never mind! Come on, let us get this over and done with, hmmm?”

With our final checks carried out, we turned and headed toward the foreboding house.

*****

From the Diary of Mr. Jonathan Creakshaft, Cab Driver.

I watched his lordship and the other two blokes head off up the path to the creepy-looking house, and then decided that I really wanted a smoke.

As I drew heavily upon my cigarette, I came to the sudden realisation that I really had nothing of interest to add to this narrative.

*****

From the Journals of Lord Likely, Aristocratic Adventurer and Gentle-Man of Action.

“WHY HELLO,” I beamed, lowering my pistol and raising my penis as the door was answered by a rather attractive-looking maid, and not the fearsome beast we had anticipated. “‘Tis a pleasure to meet you, m’dear.”

“Likely!” Spunkleford whined, in that tone of voice he reserves for spoiling for my fun.

“Alright, alright, inspector,” I sighed, switching seamlessly into professional investigator mode. “My dear, I wonder if we might converse with the master of the house, a Mr. Strix?…”

“Certainly, sir,” the beautiful, petite, raven-haired temptress cooed. “Would you care to follow me?”

“Anywhere!” I grinned, as we walked in after the delightful young lady, my eyes barely moving from her pert bottom as it wiggled seductively under her clothing. “Good heavens!” I whispered to Spunkleford as we carried on through the house. “That really is a first-class arse. Now there is something I would not mind sinking my teeth into, I can tell you.”

“Likely!” hissed Spunkleford, jabbing me in the ribs with his elbow. “Please!”

“Oh, do calm down, inspector. Crikey, it is no wonder your wife wants to leave you!”

“Oh, now Likely!” Spunkleford protested. “Now that really was below the belt.”

“A lot of marital problems are, as I understand it,” I winked.

“Ah, gentlemen!” boomed Mr. Strix’s voice, rather rudely interrupting what I considered to be some of my wittiest wordplay thus far. “Welcome, welcome!”

Mr. Strix was a tall, angular fellow with high cheekbones, jet-black hair pulled tightly back across his head, and dark, piercing eyes. He was dressed immaculately in a jet-black suit, and carried with him an equally-black cane, atop of which was mounted a silver skull.

In short, this fellow could not have looked more like a villain, even if he had the word ‘villain‘ scrawled across his face in Indian ink, and a kitten’s decapitated head held in his hand.

“Ah, Mr. Strix,” I smiled, walking up to the man and shaking him warmly by the hand, although the warmth part was most definitely from me; Mr. Strix’s skin felt as cold as ice. “Lord Likely, Aristocratic Adventu-”

“I know who you are, your lordship,” Strix grinned. “And I know precisely why you and the dear inspector are here. I presume this is something to do with that silly old fool Dr. Whelkbladder, yes?…”

“Well, yes, as a matter of fact,” I replied. “You see, the dear doctor has led us to believe that – and this shall sound ridiculous – that you are a vampire, sir.”

“Quack!” shouted Strix.

“It seems we were mistaken,” I whispered to Spunkleford. “I think Mr. Strix may be a duck. Possibly a vampire duck, I’ll warrant you.”

“Quack!” Strix repeated. “Dr. Whelkbladder is just a silly old quack. Do you know that when he visited me, he thought me to be on death’s door? Yet here I am, as fit as a fiddle! Clearly the doctor is trying to save his own dubious reputation by discrediting me with these preposterous accusations.”

I mulled over Mr. Strix’s words, looked at Spunkleford, and then turned back to Mr. Strix, my pistol drawn. “An interesting counterpoint, sir,” I exclaimed. “But I have been watching our little exchange in the mirror behind you, and it seems that you are lacking to the tune of one whole reflection. Care to explain that, my man?”

“Would you believe I lost it in a game of chance?” Strix smiled. I nodded in the negative.

And then the fiend lunged at me.

- Lord Likely.

Next Time in Lord Likely and the Bloody Nuisances: Buffet, the Vampire Slayer!

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From the Journals of Lord Likely, Aristocratic Adventurer and Gentle-Man of Action

AND SO with the scent of Adventure in my nostrils (my favourite fragrance, and one which was doing a fine job of masking the wretched odour emanating from Botter’s general vicinity), we hopped into a cab and headed off to Scotland Yard, to meet this dead body that had decided to stop being dead.

After an uneventful carriage-ride, we arrived at our destination – Whitehall, and the rather unimpressive sight of Scotland Yard itself. As my man-servant and I disembarked from our cab, I noticed a hearse waiting outside the yard, with the driver trying to determine whether or not he was supposed to be picking up a corpse from a rather embarrassed-looking police-officer.

