The Astonishing Adventures of Lord Likely » mystery

The Likely Letters – Part Two

Lord Likely — Sat, 07 May 2011 23:41:13 +0000

For the previous chapter, please click HITHER.

MORE DAYS passed as I continued my convalescence, nursing my poor mangled manhood back to health after it was so cruelly injured by a wicked, wicked whore a couple of weeks or so previously.

At one point, a doctor paid me a visit to check on my progress, but soon had to seek medical help himself, after he gazed upon my proud Lord Palmerston, and promptly passed out through the shock of having seen such a mighty organ. You would think a medical man would have seen it all, but then again I cannot deny that I am a most impressively endowed specimen.

My man-servant, Botter, continued to fuss and fret over me, like some kind of hideously malformed nurse-maid. Back and forth he went, bringing bowl after ruddy bowl of soup, explaining that it would help me ‘get my strength back’. I tested his theory by hurling the umpteenth bowl directly at his head, which smashed satisfyingly upon his wretched bonce. “It seems you are correct, Botter,” I chortled as my man-servant dashed off to tend to his facial burns.

When not hurling broth at my man-servant, I kept myself amused by continuing to trawl through the huge sacks of post regularly delivered to the house. I was eagerly anticipating a reply from Mr. Startleburst Phingerphuckk, whose wife had gone missing, a case I had agreed to take on even while confined to my sick-bed. That is how astonishing I am, dear reader.

There were all sorts of letters in the post that week, from Nigerian businessmen offering me hard cash in return for my banking details, to advertisements from apothecaries claiming they could make me ‘last longer in bed’. I snorted. I had already been in bed for a fortnight, the ignorant arse-pipes.

There were some far more interesting items of mail, however, such as this fascinating missive:

Dear Lord Likely,

I’m writing to bring to your attention a matter of great importance. I do not wish to alarm his Lordship during his convalesce but I’ve come to believe that your country may need you.

This afternoon, whilst taking afternoon tea in Hyde Park I was most put out to be approached by what can only be described as a ‘woman of ill breeding’. I can’t confess to understand what she attempted to impress upon me, but the words ‘pleasure’ and ‘boudoir’ were used and despite my lack of familiarity with modern repartee, I felt the exchange to be most improper.

Though I’m a lady of exceptional background and breeding, I’m no fool, and despite having no interest in such things, I will admit that I have from time to time been forced to listen to tales of your erotic exploits and indeed admit I have also been forced to read about your exploits via your repugnant journals too. Simply to learn enough to ward myself against bounders such as yourself you understand.

Now, I find your adventures both depraved and morally repugnant, but when I listened to this young lady of questionable heritage describe how she’d enjoyed carnal pleasures with your manservant Botter, I decided that enough is enough.

I don’t like to talk of such things, and I trust on your good name that I have your confidence in this matter, but I have it on good authority that Doctor Cockfosters Penile Erection Kit is an excellent tonic for your malaise.

The sooner you apply the tonic to your Lord Palmerston the better. I’m no snob, but the lady folk of England are fornicating with the likes of your manservant Botter, and if this state of affairs is to continue I feel I shall be forced decline your invitation to the annual Likely Estate Summer Ball.

This is quite the shame, because I so very much enjoy your balls.

Sincerely

Lady Ann of Euphrania

I shuddered. The thought of that blasted bilge-bucket Botter tending to ladies in my absence was enough to make me physically ill. Well, iller. I’d have to have words with that bounder. Words such as ‘I’m’ ‘going’ ‘to’ ‘shatter’ ‘your’ ‘legs’.

I made a note of the sender’s name and the return address. I would have to let this good lady enjoy my magnificent balls one day.

The next letter also raised my spirits somewhat:

Dear Lord Likely,

You seem so familiar. Have we met before? Was that you on the beach in Kiribati? I was, I have to admit, a little beyond drunk at the time, so I can’t be sure.

Is my assistant with you by any chance? I lost her while traveling through Central America. If you don’t have Zoe with you at the moment, do you think you could help me find her. She dove into a stranger’s carriage and disappeared into the night. While the lack of a forwarding address means that I don’t have to send her a paycheck (which I like) the insurance company isn’t too pleased as Zoe is the third assistant I’ve lost (after Morgan and Lynn both quit abruptly).

I thank you for any assistance you are able to give,

Crystal, fellow adventurer.

I racked my brain. Had I met this Crystal before? It was difficult to be certain. And what of her assistants? Had I come across them before? Or in them? I really could not be certain, so noted down the lady’s name and address in the hope thet I could thoroughly assist her later.

I tore open another envelope.

My Dear Lord Likely,

It has come to my attention that you have been gravely wounded by a former employee of mine. I run a respectable business and do not tolerate such action.She went out on her own to get business for herself, because of that and your treatment she has been relived of her position.

Therefore, I extend to you, my dear Lord Likely, a heartfelt apology and an open invitation to visit my establishment and be personally taken care of by me. At no cost to Lord Likely.

With heaving and tingling breast
Yours For The Taking,
Countess Misha.

PS: In my haste I forgot to tell you the name of my establishment, it is Russian Belles. We maybe prostitutes but we are ladies.

