Having pumped the incredibly freakish Jennifer, the Incredibly Freakish, and filled her with so much of my man-cream that she was nothing more than a walking, human éclair, I decided that it was high-time for a little light refreshment.

I headed back to the scrap-yard, where I found my man-servant, Botter, already getting a head-start on the boozing.

“Botter, what in the name of Her Majesty’s regal fanny do you think you are doing, man?” I snapped.

“I…I’m ‘aving a drink, milord.” Botter replied.

“And where, pray tell, is mine, hmmm?” I enquired.

“Um…I…well, you were busy, so I thought…erm…” Botter stuttered.

“You did not think, Botter. I know for a fact that you are entirely incapable of anything as taxing as thinking. Had you actually thought, then you would have remembered that you are my servant, and thus your entire purpose in your pointless, vapid existence is to serve me, and ensure my constant and continued comfort and contentment. This being the case, I would have hoped that at the very least you would have gotten me a beer, if not many. Do you understand, Botter?”

“Sorry, milord,” Botter replied, sheepishly.

“And?…” I added.

“Would…would you like my beer, milord?” Botter said, offering me the bottle he had been drinking.

“That is much more like it,” I swiped the bottle from my man-servant’s filthy mitt. “You shall only receive a mild thrashing when we get back home now.”

“Milord is much too forgiving and kind,” Botter replied.

“And sexually attractive. Do not forget that.”

“And sexually attractive,” Botter repeated.

I nodded my approval, and began to swig on the bottle of beer. Although I had gone for several hours without any alcohol of any sort passing my lordly lips, this particular brand of beer was doing little to refresh me. It was warm and slightly nutty tasting, but in the absence of any other booze I drank up the entire bottle, and tossed the empty container upon the floor.

“Hmm, I have had better,” I declared, wiping my mouth with a handkerchief. “To be honest, that was akin to drinking tramp’s piss. Still, we are in dire need of alcoholic beverages for my celebratory shindig, so I suggest we gather as much of this beer as we can carry, and take it back to the Likely Estate, post-haste. Tell me, Botter, where did you get that bottle from?”

“Well, that’s the funny thing, milord. For a bunch of homeless geezers, these fellahs certainly have a lot of beer at their disposal. Flakey Jim gave me that bottle, an’ said there was plenty more where that came from.”

“Well, I dare say that these wretches spend each and every ill-gotten shilling on nothing but booze,” I reasoned. “Either that or they steal it all. Come, Botter, let us go and gather together as much beer as we can carry, and get back to glorious civilization as quickly as possible.”

Botter and I traipsed up and down the scrap-yard for what felt like an age, and in all that time we found neither any more beer, or any of the other filthy vagrants with whom we had become acquainted.

“Where in the name of King Solomon’s Colon is everyone?” I said. “It is not as if they have jobs to go to, or anything.”

“Why don’t we try in there, milord?” Botter suggested, pointing to a large, disused warehouse at the end of the yard.

“It looks incredibly ominous and frightfully perilous,” I observed. “Yes, let us go there immediately.”

And so, we went there immediately.

“You go in first, Botter,” I said as we stood outside the warehouse’s doors. “Should there be any crazed lunatics lurking within, I would rather they lopped off your face rather than mine. My face is far too handsome to be sliced up and worn by a deranged psychopath.”

Botter sighed, and cautiously opened the doors. He peered inside, then quickly withdrew his head and turned to me excitedly.

“Milord! You have to see this!” Botter cried.

I pushed past my grubby associate, and strode into the warehouse. The entire place was lined with crate upon crate of beer, stacked up to the very ceiling.

“Fuck me in a Turkish bath, that is rather a considerable quantity of alcohol. One far cruder than I may even describe it as a ‘shitload’,” I said, picking a bottle of beer out from an open crate beside me.

“It’s a shitload!” Botter said.

“Exactly,” I agreed, popping open the bottle and drinking the contents. “Eugh, this stuff tastes just as revolting. Still, needs must, and all that.”

As I opened another bottle, Botter wandered deeper into the warehouse, gazing around him in awe. He disappeared behind some crates for a while, then suddenly he was back, looking as white as a ghost. A stinking, foul ghost with terrible hair.

“Milord, you’d better come with me!” He whispered, pulling at my arm.

“Unhand me, Botter! I am quite capable of walking, thank you ever so much,” I snapped, as I staggered forth, and then crashed into a pillar. “Blow me, this beer appears to be far more potent than I had given it credit for.”

I followed Botter as he led me through the warehouse, and into another, previously unseen, room. Botter pointed inside.

