25 June 2008
The Italian Stallion
June 20th, 1857.I was in some exceptionally deep excrement.
Was it really at all possible that I had gambled away the ownership of my entire Estate whilst off my Lordly tits on booze in Italy? Could I really have been that inebriated? Or were the two Italian miscreants currently taking up residence in my house talking complete and utter, gold-plated bollocks?
“You, sir, are lying through your filthy spaghetti sauce-stained teeth,” I ventured.
The thin man smiled, his gold tooth sparkling in the afternoon sun.
“Oh really, Meeester Likely?” he said. “Maybe this will satisfy any doubts you have!” With that, the fiend produced a crumpled document from his coat pocket, and waved it in my face. “Read this and then proceed to weep, signore.”
I snatched the paper from the man’s hand, and read it over. It appeared to be some sort of contract, with my unmistakably lavish signature at the bottom of it. It was rather reassuring to see that my penmanship clearly did not suffer when I was completely pissed.
“Hold no one twatting moment,” I said, as I read through the contract. “It says here that I entered into a penis-wrestling match with your man Rocko, here. What the Dickens?”
“Penis wrestling. It’s-a like wrestling, but with penises.”
“I understand that much, you wretched swine,” I sniffed. “What I fail to understand is how I lost. My Lord Palmerston is the better of any todger in this entire continent – nay, the globe.”
“Heh,” smirked the Italian. “You said preeety much the same-a thing on the day. Except you were slurring far more, of course. Once again, you underestimate the sheer strength and power of my friend’s massive penis.”
“Oh, really?” I smiled, crumpling the contract up in my fist. “Well I shall be sure not to do that again.” Then, as quick as a flash, I spun round and kicked Rocko right in the plums.
It was a spectacularly fluid and graceful manouevere, but it was to prove to be exceptionally foolhardy, as my foot connected with something so incredibly hard that I could not help but to yelp out in pain, while Rocko stood perfectly still, unflinching.
“FUCK ME!” I yelled, nursing my injured foot in my hands. “What in the name of the Pope’s piss-hole has he got down there?”
“My cock,” Rocko smiled.
“They don’t call him ‘Rocko‘ for nothing, Meeester Likely,” the other man chuckled. “Now, maybe you can be a good little lord, and admit defeat graciously, eh? And then, get your stinky English backside off of my property!”
“You may have won the battle, but you have not won the war!” I jeered, as I limped away, with my man-servant trying gamely to support me as I went. “Me and my Lord Palmerston shall return, and when we do, we shall leave you in such a ruined state that the Colosseum will look positively brand-new in comparision. Capiche?“
“Bar-keep!” I yelled, slamming my fist on the counter of my local public-house, The Cock and Balls. “I demand some of your strongest alcoholic beverages, and some of your sluttiest whores post-haste! I have an aching desire to get blind, roaring drunk, and reassert my manhood right away.”
“Very good, milord,” said Blind Trevor, the landlord, who is must be noted was neither blind, nor actually called Trevor, but had assumed the nickname under the assumption that it made him sound more amiable and approachable.
His real name was Rupert. Nobody likes a Rupert.
“Milord,” said Botter, as we took our drinks to a nearby table and waited for Blind Trevor to find some prostitutes. “Are you sure this is wise? Getting completely drunk got you into this mess after all….”
“Botter,” I replied, pausing to take a sip from my beer. “I have been booted out of my family home, and have suffered a terrible blow against my manhood. At least allow me to get so totally sloshed that I can forget any of this happened.”
“Come on, milord! We’re wasting time here! You should be out there, at the Likely Estate, fighting for your very home! If not for you, then for all of the Likelys who have e’er dwelled there.”
“Botter, I fear you are extremely close to having your speaking privilages revoked. Now, do be a good chap and let me be. I shall drink myself to a stupor, and then I plan to tunnel the whores so vigourously that they can barely walk again…”
I lowered my beer slowly, an idea slowly forming in my magnificent brain.
“Tunnel! Tunnel. TUNNEL! Of course! By Jupiter’s Jizz-pole, we’ve got them!”
“What?” Botter asked, as I leapt to my feet. “What is it milord?”
“There’s an old tunnel that leads from the village hall all the way to the old library on my Estate! My great-great-great-great grandfather had it built during the English Civil War, don’t you know?”
“Really? Was it built so he could get his family safely out of the Estate without being attacked by Roundheads?”
“No, it was so he could sneak slatternly young ladies into the house in the evening, and indulge in all-night orgies the likes of which would make Marquis de Sade blush. The point is, the tunnel still exists, so we can easily get back inside my abode, and drive those filthy Italians from the Estate! It is almost too facile. Quick! Let us depart to the Village Hall!”
“Oh. So you won’t be needin’ these two, then?” said Blind Trevor, who had since returned with two completely corking young women for my pleasure.
“Well…it can’t hurt to get a bit of tunneling practice in beforehand,” I beamed. “Ladies, shall we?…”
- Lord Likely.
Next Time in The Astonishing Adventures of Lord Likely: Journey to the Centre of the Hearth!
humor-blogs.com keeps trying to tunnel in here, but luckily it can’t quite get it’s massive backside through the hole.