Botter and I strolled in to the cramped offices of the Yard, to be met by a rather perplexed Inspector Spunkleford. Spunkleford, of course, is often in a state of great perplexity, but on this occasion he seemed even more perplexitious than usual.

“Oh, Likely, you made it!” he flustered as he shook my hand gladly. “Oh, there is quite a hullabaloo about to-day, quite a hullabaloo indeed! You bring in one walking corpse and the whole place goes tiddly-pop! It is all a big old brouhaha, if you know what I mean.”

“I have positively no idea,” I replied. “I am not entirely sure half of what you said was even in English.”

“No! No I have nothing more to say, you parasite!” Spunkleford roared, as a seedy-looking gent with a notebook harassed him by the door. “Get out of here! Go on, hop it!…Sorry, Likely. You were saying?”

“Journalist?” I asked, indicating to the hawk-faced man now smarting from a sharp boot to the backside.

“Hmmm? Oh, him? No, no, no. Divorce lawyer. I am afraid Mrs. Spunkleford seems to believe our marriage has hit the rocks…um, care to see this body, Likely?”

“Well, I have no doubt that you are rather missing those moments of intimacy with your wife, inspector, but I hardly think offering yourself to me will – ”

“What? No! The body! The body we bought in! The chap who turned out to be not-dead! Care to meet him?”

“Oh, yes, but of course,” I said, coughing lightly into my hand. “That…that is precisely what I thought you meant.”

*****

FOR A deceased gentleman, Doctor Elton Whelkbladder was looking in remarkably rude health. Certainly, his skin had a rather pale tone to it, and his eyes looked so tired I feared that they might pop out of his head and go and curl up in the large bags just underneath. But in all other respects, Dr. Whelkbladder was exhibiting very few signs of bearing any of the afflictions usually associated with death. For one, he was moving about quite a lot, and secondly he was babbling away to us at ten-to-the-dozen, both traits one does not usually equate with a person who has shuffled off this mortal coil.

“I just don’t understand it!” exclaimed Whelkbladder, pacing the room in a manner most unbecoming of a fellow in his condition. “I simply don’t understand it!”

“And you say you cannot recall much of the events of last night, sir?” I enquired, while Spunkleford scurried over to converse with a rather serious-looking police constable.

“No, no…I went to visit a patient, and as far as I recall I prescribed him some medicine…and then…and then…GAH! It all goes blank, I’m afraid.”

“Hmm, how very…unhelpful,” I remarked.

“I think I might be able to shed some light on matter!” beamed Spunkleford, marching across the room while waving a small, brown book in his hand. “My men found this among the late doctor’s possessions. Well, latterly late. Early? The right-on-time doctor’s possessions…”

“Oh, do get on with it, Spunkleford,” I sighed.

“Right. Yes. Ahem, this is the diary of the good doctor…I think you shall find it rather interesting reading…”

“I say! You can’t read my private diaries!” Whelkbladder interjected.

“You’re dead, sir – I cannot see how it is of any concern of yours,” I snapped, taking the diary from the inspector’s hands. “Now, let me see…”

From the diary of Dr. Elton Whelkbladder.

Miss Mary Spimbuffet called by my surgery to-day. Oh! How my heart misses a beat whene’er I see her, her soft blonde locks cascading over those creamy white shoulders – heavens! I can barely suppress my glee when she arrives.

To-day, Miss Spimbuffet was complaining off a slightly ticklish cough. Naturally, I asked her to disrobe completely, as I do when examining all of Miss Spimbuffet’s maladies, no matter how big or small they may be. Oh! How my heart and loins twitched upon seeing her in all her naked, curvaceous beauty! Barely able to steady my trembling hands, I took my stethoscope and –

“No! Not that page!” Spunkleford interrupted, grabbing the diary from my hands and flipping forward a few pages. “This one!”

“But it was just getting really interesting!” I pleaded, receiving a withering look form the inspector in return. “Fine! But this had better be at least half as interesting as the part I just read,” I mumbled, returning to the diary.

From the diary of Dr. Elton Whelkbladder.

The bat stopped short beside me, and seemed to hover, as if it were watching me, staring at me with its beady little eyes. Then, there was a puff of acrid-smelling smoke, and in place of the bat stood Mr. Strix, looking considerably healthier than when I had checked upon him mere moments earlier.

“Good heavens, sir!” I exclaimed. “You gave me quite a start! Why, that is a rather impressive piece of trickery, I must say! How on earth did you ever squeeze yourself into that small bat costume?”

