12 April 2007
Lord Likely: Fugitive
April, 1856
Botter and I tore through the crowded streets of London Town, as if pursued by wild dogs who themselves were being pursued by giant, flaming lions.
“Milord,” puffed Botter, his short flabby legs struggling to match my effortless strides. “Wh-what are we going to do now?”
“We shall have to try and ensconce ourselves, post-haste!” I cried back over my shoulder.
“Are you sure we have time for that sort of thing, my Lord?” Botter wheezed.
“What? Ensconce means ‘hide’, Botter, you shit-brained lunatic!”
“Oh,” Botter replied. “But where, my Lord?”
“Do not worry, Botter. Leave the thinking to me, else we shall truly be doomed.”
We ducked down a side road, threw ourselves against a wall and attempted to catch our collective breaths.
“Right, Botter. I have a plan. There is a friend of mine who lives but three streets from here, and he owes me a big favour after I rescued his wife from a burning out-house. I am confident he will gladly accept us into his inner sanctum.”
“Are you sure we’ll have time for that sort of thing?” Botter asked.
I was about to explain exactly what ‘inner sanctum’ meant, using my fists to clarify my definition, when I suddenly espied a policeman rounding the corner of the street.
“Uh-oh!” whispered Botter. “It’s the fuzz!”
“I think we are safe, Botter,” I said. “I’d wager that our two would-be captors have yet been able to raise the alarm, so comprehensively did I punt their posteriors.”
Botter relaxed for a moment. However, mere seconds later, the policeman spotted us cowering in the shadows, put his whistle to his lips and blew, while frantically pointing in our direction.
“Oh by Satan’s scarlet scrotum!” I sighed. “Word does travel fast in this accursed city.”
The policeman started to run toward us, still excitedly puffing upon his wretched whistle.
“Get ready to run like a bastard, Botter,” I said to my nervous man-servant.
The policeman bore down upon us, but I was well prepared for his advance. Deploying an ancient martial-art move I had perfected in my time in the middle-east, I slammed my palm into the officer’s face, forcing his beloved whistle down into his throat. The stunned constable reeled back, grabbing at his neck, coughing and whistling simultaneously. Eventually, he collapsed to the floor, emitting a shrill, laughably feeble whistle as he fell.
“Looks like that’s the final whistle,” I quipped, with my usual quick-wittedness.
“Shit,” said Botter. “I think you killed him.”
“Nonsense, Botter. I was trained to incapacitate my enemies, not to kill them. He shall be quite alright soon enough, although he may never speak again. Now, let’s cease standing around exchanging exposition-laden dialogue, and continue on to our safe haven.”
And with that, we took to our heels again, running off into an uncertain future.
– Lord Likely.