I smiled. I was certainly glad to hear that the strumpet who sabotaged my sex-truncheon had been given the boot! Hit her where it hurts, in the purse, the money-hungry harlot. I noted the name and address of the Countess. I would surely be ‘Russian’ to take her up on her kind offer, I chuckled to myself.

Next came an offer of aid:

Dear Lord Likely,

News of your injury has spread quickly throughout London. Indeed, the very lack of your presence among the ladies of the night these past few days has lead some to wonder as to your early demise. If indeed your Lord Palmerston has been mangled by an irate member of the world’s oldest profession, I shall be happy to design a harness of sorts to at least make you more ambulatory during your convalescence with a minimum of pain. If there is a contagious element to your affliction, that likewise can be treated with a my patented formula injected by a very large needle, driven directly through to deal with the matter at its source. Such treatment is not for the faint of heart, of course.

In any event, I bring you wishes of a speedy recovery, and a not-so-subtle reminder to stay far, far away from my dear daughters.

In Good Health,

Dr. Darien James Mason

I felt myself wince at the description of this procedure, and decided there and then that I would NOT be seeking to have anything sharp and pointy near my precious pleasure-pole. I did, however, note the name and address of the good doctor, in the hope that I may be able to offer my own special aid to his daughters.

And so I continued to rifle through the mail-bags, seeking more correspondence from Mr. Phingerphuckk, but there was seemingly nothing to be found. But then I found a rather bulky-looking envelope, which seemed to contain more than a letter inside. My curiosity piqued, I tore it open.

Out fell a lock of hair, and a rather menacing note:

KeEP aWay FroM tHe PhingErPhuckKs. Or SHe WiLl DIE.

A FriENd.

I lowered the letter slowly. I was fairly certain this ‘friend’ was not a friend of mine at all; I know no-one with such poor grammar. But whomever this cur was, they would regret threatening me.

- Lord Likely.

To Be Continued!…

Write To Likely And Appear In The Next Chapter!

Yes, dear readers, you read that correctly! Compose a letter to his lordship, and if it passes muster he shall read it out in the next chapter of this exhilarating epistolary escapade, along with a hyper-link to a webbed-site of your choosing should you be successful, as those lucky people in this week’s chapter were! It can be whatever you like, declarations of love, sales-pitches, requests for his services or letters demanding his blood – just write, write, WRITE, DAMMIT!

Send your missives to hislordship@lordlikely.com, or leave them as a comment below! We look forward to hearing from you, chums!

The Likely Letters – Part One

Lord Likely — Wed, 09 Feb 2011 17:36:23 +0000

A Brand New Astonishing Adventure!

THIS TALE commences with your not-at-all-humble narrator incapacitated after sustaining a particularly nasty injury in the field of combat; to whit, I recently found myself in a heated argument with a tuppenny trollop over the matter of payment for what I considered to be her rather lacklustre services.

As one may baulk at paying the bill for a lukewarm and foul-tasting meal, or as one may refuse to hand over money for a knackered and useless old nag, so I had refused to remunerate this harlot for providing nothing more than rather pedestrian and unexciting intercourse. The prostitute had taken a certain umbrage with my decision, and so we found ourselves in a heated exchange (which, ironically, was far more passionate than the love-making which had preceded it) before the whore chose to end the impasse by firmly grabbing my tumescent tally-whacker and twisting it with such force that I now fear that any children I sire in the future shall undoubtedly be born with a terrible limp.

And so you find my glorious self cooped up in bed in the Likely Estate, unable to partake in any of my usual pleasures due to the sheer, agonising pain emanating from my poor, paralysed Lord Palmerston. A terrible state of affairs, I am sure you will agree. More terrible still when you consider the fact that this left me in the company of my complete arse-pipe of a man-servant, Botter, who was fussing over me as if I were an injured sparrow or something, and tried raising my spirits by regaling me with God-awful stories about his youth in the East-End, accompanied by soul-crushing renditions of his favourite Cockney sing-alongs. I would have twatted the bounder and told him to eff off, were it not for the fact that any sudden movement caused a searing shockwave of pain to ripple through my body from my marmalised manhood.

When not having to endure Botter’s woeful working-class whimsy, I made an effort to pass the time by reading through some of my correspondence. Being an Astonishing Adventurer and Gentle-Man of Action, I receive quite literal barrow-fulls of fan-mail and letters, much to the continued annoyance of my whining, moaning old cock-smear of a post-man. Usually, I would be much too busy getting drunk or fornicating to pay the mail much heed, but in my current state I finally had the time to attend to these bulging sacks of mine.

‘Twas a mixed and varied collection of correspondence, it has to be said. There were hundreds of requests for marriage from many a love-struck spinster, nude photographs of nubile young ladies (which caused a twitch in my loins that bought about more searing pain, so I had to discard those letters rather quickly), the occasional blood-soaked missive from deranged criminals threatening to cause me harm and venomous letters from enraged husbands and boyfriends, threatening to send deranged criminals my way to cause me harm for my having laid with their significant others. Some people really are much too uptight, I mused.

Then there were countless tedious pamphlets and leaflets trying to sell me some completely unnecessary service or product or other, such as this startlingly misdirected sales-pitch:

Sir,

Do YOU wish to last LONGER in BED? Does you LADY demand more SATISFACTION in the boudoir than you are able to provide due to an EMBARRASSING INADEQUACY in your GENITAL AREA? Is your FLACCID and LIMP penis the cause of much SCORN and DERISION? Are you not REALLY a MAN?

