01 October 2008
Looking for Loathsome
September, 1857.“Well, come on, man!” Spunkleford exclaimed. “Who exactly is this Loathsome fellow? Why do you suspect him of these terrible crimes? Speak up, man! Why must you keep us all in such terrible suspense?!”
I was looking out of the school kitchen’s window, lost in a mixture of quiet contemplation and remembrance of times past.
“Harold Loathsome,” I said eventually, “is one of the most wretched souls to have e’er walked this earth.”
“Really?” scoffed Inspector Spunkleford.
“Harold Loathsome’s evil knows no bounds, my dear inspector. There lies a darkness in his soul that permeates every fibre of his being, and which engulfs all those who are unfortunate enough to come into contact with the wretched cove; no matter how brief their encounter. He is the devil incarnate, a walking abomination who would destroy us all if he could.”
“Good heavens!” Spunkleford cried, his face ashen with fear.
“Furthermore,” I continued, turning away from the window to address the white-faced crowd. “He once reported me to my own father, simply because I was slipping out of school to get pissed.”
“Ye Gods!” spluttered Spunkleford. “What a rotter!”
“I know, I know,” I shook my head sadly. “He really is a massive bell-end.”
“And do you really believe that this bounder really poses a threat to you, Likely?” Spunkleford asked.
“Loathsome has killed twice already, my good inspector. I dare say he shall be willing to kill again. I would imagine he still holds some small ill-feeling towards my good self, after I successfully managed to get the swine exiled to Africa when he was but fourteen years of age.”
“Good gracious!” Spunkleford ejaculated (though not literally, I am happy to report). “Well, yes, I suppose that would leave one feeling rather sore. I must confess, Likely, that if I was in Loathsome’s shoes, I would probably have already killed you dead! In fact, I imagine I would have probably stabbed you many times over, in a bloody, revenge-fuelled frenzy of horrific proportions! And then, furthermore, I think I would probably have curled out a giant poop into your deceased mouth, and then set fire to your awful, bastard corpse!”
There was a lengthy silence as Spunkleford regained his composure, while I did my best to discreetly move myself several feet further away from the disturbed detective.
“Well…thank you for that little outburst, inspector,” I said finally, from my new vantage point behind a spice-rack. “That really was most…edifying. And now, if you have quite finished being totally insane, I think I shall press on to the reunion, and see if anyone has seen anything of Loathsome…”
I strode into the school hall, where a rather elegant banner had been hung from the ceiling, which warmly welcomed us to ‘St. Bumthrusty’s School Reunion for the Class of 1831‘, in wonderful cursive script.
Beneath the banner my old classmates were busy chattering away to each other over a selection of fine wines and delicious hors d’oeuvres, laughing and chuckling in equal measure as they recollected tales of their long-gone schooldays.
I recognised some of the people gathered about; over there, by the punch-bowl was Spotty Flapkiss; beside him Peter P. Petersson; there was Duncan Biscuits (‘Soggy’ Biscuits had been his nick-name, due to a most humourous and ribald tale I may recount at a later time); Filthy Daniel was stood over by the door, next to Speccy Spencer and Charlie Poleblow; and over by the stage was Nobby Henderson, ‘Wanky’ McWank and Tommy Ticklestick-Thinn. Quite an array of familiar faces, and I had quite forgotten exactly how much I despised the majority of them.
I quickly snapped myself out of my nostalgic reverie. It was no use getting caught up in my own memories: there was still a killer stalking the grounds, and I had to find him before he dispatched any more of the Class of 1831 or worse – me.
I marched purposefully over to the group huddled around the punchbowl.
“Likely!” beamed Peter P. Petersson, extending a hand I chose not to shake.
“Good heavens, is that really ol’ Likely? Splendid to see you, old chap!” chimed in Spotty, offering another unaccepted hand.
“We were just talking to Duncan here…seems to be doing rather well for himself, don’t you know? Tell Likely what you told us, old boy!” Petersson rambled on, ignoring my evident disinterest.
“Yah, well I was just telling the chaps here…I have my own business now, yah,” droned Duncan. “Investments, savings and loans, that whole game. We’re doing terrifically well, posted some rather impressive figures at the end of the financial year…”
“Really?” I said, stifling a yawn. “Well, I am still filthy cocking rich, and I imagine I have had more sex in the past year than you’ve had tedious, soul-sapping meetings about interest rates and credit notes. Now listen, have any of you seen Harold Loathsome at all?…”
“Why you beastly little…” Duncan began, his face crimson with rage.
“Loathsome? My, what an awful little weasel that man was!” Spotty recalled. “I don’t know if he was even invited, to be honest, Likely. I certainly haven’t seen him here at all…”
“Right, well thank you, gentle-men. Now if you shall excuse me I must…oh! Hello! And who is this radiant beauty?” I said, noticing that there was a rather gorgeous, buxom brunette standing behind Spotty, quietly sipping some punch.
“Oh! Yes, you remember my sister Lizzie, don’t you Likely?” Spotty said, putting a friendly arm around his sensational sibling.
“Why, of course I do!” I grinned, laying a kiss upon Lizzie’s hand. “It has been a fair old while though, has it not? You’ve certainly…grown.”
Lizzie certainly had grown. I distinctly remembered meeting Ms. Flapkiss on the few occasions Spotty’s family picked him up or dropped him off at school. Back then, she had been rather short and squat, with a most angry little face, her features permanently scrunched up in anger, like a cat’s arse-hole.
“I remember you,” Lizzie sneered, withdrawing her hand quickly. “You used to be awfully cruel to me. You used to call me ‘Lizzie Cat-Anus Face’.”
I smiled wearily. That certainly wasn’t one of my more creative nicknames, it had to be said.
“Well, m’dear, I can only apologise for my younger self’s abhorrent manners. Suffice to say, the Likely you see before you know is a much more refined gentleman; a man of honour, dignity and grace.”
Lizzie’s face softened.
“I am much relieved to hear that, sir.”
“Jolly good. Now, how about a quick fuck, hmmm?”
- Lord Likely.
Next Time in The Astonishing Adventures of Lord Likely: Loathsome Strikes Again!
News Just In! Lord Likely’s official, wretched, jobless scribe Mr. A. D Fanton, has been interviewed by the excellent people at Fuelmyblog. Should you wish to read what the cad has to say about his experiences in the Blogosphere (which I believe may be off the coast of Norway, if I’m thinking correctly), then you may peruse the entire article by CLICKING HERE. A great many thanks to the FMB team for putting up with the wretch’s witterings!
Hungry for more inter-net based fiction? Then may I suggest you peruse The Web Fiction Guide, Pages Unbound or The Blog Fiction Blog, all of which are thoroughly excellent, due in no small part to the fact that I am listed with them all. Huzzah!
