29 January 2010
One Score and Four, Hour Something: Likely’s Lost Hours
8:ooam, 29th of January, 1891.
“UNBEKNOWNST TO you, Likely, I was at that gala ball at Sir Muddick’s abode. I was working undercover with the CTUN, and we had tracked down the Anti-Hat League to that very destination,” explained Felicity Boondoggles, pacing up and down the room.
“Yes!” I exclaimed, my memory seeping back into my head like a runny egg-yolk dribbling over the rest of the egg. “The Anti-Hat League…the bomb There was a bomb in a HAT! Cocking arsery, we’d better get back there, woman!”
“Sit down, Likely,” Felicity urged me, in such a way that I found myself powerless to resist. “Good. Now, after the League had threatened to blow up the house and everyone in it, it seemed you decided to start drinking…”
“Oh yes,” I recalled. “I had been rather parched, my dear – ”
“Then, it seemed you wouldn’t STOP drinking.”
“Oh.”
“Before we knew it, you were completely out of your MIND, staggering about the place, your trousers around your ankles, making a complete…well, ARSE of yourself.”
“I…I was REALLY parched,” I proffered feebly in my defence.
“So, there you were, staggering about like a bloody fool, the League members shouting and screaming at you, the party guests terrified out of their minds…and before we could stop you, you succeeded in knocking the hats off of BOTH of the gentlemen…”
“Ah. So…so are we dead? Is this heavens? It’s terribly disappointing…” I mused.
“From earlier surveillance at Mr. Cockduster’s millinery shop, we already knew which of the two gentleman had been given the booby-trapped hat – Mr. Swallows,” Felicity continued, ignoring me completely. “And somehow – SOMEHOW – by sheer, dumb luck, you decided there and then to urinate on Mr. Swallow’s discarded topper. And somehow – and I do not even know how this is AT ALL possible – in doing so you managed to diffuse the bomb. You are one lucky bastard, Lord Likely.”
“Ah! So all’s well that end’s well, eh?” I beamed. “Well, where’s my reward? I take gold or paper money, but none of that tin nonsense…”
“Hmph.” Snorted Felicity. “You shan’t be receiving a PENNY, your lordship. Thanks to your larks, the Anti-Hat League managed to slip away in the confusion. They’re still out there, Likely…and they will STRIKE AGAIN!”
An awkward silence fell between us suddenly, like a piano wrapped in wool dropped onto the world’s largest cushion. All I could hear was a clock gently ticking somewhere in the room.
“Tits,” I said.
- Lord Likely.
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