29 March 2008
The Astonishing Anger of Lord Likely
or Lord Likely is One: The Final Chapter.
March, 1857.
Having been left a homeless wretch, caked in vomit and piss and with my natural sense of style and grace rent asunder, I was naturally more than a little displeased with those vagrant swines who had placed me in such a position.
In fact, it would not be a terrible understatement to say that I was fucking livid, and dearly wished to crack open some skulls with the nearest blunt instrument.
Talking of blunt instruments, my man-servant Botter met me at the scrap-yard residence of the blasted beggars, as I stormed in later that afternoon. My first inclination was to smash him right in his awful mouth for deserting me in my hour of need, but as he shuffled up to me I noticed he was holding my precious cane, long thought missing by my good self.
“Oh, be still my beating heart! ‘Tis truly glorious to behold you once more! I had feared I had lost you forever, old friend!” I cried out joyously.
“It’s good to see you too, milord,” Botter answered.
“I am not referring to you, you bumbling cock-shaft,” I snapped. “I am referring to my wondrous cane! Give it here at once!”
Botter meekly handed over my prized possession. “There y’are, milord. It got dropped in the tussle, earlier.”
I stroked the top of my cane lovingly (and for once, I am not referring to my penis at this point), and then thwacked Botter across the back of his head with it. Botter yelped in pain.
“Ah, good. It still thwacks properly,” I smiled. “That was for abandoning me earlier, and not coming to my immediate and prompt rescue, you tiny bastard.”
“I-I’m sorry, milord! It just happened so fast and I was trying to hide and – “
Another thwack, another yelp.
“Just be thankful that I have a score to settle with these homeless scoundrels, Botter, else you’d be receiving a full thrashing for your woeful incompetence. As it is, I am saving my full rage for these rough-sleeping rapscallions.”
“Thank you, milord. You are much too kind.”
“I know, I know. Now, where are these wretches hiding? We must go forth and…oh!” I stopped, espying an unopened bottle of beer on the floor beside me. “Hmm, there can be no harm in having a quick drink before I embark upon a vigourous bout of fisticuffs…”
I cracked open the bottle, and raised it to my lips, but before I could sample the golden goodness encased within, Botter leapt at me and knocked the bottle from my hand, sending it crashing down onto the ground, where upon it shattered into a thousand pieces.
Naturally, I punched my man-servant squarely in the face for his troubles.
“What in the name of Captain Fellatio Hornblower do you think you are doing, man?” I roared.
“The beer, milord!” Botter replied, nursing his bloodied nose. “The beer is contaminated with tramp’s piss, don’t forget!“
The stinking oaf was right, of course, but I refused to let him know as much, and simply punched him in the face again.
“That is for using the word ‘piss’ in my presence, when you could have said ‘urine’. I am a very sensitive fellow, you know.”
Botter mumbled an apology from his resting place upon the ground.
“Don’t be too hard on the poor fellow,” came a voice behind me. “There is plenty more beer where that came from, your lordship.”
I spun around to face that filthy cur, Kenneth the Hat, the erstwhile leader of the vile vagabonds. He was joined by a good thirty or so other skanks, all of whom seemed to be cradling a makeshift weapon of some sort – broken sticks, disused mops, discarded bicycle spokes and so on and so forth.
“Oh fuck, fuck and double fucking fuckity-fuck,” I whispered.
“I think the beggars are revolting,” Botter observed.
“Revolting?” I answered. “They are positively vomit-inducing.”
“Go on, your lordship,” Kenneth said, smiling a horrid, broken smile whilst offering me another beer. “Just one more for the road, eh?”
“NEVER!” I roared defiantly. “Your beer is nothing more than an errant fraud, concocted from piss and stink.”
“Heh. You’re very observant, my lord,” Kenneth chuckled. “I should imagine that at this point, you’re wondering exactly why we are making beer out of our own piss, Lord Likely. Well allow me to explain my brilliant plan to you…”
“Do not bother yourself,” I sniffed. “I think I have figured it out. You are brewing a beer so potent it renders a chap completely insensible, and with no recollection of his former life. You no doubt plan to flog this beer to everyone in the land, thus bringing the entire population of Great Britain down to your own awful, shit-stained level, blah blah blah, etcetera, etcetera. I have heard this sort of thing a thousand times over, so if you do not mind can we simply move on to the climactic skirmish, as I am an awfully busy man and I have a party still to organise..”
“Uh, milord,” Botter interjected. “About the party…you went missing for a few days, you see, and the scheduled date for your planned ball has since elapsed quite considerably, so…”
A red mist began to form before my eyes.
“Are you telling me, Botter, that these reprobates have made me MISS my own PARTY?”
“I…I’m afraid so, milord,” Botter confirmed.
I do not know precisely what happened next, as I was suddenly consumed with a rage so powerful that it controlled my every action. From what I have been able to determine from Botter’s eyewitness account, I let out a deafening roar and, cane in hand, ploughed into the amassed vagrants with considerable gusto. It would seem I became something of a blur, swiftly working my way through the rabble, sending bodies flying left and right as I battered them viciously with my cane. Skulls were indeed cracked, noses broken, limbs shattered and organs pulped as I tore through the swine like an ‘Oriental warrior’, in Botter’s own words.
Once that was over, I apparently dragged Kenneth the Hat to the warehouse-come-brewery, wherein I drowned the maleficent miscreant in a vat of his own piss.
“Rest In Piss,” I quipped, as Kenneth The Hat’s body floated lifelessly atop the urinary waters. “Well, Botter, I think I am all done now.” I said, as I returned to my usual, well-composed self. “A jolly fine day’s work, too. I say, this calls for a celebration, don’t you think? We must throw a massive party to-night, and invite all the very classiest people I know. Of course, we shall need some booze…”
I turned to Botter, only to find him running out of the warehouse at top speed, screaming at the top of his filthy lungs.
What a peculiar fellow.
- Lord Likely.
Next Time in The Astonishing Adventures of Lord Likely: Something completely different.
Love for Lord Likely! His lordship would like to pass on his firmest and thickest thanks to ettarose, who took the trouble of including Likely in a fine story of her own composing over at The Edge of Sanity. His lordship would also like to doff his hat and drop his trousers in appreciation of Mr. Damien Riley, from Postcards from the Funny Farm, who rightly cited Likely’s journals as a source of greatness. Many, many thanks to you both! HUZZAH!
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