“What is it, Botter?” I said, swigging from the bottle in my hand. “What ish it?“

I walked into this new room, completely unprepared for the sight that would greet me.

Around the entire circumference of the room were dozens upon dozens of unfortunate homeless urchins, all chained up and either asleep or unconscious. They were all stripped completely naked, with tubes affixed to their genitals, through which their urine was being drawn into a large vat in the centre of the room. The vat itself had a complicated-looking pumping mechanism affixed to it, which was taking the liquid up from within the container, and depositing it into bottles moving slowly along on a conveyor belt.

Bottles just like the one I was currently drinking from.

“Shitting Christ!” I yelled, spitting out a mouthful of beer all over the back of my man-servant’s head. “No wonder this tastes like tramp’s piss! It is tramp’s piss!”

I felt sick and revolted, and my head was spinning so fast I feared it would fly off of my neck and fly around the room.

“Focking bash-tardshhh,” I slurred, and then I blacked out completely.

- Lord Likely.

Next Time in The Astonishing Adventures of Lord Likely: Likely is drunk. Very drunk INDEED.

Presenting gaup - another quality venture from the cads responsible for these Astonishing Adventures.

Come, See His Lordship’s Cock and Balls! His lordship has very kindly decided to let all of you join him in The Cock and Balls (his preferred drinking establishment) for light and heavy refreshments, chit-chat and barely-concealed flirting. Do the honourable thing, and visit the Cock and Ball Inn right NOW! Many thanks.

Lord Likely would like to give his warm and incredibly moist thanks to Random Chick, for seeing fit to bestow him with this fine award right here:

Many thanks indeed, m’dear! The fact you have noticed how very ‘cool’ his lordship is has made him incredibly hot!

His lordship would like to take this opportunity to give his hardened, fully-engorged thanks to his loyal readers, for their continued support over the past year. His lordship is truly grateful, and wished that he could penetrate each and every one of you in return. Cheers!

The Further Scrawlings of Mr. A.D Fanton:
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The Best Bit of the Internet (R.I.P)

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December, 1856.

It was Christmas Eve, and I was in London Town, doing some last-minute Christmas shopping, for myself, of course. I had thus far treated myself to a solid-gold moustache comb, five bottles of whisky and a particularly pornographic pamphlet entitled ‘Shoeless Hussies’. All being told, it was proving to be a most successful expedition.

“Can you spare a penny, guv?” croaked an awful, wizened old creature as I passed by, engrossed in my copy of Shoeless Hussies.

“Pardon?” I asked.

“Can you spare a penny, guv?” repeated the beggar.

“Why yes, I most certainly could spare a penny. I shan’t, however, as you are much too ghastly and disgusting to waste even ha’penny on.” I said, scornfully.

“Oh, c’mon, guv! It’s Christmas after all! Surely you can spend a penny on a poor, crippled, homeless man?”

I stopped and slowly turned to face the repellent being, a smile creeping across my lordly lips.

“Ah, but of course,” I beamed, gently placing the packages upon the floor. “I should only be too happy to oblige.”

With that, I pulled down my trousers, unsheathed my proud Lord Palmerston and began to urinate most forcibly upon the homeless wretch.

“I must confess, it does indeed feel good to spend a penny on the unfortunate,” I beamed as I continued to piss upon the foul fellow. “Who could have guessed that charity would feel quite so rewarding?”

The putrid pauper spluttered and coughed as my wondrous waters cascaded upon his filthy face.

“Agh! Stop it, stop it, please! I ‘as my dignity, y’know!”

“Oh, be quiet,” I snapped as I continued my evacuations. “Some people would pay huge amounts of money to be pissed upon by a lord. You should consider yourself to be very fortunate indeed!”

With my bladder now emptied, I withdrew my Palmerston and pulled my trousers back up. “Merry Christmas!” I smiled, tipping my hat. The beggar grudgingly tipped his cap in return, my urine pouring off of it as he did so.

My charitable work thus concluded, I set off, whistling Christmas ditties as I went.

I was still laughing about the incident when I finally arrived back at the Likely Estate later that afternoon. I was in extremely high spirits when I entered my luxurious mansion, a fact that did not escape my bumbling twazzle-stick of a man-servant, Botter.

“You seem very chipper, milord,” he observed.

“And why shouldn’t I be? It is the season to be jolly, after all!” I beamed, handing him my hat and coat. “Plus, I did get to urinate all over a homeless man today. All in all, I had a rather good day!”

“I see,” said Botter.