Well, FEAR NOT, for with DOCTOR COCKFOSTER’S patented PENILE ERECTION KIT, you will now be able to remain fully engorged for longer, and thus able to satisfy your special lady again and again and again, without WORRY!

Thanks to our innovative system of PULLEYS, LEVERS and STEEL GIRDERS, your much-maligned member can remain PROUD and UPSTANDING for hours upon end, finally putting an end to your end’s abrupt endings.

Do not DELAY! Send a cheque for ONE HUNDRED guineas to: Doctor Cockfoster, Cockfoster’s Cock Fosters, Cockfoster House, Cockfoster Forest, Cockfosterham. Do it TODAY, lest you forever more remain a PATHETIC, ENFEEBLED MOCKERY OF MASCULINITY!

- Dr. Cockfoster.

I sighed and shook my head sadly. Truly, this Doctor Cockfoster had failed to do adequate market research before sending out this clap-trap; I have no problem remaining firm and terrifically turgid…although I had to concede that in my current condition, my poor pump-pistol could barely even support a semi-semi. I sighed again, scrunched up the letter and hurled it aside. That particular pamphlet had served only to depress me further, confound it.

However, the next missive raised my spirits somewhat:

Dear Lord Likely,

I write to you in the hope that you may be able to come to my aid, as I am at my wit’s end and know not what other course of action to take. Having heard of your considerable skills and talents in the field of deduction and crime-solving, I believe that only you can possibly help me at all.

I smiled. Appealing directly to my ego is a sure-fire way of grabbing my attention. I read on.

This being the case, I ask for your assistance in tracking down my darling wife, Daphne Phingerphuckk, who has now been missing for some three days, and I fear that she may have been abducted by undesirables…such awful thoughts whirl through my mind when I consider what atrocity could have befallen her that I am quite unable to sleep, and grow increasingly sick with worry.

If anyone can trace her and bring her back safely to me, it is you, your lordship. Please do say that you shall assist me, I shall ensure that you are handsomely reimbursed.

Sincerely and fretfully yours,

Mr. Startleburst Phingerphuckk.

I lowered the letter and pondered for a moment or two, and then snatched up my note-book and pen, and scribbled out my reply.

Dear Mr. Phingerphuckk,

Your recent call for help has touched my noble heart, and my bulging wallet. I would, of course, be delighted to aid you in the relocation of your dear wife Daphne, for to do anything less would be criminal.

However, I must inform you that a minor inconvenience has befallen me of late (I shall not go into detail, but should you ever be in London Town and chance upon a sordid strumpet named Sandy Straddleton, I advise you to steer clear and instead thrust your todger into a half-eaten melon, for it shall have much the same effect as plunging it into her fetid, disease-ridden mimsy).

But while I now remain bed-bound as a result of my misfortune, I see it as no obstacle to investigating the mystery you present before me. Indeed, the idea of solving such a riddle from the comfort of my bed-chamber offers me something of a thrill and a challenge, to which I obligingly rise.

In short, yes, Mr. Phingerphuckk – I shall TAKE THE CASE!

- Lord Likely.

…To Be Continued!

Write To Likely And Appear In The Next Chapter!

Yes, dear readers, you read that correctly! Compose a letter to his lordship, and if it passes muster he shall read it out in the next chapter of this exhilarating epistolary escapade, along with a hyper-link to a webbed-site of your choosing should you be successful! It can be whatever you like, declarations of love, sales-pitches, requests for his services or letters demanding his blood – just write, write, WRITE, DAMMIT!

Send your missives to hislordship@lordlikely.com, or leave them as a comment below, or contact his lordship via such social-media spots as Face-Book or the Twittering Device.

We look forward to hearing from you, chums!

The Strange Case of the Sinister Snowman, Part One

Lord Likely — Wed, 15 Dec 2010 02:09:47 +0000

IT WAS mid-December, and London had been left under a thick blanket of snow, as if the lord God above had looked down ‘pon the glorious British Empire, and had decided it looked so damnably attractive that he had whipped out His tremendous tallywhacker and sprayed the land with His holy horn-paste.

Truly ’twas a sight to behold, as I pointed out to my miserable man-servant, Botter, as we trudged our way through the snow to meet Inspector Spunkleford, who had summoned us to meet him on a matter of some urgency. Botter, however, seemed less than impressed with my poetic observation about the current climate.

“‘S too cold, that’s what it is, milord. Too blinkin’ cold!” he muttered.

“Cold? For heaven’s sake, Botter, do grow a scrotum!”

“‘S alright for you, milord, you had a nice, warm bed for the night. I ‘ad to sleep in a bleedin’ hen-house.” Botter continued, shoving his hands under his armpits to warm them.

“Now, Botter, we have been through this,” I countered. “I cannot very well have my prize-winning hens out in the cold. Nobody enjoys a frozen egg, least of all me. That is why I decided to let them have the use of your quarters.”

“B-but it’s inhumane, milord!” Botter cried.

“Nonsense, they were extremely comfortable indeed. I think I even saw one making use of the bidet, at one point.”

“Not your stupid hens, milord! Me! It’s inhumane to leave me to freeze to death in some rickety old hen-house!” Botter wailed.

