24 October 2008
In Which Lord Likely Makes A Fist Of It
September, 1857.“What in the name of all that is sacred and holy do you think you are doing?” bellowed Professor Ventricle, after I had punched him squarely in the face, strongly suspecting that he was none other than my arch-nemesis, Harold Loathsome, in some sort of shoddy disguise.
“Give it up, Loathsome! Your terrible charade is over!” I cried triumphantly.
“You have gone stark, raving bonkers, Likely! How on earth could I possibly be that Loathsome fellow? I’m considerably taller and older, for starters. And look!” protested Ventricle, tugging firmly on his long, grey beard. “It is all my own hair! Are you quite satisfied now?”
I grudgingly conceded that I was indeed satisfied that he was not Loathsome after all. It seemed that my usually faultless deductive powers were somewhat failing me, with this episode following on so closely from my earlier misapprehension about the caretaker being Loathsome.
“I say,” said Mr. Bertrum Gumbumble, my old head-master. “Is this how you conduct all your investigations, Likely? By punching people in the face until you find the felon? For if it is, then I rather feel you had better leave before you incapacitate all my staff…”
“Yes, I suppose you would be happy to get me out of the way, wouldn’t you?” I mused. “Having me completely and utterly out of your hair would suit you rather well, would it not…HAROLD LOATHSOME?“
With that, I delivered a fine upper cut to Gumbumble’s chin, which sent the old fool tumbling backwards onto the ground.
“Egads!” cried Inspector Spunkleford, who was watching the events unfolding before him with a mixture of shock, horror and outright disgust. Meanwhile, I had set about Gumbubmle, and was trying in vain to prove that his balding pate was nothing more than a skin-coloured skullcap, worn to disguise his true identity.
“Bugger,” I said, as I was once again proven to be incorrect in my assumptions.
“Get off me, you blithering idiot!” spat Gumbumble.
“Hmm,” I pondered, as I disentangled myself from the exasperated educator. “I was certain you were Loathsome…damnation, what the devil is wrong with me today? Maybe I am over-thinking this whole dilemma…maybe the answer is staring me right in the face.” At which point my eyes fell upon the glorious cleavage of a delectable female standing among the crowd of onlookers who had assembled at the crime-scene like vultures assembling at…well, a crime-scene.
I knew precisely what had to be done.
“You!” I said pointing to the pretty creature, a curvaceous brunette who filled her dress in a most pleasing manner indeed. “You aren’t Harold Loathsome, are you?”
“N-no sir,” the woman said nervously.
“Well, if you do not mind, I should just like to make certain of the fact,” I said, taking her hand in mine and drawing her out from the crowd.
“Certainly, my lord,” the cock-worthy creature replied. “Do whatever you have to in order to clear my name!”
“I appreciate your compliance in this matter, m’dear,” I smiled, and then I quickly put my hands upon her breasts, to verify their authenticity. “Well, yes. These certainly do feel genuine…do you mind awfully if I just?…”
“No, no! Not at all!” answered the girl, rather excitably.
“Marvellous!” I cheered, and then I swiftly set about freeing the lady’s filthy fun-bags. Happily, they were most assuredly real, and were a pleasingly firm and fulsome pair, to boot.
“Happy, my lord?” asked the woman, a coquettish smile forming upon her lips.
“Extremely,” I beamed. “But I must just check one last thing…”
“Of course,” the minx smiled back, lifting up her dress.
I tipped my hat in thanks, and then knelt down to examine the lady’s lady-parts. I was gladdened to find myself looking at a beautiful bush underneath that dress, and not the horrid flaccid flesh-stick of my arch-enemy.
“Well, this certainly looks real,” I said. “I wonder, however, does it taste real?…”
“Really, Likely!” Spunkleford objected. “I think that is quite enough!”
“Yes, you would, wouldn’t you…HAROLD LOATHSOME?” I yelled, before leaping up and flooring the fellow in an inevitably spectacular fashion.
“Jesus Christ, Likely!” Spunkleford yelped, as he reeled back. “What the bloody hell do you think you are doing? This is getting ruddy ridiculous! You can’t seriously suspect me, you fool!”
“No, I do not suspect you at all, Spunkleford,” I responded. “I just wanted to clout you for disturbing me in the course of my… cross-examination.“
“You bugger, Likely,” Spunkleford cursed as he tended to his bloodied nose.
“I apologise, Spunkleford. It is just that I am rather on edge…I am not used to being wrong, and yet I have been wrong on no less than three separate occasions now. Furthermore, I am still not absolutely certain that this poor, dead fellow lying before us is not my man-servant, Botter. The only certainty I do have right now is that I would very much like to give this delectable strumpet a jolly good shafting,” I added, indicating to the pretty thing I had just given a good going-over.
“Well, quite,” said Spunkleford. “So we are right back to square one, then. We still have absolutely no clue as to where Loathsome may be”
“Indeed,” I answered, stroking my magnificent moustache in deep contemplation. “Damnation, I know he is here somewhere, gloating…”
“Probably, old boy,” Spunkleford agreed, holding his head back to curb the bleeding from his nose.
“I dare say that the cad is probably watching me right now, laughing at me…mocking me….”
“Oh! Wait a moment! Isn’t that him up there?” Spunkleford exclaimed, pointing up to the school’s bell-tower. I followed the direction of his finger, and saw a thin figure clad in a black suit standing atop the building.
“Oh yes. So it is. Well, that was considerably easier than I had imagined,” I remarked.
And with that, I set off to go and pummel the bastard.
- Lord Likely.
Next Time in The Astonishing Adventures of Lord Likely: Likely vs Loathsome!
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