“Ah, Botter!” I exclaimed, as I headed to the drinks cabinet in my living room. “Another year draws to a close. And what a year, eh? What a year. We’ve certainly had our share of adventures, haven’t we, hmmm? Killer prostitutes, female pirates, homosexual Indians, mad Russians, gunfights, parties…”

“…intercourse with Abraham Lincoln…” Botter added.

“Yes, intercourse with Abra-” I stopped. “Uh, let us never speak of that particular escapade ever again, lest you lose a bollock, Botter.”

“Fair enough, milord.”

“Good chap!” I cried, throwing myself onto my favourite chair. “Yes….we’ve certainly been through a lot this past year,” I mused, sipping from a recently-poured glass of whisky. “And do not think that I have overlooked your continued loyalty and support through it all, Botter. I have put a little something extra in this month’s pay-packet, as a token of my appreciation.”

I threw an envelope across the room to my man-servant, who tore it open with almost child-like fervour.

“Oh, milord!” He said as he opened the envelope. “I don’t know what to say…I…I…”

Botter stopped as he tipped out the contents into his hand. I watched as he pushed the few coins inside around his palm, somewhat despondently.

“Um, milord, I don’t mean to question you, but this seems like my normal salary…I…I thought you said there was something extra?…”

“And so there is!” I grinned, bounding across the room. “Look,” I said, leaning over Botter’s shoulder and pointing at his outstreched palm. “There.”

“Where?”

“By the newborn baby Jesus, are you blind, man? THERE.”

“Do you mean…this hair, milord?” Botter asked, carefully lifting out a curly black strand from between the coins.

“Exactly!” I cried. “Isn’t it a beauty, Botter? That, my good fellow, is one of my very own pubic hairs. Treasure it well, Botter. Treasure it well!”

“Oh. Uh, thank you, milord.” Botter mumbled.

“Not at all, Botter, not at all! It is the least I could do.”

“I can’t argue with that,” grumbled my man-servant, glumly.

“Well, I’m off to bed now, Botter. I want to be up bright and early in the morning, in order to get in a full day’s drinking. Goodnight!”

With that I ascended the staircase, leaving Botter to enjoy his most magnificent of gifts.

I was enjoying a rather erotic dream involving Queen Victoria, my todger, a small Persian fellow and a large vat of custard when I was rudely roused from my slumber by a noise emitting from outside my chamber door. I silently cursed the unseen offender, and picking up a nearby candle, I ventured to the door to confront the bounder responsible.

“Botter,” I said sternly. “If that is you scratching at my door, I swear I shall batter your baubles.”

I was about to turn the door-handle, when suddenly something swooped right through the wood and into my room.

“Shit on a cake!” I cried. “What in the name of the Virgin Mary’s untouched vadge is going on?”

“Looooord Liiiikely…” wailed a voice, as a ghostly white form appeared before my eyes. “Looooord Liiiiikely….“

“Yes, yes,” I snapped. “That is I. What in the blue-blazes do you want, confound it?”

The ghostly form slowly began to assume the shape of a female, and not an unattractive one at that. She seemed to resemble an angel or a fairy, as she sported a large pair of wings upon her back, and a large pair of tits on her front.

“Loooord Liiiikely…” the ghoul continued. “You are a terrible man, Lord Likely, and you have…AN ASTONISHINGLY IMPRESSIVE ERECTION.”

“Pardon?” I said. The apparition pointed at my groin, where Lord Palmerston was standing proud, most definitely wide-awake. “Oh yes, so I do,” I concurred.

“That…is huge,” observed the female phantom, running a spectral finger across her lifeless lips. “I mean, just enormous.”

“Yes, I know.”

“It…I…good heavens!” the ghost continued, fanning her face with her hand.

“I do not believe we’ve been properly introduced,” I said. “I’m Lord Likely, a fact you seem to already know…and you are?…”

“Oh! Yes, of course. I’m Past. Uh, the ghost. The Ghost of Christmas Past,” replied the flustered phantasm.

“Charmed,” I said. “And what can I do for you, my dear?”

“Well,” replied the spirit, her gaze not moving from my tumescent todger. “I was…I was supposed to chastise you for being a wicked man…”

“Oh really?” I whispered, moving nearer to the angelic apparition. “You have not given me much opportunity to be wicked, yet…”

“No…no, really, listen,” stuttered the spirit. “I am supposed to warn you that if you do not change your horrid ways…”

“Yes?” I said, edging closer, my fully-aroused penis almost touching the ghoul.

“Then…”

“Yes?”

“Then…oh, forget it!” cried the exasperated entity. “I do not want you to change one bit, Lord Likely. I want you to be wicked. I want you to be wicked with ME, right NOW!” she panted, throwing me back onto my bed using her supernatural powers. Naturally, I was only too happy to oblige, and so I set about channeling the spirit all through the night.

I cannot quite recall the actual physics of our love-making, nor how I was able to engage in intercourse with a ghost. I do recall that she was a lively little minx in the sack, far more lively than some of the living ladies I have humped in my time, I can tell you. I do faintly remember grabbing onto her wings at one point, whilst roughly taking her from behind, while she moaned and wailed like…well, like a ghost. A ghost getting the pumping of her after-life.

I awoke with a start the next morning, as the sound of church bells in the distance heralded the beginning of Christmas Day. I rubbed the sleep from my eyes, and glanced across at the other side of my bed. It was empty, practically undisturbed from the night before. Had my erotic exertions with the Ghost of Christmas Past all been a figment of my fevered imagination, I wondered.

I moved to get up out of the bed, when I felt something sticky near my groin. I looked down, and saw a small pool of some gloopy, gooey substance. Ectoplasm!, I thought. Proof indeed that I had not dreamt up the entire scenario. I really had fucked a phantom! Oh, joy of joys!

However, on closer inspection, it transpired that the sticky substance was simply my own exalted ejaculate, and not ectoplasm as I had first assumed. I sighed.

Ah well. Whatever the truth behind my supernatural encounter, it was now Christmas Day, and as I listened to a chorus of carol-singers gently singing ‘O Little Town of Bethlehem‘, I made a vow to myself. I made a vow to change.

Specifically, I made a vow to change my pants, for they were soaked through with my spaff. After that, I resolved to throw my own shit down upon those infernal carol-singers, and then go and deliver a festive beating to Botter.

I do so love this time of year.

Merry Christmas, dear readers, and Lord bless you, every one.

– Lord Likely.

Post-script: if you are wondering what became of Mr. Silas Surprise and The Curious Case of the Conjuring Calamity, then simply know this: I beat seven shades of effluence out of that magical bastard, and saved the day again. Well, what else did you expect?

Attention! His lordship is one of the many rogues featured in the marvelous new publication, Revealing the Human Behind the Avatar – learn more about it here!

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As Madam Darkness took me in her cold embrace, I came to recall my previous romantic entanglements, and how they came to end.

I shall now record a selection of them here, as a warning to other men, lest they too are ensnared in the awful traps frequently laid by the female of the species under the guise of ‘love’.

Dorothy Mangletooth: Miss Mangletooth was a fine lady who caught my eye during an elaborate ball I had thrown in the summer of 1846. Miss Mangletooth had inquired as to whether I was in the habit of holding such wondrous balls, to which I replied, “No, usually it’s the women who hold my wondrous balls, while they suck upon my glorious penis.” I added a little wink of the eye in her direction.

She slapped me about the face, and then stormed off. I learnt then and there that good humour and the fairer sex do not mix freely.

Louisa Fallopian-Tubes: I had accidentally found myself in the company of Miss Fallopian-Tubes after a night of much heavy drinking. The amount of alcohol running through my veins helped me to ignore the fact that she had a face like a cracked walnut, and a nose that looked like someone had stitched a pig’s ear to the front of her horrid visage.

Nevertheless, I found myself back at Miss Fallopian-Tubes house, and set about engaging her in sexual intercourse. I naturally favoured the dog-style of sex, so as to not be confronted by her hideous countenance during the love-making. This was a most agreeable arrangement for me, but my companion grew increasingly irked by my insistence upon this particular sexual position.

“Why, my Lord, do you continue to perform the sex act upon my behind, may I ask?”

“It is quite simple, my dear,” I replied. “Your behind is easily the least offensive end of your body, and does not make me feel like vomiting quite as much as your mangled features do.”

For some reason unknown to me, Miss Fallopian-Tubes threw me out of the house instantly.

Rebecca de Mimsy: While I try to avoid the ghastly French as much as I can, one of my early visits to the land of the frog-chomping deviants led me to the divine Miss de Mimsy, a beautiful woman who also happened to be the daughter of one of France’s top government ministers.

The differences in our languages proved to be a tad problematic at first, but using the universal language of hand-gestures, I managed to convey to Miss de Mimsy that I wished to penetrate her immediately.

We retired to her boudoir, and stripped ourselves naked. Ever the gentle-man, I asked her if she had any sexual act she would prefer to engage in.

“Oui,” came the reply.

So I pissed on her.

