Read on, dear readers…

“YOU had better not be lying to me, Swishbuckle,” I growled, training the blade of my origami cutlass at the bootblack’s neck. “Or next time, I shall bring a real cutlass and slice off your balls, and force feed them down your awful throat.”

“I ain’t lying, sir! Honest! Mrs. Bapps is deranged, sir! She’s a sick and twisted individual!”

“Hmmm,” I said, lowering my paper sword. “So what is in this for you, Swishbuckle? Why are you working for Mrs. Bapps?”

Mr. Swishbuckle lowered his head meekly. “She…she lets me keep the shoes, sir.”

“What?”

“I…I love shoes, sir. I mean…I really love shoes, if you get my meaning…”

I paused a moment to try and get Mr. Swishbuckle’s meaning, and then got it, and instantly regretted getting it.

“Are you trying to tell me that you are a shoe-fucker, Swishbuckle?”

Mr. Swishbuckle nodded slowly. “Aye, sir. I…I cannot help myself, sir. That is why I became a bootblack. I just love shoes. I love the smell of the leather, the feel of their tongues against my skin…”

“Good God, man!” I exclaimed. “And you claim Mrs. Bapps is the sick and twisted one? Talking of which, I had better go and pay Mrs. Bapps a visit, I feel. I shall deal with you later, Swishbuckle….Swishbuckle?”

I looked down to see Mr. Swishbuckle gently licking the top of my boot, his hands straying perilously close to his groin.

“Argh! Shoo, shoo!” I cried.

“That’s it, sir!” the bastard bootblack panted. “Keep talking dirty!”

“Gah! Get away, your depraved hound!” I yelled, kicking Mr. Swishbuckle square in the mouth, dislodging a couple of teeth in the process. The swine thus subdued, I made a hasty exit.

There are some truly disgusting perverts out there, you know.

I STRODE into Mrs. Bapps’ bakery once more, my heroic return rather diminished somewhat by the cheery tring of the shop’s bell. Mrs. Bapps looked up and flashed a rather saucy smile at me, which almost made me want to bend her over the counter and roger her senseless. But, somehow, my sense of justice prevailed.

“Mrs. Bapps! The game is up, you sexy fiend!”

“Game? What game?” asked another voice. I turned around to find Inspector Spunkleford innocently chomping on a sandwich, containing a mystery meat which I could only assume to be the flesh from some poor swine’s feet.

“Inspector, this woman is a lunatic, and has been using the hacked-off feet of the bootblack’s victims in her baked goods!”

“Really?” said Spunkleford, taking another bite from his sandwich.

“Really,” I repeated.

“Good heavens!” Spunkleford gasped, still chewing upon his food. I watched patiently as my grizzly news was processed by Spunkleford’s rather sluggish brain. His eyes widened in horror. “Then that means…”

I nodded. Spunkleford grimaced, then spun around and proceeded to be violently sick all over a nearby table. I left Spunkleford to empty the contents of his stomach in peace, while I went to apprehend Mrs. Bapps.

“As for you, m’dear,” I said, as Mrs. Bapps continued about her work. “I am afraid you shall have to accompany me to the police-station…”

“And what if I refuse?” purred Mrs. Bapps.

“Then I shall have to take you by force!”

“I rather like the sound of that,” whispered Mrs. Bapps.

“Fine!” I snapped striding back over to Spunkleford who had, by now, managed to regain his composure. “Spunkleford, your handcuffs, if I may.”

Spunkleford nodded and groggily handed me the handcuffs. I muttered a ‘thank you’ and marched back over to Mrs. Bapps.

“That’s it, Likely! Handcuff that harlot at once!” Spunkleford cheered as he watched me go about my duty. “Yes, yes, chain her to the stove – capital idea! Oh yes, you had better frisk her as well, check she has no weapons about her person, eh? Good show! Yes…yes…I must say, you are doing a rather thorough job there, Likely….Good God, man! I don’t think she will be hiding any weapons up there! My word! Now what are you doing? Is that your pistol you have taken out of your trousers, there? Wait a moment! That is not a pistol at all! Why, that’s your…goddammit, Likely! Stop that! Don’t put it in there! Stop it! Stop it at once!”

Naturally, I ignored Spunkleford’s demands and continued thrusting wildly at Mrs. Bapps’ hindquarters, until I came to an explosive climax which nearly wrenched the very stove from the wall. Thus relieved, I was able to think with a slightly clearer mind, and could refocus on the case in hand.

“Right then, my dear, while you are manacled to the stove in such a fashion, I think you might be able to answer some questions pertaining to the…great big knockers!“

“Sorry?”

“This cake!” I continued, pointing out a cake which was cooling on a tray on the counter beside me. “It looks exactly like a pair of breasts!”

“Oh, yes,” said Mrs. Bapps. “I made it for you, your lordship. Thought you might like it! Go on, have a taste! I promise there are no feet in that particular cake.”

“Hmmm…I shall just have a nipple,” I answered, breaking off a piece and putting it in my mouth. “Mmmm. yes, very delicious indeeed, I must say. Now, where was I? Ah, yes, your crrrrime. Crime. Oh my, I do feel peculiar…” I said, as my vision began to blur.

“Oh, silly me,” Mrs. Bapps smiled. “I forgot to tell you! While there are indeed no feet in that cake, there were rather a lot of sleeping pills baked into it. How stupid of me! It must have slipped my mind, sir…”

“You whorrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrr-” I began, before I completely blacked out, and crashed to the floor.

- Lord Likely.