Mr. Strix smiled at me, a smile which sent chills running through my bones: for when Mr. Strix smiled, I saw a set of fangs so fearsome that I almost dislodged last-night’s supper into my undergarments.

And then, as I stood transfixed with terror, Mr. Strix lunged at me.

I lowered the diary slowly, an eyebrow arched in a quizzical – and undeniably handsome – manner.

“Are you trying to tell me, Spunkleford, that our dear doctor has been attacked by a…vampire?”

Spunkleford nodded silently.

“Bloody hell!” I remarked.

- Lord Likely.

Next Time in Lord Likely and the Bloody Nuisances: ‘Tis Strix O’Clock!

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Hallowe’en.

Upon returning to the Likely Estate after my long, arduous, but nonetheless astonishing American Adventure, I was annoyed to find that there was scant food in the house, and the food which we did have had long since expired and gone off. Worse still, squirrels had somehow gotten into my lovely new Porn Library, and chewed their way through my entire thirty-eight volume Karma Sutra.

I chastised Botter for allowing things to slide into such an awful state, to which he replied that he would have been more diligent, but he had been too busy accompanying me to America, and could not keep a close enough eye on the Estate from across the ocean. Needless to say, I clipped him around the ear for his insolent back-chat.

Although exhausted from my recent travails, it was clear to me that there was no option but to take matters into my own hands, and venture into the city to replenish our supplies. I left Botter with instructions to set about cleaning up the mansion, then I set off to London Town.

I stepped out of Liverrott’s Alcohol and Booze Emporium, my final port of call on my shopping trip. I was feeling rather pleased with myself as I had managed to complete the shopping in record time, no doubt due to the fact that I was unhindered by my cretinous man-servant. I smiled to myself, and with my spirits soaring as high as a kite, I set about trying to find a hansom cab to transport me back to the Likely Estate.

After forty-three minutes of fruitless searching, my mood had soured somewhat, and I was cursing every cab driver in the city, and their families, and their families’ families. Why was it one could not find a cab when one really needed one, I pondered angrily. And where in the name of Charles Dickens‘ cock-hole was I? It appeared I had strayed into the more unfamiliar regions of the nation’s capital, and was rather lost.

As I mused on this conundrum, I heard a slow, shuffling sound coming from behind me. I tensed every muscle in my body – even my Lord Palmerston – and prepared myself for the worst. Then I swung around to confront it.

‘It’ was horrifying than I could have ever imagined.

There, in front of me, was some kind of filthy, grotesque apparition, with drawn, sunken eyes and lifeless, pallid skin. This awful spectre slowly reached out to me, its clawed hand turned palm-up. I almost felt like vomiting into my own hat, so hideous and disgusting was this shambolic mockery of humanity.

Then this fearful creature spoke.

“Change?” it hissed. I recoiled in disgust. I do so hate filthy beggars. “Change?” the demon repeated, thrusting his hand towards me as if to accentuate the point. I had absolutely no desire to part with my precious money, for which my father had worked so hard, and so I attempted an evasive maneuver. However, as I turned away, ready to flee, I was faced with yet another fearsome phantasm.

“Change?” croaked the second abomination.

Sweat beaded my lordly brow, as I feared for my wallet’s life. I backed away slowly from the putrid, poverty-stricken pair, but was stopped in my tracks by another of their ilk, who had mysteriously appeared from nowhere. I quickly came to realise that these awful creatures were numerous and many, and were bleeding out of the shadows and towards me, the scent of fresh currency filling their nostrils. They all advanced towards me, hands held out, chorusing the word, “Change” as they approached me.

“Get back, you vile devils!” I roared, brandishing my cane as if it were a weapon.

“Please, sir,” said the first man-beast, slightly surprising me with his eloquence. “Do not fear us. We do not wish to harm you. We just ask for your kindness.”

“AAARRRGGH!” I screamed, and twatted the man with the end of my cane, sending him crashing to the floor with a nasty cut to his head.

“Please! Sir, you must stop!” cried another of the vagrants, who seemed to be a female, or at least the closest to female. “Leave poor Gary alone! Please! He is just a man, like you! The only difference is, he has nothing. Nothing at all.”

At this juncture, a small, dirty, scruffy, crippled child hobbled out from the crowd, and towards me.

“Have you come to save us, mister?” he asked quietly, tugging at my trouser leg.

“ARRRGGGH!” I yelled again, punting the tiny terror clear across the street.

