For the previous chapter, please click HITHER.

MORE DAYS passed as I continued my convalescence, nursing my poor mangled manhood back to health after it was so cruelly injured by a wicked, wicked whore a couple of weeks or so previously.

At one point, a doctor paid me a visit to check on my progress, but soon had to seek medical help himself, after he gazed upon my proud Lord Palmerston, and promptly passed out through the shock of having seen such a mighty organ. You would think a medical man would have seen it all, but then again I cannot deny that I am a most impressively endowed specimen.

My man-servant, Botter, continued to fuss and fret over me, like some kind of hideously malformed nurse-maid. Back and forth he went, bringing bowl after ruddy bowl of soup, explaining that it would help me ‘get my strength back’. I tested his theory by hurling the umpteenth bowl directly at his head, which smashed satisfyingly upon his wretched bonce. “It seems you are correct, Botter,” I chortled as my man-servant dashed off to tend to his facial burns.

When not hurling broth at my man-servant, I kept myself amused by continuing to trawl through the huge sacks of post regularly delivered to the house. I was eagerly anticipating a reply from Mr. Startleburst Phingerphuckk, whose wife had gone missing, a case I had agreed to take on even while confined to my sick-bed. That is how astonishing I am, dear reader.

There were all sorts of letters in the post that week, from Nigerian businessmen offering me hard cash in return for my banking details, to advertisements from apothecaries claiming they could make me ‘last longer in bed’. I snorted. I had already been in bed for a fortnight, the ignorant arse-pipes.

There were some far more interesting items of mail, however, such as this fascinating missive:

I’m writing to bring to your attention a matter of great importance. I do not wish to alarm his Lordship during his convalesce but I’ve come to believe that your country may need you.

Lady Ann of Euphrania

I made a note of the sender’s name and the return address. I would have to let this good lady enjoy my magnificent balls one day.

The next letter also raised my spirits somewhat:

You seem so familiar. Have we met before? Was that you on the beach in Kiribati? I was, I have to admit, a little beyond drunk at the time, so I can’t be sure.

Crystal, fellow adventurer.

I tore open another envelope.

It has come to my attention that you have been gravely wounded by a former employee of mine. I run a respectable business and do not tolerate such action.She went out on her own to get business for herself, because of that and your treatment she has been relived of her position.

PS: In my haste I forgot to tell you the name of my establishment, it is Russian Belles. We maybe prostitutes but we are ladies.

Next came an offer of aid:

News of your injury has spread quickly throughout London. Indeed, the very lack of your presence among the ladies of the night these past few days has lead some to wonder as to your early demise. If indeed your Lord Palmerston has been mangled by an irate member of the world’s oldest profession, I shall be happy to design a harness of sorts to at least make you more ambulatory during your convalescence with a minimum of pain. If there is a contagious element to your affliction, that likewise can be treated with a my patented formula injected by a very large needle, driven directly through to deal with the matter at its source. Such treatment is not for the faint of heart, of course.

Dr. Darien James Mason

And so I continued to rifle through the mail-bags, seeking more correspondence from Mr. Phingerphuckk, but there was seemingly nothing to be found. But then I found a rather bulky-looking envelope, which seemed to contain more than a letter inside. My curiosity piqued, I tore it open.

Out fell a lock of hair, and a rather menacing note:

A FriENd.

- Lord Likely.

To Be Continued!…

Write To Likely And Appear In The Next Chapter!

Yes, dear readers, you read that correctly! Compose a letter to his lordship, and if it passes muster he shall read it out in the next chapter of this exhilarating epistolary escapade, along with a hyper-link to a webbed-site of your choosing should you be successful, as those lucky people in this week’s chapter were! It can be whatever you like, declarations of love, sales-pitches, requests for his services or letters demanding his blood – just write, write, WRITE, DAMMIT!

Send your missives to hislordship@lordlikely.com, or leave them as a comment below! We look forward to hearing from you, chums!

A Brand New Astonishing Adventure!

THIS TALE commences with your not-at-all-humble narrator incapacitated after sustaining a particularly nasty injury in the field of combat; to whit, I recently found myself in a heated argument with a tuppenny trollop over the matter of payment for what I considered to be her rather lacklustre services.

As one may baulk at paying the bill for a lukewarm and foul-tasting meal, or as one may refuse to hand over money for a knackered and useless old nag, so I had refused to remunerate this harlot for providing nothing more than rather pedestrian and unexciting intercourse. The prostitute had taken a certain umbrage with my decision, and so we found ourselves in a heated exchange (which, ironically, was far more passionate than the love-making which had preceded it) before the whore chose to end the impasse by firmly grabbing my tumescent tally-whacker and twisting it with such force that I now fear that any children I sire in the future shall undoubtedly be born with a terrible limp.

