March, 1857.

Having been left a homeless wretch, caked in vomit and piss and with my natural sense of style and grace rent asunder, I was naturally more than a little displeased with those vagrant swines who had placed me in such a position.

In fact, it would not be a terrible understatement to say that I was fucking livid, and dearly wished to crack open some skulls with the nearest blunt instrument.

Talking of blunt instruments, my man-servant Botter met me at the scrap-yard residence of the blasted beggars, as I stormed in later that afternoon. My first inclination was to smash him right in his awful mouth for deserting me in my hour of need, but as he shuffled up to me I noticed he was holding my precious cane, long thought missing by my good self.

“Oh, be still my beating heart! ‘Tis truly glorious to behold you once more! I had feared I had lost you forever, old friend!” I cried out joyously.

“It’s good to see you too, milord,” Botter answered.

“I am not referring to you, you bumbling cock-shaft,” I snapped. “I am referring to my wondrous cane! Give it here at once!”

Botter meekly handed over my prized possession. “There y’are, milord. It got dropped in the tussle, earlier.”

I stroked the top of my cane lovingly (and for once, I am not referring to my penis at this point), and then thwacked Botter across the back of his head with it. Botter yelped in pain.

“Ah, good. It still thwacks properly,” I smiled. “That was for abandoning me earlier, and not coming to my immediate and prompt rescue, you tiny bastard.”

“I-I’m sorry, milord! It just happened so fast and I was trying to hide and – “

Another thwack, another yelp.

“Just be thankful that I have a score to settle with these homeless scoundrels, Botter, else you’d be receiving a full thrashing for your woeful incompetence. As it is, I am saving my full rage for these rough-sleeping rapscallions.”

“Thank you, milord. You are much too kind.”

“I know, I know. Now, where are these wretches hiding? We must go forth and…oh!” I stopped, espying an unopened bottle of beer on the floor beside me. “Hmm, there can be no harm in having a quick drink before I embark upon a vigourous bout of fisticuffs…”

I cracked open the bottle, and raised it to my lips, but before I could sample the golden goodness encased within, Botter leapt at me and knocked the bottle from my hand, sending it crashing down onto the ground, where upon it shattered into a thousand pieces.

Naturally, I punched my man-servant squarely in the face for his troubles.

“What in the name of Captain Fellatio Hornblower do you think you are doing, man?” I roared.

“The beer, milord!” Botter replied, nursing his bloodied nose. “The beer is contaminated with tramp’s piss, don’t forget!“

The stinking oaf was right, of course, but I refused to let him know as much, and simply punched him in the face again.

“That is for using the word ‘piss’ in my presence, when you could have said ‘urine’. I am a very sensitive fellow, you know.”

Botter mumbled an apology from his resting place upon the ground.

“Don’t be too hard on the poor fellow,” came a voice behind me. “There is plenty more beer where that came from, your lordship.”

I spun around to face that filthy cur, Kenneth the Hat, the erstwhile leader of the vile vagabonds. He was joined by a good thirty or so other skanks, all of whom seemed to be cradling a makeshift weapon of some sort – broken sticks, disused mops, discarded bicycle spokes and so on and so forth.

“Oh fuck, fuck and double fucking fuckity-fuck,” I whispered.

“I think the beggars are revolting,” Botter observed.

“Revolting?” I answered. “They are positively vomit-inducing.”

“Go on, your lordship,” Kenneth said, smiling a horrid, broken smile whilst offering me another beer. “Just one more for the road, eh?”

“NEVER!” I roared defiantly. “Your beer is nothing more than an errant fraud, concocted from piss and stink.”

“Heh. You’re very observant, my lord,” Kenneth chuckled. “I should imagine that at this point, you’re wondering exactly why we are making beer out of our own piss, Lord Likely. Well allow me to explain my brilliant plan to you…”

“Do not bother yourself,” I sniffed. “I think I have figured it out. You are brewing a beer so potent it renders a chap completely insensible, and with no recollection of his former life. You no doubt plan to flog this beer to everyone in the land, thus bringing the entire population of Great Britain down to your own awful, shit-stained level, blah blah blah, etcetera, etcetera. I have heard this sort of thing a thousand times over, so if you do not mind can we simply move on to the climactic skirmish, as I am an awfully busy man and I have a party still to organise..”

“Uh, milord,” Botter interjected. “About the party…you went missing for a few days, you see, and the scheduled date for your planned ball has since elapsed quite considerably, so…”

A red mist began to form before my eyes.

“Are you telling me, Botter, that these reprobates have made me MISS my own PARTY?”

“I…I’m afraid so, milord,” Botter confirmed.

I do not know precisely what happened next, as I was suddenly consumed with a rage so powerful that it controlled my every action. From what I have been able to determine from Botter’s eyewitness account, I let out a deafening roar and, cane in hand, ploughed into the amassed vagrants with considerable gusto. It would seem I became something of a blur, swiftly working my way through the rabble, sending bodies flying left and right as I battered them viciously with my cane. Skulls were indeed cracked, noses broken, limbs shattered and organs pulped as I tore through the swine like an ‘Oriental warrior’, in Botter’s own words.

Once that was over, I apparently dragged Kenneth the Hat to the warehouse-come-brewery, wherein I drowned the maleficent miscreant in a vat of his own piss.

“Rest In Piss,” I quipped, as Kenneth The Hat’s body floated lifelessly atop the urinary waters. “Well, Botter, I think I am all done now.” I said, as I returned to my usual, well-composed self. “A jolly fine day’s work, too. I say, this calls for a celebration, don’t you think? We must throw a massive party to-night, and invite all the very classiest people I know. Of course, we shall need some booze…”

I turned to Botter, only to find him running out of the warehouse at top speed, screaming at the top of his filthy lungs.

What a peculiar fellow.

- Lord Likely.

Next Time in The Astonishing Adventures of Lord Likely: Something completely different.

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Having pumped the incredibly freakish Jennifer, the Incredibly Freakish, and filled her with so much of my man-cream that she was nothing more than a walking, human éclair, I decided that it was high-time for a little light refreshment.

I headed back to the scrap-yard, where I found my man-servant, Botter, already getting a head-start on the boozing.

“Botter, what in the name of Her Majesty’s regal fanny do you think you are doing, man?” I snapped.

“I…I’m ‘aving a drink, milord.” Botter replied.

“And where, pray tell, is mine, hmmm?” I enquired.

“Um…I…well, you were busy, so I thought…erm…” Botter stuttered.

“You did not think, Botter. I know for a fact that you are entirely incapable of anything as taxing as thinking. Had you actually thought, then you would have remembered that you are my servant, and thus your entire purpose in your pointless, vapid existence is to serve me, and ensure my constant and continued comfort and contentment. This being the case, I would have hoped that at the very least you would have gotten me a beer, if not many. Do you understand, Botter?”

“Sorry, milord,” Botter replied, sheepishly.

“And?…” I added.

“Would…would you like my beer, milord?” Botter said, offering me the bottle he had been drinking.

“That is much more like it,” I swiped the bottle from my man-servant’s filthy mitt. “You shall only receive a mild thrashing when we get back home now.”

“Milord is much too forgiving and kind,” Botter replied.

“And sexually attractive. Do not forget that.”

“And sexually attractive,” