13 October 2008
Lord Likely is Wrong
While my wretched man-servant Botter may well have been in great danger at the murderous hands of my arch-nemesis Harold Loathsome, I saw no reason to cut short my current orgiastic duties with the delectable Miss Lizzie Flapkiss and company. It is awfully bad manners to pull out early, you know.
Thus I did not emerge from the room until some one hour and thirty-two minutes later, having made sure I had taken care to attend to each and every one of Miss Flapkiss’ orifices thoroughly, as well as making friendly small talk with the rest of the group. All in all, it was a most delightful way to pass an afternoon.
I practically skipped down the stairs of St. Bumthrusty’s afterwards, so high were the spirits within which I found myself currently enveloped. That is until I reached the bottom of the stairwell, and found a stern-faced Inspector Spunkleford waiting for me.
“Where in the blue blazes have you been, Likely?” he snapped, his face redder than a baboon’s bottom after a good, hard bumming.
“I was…catching up with an old friend,” I replied cryptically.
“Oh yes? And how was your old friend? Was she well?”
“As a matter of fact she was…” I paused as realisation hit me like a sock full of farthings. “Oh, you know.”
“Yes, Likely, I do indeed know. You cannot keep these things from me, dear boy! I am a detective, after all.”
“Yes, I keep forgetting that fact,” I deadpanned.
“It is disgusting, Likely! Disgusting! I thought you were supposed to be investigating these terrible murders, not…sticking your…your tingle-tangle in her…her…her moochie-moo!” Spunkleford blustered, prudish to the very end.
“My what in her what?” I asked, utterly bewildered by Spunkleford’s muddled nonsense.
“Never mind all that! We have more serious concerns at the present!” Spunkleford shouted.
“Let me take a guess,” I said coolly, as I casually lit a cigarette. “My bumbling arse-crack of a servant has gone missing, and is presumed to be the latest victim of the serial-killer stalking these very corridors?”
Spunkleford’s complexion reddened even further, leading me to worry that his head might well explode, leaving nothing more than a moustache and a bowler hat.
“Egads, Likely!” he boomed. “Do you mean to tell me that you knew all the time, and yet you persisted in carrying on with your….your…dirty dilly-dallying!”
I rolled my eyes. “Ruddy hell, Spunkleford, you act like you have never had intercourse or something.”
“Well, of course I have,” Spunkleford grunted, adjusting his tie. “Though not for quite a while, I shall warrant you. Mrs. Spunkleford maintains that such…activities are evil, and she refuses to let the devil enter her.”
“And thus neither can you,” I smiled, resting a hand upon Spunkleford’s shoulder. “You have my sympathies, my good fellow. You must be so terribly backed-up I am quite surprised you do not shoot ejaculate out of your nose whenever you sneeze. I really must treat you to a prostitute one of these days…”
“Look, can we stop talking about my wife and I, and focus our attentions back onto the case? I mean, what are we going to do about Botter?”
“Ah yes. Him.” I sniffed. “Follow me, dear Inspector, and watch in awe as I bring this whole affair to a rather satisfactory conclusion!”
I turned sharply on my heels, and then turned back again to face the Inspector.
“Which is more than you will have ever said to your charming wife, I am sure,” I beamed.
I threw open the doors of the school hall in a typically grand and theatrical manner, just as my old headmaster, Mr. Bertrum Gumbumble, was preparing to give a toast to the assembled former pupils of St. Bumthrusty’s.
Gumbumble had seemed positively ancient back at school, and I was rather surprised to see that the cantankerous old fool was still alive, or at least not quite yet dead. Gumbumble had been responsible for a large number of the canings, birchings and general thrashings I had received during my time at St. Bumthrusty’s, and I had rather hoped that he might have collapsed through exhaustion after tanning my hide so frequently. But alas, no, there he was; stood behind a long table at the back of the hall, hunched over so badly he rather resembled an ill-tempered question mark. As I entered the hall, Gumbumble pushed his spectacles up his nose, and squinted in my direction.
“Who the bally hell is that?” he spluttered.