What Should Lord Likely Do Now?
( polls)

Well, dear readers, now YOU must help to shape this most astonishing of adventures! Simply select one of the options above, and then click ‘vote’ to cast your…well, vote. After the poll has closed, the most popular choice will be the one pursued in the very next chapter of Lord Likely’s Incredible Inter-Active Adventure! Exciting, yes? YES.

Furthermore, if you leave a comment outlining your choice (and the reasons therefore), then one specially-selected commentator will be selected to receive a FREE link to their website or blog in the next thrilling chapter! Woooooh!

Last Week’s Worthy Winner: Mr. Max, he of the brilliant British Speak web-log, who has seen fit to carry out a full and thorough investigation of Lord Palmerston…click here to discover more!

Toodle-pip!

“RIGHT then, Squire,” said the brutish oaf in front of me, waving his hacksaw menacingly in my face. “You’re going to sit still and let me relieve you of your feet.”

“I am afraid that simply will not happen,” I eventually replied. “I have grown rather attached to my feet. In fact, you might say that they have become a part of me.”

“Pffft. Whacha going to do, read me to death?”

It should be noted at this point that I am something of an expert in the Japanese art of paper-folding – or origami, as it is known. I meant to mention this a while ago, but it had somehow slipped my mind. Possibly due to booze.

It was whilst travelling that I met Master Ai-Phor, a wise and learned old man who was a teacher in the art of origami. Naturally, he sensed something special in me, and so begun my careful tutelage under Master Ai-Phor’s watchful eye, and his other slightly-less watchful eye.

I started with the basics – folding a piece of paper in half, then in four – but I was clearly a gifted student, for in no time at all I was able to create far more complex paper sculptures, from swans and doves; to intricate, finely-detailed models of Buckingham Palace, including an anatomically-correct figure of Her Majesty, the Queen.

Despite my undeniable flair with paper, I was eventually banished from Master Ai-Phor’s school. I had gotten completely and utterly rat-arsed on some Saki, which – along with a particularly heavy meal I had eaten that night – conspired to give me a severe case of the shits. I headed straight for the lavatory, but after having expelled the contents of my colon, I realised that there was no toilet paper to be found. Luckily, using my incredible paper-manipulation skills, I managed to locate a couple of old scrolls which I swiftly transformed into paper with which to wipe my poop-splattered posterior. Master Ai-Phor was far from impressed with my incredible initiative, revealing that the old scrolls were, in fact, hundreds of centuries old and had been passed down from generation to generation of his family. He was not terribly pleased to find them now smeared with effluence, no matter how noble and prestigious it may have been

Anyhow, despite being unceremoniously expelled from Master Ai-Phor’s school, I had not forgotten those paper-folding skills, and thus I was able to quickly turn my copy of The London Illustrated Picture-Post News into an thoroughly convincing cutlass.

“Stand back, you blaggard!” I roared, waving my makeshift weapon in the bounder’s face.

“‘S very impressive,” the fellow noted, entirely correctly. “But that ain’t gonna stop me!”

The cad advanced upon me, and so I had no choice but to slice at him with my creased-sheet cutlass. The swine staggered back in shock, clutching his arm.

“Ya…ya bloody cut me!” he whimpered.

“Oh, don’t be such a ponce,” I retorted. “‘Tis just a paper-cut, I’ll warrant.”

“Some paper-cut!” the man replied, moving his hand so that I could see the wound. Surely enough, there was now quite a deep gash in his limb. Good lord, I thought. I am even better at this origami lark than I had first thought.

“Well…quite. Now, unless you want more of the same, you skank-infected carbuncle, I suggest you cooperate with me fully, understand?”

“U-understood!” the man whined.

“Good. Now who are you? What is your name?”

“Isn’t…isn’t that just the same question twice?” the man replied.

“Ah-hem!” I coughed, holding my slightly crumpled cutlass.

“Alright, alright!” the fellow bleated. “My name is William Swishbuckle. I’m…I’m a bootblack by trade, sir. And this,” he gestured to the small boy by his side. “This is me apprentice, Jack.”

“I see, I see. And what, prey tell, are the two of you doing stalking the streets of London, stealing people’s feet, hmmm?”

“I…I…I…”

“Out with it, man!” I yelled, thrusting my cutlass at the wretch’s neck, letting the point come to a rest by his throat.

“She made me do it! She made me do it!” the pathetic creature wailed.

“She? She? She who, exactly?”

“That baking lady, sir. Mrs. Bapps. She made me do it!”

“Mrs. Bapps?” I repeated, recalling the comely lass and her heaving bosom, which instantly gave me a ferocious hard-on. “But why? What has she got to do with this sorry affair?”

“She’s demented, sir,” the bootblack whimpered. “She demanded we get her human feet for her bakin’…said they was a ‘special ingredient.’“

I felt my stomach churn at the very notion. Could it be possible? Was Mrs. Bapps really a foot-baking fellon? Or was Mr. Swishbuckle telling lies? I would have to probe deeper…

- Lord Likely.

How Should Likely Further His Investigations?
( surveys)

Well, dear readers, now YOU must help to shape this most astonishing of adventures! Simply select one of the options above, and then click ‘vote’ to cast your…well, vote. After the poll has closed, the most popular choice will be the one pursued in the very next chapter of Lord Likely’s Incredible Inter-Active Adventure! Exciting, yes? YES.

Furthermore, if you leave a comment outlining your choice (and the reasons therefore), then one specially-selected commentator will be selected to receive a FREE link to their website or blog in the next thrilling chapter! Woooooh!

Last Week’s Worthy Winner: Mr. Scaryduck, who is a thoroughly good egg (or was, at any rate) and has alerted me to a terrible injustice which may well be rectified soon. Well done, that duck!

Toodle-pip!