And so you find my glorious self cooped up in bed in the Likely Estate, unable to partake in any of my usual pleasures due to the sheer, agonising pain emanating from my poor, paralysed Lord Palmerston. A terrible state of affairs, I am sure you will agree. More terrible still when you consider the fact that this left me in the company of my complete arse-pipe of a man-servant, Botter, who was fussing over me as if I were an injured sparrow or something, and tried raising my spirits by regaling me with God-awful stories about his youth in the East-End, accompanied by soul-crushing renditions of his favourite Cockney sing-alongs. I would have twatted the bounder and told him to eff off, were it not for the fact that any sudden movement caused a searing shockwave of pain to ripple through my body from my marmalised manhood.

When not having to endure Botter’s woeful working-class whimsy, I made an effort to pass the time by reading through some of my correspondence. Being an Astonishing Adventurer and Gentle-Man of Action, I receive quite literal barrow-fulls of fan-mail and letters, much to the continued annoyance of my whining, moaning old cock-smear of a post-man. Usually, I would be much too busy getting drunk or fornicating to pay the mail much heed, but in my current state I finally had the time to attend to these bulging sacks of mine.

‘Twas a mixed and varied collection of correspondence, it has to be said. There were hundreds of requests for marriage from many a love-struck spinster, nude photographs of nubile young ladies (which caused a twitch in my loins that bought about more searing pain, so I had to discard those letters rather quickly), the occasional blood-soaked missive from deranged criminals threatening to cause me harm and venomous letters from enraged husbands and boyfriends, threatening to send deranged criminals my way to cause me harm for my having laid with their significant others. Some people really are much too uptight, I mused.

Then there were countless tedious pamphlets and leaflets trying to sell me some completely unnecessary service or product or other, such as this startlingly misdirected sales-pitch:

Sir,

Do YOU wish to last LONGER in BED? Does you LADY demand more SATISFACTION in the boudoir than you are able to provide due to an EMBARRASSING INADEQUACY in your GENITAL AREA? Is your FLACCID and LIMP penis the cause of much SCORN and DERISION? Are you not REALLY a MAN?

Well, FEAR NOT, for with DOCTOR COCKFOSTER’S patented PENILE ERECTION KIT, you will now be able to remain fully engorged for longer, and thus able to satisfy your special lady again and again and again, without WORRY!

Thanks to our innovative system of PULLEYS, LEVERS and STEEL GIRDERS, your much-maligned member can remain PROUD and UPSTANDING for hours upon end, finally putting an end to your end’s abrupt endings.

Do not DELAY! Send a cheque for ONE HUNDRED guineas to: Doctor Cockfoster, Cockfoster’s Cock Fosters, Cockfoster House, Cockfoster Forest, Cockfosterham. Do it TODAY, lest you forever more remain a PATHETIC, ENFEEBLED MOCKERY OF MASCULINITY!

- Dr. Cockfoster.

I sighed and shook my head sadly. Truly, this Doctor Cockfoster had failed to do adequate market research before sending out this clap-trap; I have no problem remaining firm and terrifically turgid…although I had to concede that in my current condition, my poor pump-pistol could barely even support a semi-semi. I sighed again, scrunched up the letter and hurled it aside. That particular pamphlet had served only to depress me further, confound it.

However, the next missive raised my spirits somewhat:

Dear Lord Likely,

I write to you in the hope that you may be able to come to my aid, as I am at my wit’s end and know not what other course of action to take. Having heard of your considerable skills and talents in the field of deduction and crime-solving, I believe that only you can possibly help me at all.

I smiled. Appealing directly to my ego is a sure-fire way of grabbing my attention. I read on.

This being the case, I ask for your assistance in tracking down my darling wife, Daphne Phingerphuckk, who has now been missing for some three days, and I fear that she may have been abducted by undesirables…such awful thoughts whirl through my mind when I consider what atrocity could have befallen her that I am quite unable to sleep, and grow increasingly sick with worry.

If anyone can trace her and bring her back safely to me, it is you, your lordship. Please do say that you shall assist me, I shall ensure that you are handsomely reimbursed.

Sincerely and fretfully yours,

Mr. Startleburst Phingerphuckk.

I lowered the letter and pondered for a moment or two, and then snatched up my note-book and pen, and scribbled out my reply.

Dear Mr. Phingerphuckk,

Your recent call for help has touched my noble heart, and my bulging wallet. I would, of course, be delighted to aid you in the relocation of your dear wife Daphne, for to do anything less would be criminal.

However, I must inform you that a minor inconvenience has befallen me of late (I shall not go into detail, but should you ever be in London Town and chance upon a sordid strumpet named Sandy Straddleton, I advise you to steer clear and instead thrust your todger into a half-eaten melon, for it shall have much the same effect as plunging it into her fetid, disease-ridden mimsy).

But while I now remain bed-bound as a result of my misfortune, I see it as no obstacle to investigating the mystery you present before me. Indeed, the idea of solving such a riddle from the comfort of my bed-chamber offers me something of a thrill and a challenge, to which I obligingly rise.

In short, yes, Mr. Phingerphuckk – I shall TAKE THE CASE!

- Lord Likely.

…To Be Continued!

Write To Likely And Appear In The Next Chapter!

Yes, dear readers, you read that correctly! Compose a letter to his lordship, and if it passes muster he shall read it out in the next chapter of this exhilarating epistolary escapade, along with a hyper-link to a webbed-site of your choosing should you be successful! It can be whatever you like, declarations of love, sales-pitches, requests for his services or letters demanding his blood – just write, write, WRITE, DAMMIT!

