13 May 2007
The Mystery of the Missing Moustache – Part One
May, 1856
My hangover from the party did not begin to lift until well into the afternoon, when my body decided to clear itself of all remaining toxins by forcing them out through my mouth shortly after lunch.
As Botter departed to wash out the chunks of my stately sick now entangled in his hair, I myself decided to adjourn to my own private bathroom to clean myself up.
I washed my face, and then dried myself off, when I suddenly caught my reflection in the mirror. It was the first time I had seen myself since the party, and I was astounded at just how tired and worn I looked. My non-stop adventuring and drinking was certainly taking its toll on my otherwise beautiful visage.
Then, I noticed something that made me quite literally say the word ‘fuck’ very loudly indeed.
My moustache was missing.
Where once my top lip had proudly borne an enviable bounty of bushy bristles, there was now nothing, not so much as a single, solitary hair.
My brilliant mind clicked into action, frantically trying to recall how and when such a tragedy could have occurred. I was almost a hundred per cent certain that I had my moustache firmly attached to my face when I arrived at the banquet last night, and I certainly remembered it still being present when I had accidentally drunk my own urine. Therefore, I deduced, it had vanished somewhen between that particular incident, and my awakening in the morning.
But when exactly? And how? And who had taken my wondrous moustache from me, and why? I decided that only one man could begin to answer my questions, (and I use the word ‘man’ here in its very loosest sense), my useless spunk-bucket of a servant, Botter.
I returned back downstairs to question that useless cretin, making sure to first equip myself with a notepad and a pen, and a ruddy big stick.
- Lord Likely.