“Botter, if you keep up this incessant moaning I simply shall not unlock the hen-house in the morning, and leave you in there forever!”

We continued to crunch our way through the snow as Botter fell into a mopey silence, which rather suited me fine, as I really did not want to listen to any more of his wearisome wafflings anyway.

We turned into a small street and seemed to find ourselves instantly transported to some kind of astonishing winter wonderland. The gardens and houses all along the street were decorated in the most eye-popping manner possible, with various Christmas lights dotted throughout, tinsel hanging from every branch of every available tree and plant, and large, ornate carvings depicting Father Christmas or angels or reindeer looming out from all sides. It was rather like someone had eaten an entire box of Christmas cards, and then vomited the contents out onto the street.

“Well, this is the right place,” I sighed, noting the road-sign nearby. “Fezziwig Lane. I really hope Spunkleford hasn’t called us half-way across the city just to show us his baubles. Come on, Botter.”

We ventured on up the road until we came to a house which was swarming with police-men, bustling back and forth and looking generally perplexed. In among the blue tide I spotted Spunkleford, who was closely consulting a note-book while chewing upon the end of a pencil in a most contemplative manner.

“Good day, Inspector,” I said, slapping Spunkleford so heartily on the back that he almost wound up excreting graphite. “What is all this hubbub about, then?”

“Oh, Likely, old boy!” Spunkleford exclaimed, clearly pleased to see me (as people usually are). “I have got a queer old case here, I don’t mind saying. Very queer indeed!”

“Hmmm,” I pondered, looking about to find a dark patch of crimson seeping through the snow on the ground. “Well, I assume either someone has been rather careless with the cranberry sauce, or there has been a murder here, yes?”

“Yes indeed, Likely. But if only it were that simple! The victim was the home-owner, a Mr. Ambrose Clutchpenny, by all accounts a well-respected and well-liked member of the local community. He was discovered dead at the scene this morning by one of his neighbours, a Mrs. Penelope Twigglebottom. Poor thing, has been in shock ever since.”

“Maybe I should offer her a shoulder to cry on?” I offered. “Of course, when I say ‘shoulder’ I do of course mean ‘penis’. And when I say ‘cry’ I mean ‘sit.’”

Spunkleford carried on, brushing aside my carnal desires as was his wont.

“Now here is where things get…peculiar. We’ve had an eyewitness come forward who swears blind that he saw Mr. Clutchpenny being attacked by…someone. He’s even given us a full description…” Spunkleford explained, waving his notebook in my direction.

“And?”

“Well, apparently the assailant was white, about five-foot four, dressed in a top hat and scarf…” Spunkleford glanced up at me, then back down at his notebook. “Ahem. He had a long, carrot-shaped nose, and eyes…eyes as black as coal…”

I raised an eyebrow. “Unless I’m very much mistaken, Spunkleford, what you have just described to me there is a snowman.”

Spunkleford nodded. “I know. And naturally I would not normally take such a thing seriously, if it were not for the fact…well, there was a break-in down at the docks last night as well. And a witness there gave my officers a description of one of the culprits…”

“…And that too was a snowman?”

Spunkleford nodded again. “He even gave the details to a sketch-artist, and…well, look.” Spunkleford held up a piece of paper on which was drawn a (rather well rendered) picture of a snowman.

“This…” I said slowly, “…is indeed peculiar.”

- Lord Likely.

To Be Furthered!

NEW! You can now receive The Astonishing Adventures of Lord Likely straight to your Kindle book-reading device! SUBSCRIBE TO-DAY, and ne’er miss an astonishing chapter again!

All Rise For The Likely Anthem

Lord Likely — Fri, 08 Oct 2010 13:26:52 +0000

IF YOU have been thrilling to my recent audio adventure, ‘The Filching Fog of Finsbury Park’, chances are you would have also been aroused to the point of explosion by the loin-stirringly fantastic theme-music accompanying said adventure.

That being the case, I thought I’d offer my dear readers and listeners the chance to enjoy my Likely anthem without all that (admittedly wondrous) talking all over it, in it’s purest, unedited form!

And so, do enjoy Mr. Andi Woodford’s GLORIOUS composition, below!

Or download it via the iTunes shop, so you can keep it on your personal music-playing device of choice, and have it playing where’er you go, so you can imagine being as incredible as I am:

And if you have not yet heard the audio adventure at all, follow these links to listen to it RIGHT AWAY!

The Filching Fog of Finsbury Park

Part One: Wherein Mr. Javier Spoons is MUGGED by FOG.

Part Two: Wherein Lord Likely has an excellent plan.

Part Three: Wherein the mystery is solved!

FINALLY, many thanks to all of you who have said such very kind things about the above production – it seems the tale has been much well-received, and therefore another audio masterpiece may well be forthcoming! In the mean-time, do feel free to share this with your chums on the Book of Faces or the Twittering Device – all should have the honour of listening to this CLASSIC TALE!

Toodle-pip!

- Lord Likely.

The Filching Fog of Finsbury Park: The Finale

Lord Likely — Thu, 30 Sep 2010 09:53:45 +0000

Listen to the previous episodes, hither: Part One | Part Two

PREPARE yourselves, dear readers and listeners, for to-day sees the THRILLING conclusion to my ASTONISHING audio adventure! Ne’er before has a release been so eagerly anticipated, aside from when in the final throes of sexual congress, of course.