“It is I, Lord Likely, Arisotcratic Adventurer and Gentleman of Action!” I bellowed, my voice echoing around the hall magnificently.
“Lord Lychee?” snorted the deaf old scrote. “What a ridiculous name.”
“Likely,” I repeated patiently as I strode up to the table.
“That does not even sound the same, you silly old fart,” I sighed.
“Oh! It is you, Likely!” the old codger exclaimed as I stood mere inches away from his face. “I recognise you now!” He paused. “Wait a moment, I hate you. Oh, yes I remember now! You were an awful boy, Likely. You really were! A terrible, terrible deviant, absolutely no good at all!”
“He seems rather astute for a man of his advanced years,” Spunkleford whispered.
“Thank you, sir, you are too kind,” I grinned, ignoring Spunkleford’s slur upon my good name. I picked up a bottle of champagne from the table and swigged at it, an act I immediately regretted. “Ugh. That tastes like piss. I would have thought you might have splashed out on something a little more luxurious, you cheap bastard.”
“Bears turd? What are you rambling on about, Likely? Sit down at once, or else…”
“Or else you’ll beat my firm buttocks again? Aye, I’d wager you would relish such an opportunity, you wrinkled old pervert. Bottoms up, eh?” With that I held the champagne bottle up above my head, then threw it onto the floor.
“Good heavens, Likely!” spluttered Spunkleford as the bottle shattered into a thousand cheap pieces.
“What is the meaning of this outrage?” cried Gumbumble as the excited chatter from my ex-classmates subsided. “What do you think you are doing, boy?”
“Terribly sorry, sir,” I replied. “Why don’t you call the janitor?”
“Why should I want to call the janitor anything? He’s a rather pleasant chap, by all accounts.”
“Just summon the janitor, you wretched old coot,” I sighed.
But Mr. Gumbumble did not have to summon anyone, for at that precise moment the caretaker himself entered the hall, carrying a mop and bucket. He was a reasonably well-built man, with blonde hair, and had a large-peaked hat on, which conveniently covered most of his face. The man passed by me and got to work clearing up the mess.
“Awfully sorry, old boy,” I said as the cleaner mopped up the bubbly. “I am so very clumsy sometimes. Mind you, it was not a terribly good champagne, to be honest. Why don’t you take a closer look, and let me know what you think?”
With that, I tripped the man over and then forced his face into the sodden floorboards with my boot.
“Saints preserve us!” exclaimed Gumbumble. “Likely has gone quite, quite loopy!”
“Good God, Likely! Leave that man alone!” barked Spunkleford.
“This is no man, Inspector,” I said calmly. “This is a maggot. A filthy, pathetic little maggot by the name of Harold Loathsome!“
Upon crying out Loathsome’s name, I triumphantly whipped off the bounder’s hat and cast it aside. There was a stunned silence, before a small voice piped up.
“That’s not Harold Loathsome,” it said.
I pulled the man’s head back in order that I might get a better look for myself, and found myself looking at the face of a complete and utter stranger.
“Well, of course it doesn’t look like Loathsome. He is, after all, a master of disguise!” I said hopefully, and then I began to set about the man’s head, desperately searching for the edges of a mask, or the tell-tale signs of a wig. Neither were forthcoming, and all I wound up with was a rather intense feeling that everything was beginning to go distinctly tits-up.
Furthermore, I had filthy commoner all over my hands.
Finally, Spunkleford had seen quite enough and dragged me away from the man, at which point the school bell suddenly chimed the hour. It was three o’clock, and on the third strike a body suddenly hurtled past one of the hall’s window. A body which – although glimpsed only briefly – rather resembled a certain man-servant of mine.
I gulped. Absolutely everything was going wrong, and wrong is not a word with which I am well acquainted. Indeed, if I were to pass wrong in the street, I dare say I would not recognise it at all.
In short, it felt like the bottom had fallen out of my world.
And if the feeling in my guts was anything to go by, the world would be falling out of my bottom shortly thereafter.
- Lord Likely.
Next Time in The Astonishing Adventures of Lord Likely: Is Botter really dead?
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