Send your missives to hislordship@lordlikely.com, or leave them as a comment below, or contact his lordship via such social-media spots as Face-Book or the Twittering Device.

We look forward to hearing from you, chums!

]]> http://www.lordlikely.com/archives/adventures/the-likely-letters/the-likely-letters-part-one/feed 6 http://www.lordlikely.com/archives/adventures/the-strange-case-of-the-sinister-snowman/the-strange-case-of-the-sinister-snowman-part-two http://www.lordlikely.com/archives/adventures/the-strange-case-of-the-sinister-snowman/the-strange-case-of-the-sinister-snowman-part-two#comments Sun, 02 Jan 2011 19:29:19 +0000 Lord Likely http://www.lordlikely.com/?p=1521

AND SO with a murderous snowman on the loose, there was only one thing to do. We waited.

After a couple of days of waiting, the snow had thawed substantially, leaving some of the snowmen in the street looking as flaccid as an old man’s todger – all except for one, which stood as firm and as proudly as…well, MY todger.

Using my exceptional deductive powers, I ascertained that the non-melted snowman MUST be an imposter, and after threatening to knock its head off with a shovel, my suspicions were confirmed, as a rather weedy-looking fellow emerged from within his snowy disguise.

It turned out that this chap – Mr. Arthur Funtwhistle – had murdered poor Mr. Ambrose Clutchpenny after becoming consumed with jealousy over the far superior Christmas decorations adorning the front of Clutchpenny’s house. Funtwhistle, it seemed, lacked some of the seasonal goodwill towards his fellow man.

Needless to say, Funtwhistle was arrested, trialled, found completely and utterly guilty and then on Boxing Day he received the belated Christmas gift of a rather tight-fitting rope tie; to whit, he was hung by the neck until dead.

HUZZAH!

Now, I know what some of you are thinking – ‘well, Likely, after three weeks of waiting that seemed to be a most hasty conclusion to this Astonishing Adventure!’ To which I would remind you all that since I began transcribing this tale, both Christmas AND New Year celebrations have come and gone, leaving me with a hangover so enormous, I fear I may never again be able to see straight.

Hopefully, however, I shall be as right as rain before too long, and ready to THRILL, DELIGHT and AROUSE you all with more corking adventures over the course of this coming year!

In the meantime – HAPPY NEW YEAR, chums! Have a drink on me (literally, if you are a rather attractive female who wishes to lap gin from my taut and muscular torso).

Toodle-pip!

- Lord Likely.

IT WAS mid-December, and London had been left under a thick blanket of snow, as if the lord God above had looked down ‘pon the glorious British Empire, and had decided it looked so damnably attractive that he had whipped out His tremendous tallywhacker and sprayed the land with His holy horn-paste.

Truly ’twas a sight to behold, as I pointed out to my miserable man-servant, Botter, as we trudged our way through the snow to meet Inspector Spunkleford, who had summoned us to meet him on a matter of some urgency. Botter, however, seemed less than impressed with my poetic observation about the current climate.

“‘S too cold, that’s what it is, milord. Too blinkin’ cold!” he muttered.

“Cold? For heaven’s sake, Botter, do grow a scrotum!”

“‘S alright for you, milord, you had a nice, warm bed for the night. I ‘ad to sleep in a bleedin’ hen-house.” Botter continued, shoving his hands under his armpits to warm them.

“Now, Botter, we have been through this,” I countered. “I cannot very well have my prize-winning hens out in the cold. Nobody enjoys a frozen egg, least of all me. That is why I decided to let them have the use of your quarters.”

“B-but it’s inhumane, milord!” Botter cried.

“Nonsense, they were extremely comfortable indeed. I think I even saw one making use of the bidet, at one point.”

“Not your stupid hens, milord! Me! It’s inhumane to leave me to freeze to death in some rickety old hen-house!” Botter wailed.

“Botter, if you keep up this incessant moaning I simply shall not unlock the hen-house in the morning, and leave you in there forever!”

We continued to crunch our way through the snow as Botter fell into a mopey silence, which rather suited me fine, as I really did not want to listen to any more of his wearisome wafflings anyway.

We turned into a small street and seemed to find ourselves instantly transported to some kind of astonishing winter wonderland. The gardens and houses all along the street were decorated in the most eye-popping manner possible, with various Christmas lights dotted throughout, tinsel hanging from every branch of every available tree and plant, and large, ornate carvings depicting Father Christmas or angels or reindeer looming out from all sides. It was rather like someone had eaten an entire box of Christmas cards, and then vomited the contents out onto the street.

“Well, this is the right place,” I sighed, noting the road-sign nearby. “Fezziwig Lane. I really hope Spunkleford hasn’t called us half-way across the city just to show us his baubles. Come on, Botter.”

We ventured on up the road until we came to a house which was swarming with police-men, bustling back and forth and looking generally perplexed. In among the blue tide I spotted Spunkleford, who was closely consulting a note-book while chewing upon the end of a pencil in a most contemplative manner.

