â€”Lord Likely in Exile in Australiaâ€”
Lord Likely rises to power in Australia.
Part Two, in which, his cream rising to the top, Lord Likely becomes master of his domain:
May 21, 1862
I begin to father numerous children. The husbands of the childrenâ€™s mothers are not amused.
So there I was, standing on the balcony in my nightshirt in the cool evening breeze, Lord Palmerston hanging drowsily in temporary repose from his recent exertions, the imminently satisfied nubile Chesterfield twins peacefully asleep on the bed behind me.
As I stood there leaning over the iron railing and gazing idly over the sleeping camp, enjoying a fine post-climactic cigar, I contemplated my current predicament.
Several irate husbands of the camp ladies are apparently hell-bent on stretching my Lordly neck with a common rope. To make matters even worse, they had the full sympathy of Her Majestyâ€™s Territorial Governor, the Duke of Chesterfield, father of the temporarily-sated twin girls currently dreamily ensconced upon my large 4-poster.
What to do. What to do.
I was rudely awakened from my reverie by the sound of a distressed sheep on the street below.
In the darkness I could make out the figure of a man leading an unwilling ewe down the alleyway towards the servantâ€™s quarters.
â€œBotter!â€ I cried down at the man below. â€œBotter, you cretinous fuckwit! Why donâ€™t you just leave off with that poor sheep, man!â€
My manservant Botter, always on the very edge of mental collapse, had of late been acting even more strangely than usual, having taken up company with an unfortunate ewe sheep, dressing the poor beast in black stockings and a large blue polka dot sunbonnet, and leading her around with a dainty little velvet rope he had undoubted stolen from some brothel doorbell.
The lovely couple was obviously returning from a night on the town, and Botterâ€™s wooly companion was apparently suffering from a splitting headache, knowing full well what her paramour had in mind as the evening came to a close.
â€œYes, milord?â€ The embarrassing jackass tilted his loathsome head to one side as he looked up at me, squinting, still holding the velvet rope tightly as his lady continued her escape efforts.
â€œBotter, why donâ€™t you just give it up? Let the poor sheep go, man. Have you no pride at all?â€
â€œPride? No milord. No pride. Love Dolly…â€
Dolly. Thatâ€™s what he called the beast. Dolly Malone. Holy snappinâ€™ duck shit. Dolly Malone.
Unable to even continue the conversation, I started to turn away with a dismissary wave of my hand, when the poor imbecile piped up again in his semi-drunken quavering high pitched voice.
â€œOh, what in holy fuck, man? What? WhatWhatWhatWhat?â€
â€œFriday. Itâ€™s Friday night, milord.â€
The man had finally gone completely bonkers. Quickly I looked for something to throw down at him.
â€œMy wages fall due today, milord, and I was wonderinâ€™…â€
Botterâ€™s voice trailed off into a fit of violent coughing, culminating in his apparently hacking up whatever had choked off his words in the first place.
I was in my nightshirt. No pockets, no money.
â€œWait here, sheepfucker!â€
I turned abruptly and reentered the bedroom to look for Botterâ€™s money, but as I walked passed the bed, one of the twins–god knows which–awoke and smiled at me. Momentarily distracted, I reached down between her open legs and and searched for a moment. No, no money there.
I continued on to the large dressing table and quickly snatched the lone coin from it and hurried back to the balcony. It was obvious the twins were stirring and would soon be in need of another dose of Lord Palmerston medicine.
â€œHere. Take this you fool. Iâ€™ll pay you the rest tomorrow. Or whenever I feel the fuck like paying you.â€
As I spoke, I flung the gold sovereign over the balcony, assuming the tottering wretch would catch it in his hands. But the night was quite dark now and the coin struck him in his forehead, causing him to cry out and stagger back, leaving a noticeable gash above his watery right eye.
As the blood began to stream into his rapidly blinking eye, the mindless pervert stumbled backwards and went suddenly arse over elbows over his ewe-lady and landed flat on his back, his feet kicking helplessly in the air. In the process, he lost hold of the velvet rope and his mistress, seizing upon his loss of composure, broke free.
â€œBotter…â€ I began, hands outstretched in helpless apology. But it was no use. His lamb-lady was already racing down the alley, her stocking-clad hooves padding rapidly over the paving stones with the profusely bleeding Botter in hot pursuit.
I made a mental note to go down and retrieve the sovereign, but first there were more pressing matters to attend to in the bedroom.
I closed the door to the balcony securely and, pulling my nightshirt over my head, turned to face the now wide-awake and eager mirror images of passionate pulchritude.
Lord Palmerston had, as usual, already risen to the occasion and was quite prepared to immediately engage the waiting and willing female duplicates, but paused momentarily to consider his choices. Four delightfully oversized titties, two equally delightful ports of entry.
What to do?
â€œWill there not be intercourse, then?â€, teased Sadie. Or Susie. Whichever the hell.
I stood there, calmly, waiting for Palmerston to decide, when all at once, overcome with the impossibility of such a choice, he simply lunged forward toward the nearer target, pulling me rudely behind him as he dove into the bed and into Sadie. Or into Susie, whichever it was, and soon he was burrowing wildly like a crazed rabbit after the worldâ€™s last carrot.
â€œOoooooo,â€ said Sadie, politely, in response to the burrowing. Or perhaps it was Susie.
â€œOoooooo,â€ echoed her sister, although she seemed to presently have no apparent reason for doing so.
As for Palmerston, he was of no help to me at all, completely blind now, and thrashing violently around in the darkness, totally incapable of guiding me as to what I might do next, when suddenly Susie, or whichever one was momentarily unoccupied, made the decision for me, pulling my now-hatless head down into her, at once rendering me totally speechless–unable to form words, or even to use my mouth at all if truth be told.
Susie–or was it Sadie?–began to perform the familiar circular â€œcoconut cracker claspâ€ maneuver with her legs locked around my straining neck. This of course immediately caused an involuntary rapid trilling of my tongue much like an Arab lady calling her mate.
The room began to slowly swirl as I surrendered to the will of the now bucking and pumping twin dynamos, and it was at that precise moment that I heard, in the distance, a long pitiful bleating sound, and realized that the demented fuckwad Botter had apparently been successful in his own pursuit of happiness that evening.