Anyway – let us dilly-dally no more! To listen to the fantastic finale of this fog-based fable, simply utilise the listening device presented to you now:

OR! Alternatively, the production is available to download for approximately no shillings at the Apple iTunes shop, hither:

HUZZAH! I do so hope you have enjoyed this amazing aural adventure, chums – be sure to let me know, and perhaps there shall be more in the near future…

The Filching Fog of Finsbury Park written by Mr. A. D. Fanton esquire, with humorous additions by the cast.

Vocal stylings provided by Mr. Fanton, Mr Andrew Weston, Mr. Thomas Butler and Mr Andi Woodford.

Music and Sound Effects provided by Mr. Andi Woodford.

Produced by Lord Likely, and a fair few lashings from some reeds.

- Lord Likely.

The Filching Fog of Finsbury Park: Part Two

Lord Likely — Mon, 27 Sep 2010 11:07:14 +0000

To hear the previous part, do please click HITHER!

AND SO, with London’s fog having seemingly turned against the city’s inhabitants, it is left to me – Lord Likely, Aristocratic Adventurer and Gentle-Man of Action - to once again step in and save the day!

To THRILL to this latest instalment of my Astonishing Audio Adventure, do please utilise the device below:

Alternatively, you may download the production at the Apple iTunes store, whatever the cock all that means:

UPDATE! The conclusion to this action-packed adventure is now available to hear HITHER! Huzzah!

The Filching Fog of Finsbury Park written by Mr. A. D. Fanton esquire, with humorous additions by the cast.

Vocal stylings provided by Mr. Fanton, Mr Andrew Weston, Mr. Thomas Butler and Mr Andi Woodford.

Music and Sound Effects provided by Mr. Andi Woodford.

Produced by Lord Likely, and a fair few lashings from some reeds.

- Lord Likely.

The Filching Fog of Finsbury Park: Part One

Lord Likely — Thu, 23 Sep 2010 21:40:48 +0000

LADIES AND GENTLEMEN, pin back your ears, and loosen your under-garments, for I have a particularly wondrous treat for you to-day!

For your extreme and unequivocal listening pleasure, I give to you the FIRST PART of an ALL-NEW and ALL-THRILLING audio adventure! HUZZAH!

And so, if you are sitting comfortably, let us commence the terrific tale without any further ado! Prepare thyselves for ‘The Filching Fog of Finsbury Park’….

Alternatively, you may also listen to the audio play via Mr. Jobs’ Apple iTunes store, hither:

The Filching Fog of Finsbury Park written by Mr. A. D. Fanton esquire, with humorous additions by the cast.

Vocal stylings provided by Mr. Fanton, Mr Andrew Weston, Mr. Thomas Butler and Mr Andi Woodford.

Music and Sound Effects provided by Mr. Andi Woodford.

Produced by Lord Likely, and a fair few beatings from a cricket bat.

UPDATE! Part two is now ‘pon us! Click HITHER to enjoy!

- Lord Likely.

Our Mutual Fiend: Part Two

Lord Likely — Sat, 21 Aug 2010 19:18:39 +0000

To read the previous chapter, please click HITHER.

THERE ARE a few activities from which one should refrain whilst deeply hung-over. Bouncing up and down ‘pon a dirigible is one; taking a small rowing-boat out to sea on a particularly stormy day would be another. And one may most definitely add ‘standing over a bloody, severed, chewed-up corpse first thing in the morning’ to that inglorious list.

“And as you can see, the attacker tore out the victim’s larynx, here,” Inspector Spunkleford continued, pointing at a gaping, bloodied hole in the victim’s throat. The gruesome scene before me, coupled with the after-effects of my previous night’s drinking, was causing my stomach to churn harder than a particularly aggressive milk-maid trying to make butter in a hail-storm.

“Botter,” I said, turning to my man-servant. “You do realise that it is awfully bad manners to keep your hat on in the presence of the deceased?”

“But you – ” Botter began.

“Do not argue Botter! Remove it at once, and pass it here!”

“Very good, milord,” Botter sighed, as he passed me his bowler.

“That is more like it, Botter. A little respect never hurt anyone,” I said, and then I proceeded to empty the contents of my stomach rather forcibly into Botter’s hat.

“There you go,” I said, wiping my mouth with a handkerchief, and offering the vomit-filled bowler to my man-servant. ” You may have it back now.”

“Very good, milord.” Botter glumly replied.

Having disavailed myself of that particular booze-fuelled burden, I felt much more like myself again, and felt my brain wake up and steam back into action.

“Hmmm,” I hmmmed, as I produced a magnifying glass and examined the corpse laying on the street. And then I sneezed.

“Well, we can rule out a wild animal attack. This was most definitely the work of a person. And a rather well-to-do person, at that.”

“And how do you know that, Likely?”

“They seasoned the body with pepper before taking a bite.”

“Well, that certainly corroborates with the night-watchman’s statement…” Spunkleford beamed, evidently pleased that his meagre attempts at police-work had yielded results.