“Good day, Inspector,” I said, slapping Spunkleford so heartily on the back that he almost wound up excreting graphite. “What is all this hubbub about, then?”

“Oh, Likely, old boy!” Spunkleford exclaimed, clearly pleased to see me (as people usually are). “I have got a queer old case here, I don’t mind saying. Very queer indeed!”

“Hmmm,” I pondered, looking about to find a dark patch of crimson seeping through the snow on the ground. “Well, I assume either someone has been rather careless with the cranberry sauce, or there has been a murder here, yes?”

“Yes indeed, Likely. But if only it were that simple! The victim was the home-owner, a Mr. Ambrose Clutchpenny, by all accounts a well-respected and well-liked member of the local community. He was discovered dead at the scene this morning by one of his neighbours, a Mrs. Penelope Twigglebottom. Poor thing, has been in shock ever since.”

“Maybe I should offer her a shoulder to cry on?” I offered. “Of course, when I say ‘shoulder’ I do of course mean ‘penis’. And when I say ‘cry’ I mean ‘sit.’”

Spunkleford carried on, brushing aside my carnal desires as was his wont.

“Now here is where things get…peculiar. We’ve had an eyewitness come forward who swears blind that he saw Mr. Clutchpenny being attacked by…someone. He’s even given us a full description…” Spunkleford explained, waving his notebook in my direction.

“And?”

“Well, apparently the assailant was white, about five-foot four, dressed in a top hat and scarf…” Spunkleford glanced up at me, then back down at his notebook. “Ahem. He had a long, carrot-shaped nose, and eyes…eyes as black as coal…”

I raised an eyebrow. “Unless I’m very much mistaken, Spunkleford, what you have just described to me there is a snowman.”

Spunkleford nodded. “I know. And naturally I would not normally take such a thing seriously, if it were not for the fact…well, there was a break-in down at the docks last night as well. And a witness there gave my officers a description of one of the culprits…”

“…And that too was a snowman?”

Spunkleford nodded again. “He even gave the details to a sketch-artist, and…well, look.” Spunkleford held up a piece of paper on which was drawn a (rather well rendered) picture of a snowman.

“This…” I said slowly, “…is indeed peculiar.”

- Lord Likely.

To Be Furthered!

NEW! You can now receive The Astonishing Adventures of Lord Likely straight to your Kindle book-reading device! SUBSCRIBE TO-DAY, and ne’er miss an astonishing chapter again!

IF YOU have been thrilling to my recent audio adventure, ‘The Filching Fog of Finsbury Park’, chances are you would have also been aroused to the point of explosion by the loin-stirringly fantastic theme-music accompanying said adventure.

That being the case, I thought I’d offer my dear readers and listeners the chance to enjoy my Likely anthem without all that (admittedly wondrous) talking all over it, in it’s purest, unedited form!

And so, do enjoy Mr. Andi Woodford’s GLORIOUS composition, below!

Or download it via the iTunes shop, so you can keep it on your personal music-playing device of choice, and have it playing where’er you go, so you can imagine being as incredible as I am:

And if you have not yet heard the audio adventure at all, follow these links to listen to it RIGHT AWAY!

The Filching Fog of Finsbury Park

Part One: Wherein Mr. Javier Spoons is MUGGED by FOG.

Part Two: Wherein Lord Likely has an excellent plan.

Part Three: Wherein the mystery is solved!

FINALLY, many thanks to all of you who have said such very kind things about the above production – it seems the tale has been much well-received, and therefore another audio masterpiece may well be forthcoming! In the mean-time, do feel free to share this with your chums on the Book of Faces or the Twittering Device – all should have the honour of listening to this CLASSIC TALE!

Toodle-pip!

- Lord Likely.

Listen to the previous episodes, hither: Part One | Part Two

PREPARE yourselves, dear readers and listeners, for to-day sees the THRILLING conclusion to my ASTONISHING audio adventure! Ne’er before has a release been so eagerly anticipated, aside from when in the final throes of sexual congress, of course.

Anyway – let us dilly-dally no more! To listen to the fantastic finale of this fog-based fable, simply utilise the listening device presented to you now:

OR! Alternatively, the production is available to download for approximately no shillings at the Apple iTunes shop, hither:

HUZZAH! I do so hope you have enjoyed this amazing aural adventure, chums – be sure to let me know, and perhaps there shall be more in the near future…

The Filching Fog of Finsbury Park written by Mr. A. D. Fanton esquire, with humorous additions by the cast.

Vocal stylings provided by Mr. Fanton, Mr Andrew Weston, Mr. Thomas Butler and Mr Andi Woodford.

Music and Sound Effects provided by Mr. Andi Woodford.

Produced by Lord Likely, and a fair few lashings from some reeds.

- Lord Likely.

To hear the previous part, do please click HITHER!

AND SO, with London’s fog having seemingly turned against the city’s inhabitants, it is left to me – Lord Likely, Aristocratic Adventurer and Gentle-Man of Action -  to once again step in and save the day!

