01 September 2008
Fists O’Fury
It was a typical, completely unremarkable after-noon in London Town; carriages clattered noisily up and down the cobbled roads, smartly-dressed gentlemen doffed their hats as pretty ladies glided past them, cheeky cockney urchins weaved in and out of crowds, laughing and screaming as they did, while high above their heads Big Ben loudly signalled the hour with three, booming chimes. Meanwhile, Mrs. Eleanor Grunderson stood outside Tightfist & Son’s bank, looked up and observed (to no-one in particular) that it rather looked like it was going to rain.
Completely unremarkable, you see.
Of course, I am not here to chronicle the ordinary and banal. Who would desire to read a publication entitled ‘The Ordinary and Banal Non-Adventures of Lord Likely’? No-ruddy-one, that is who. No, my duty is to regale you with adventures of a distinctly more astonishing nature. Happily for us, shorty after Mrs. Eleanor Grunderson had made her trite observation, something astonishing did indeed manifest itself.
As Mrs. Eleanor Grunderson contemplated the skies, the window of Tightfist & Son’s bank shattered with an almighty smashing sound, as two men crashed through the glass and tumbled into the street outside, where they wrestled and struggled with one another in front of dozens of stunned onlookers.
Mrs. Eleanor Grunderson, however, was more concerned about whether or not she should nip home and retrieve her umbrella.
One of the gentle-men who had just made such an explosive entrance was, of course, my glorious self – Lord Likely, Aristocratic Adventurer and Gentle-Man of Action. The other (considerably less than gentle) man was a bare-knuckle boxer who went by the name of Finnegan ‘Fists’ O’Fury.
O’Fury had, until recently, been rather successful in his chosen sport, earning himself a clutch of awards and trophies for his pugilistic prowess. However, during his last fight, O’Fury sustained a twisted ball-bag, an injury that was to prove so serious that he was unable to continue his brawling career any further.
As his earnings dwindled, O’Fury had decided that he would deploy his skills elsewhere, namely in pursuit of a life of crime. Thus began O’Fury’s reign of terror, where the former boxer robbed several banks over the course of a few weeks, holding the cashiers up with nothing more than a loaded fist, which he threatened to use if he was given any trouble. One foolish banker who refused to cooperate is still looking for his jaw to this very day.
Naturally, as all the police’s efforts to capture the elusive O’Fury had failed, I was bought in by Inspector Albert Spunkleford of Scotland Yard, in the hope that I would succeed where they had cocked it right up. Naturally, I had quickly concocted a brilliant scheme to lure O’Fury to a nearby bank, and well, to cut an increasingly long story short, it ruddy well worked, which is how I wound up smashing through the bank’s window with the fellon in my grasp.
I know. I am cocking well amazing.
“Give it up, O’Fury!” I roared, as we disentangled ourselves from each other. “Your life of crime bally well stops here!”
“Feck you, you stinkin’ bag o’ shite!” spat O’Fury, wiping the sweat from his brow.
“Oh, for the love of buggery,” I sighed. “Can you not just come quietly, you irksome sod? I am really rather exhausted, and I have to be at the opening of an envelope in approximately twenty-seven minutes…”
“If ye want me to stop, yeh’ll have to make me stop!” snarled O’Fury, raising his fists.
“Fine.” I said, and then I calmly strolled over to O’Fury and kicked him right in his injured scrotum.
O’Fury winced, then grimaced, and then gently shook his hips. A broad smile crept across his battered face.
“Bloody hell!” he beamed. “I think ye’ve put me bollock back in place! Yes! I can feel it! Ye’ve feckin’ well cured me, so ye have! Ah! I’ll be able to go back in the ring again! I can win back me title! And maybe, just maybe, I can get back together with me sweetheart Mary, and see little Finny Junior. Thank ye! Oh, thank ye!”
But just as O’Fury was celebrating the realignment of his misplaced man-package, Spunkleford emerged from the bank with several burly policemen, who all decided to pounce upon the boxer, knocking him to the ground, where they then enthusiastically set about his head and body with their truncheons.
“Well you certainly took your cocking time,” I said curtly as Spunkleford strode up to me.
“Sorry, Likely. I thought that I should pay off a couple of bills, being in a bank and all. Saves me getting my ear chewed off by the wife, you know? Still, it looks like you handled yourself pretty well out here.”
“Naturally.”
“Good show, Likely. Good show!” Spunkleford smiled, slapping me heartily on the back.
“Please, do not touch that which you cannot afford, Spunkleford,” I said.
“Ah-ha! Likely, you crease me up!” chuckled Spunkleford. “Oh! And talking of creasing, I believe I have something to show you…hold on…”
Spunkleford rifled through his suit pockets, and then with a triumphant cry removed a wedge of folded-up paper from his coat pocket.
“Here it is! We received news of the murder of a school-teacher that took place last night,” Spunkleford informed me, unfolding the sheets slowly. “I wouldn’t bother you with this, of course, only I believe that this case may be of particular interest to you.”
“Oh, really?” I asked, my interest piqued. “What makes you think that?”
“Well, firstly, the murder took place at your old school – St. Bumthrusty’s School for Boys!“
“Really? Good heavens!”
“Quite. And secondly, there was a note was left on the body, which was addressed to you…here,” Spunkleford said, handing me a small piece of paper. I raised a quizzical eyebrow, and opened up the note.
This is what it read:
“By Goliath’s gonads!” I cried. “This is awful. Simply awful.”
“I know,” Spunkleford agreed, shaking his head.
“Look at this! Whoever penned this missive has used the possessive pronoun ‘your’ as opposed to the correct, contracted form of ‘you are’. It renders the whole thing nonsensical! I mean, ‘Likely, Your Next‘? Your next what? The writer clearly is a meat-headed poltroon. I am surprised he could even hold a pen, to be honest.”
“Never mind that, Likely!” Spunkleford cried. “This fiend clearly has plans to murder you!”
“Oh yes. Well there is that too, I suppose,” I replied.
- Lord Likely.
Next Time in The Astonishing Adventures of Lord Likely: His Lordship Goes Back to School!
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