“Yes…but he also stated that the assailant was CHARLES DICKENS, who, need I remind you, is currently deceased, and not in a terribly good position to go out and about as much as he used to do, let alone feast upon the flesh of innocent bystanders…although…what’s this?…”

I stooped down and retrieved a scrap of blood-stained paper lying beside the victim’s right hand. It had been torn from a larger sheet, but the part which remained clearly bore the word ‘DICKENS’. This was entirely too coincidental, I reasoned.

“Inspector, do we have any idea who this fellow was at all?” I asked, motioning toward the body.

“Ah, yes Likely! We recovered a wallet from the body. We believe him to have been a gentleman named Theodore Fruntlope, worked as a publishing editor for one of the big book publishers.”

“A publisher of big books, or a publisher of considerable status?”

“Erm…yes. The second one.”

“I see. And what books does this publisher publish?”

“Oh, you know. Paper ones. Lots of pages, split up into chapters, and – “

I sighed. “Which AUTHORS, Spunkleford?”

“Oh. Well, I…I’m not really sure, old boy…” Spunkleford blustered.

“Well, I suggest you find out right away, Inspector!” I cried, thrusting a finger into the air. “I shall wager that one of the authors on their books is none other than one Mr. Charles Dickens!”

“Ah! Erm. I see. And?…”

“AND!…” I paused, my finger still held aloft. “That means something! I’m not sure exactly what it means yet, Spunkleford – but I assure you I shall work on it! Come along, Botter! There is thinking to be done!”

*****

BOTTER and I adjourned to a nearby tavern called the ‘The Soggy Biscuit‘, a place of ill-repute but healthy profits, due in no small part to the fact that the landlord made his premises freely available for prostitutes to ply their trade, which thus made it one of my favourite places to go when I needed a good, hard…think.

I drunk long into the early hours of the evening, enjoying the delicious beer, and the delicious women. Soon I was deep in conversation with a hugely buxom harlot by the name of ‘Big’ Bella Butterlegs, so-called because her legs spread ever so easily. As we talked, Bella took to whispering sweet nothings into my ear, while I returned saucy somethings into hers, and we soon agreed to depart to her abode around the corner, for a spot of rumpy-pumpy – much to the chagrin of my miserable man-servant.

“Milord,” he whined, “Should we not be working on the investigation?…”

“Botter, why don’t you investigate THIS!” I boomed, extending my middle finger at the wretched cove. “Now, what can you deduce from the evidence before you?”

“That you wish for me to extricate myself from your company?” Botter answered sadly.

“Indeed, to put it politely,” I nodded. “To put it impolitely, FUCK OFF, you wretched little arse-smear!”

And with that, Bella and I left The Soggy Biscuit, laughing heartily at my supremely excellent insult and Botter’s subsequent misery.

As we staggered down the road, arm-in-arm, I felt my spirits rise, along with my proud Lord Palmerston, and suggested to Bella that we slipped into a secluded alley-way so she could tend to my raging erection there and then. Bella giggled, and acceded, as well she might, the filthy slattern.

We dashed into such a side-street nearby, and Bella dropped to her knees before me like the cock-hungry whore she was. But before I could free my tumescent tally-whacker, we were disturbed by the sound of something stirring at the other end of the alley-way.

“Hello?” I barked, re-fastening my belt. “Who’s there? This isn’t some sort of peep-show, you know! Although we may be able to come to some arrangement, for the right fee…”

No reply came, but the sound of shuffling steps.

“Hello?” I repeated, peering into the darkness to see if I could pick out a figure.

“Please sir….” came a small boy’s voice from the shadows, “…can I have some more?”

“More?” I snapped. “More WHAT?”

Then, out of the dark, appeared the most wretched apparition I had e’er seen. He was indeed a young lad, dressed in a cheap, cloth hat, scarf, a grubby waist-coat and equally dirty shorts. But it was not his evident poverty that repulsed me so (although that was indeed disgusting), but the unnatural green-ish tint to his skin, his misty eyes and the blood dripping from his mouth. And, worse still, the bowl he was holding out in front of him, in which sat what looked very much like a human BRAIN.

“Please sir…” the spectre repeated, “can I have some more….BRRRAAAAAAAIIIINS?”

And then, the child lunged forth, jaws slavering…

- Lord Likely.

Continue on to Part Three…

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Our Mutual Fiend: Part One

Lord Likely — Mon, 09 Aug 2010 02:53:34 +0000

Illustration by the supremely-talented Mr. Stuart Linfield. Good show, sir!

“Rrrrarrrggggggh! Rrrrrrarrrrgh! Guuuuuuuuuurrrrrrrggggh! Muuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuh!”

“Heavy night, milord?” asked Botter, my man-servant, as I shuffled into the breakfast room.

“Guuuuuuuuuuuuuuh! Rrrrrrrarrrrrgggh!”

“Very good, milord.”

I collapsed heavily into a chair at the table, my head thundering as if it were filled with elephants vigorously humping one another. Good heavens, what a stupendous night that had been, I thought. At least, I assumed it had been a stupendous night, I could not actually remember any of it. But I had been there, and I am naturally stupendous, so it seemed entirely reasonable to assume that the night itself had thus also been stupendous.

It was then that I realised that my man-servant was still talking.

“Buuuuuuuuuuuuh?” I groaned.

“Can I get you anything, my lord?” Botter repeated.