To THRILL to this latest instalment of my Astonishing Audio Adventure, do please utilise the device below:

Alternatively, you may download the production at the Apple iTunes store, whatever the cock all that means:

UPDATE! The conclusion to this action-packed adventure is now available to hear HITHER! Huzzah!

The Filching Fog of Finsbury Park written by Mr. A. D. Fanton esquire, with humorous additions by the cast.

Vocal stylings provided by Mr. Fanton, Mr Andrew Weston, Mr. Thomas Butler and Mr Andi Woodford.

Music and Sound Effects provided by Mr. Andi Woodford.

Produced by Lord Likely, and a fair few lashings from some reeds.

- Lord Likely.

LADIES AND GENTLEMEN, pin back your ears, and loosen your under-garments, for I have a particularly wondrous treat for you to-day!

For your extreme and unequivocal listening pleasure, I give to you the FIRST PART of an ALL-NEW and ALL-THRILLING audio adventure! HUZZAH!

And so, if you are sitting comfortably, let us commence the terrific tale without any further ado! Prepare thyselves for  ‘The Filching Fog of Finsbury Park’….

Alternatively, you may also listen to the audio play via Mr. Jobs’ Apple iTunes store, hither:

The Filching Fog of Finsbury Park written by Mr. A. D. Fanton esquire, with humorous additions by the cast.

Vocal stylings provided by Mr. Fanton, Mr Andrew Weston, Mr. Thomas Butler and Mr Andi Woodford.

Music and Sound Effects provided by Mr. Andi Woodford.

Produced by Lord Likely, and a fair few beatings from a cricket bat.

UPDATE! Part two is now ‘pon us! Click HITHER to enjoy!

- Lord Likely.

Illustration by the supremely talented Mr. Stuart Linfield.

For the previous chapter, please click HITHER.

T he zombified Miss Havisham dragged herself uneasily to her feet, and slowly advanced upon me. There was something about her that led me to believe that she dearly wanted to open up my cranium and feast hungrily ‘pon the brain-matter within – perhaps it was the fact she was moaning ‘BRAAAAAIIIINS!’ and flailing wildly at my head that made me think so.

“What is going on?” I cried, as I fended off the horrifying haridan with my walking-cane. “Why am I under attack from a fictional creation?”

“It’s some kinda infection, or something,” Hellsinger replied as he draw out and checked a gun from the recesses of his coat. “Musta started with Dickens – when he bit someone, that person mutated into one of his characters, and when they bit someone else, so it went on, and on. I guess there must be some dark magic behind all this. Mind your head, Likely!”

I promptly moved to the side, and watched as Hellsinger took aim and fired a bullet straight through Havisham’s head. The creature groaned and slumped to the ground, dead. Or at least, more dead.

“You killed my strumpet, you swine!” I remarked.

“She was dead the moment she was bitten, I’m afraid,” Hellsinger mused sadly. “There was nothing left of her after that.”

“There’s even less of her left now,” I observed.

“Um, milord,” Botter interrupted. ” It looks like we’ve got company.”

I looked behind me to see a large group of the undead stumbling out of the door to the publishers, slowly making their way to us.

“I see,” I said straightening my tie, and grasping my cane with both hands. “In that case…BRING IT FORTHWITH.”

Hellsinger beamed, and drew out a large axe from a holster on his back. “This is gonna be FUUUUUN,” he cackled.

With that, we ran up to the gaggle of ghouls, and set about dispatching them as quickly as we could. Hellsinger roared with joy as he chopped his way through the crowd, heads and limbs flying each and every way, while Botter deployed the tried and trusted method of shooting the zombies through their fiendish heads.

I, meanwhile, took to driving my cane with great force through the skull of a zombified Martin Chuzzlewit, before spinning around and deftly smashing in the face of a rather surprised, beastly Fagin. As I paused to wipe the blood from my cane with a handkerchief, a disgusting undead Tiny Tim hobbled up to me, using some poor chaps’ severed leg as a crutch.

“GOOODDDD BLESSS USSSS, EV’RRRRY ONNNNNE!” he groaned.

I calmly folded up my handkerchief and replaced it in my pocket, before taking my cane and, using it much like a golf club, I twatted the wretch, sending him spinning through the air, until he came to a rest impaled on the railings surrounding the courtyard.

“I’m an atheist, you insolent little bastard.” I quipped.

“That’s the last of ‘em,” said Hellsinger, walking up beside me, clutching what appeared to be the severed head of Nicholas Nickleby. I turned to survey the blood-soaked carnage behind me, Botter doing his best to pick his way towards us without slipping up on any entrails or guts.

“Very good, gentlemen,” I nodded. “I think it’s best we had a word with this publisher fellow, hmm? If he is indeed behind all of this, then I shall leave him in a similar condition to one of his cherished paperbacks….WITH A BROKEN SPINE.”

*****

WE burst into the dimly-lit office of the publisher, weapons primed (Hellsinger having now opted for a lightweight crossbow instead of his heavy axe), only to find that our arrival had already been anticipated.

“Ah, Lord Likely,” cooed a figure at the other end of the room, gazing out of a window. “I’ve been expecting you.”

