“That’s right, no cock. Not so much as a stump. All of it – gone.”

Sir Marcus Chuffington-Fapps flailed his arms wildly, as he regaled us with the story of his unfortunate encounter with Mrs. Dinklesuck and her blood-thirsty hussies.

We were enjoying a light supper at a local eatery, all of us eating the steak, having respectfully passed on the offer of sausages.

“Those harridans were devising an awful plot, Mr, Likely,”

“Lord,” I corrected.

“Excuse me. Those harridans were devising an awful plot, Mr. Lord.”

I rolled my eyes, but decided to let the error slide, this time. Chuffington-Fapps continued on.

“They had reasoned that the only thing women wanted from men was to feel the thrust of a gentleman’s penis in their quivering lady-holes. Thus, they went on to conclude that if they could somehow remove the penis, and have it as an entirely separate entity, they would be able to pleasure themselves and no longer require the male of the species.”

I spluttered on the glass of whisky I was supping from.

“Why, that is the most ludicrous thing I think I have ever had the misfortune to hear, and I frequently hear Botter talking.” I said.

“Thank you, my lord,” said Botter, trying unsuccessfully to scoop up his gravy using a fork.

“Indeed,” continued Chuffington-Fapps. “Absolute rot and rubbish. But these poor, deluded girls were certain that their plan would result in the country falling under female rule, with a woman Prime Minister at the helm.”

I splurted again.

“I shall be a monkey’s uncle before I willingly take orders from someone with less hair than I.”

“So, they severed your penis and intended to use it for their own onanistic purposes,” asked Spunkleford, taking far too much interest in the seedier side of this tale than I thought was necessary.

“Spot on, Spunkleford,” said Chuffington-Fapps. “They had severed mine, and those of at least a dozen other poor men, and were intending to distribute them through-out the land. Thank heavens you chaps arrived upon the scene, and put paid to their sorry scheme.”

“Well, we wouldn’t have gotten here if it wasn’t for your incredibly clever cryptic letter,” said Spunkleford, trying his best to sound like a proper detective.

“Letter, my dear Inspector?”

“Why, yes, Sir. You are, or are you not, the ‘Mark’ who wrote this missive?” Spunkleford said, handing the letter over for Chuffington-Fapps perusal.

“Hmm. No, Inspector, I’m afraid I am not. I was too busy having my cock hacked off to possibly have the presence of mind to compose a letter of any kind.”

“Oh,” said Spunkleford, visibly deflated.

“Ah, well!” I said, essaying to cover my incorrect deductions. “Then that note probably was just from some psychopath intent on cutting me. At least we still stumbled upon an astonishing adventure!”

Spunkleford brightened.

“And,” I added, a glint in my eye, “All’s well that end’s well, no?”

We laughed and laughed, except Botter.

“I don’t get it,” he protested.

Inevitably, I hit him with a spoon.

– by Lord Likely. These nineteen entries were later serialised in the ‘London Journal of News Items and Limited Illustrations’, in the summer of 1859.

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