“Ffffffffffffeeeeeeeeerrrrrrgh,” I burbled. I cleared my throat, and tried again. “Coooooooffeeeeeeeeeeee.”

“Very well, milord. I’ll just prepare some,” Botter replied, picking up a sack of coffee beans from the table.

“Noooooooooo. Cooooooffffffeeeeeeeeeeeee,” I repeated, my arms flailing in the direction of the sack.

“But I need to – ”

“COOOOOOOFFFFFFFEEEEEEEEEE!” I yelled, as I reached forward and grabbed the sack from my man-servant’s wretched mitts. Botter duly stepped back, as I took the bag and proceeded to bury my head inside its contents.

“Are…are you all right, milord?” Botter asked nervously, as a full ten minutes passed during which I did not move an inch from this position – that is until I felt the cretin’s hand upon my shoulder.

“DO NOT TOUCH ME!!” I bellowed, springing back upright, spraying coffee beans from my mouth as I spoke. “Touch me again, and your hand shall find itself wedged firmly up your anus.”

“Very good, milord.”

“Hmph,” I grumbled, as I finished chewing the beans still in my mouth. “Anything new to report, Botter? Any post?”

“A couple of letters, my lord,” Botter answered, handing me the aforementioned couple of letters. “And a great big sack of mail from your admirers,” he added, placing the large sack on the table. “I am afraid we have lost another post-man, however. He threw his back out bringing that to the door.”

“Pfffft. The Royal Mail really needs to employ stronger men, if you ask me. Unless they are planning to change their name to ‘Royal Female’. HA!” I chuckled, as I flicked through the post disinterestedly. “AH! Look, Botter! A letter from Poppycock Press, my would-be publisher! I imagine they’re writing to offer me a small fortune for the privilege of publishing the manuscript I sent to them.”

I tore open the envelope and skimmed the missive within.

“BALLBAGS!” I roared, hurling the letter aside. “They are refusing to print my masterpiece! They say that it is much to crude and far too depraved for print! Bah, these fellows would not know a good thing if it came up to them, lowered its trousers and excreted a lump of solid gold upon their chests! A pox on them, I say!”

“Maybe you should tone it down a touch, milord, and resubmit? I mean, there is an entire chapter in there where you go into great detail about masturbating over an image of the Queen…”

“TONE IT DOWN?” I bellowed. “I am Lord Likely, not Jane ruddy Austen! I shall simply have to find a publisher with rather bigger balls, is all…”

My tirade was cut short by a knock on the door.

“Go and see who that is, Botter. I wish to fume some more.”

Botter nodded and scurried off to answer the door, while I sat in my chair, looking mean, moody and magnificent.

“It’s Inspector Spunkleford, milord,” Botter said, re-entering the room. “He wishes to see you right away, says it is most urgent.”

“Dear me,” I sighed. “Whatever is it now? Can he not find his way back to Scotland Yard on his own, or something? Fine, send him in.”

Botter nodded smartly, and withdrew, to be replaced by the portly form of Spunkleford.

“Ah, Likely!” boomed the big man, rather too enthusiastically for my aching head.

“Gah! A bit quieter if you could, Spunkleford, there’s a good chap.”

“Ha! Heavy night eh, old friend?”

“What? Why does everyone keep saying that? How can a night be ‘heavy’? Unless you are calling me obese. Are you calling me obese, Spunkleford? I mean, I concede I have developed something of a ‘champagne gut’ of late, but still….”

“Never mind, Likely,” beamed Spunkleford. “‘Tis not important. What is important is this rather interesting case that’s come up…think you’ll be interested, as it’s rather astonishing, you see…”

“Oh?” I said, leaning forward, my ears pricking up at the ‘a’ word. “Do tell.”

“Well, I’ve just come from the scene of a rather brutal murder. Chap seems to have been savagely attacked… but furthermore, he was EATEN.”

“Eton? Well, they’re rather wealthy, those college boys. He was probably mugged, I’d wager…”

“What? No, not ETON, Likely! EATEN. As in devoured. Feasted upon. Chewed up. That sort of thing.”

“Oh.” I paused. “OH!”

“‘Oh!’ indeed, Likely. But wait for it, this whole matter gets stranger still. You see, we have a witness to this ghastly crime, a night watch-man from a nearby clockwork book factory. Saw the whole thing, and he was therefore able to give us a full description of the assailant.”

“Oh! Well, it seems like a rather open and shut case then, Spunkleford. I don’t understand why you’re here, frankly.”

“Ah! Well you see, we got in a sketch artist to draw up a picture of the attacker, as we do in these instances. And…well, take a look for yourself, Likely.”

Spunkleford pushed a drawing across the table. I picked it up, looked at it, rubbed my eyes, and then looked at it again.

“But that’s…”

“…Charles Dickens, yes.”

“But he’s…”

“…been dead for twenty years, yes.”

“But I…”

“…don’t understand how a dead man could possibly murder someone?”

“No, I was actually going to say, ‘…but I really wish you would stop finishing my sentences, Spunkleford. It is terribly irritating’.”

“Oh. Sorry, old boy.”

I pondered upon this latest mystery. Having a world-renowned author embroiled in a murder investigation was astonishing enough to warrant my time and energy, but a DEAD world-renowned author embroiled in a murder investigation? How could I possibly resist?