“Well, that shall certainly save us wasting time on introductions then,” I replied.

“Oh? But don’t you want to know who I am?” the figure asked.

“Not really. I don’t plan on getting very well acquainted with you, to be honest.”

“Ha. Such arrogance,” the man answered, turning to face us. He was a tall, lean fellow, with a thin, angular face, and an eye patch covering his right eye. His black hair was slicked back over his head, and the black motif was carried on by his clothing, clad as he was entirely in black, with a black frock coat and trousers. And, as if he already did not look preposterous enough, he had a crow perched on his left shoulder. “I am Arial Black,” the man grinned, nodding slightly.

“Hmmm,” I mumbled, disinterestedly. “I thought your name might be something ridiculous like that, judging by your appearance. I mean, I do understand you’re trying your best to look villainous..but the crow? That is rather overdoing it, I fear.”

“Crow? What crow?” said Black.

“The one on your shoulder, sir.”

“What? Agh!” cried Black, shooing the bird away. “Bah. They’re always flying in and doing that, damn things. I really should demand that the cleaning staff close the windows in the evening.”

“I see.”

“So, I assume you’re here to try and stop me and save the day, etcetera, etcetera.” Black smiled, walking around a large desk (black, naturally) and picking up a piece of paper off of it. “But I’m afraid there really is nothing you can do, it is all perfectly legal, you know.”

“Perfectly…LEGAL?” I spluttered.

“Oh yes…I believe you know my client, Mr. Chalres Dickens…” Black smiled, clicking his fingers. At the click, the undead Dickens appeared from behind a curtain, shuffling into the centre of the room.

“What the?…DICKENS?” I exclaimed.

“In the rotting flesh, your lordship. You see, back at the end of 1869, Mr. Dickens here signed a contract with us, to provide us with twelve instalment of his latest work, ‘The Mystery of Edwin Drood‘. Here is the contract, see?” Black held up the piece of paper, revealing it indeed to be a contract, signed by the author himself.

“Of course, Mr. Dickens failed to deliver on said agreement,” Black sniffed, “which is really bad form, you know.”

“He died!” Hellsinger interjected. “It wasn’t somethin’ he did on purpose!”

“Whatever the circumstances, Mr. Dickens did not uphold his end of the bargain, therein lies the point. I was left without the work I had been promised.”

“You poor bastard,” I said.

“However, I do not give up that easily,” Black continued. “When I sign an author, I expect them to deliver, your lordship – no matter what! And so I turned to the ancient practice of voodoo to help me out.”

“You do voodoo?”

“I do do voodoo, too true.”

“Who knew?”

“Anyhoo, I met up with a fellow who knew something about black magic and such like, and he informed me that it was quite possible to resurrect someone from the dead, and have them live again! Oh, imagine my delight, your lordship! I could bring Dickens back, and have him complete Edwin Drood at last! What a coup!”

“That’s one word for it,” I mused.

“Book sales always go through the roof after an author dies, you know. Have you ever noticed that? It’s a curious phenomenon. People like their celebrities, but much prefer them dead, it seems. Here I was then, primed to capitalise on this, with England’s greatest novelist of all time, and his great, unfinished masterpiece, no less! How could I not try it?”

“Is this rambling anecdote coming to an end anytime soon, Black?” I huffed. “Else I fear we shall all die of boredom.”

Black glared at me haughtily, but carried on. “And so I set about bringing Dickens back from the grave, using this very contract, a lock of his hair, and an ancient spell. Needless to say, it worked PERFECTLY…well, aside form one unfortunate incident where my associate got a bit mauled…”

“You are sick and twisted, Mr. Black,” I noted, quite correctly. “What about all the poor people who have died in the meantime, just to further line your pockets?”

“In the war for more readers, there shall always be some tragic losses, I’m afraid,” Black ginned, placing the contract back on his desk.

“Right, I’ve heard enough from this freak,” Hellsinger snapped, drawing up his crossbow.

“Oh, I wouldn’t do that,” Black smiled, clicking his fingers. At the sound, Dickens snapped into action, lunging forward and grabbing Botter from my side. “One wrong move, and I shall have Mr. Dickens here make your friend here rather dead. He does anything I tell him, does Mr. Dickens. And he won’t harm a hair on my head, either. I’ve added a few clauses to his contract, just so nothing can stop me.”

Hellsinger looked at me. I looked at Botter, who was pleading me to save him, then I looked back to Hellsinger.

“Lower the bow, Hellsinger,” I said. “I don’t fancy having to get a new man-servant just yet.”

“Good, good,” chuckled Black. “You are finally seeing sense, your lordship.”

“Mmmm ,” I pondered. “I really think I am. I must say, I am awfully impressed by the whole scheme. Now you’ve talked me through it, I truly appreciate what a marvellous money-making scheme you have here. Top notch work, sir. Top notch!”

“I try my best,” Black bowed.

“You have excelled!” I cried, clapping my hands together. “I think this calls for a celebration. Won’t you join me for a cigar, Mr. Black?”

“Do you know, I don’t mind if I do, your lordship!”