“Please, sir!” cried out the female. “That is my poor, sickly child! What kind of monster are you?”

“You will have to forgive me,” I said, stifling the urge to be sick as I beheld the woman’s grotesque countenance. “You all look so ghastly that I cannot help but be terrified and offended all at once. I feel like I should put you all out of your misery.”

The disgusting crone shook her head sadly, forcing dust and grime to become dislodged from her wispy locks as she did so. Then she scurried off to the aid of her son, and scooped him up into her arms, cooing soothing words into the boy’s ear. As I watched this tender, caring act unfold before me, I felt something approaching pity and compassion well up inside me. Could it be that I was beginning to care about these unhappy blighters, I wondered.

“Sorry my head got in the way of your cane,” said Gary, suddenly appearing at my shoulder, nursing his bloodied head.

“AARRRGGGH!” I cried, and struck him once more with my cane. He crumpled to the floor., silently.

“Right!” I exclaimed. “That is it! I have had enough of this! I am going to do something about this terrible situation RIGHT NOW! Wait here, I shall be but five minutes! Do not go anywhere! Not that you have anywhere to go, I suppose. Ta-ta for now!”

And with that, I departed.

“There! Is that not much better?” I said, standing back to better admire my fine handiwork. The assembled paupers murmured something in return, which I took to be a show of appreciation. “Marvelous, glad you agree. I must say, I think I have performed something approaching a miracle, here today.”

To understand exactly what I had done, I must furnish you with some pictorial aids. This first illustration shows the awful creatures in all their hideous foulness, so I recommend that you view the image on an empty stomach:

Quite a horrendous sight, I am sure you will agree. Now then, is the second image, showing them after I had taken it upon myself to greatly improve the quality of their life:

I am sure you will agree, I had brightened up their drab and dreary life quite considerably, and I had also made them look far less threatening with the simple addition of gaily-coloured party hats. In addition, I took the liberty of replacing the horribly deformed crippled child with a delightfully cute lemur, as everyone likes lemurs, after all. Finally, to cap it all off, I donated a very handsome statue of my good self, so that these savages may remember my extraordinary benevolence for ever more.

As I stood surveying my wonderful work, Gary sidled up to me.

“Thank you, sir,” he faltered, adjusting his party hat atop his wounded head. “You…um…you have done us an honour, here today. No doubt about that! But we were just wonderin’…it’s just…we’d like somethin’ to eat, we are all so famished and so weak…so, um…do you have any spare change? “

I snorted with outright indignation, and thwacked the dismal creature about the head with my cane once more, then stalked off.

Some people are just never satisfied.

- Lord Likely.

His lordship will be taking a short sabbatical, to recover from his Astonishing American Adventure and his exhausting charity work. He shall return next Monday, when he hopes you will join him in celebrating the Likely Centenary. Smart dress essential.

Lord Likely recommends you pass the time waiting for his return by visiting any of the web-logs listed on the left-hand side, or by visiting these web-sites:

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Finally feeling that I was back to something resembling full health, my companions and I decided to leave the squalour of Spunkleford’s flat and journey onto Buckingham Place, the address of my threatening letter-writer.

We took a hansom cab across the city, making a far-less eventful journey than our previous effort.

Although I did, at one point, run out of ice for my whisky.

We arrived at our destination and disembarked.

Number forty-three, Buckingham Place, certainly did not look like the abode of a murderous fiend intent on slaying my good self. It seemed to be a well-kept property, noticeably bereft of blood on the door, or severed heads on the railings.

However, appearances can be tremendously deceptive, as I can testify having frequented Thailand on several occasions. So, I drew my trusty fencing sword while Inspector Spunkleford armed himself with a pistol. Botter, meanwhile, contented himself by carrying a small, silver-plated teaspoon.

I was going to inquire as to how Botter proposed to stave off a lunatic mad-man with a piece of well-polished cutlery, but thought better of it, and instead refocused my attention on the matter in hand.

We tentatively approached the doorway, and then quickly composing myself, I knocked upon the door.

We heard shuffling come from within the house, then the unmistakable sound of locks being drawn back.

We braced ourselves for whatever unspeakable horror lay inside, save Botter, who had been distracted by his reflection on the spoon’s surface.

Then the door opened, slowly, before revealing to us…

…a small, elderly woman.

“Good evening, Gentlemen,” she said. “I wasn’t expecting guests, I must say. Would you care for a cup of tea, perhaps?”

The three of us exchanged confused glances, and then, deciding that it was far better to be safe than sorry and dead in a cupboard, I decided to punch the old lady to the ground.

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