“I’LL TAKE THE CASE!” I roared, leaping to my feet and then tumbling to the floor in quick succession. “And some more coffee,” I added from my spot on the ground.

- Lord Likely.

Continue on to Part Two…

Wherein A Steak Strikes Strix

Lord Likely — Tue, 22 Sep 2009 07:17:25 +0000

~ Lord Likely and the Bloody Nuisances, Part Four ~

For the previous chapter, please click here.

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

MR. STRIX hissed at me, and opened his mouth to reveal his fearsome fanged teeth. Any doubts I may have had pertaining to the existence of vampires were quickly vanishing in the face of cold, hard, pointy facts.

With another loud hiss, Mr. Strix lunged at me, but I proved much too quick for the blood-sucking bounder, and deftly leapt out of the way. Strix proceeded to fall over a table behind where I’d stood, and then he landed in a rather undignified and un-terrifying heap.

“By Beelzebub’s Acrid Arse-Gas!” I exclaimed as I gathered myself up. “What a turn-up for the books, eh?” I turned to my companions, Inspector Spunkleford and my man-servant, Botter (still clutching his erroneous steak), who were both trembling and white with fear. I believe Botter may have even soiled himself slightly, but I was not prepared to investigate further.

“H-he’s an actual vampire!” Spunkleford stammered, pointing a shaky finger in Strix’s direction.

“Very good, inspector,” I remarked. “I dare say you shall quickly work your way up to commissioner with such remarkable deductive skills.”

“B-but he’s a vampire!” Spunkleford repeated.

“Yes, so we have established. Now, what say we get out of this forsaken hell-hole before that very same vampire recovers himself, hmmm?”

But, even as I spoke it was much too late, and Strix was scrabbling to his feet, his eyes glowing with rage.

“I…musssst…FEEEEEED!” he snarled.

“Quick, Spunkleford! Show him your cross!” I bellowed.

“Erm…all-all right, Likely,” Spunkleford replied nervously, before stepping up in front of Mr. Strix, puffing his chest out in a feeble attempt to look braver than he actually was. “Now…now listen here, my man…I really am rather annoyed, you know…and…and I have found your behaviour quite unacceptable. Furthermore, I – ”

“No, Spunkleford!” I cried out, exasperated. “Don’t show him YOU ARE cross, show him YOUR cross – your damned crucifix!”

Spunkleford nodded his comprehension, but as he went to reach into his pocket to retrieve the cross, Strix was upon him, bashing him out of the way like he was nothing more than a portly, middle-aged rag-doll, and sending him flying into a beam on the other side of the room. That would most assuredly leave a mark, I mused, before refocusing my attention on Strix, who was gliding toward me, his arms outstretched in my direction.

“Oh, for heaven’s sake!” I said. “What is your obsession with me? I dare say Spunkleford had more blood in him than I! I mean you only have to look at him to realise he is positively brimming with the stuff…surely he would make for a fine feast indeed? No?…oh, to hell with it all!” I cried, as I grabbed the raw steak from Botter’s limp grasp, and then brought it sharply across Strix’s face as he leapt at me once more. The full-force of the lump of cow-meat forced Strix to spin round two hundred and forty degrees, at which point he lost his footing and collapsed back onto the table, inadvertently skewering himself on a solid-gold fountain pen which had been resting in an ink-well.

From the diary of Mr. Strix, Vampire.

Owch.

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

Strix let out a piercing shriek, writhed about for a bit, before falling silent and limp on the table.

“Well,” I smiled, hurling the steak back to Botter. “It seems he certainly got the POINT, eh Botter?”

“Very good, milord,” Botter drawled.

“The point…of the pen,” I added.

“Yes, milord.”

“In his chest.”

“Um…yes.”

“And then he died.”

“Erm…”

“Right! Enough quick-fire witticisms! Let us get out of here and – oh-ho? What now?” I exclaimed, as Strix’s body started to steam and crackle noisily, like bacon on a stove, and then – before our very eyes – the corpse began to melt, the skin slipping off the bones and dissolving into smoke.

“Bloody hell!” I remarked.

“I…I think I’m going to be sick…” Botter whined.

At that point, Strix’s maid entered the room, eager to see what all the commotion was about. “What’s all the commotion in here?” she said, confirming my previous sentence. “What’s been happening? Where’s the mast – oh!” Her eyes fell upon the smouldering remains of her former employer, moving her to emit a loud, piercing scream. Thus sated, she swiftly passed out in a dead faint into my manly arms.

“She must have been rather perturbed by the terrible mess,” I hypothesised. “I dare say there’s a good hour or two’s worth of cleaning to be done in here. Poor thing,” I said, stroking strands of the girl’s red hair from her eyes. “Listen, Botter…I shall go and make sure this poor darling is comfortable…you go and check on the inspector. I fear his pride may be slightly bruised, at least if the angle at which he hit that beam is anything to go by.”

“Very good, milord,” Botter nodded, scuttling off to perform my wishes.

“Wha…what happened?” murmured the maid, as she slowly returned to a state of consciousness.

“Do not worry yourself dear,” I cooed sympathetically. “The nightmare is over now – and forever more!”

- Lord Likely.

Next Week in “Lord Likely and the Bloody Nuisances”: The Nightmare is Far From Over!

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