“Excellent!” I beamed, producing a couple of fine cigars from my coat pocket, and offering one to Black. “You are to be commended for your sterling work, I feel!”

“I am so glad you see it that way,” Black said, lighting his cigar.

“I see it all,” I grinned, lighting my own cigar. Then, as quick as a flash, I dashed over to the desk, scooped up the contract, and put the lit cigar to it, and watched with satisfaction as the paper caught alight.

“What are you…Nooooooooo!” screamed Black, fear filling his eyes (and possibly his trousers too, I shouldn’t wonder). “Mr. Dickens, stop him!”

But Dickens did not respond, and released his grip on Botter as the contract went up in flames.

“Mr. Dickens,” I shouted. “You are hereby officially freed from your contract!”

“Muuuuuuuuuuuh!” Dickens groaned.

“You may now dispense with Mr. Black services as you see fit.”

With that, Dickens ambled over to the publisher, arms outstretched.

“Keep away from me, Mr. Dickens! You…you keep back now!” Black stammered, as he edged back from the undead author. “Ah, bugger it!”

Black made to flee, but Hellsinger was prepared, and taking up his crossbow he fired an arrow straight through the sleeve of Black’s coat, pinning him to the wall.

“Gotcha!” Hellsinger beamed.

“Keep back, you devil! Keep back, don’t come any nearer…” Black exclaimed, kicking pathetically in the vague direction of the oncoming Dickens. “Back, you bastard! Back! BACK! BAAAAAAAAAAAAARRRRRRGGGGGHHHH!”

There was a sickening squelching and crunching as Dickens fell upon Black, and feasted upon his former publisher. Black screamed and flailed uselessly, and then was silent, leaving Dickens to gnaw away happily at his brains.

“Good work, Likely,” Hellsinger beamed, slapping me rather too heartily on the back. “For a moment there I thought you really DID think Black was some sort of genius.”

“Well, to be honest, it wasn’t all that bad a plan. But Dickens? Eugh. Could never stand his work. All that whining about the working classes. Complete, stultifying drivel.”

The reanimated Dickens stood up, his mouth covered with Black’s blood. I could not say for sure, but it seemed like Mr. Dickens performed a small, grateful bow, before the last of the contract turned to ash, and he collapsed to the floor, at peace once more.

He might have bought me a drink though, the bastard. Typical author.

~ The End ~

- Lord Likely.

AS to-day is my birthday (be sure to celebrate wildly!), this cracking conclusion is only the first of a special, DOUBLE update to my esteemed journals! Be sure to return to enjoy the first part of my ALL-NEW audio adventure, ‘The Filching Fog of Finsbury Park’.…

IF YOU enjoyed ‘Our Mutual Fiend’ (and who COULD NOT do so?) please consider donating via the button below, and allow me to purchase a birthday beer or two. Hundred. MANY THANKS!

For the previous chapter, please click HITHER.

AND SO, there he was – Mr. Evan Hellsinger, that smug-faced, toss-brained, so-called ‘vampire slayer’, wafting back into my life like a bad smell, and about just as welcome.

“I would say it is good to see you again, Hellsinger,” I remarked. “But that would be a terrible lie.”

Hellsinger grinned as he lit a cigar. “Shucks, you’re still as hospitable as ever, aincha Likely? An’ after I’ve jus’ saved your life, too.”

“I fear being reacquainted with you is a fate worse than death.”

“Well, if I didn’t know any better, I’d have said you was already dead. Or are you always this pale an’ cold?”

I bristled. “What brings you here, anyway? Has America decided it doesn’t want you back?”

“Heh. No, Likely. If ya must know, I’ve been branchin’ out since we last met. I don’t jus’ go after them blood-suckers no more – I’m a bona-fide all-purpose Monster Hunter now!”

“A Monster Hunter?” I snorted derisively. “And just when I thought you could not get any more ridiculous…”

“So, anyway,” Hellsinger continued, ignoring my excellent jibe, “I was jus’ passin’ through when I heard talk about ol’ Charlie Dickens walkin’ the streets again – sounded like somethin’ I should look into, y’know?”

“Well, you’ve looked…now kindly bugger off!”

Hellsinger opened his mouth as if to make some futile retort, but before he could waste his breath a scream echoed out from behind us. I quickly spun around, to see Bella pointing down the darkened street.

“”Ere comes another one of them beasts, Mr Likely!” she gasped, indicating towards another shuffling figure slowly making its way down the road. What fresh evil was this, I wondered. We watched as the creature staggered nearer and nearer, a putrid stench getting stronger and stronger with each shambolic step. I readied my cane, while Hellsinger cocked his rifle, and we braced ourselves for the worst.

But, as the figure ambled into the gas-light, I could see it was worse than I feared.

It was my man-servant, Botter.

“Oh, it’s jus’ your little servant guy,” Hellsinger observed, lowering his weapon.

“Oh yes,” I said, moving toward my man-servant. “So it is.” And with that, I clubbed him around the head with my cane, causing him to cry out.

“Owch! What the bleedin’ heck was that for…uh…milord?” Botter cried.