It took two and a half years of furious negotiations between the French and British governments to diffuse a possible return to hostilities between our two nations, and a further five years before I was allowed back into France again.

Women. You cannot live with them, nor can you freely urinate upon their person without their express content.

- Lord Likely.

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Botter and I took a carriage to London Town, eager to get our teeth into another exciting adventure.

Well, I was eager, at any rate. Botter complained about the whole affair, until I silenced him by hitting his testicles with a pipe.

Unlike our carriage ride in our last adventure, this journey passed by without incident. Botter did piss himself after I refused to allow him to stop to relieve himself, which I found highly amusing at first, but when the awful smell of freshly-soiled man-servant began to fill the carriage, I began to regret my misguided prank.

We arrived at the Russian Embassy by mid-afternoon, and were greeted by our old friend, Inspector Albert Spunkleford.

“Likely!” he beamed, taking my hand and shaking it enthusiastically. “Good to see you again, old boy. I got your telegram, although I must say I’m confounded if I could make head or tail of it!”

He reached into his jacket pocket, and produced a crumpled piece of paper.

“Stop, stop, stop, stop, stop, stop, stop, stop, stop stop…and it continues in much the same manner for a whole page!”

“Ah, yes. You see, Spunkleford, I asked Botter to write the telegram, and I helped by prodding him continually with my sword. One has to pass the time somehow, don’t you agree?”

Spunkleford laughed.

“Oh, Likely, you bounder! Now, I fear we must put all jocularities aside, and focus on the mystery at hand.”

“Ivan Romanov’s disappearence?”

“Yes. A most peculiar affair. Mr. Romanov arrived here one morning, then apparently left at lunch-time, looking ‘flustered’ according to a witness. That was the last any bugger saw of him.”

“Witness, Spunkleford?”

“Ah, yes, one of the secretaries…a Miss Eileen Nipples. That’s her, over there.”

Spunkleford indicated to a gorgeous creature exiting the embassy, a woman with long brown hair, long legs and a bosom so large one would have to prepare an expedition to successfully mount them. I felt my Lord Palmerston quiver.

“I feel I should like to…cross-examine this Miss Nipples,” I said, suggestively. “And quite possibly jizz on her tits, as well.”

This case was looking far more interesting than I could have hoped for.

– Lord Likely.

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Now, where was I?

Ah, yes, heading to London Town to track down my would-be assassin.

Well, having gathered our senses after our drunken debacle, Botter and I recommenced our journey. However, after a few hours of aimless wandering, we soon came to the inevitable conclusion that we were lost.

“We are lost, Botter”, I exclaimed. “Furthermore, you appear to have soiled your undergarments during the night, and thus you are now emitting a stench so foul I feel I may have to throw up into my own nasal cavity, so I can longer smell it. To whit, my dear Botter, you stink of shit.”

Botter stopped the carriage to allow me a temporary reprieve from his awful odour. I strolled into a small copse nearby, and drew in a long, hard lungful of the fresh, country air.

Except, to my nose’s horror, all I could smell was urine.

I swiveled round quickly, and swiftly located the source of this latest malodour. I was confronted by a fearful apparition, all unkempt hair and cheap fabrics. The terrible creature lumbered towards me, mumbling in some fearful, unholy tongue.

I swiftly drew my fencing sword, and used it to keep the monster at an agreeable distance, while I loudly summoned Botter to my side.

My man-servant made his entrance, and then to my bewilderment, approached the terrible beast with an outstretched hand.

“Botter!,” I began. “Keep away! We know not what devilry this fiend may enact…”

“Wotcha,” said Botter, addressing the creature. “How’s it going?”

I could only look on, agog, as the two began conversing in what I could only estimate to be some long-dead language.

Botter gave the foul abonimation a friendly pat on the back, and turned to me.

“Your lordship, this here is Albert Spunkleford. He’s Mrs. Spunkleford’s little boy. You remember, right? She was friends with that woman who ran that small bakery in town that made novelty buns shaped like cocks, who was married to Mr. Retch from the council? Y’know, the brother of Waldo Retch, the watch-maker? Who was briefly married to…”

“Cease, Botter, before you recount to me the complete ancestry of every damn soul in the land.”

“Sorry, your Lordship. Anyways, Al’s from London Town, see, but wound up stranded here after visiting relatives. He reckons he knows the way to the Town, sure enough. Could be helpful, sir.”

I eyed up the haggard form of Albert Spunkleford, replete with a rather too recent urine stain about his crotch.

“It is decided, then” I announced. “He travels with us.”

Botter and Al both smiled.

“BUT,” I added, “he travels on the roof.”

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