“I was just making sure,” I replied. “Plus I despise you, of course.”

“Very good, milord,” Botter sighed.

“So what brings you here, Botter? I left you in that public house for a very good reason, you know. I did not want to be seen out and about with you.”

“Well, I was sittin’ there all on my own, and thought I’d scan the news-papers to see if there was anythin’ curious like that might help us in our investigations.”

“Yes,” I said, completely disinterestedly.

“Well, I was lookin’ through this paper here, and look….look what I found,” Botter beamed proudly, thrusting the news-paper into my hands.

“‘Gentle-Man’s Hat Sold Into Slavery,’” I read aloud from the journal. “I hardly think this is relevant, Botter.”

“No, underneath that, milord. The advertisement.”

“‘Coming Soon – The Complete ‘Mystery of Edwin Drood’, by Mr. Charles Dickens.” I read.  ”All Twelve Parts in One Handsome Leather-Bound Volume.‘” I lowered the news-paper. “And?”

“‘The Mystery of Edwin Drood’ was never finished, milord.” Botter explained. “Mr. Dickens died before he could complete it, about half-way through. Doncha think it’s kind of odd that they’re offering the complete story – by the author himself – around the time that all these sightings of Mr. Dickens have been reported?”

“I find it odder still that you seem so knowledgeable about literature, Botter. Don’t you working-class types eat books, or something?”

“I think Botter may be onto something, Likely,” droned Hellsinger. “I’ve learnt of numerous sightings of ol’ Charlie around the Bloomsbury area, near some of the publishing houses.”

As much as I hated to agree with either the American arse-pipe or my miserable man-servant, the evidence presented before me was rather too compelling to ignore.

“Alright, gentlemen,” I concurred. “Let us pay this publisher a visit – I rather suspect he is not doing everything by the book…”

*****

WE flagged down a nearby hansom cab and hurried along to the publishing-house in question.

“Right, here we are, then,” I said as we pulled up outside a tall, dark and imposing building. “Gentlemen, I suggest you arm yourselves. Bella, I shall pay the cab-driver to take you on home now.”

“Oooh, I don’t want to be alone tonight,” Bella whined. “Not after all the fings I’ve seen!”

“But earlier you said – ”

“Please, Mister Likely! I can’t bear the thought of being on me own! What if one of them fings gets me?”

“Fine,” I acceded. “Heavens, the female mind really is as changeable as the weather. And both are more than capable of ruining a picnic.”

WE descended from the cab and made our way up to some rather formidable-looking steel gates. Botter quickly made short work of the lock thereon, and we slipped through them and into a large courtyard.

“Alright,” I whispered, “Everybody stay together and try not to get – ”

“LUMME!” exclaimed Bella. “I’m bein’ bloody eaten!”

I swung round to see the poor girl under attack from what appeared to be some sort of zombified Ebenezer Scrooge. Without a moment’s pause, I ran across and pulled the apparition off of Bella, hurling it to the floor. The creature groaned and hissed, as it struggled back to its feet.

“BAAAAAAH….HUUUUMBUUUUUUUUG….” Scrooge moaned.

“I am fresh out of humbugs, I am afraid,” I replied. “But feel free to SUCK ‘PON THIS!” I roared, whipping out my pistol and shooting the demon straight through the forehead.

‘Suck ‘pon this’, I mused. I really am most frightfully witty.

As the creature collapsed to the floor, I rushed to Bella, who was nursing a rather nasty wound on her neck.

“Are you alright, m’dear?” I asked sympathetically.

“‘Course I’m not bloody alright! Some bleedin’ monstah’s just taken a chunk out of me effin’ neck!” she retorted. It was a fair point.

“Likely,” said Hellfinger softly. “You should probably step away from her now.”

“What are you jabbering on about, you cock-trumpet?”

“She’s infected.” Hellsinger intoned seriously.

“I thought as much,” I sighed. “These whores usually are. Herpes, is it?”

“No…it’s worse than that, Likely….”

Hellsinger was cut off, however, as Bella started coughing profusely, blood spraying from her mouth. I stepped back in horror – and so as to not to get blood on my expensive suit, of course.

“What the? – ” I began, and then Bella fell silent, her head flopping forward as if she were made of rag. She was dead. I felt rage consume me, but kept my stiff-upper lip intact, and merely took off my hat and bowed my head out of respect for the deceased.

“YYYYOOOOOU SHALLL NEVVEEEEERRRRR LEEEEEAVEEEE!” rasped a voice. Looking up, I saw that where beautiful, voluptuous Bella had once sat, there was now some mean-faced, wizened old crone with milky-white eyes glaring at me.

“Who the arse is that??” I yelled.

“It’s Miss Havisham, from Great Expectations!” Botter exclaimed. “And she’s hungry for brains!”

- Lord Likely.

To be concluded!..

IF YOU enjoyed this chapter (and who COULD NOT do so?) please consider donating via the button below. All your contributions toward the running of this webbed-site, and the feeding of my scribe, Mr. A. D. Fanton, are gratefully received and allow us to keep astonishing you week after week! MANY THANKS!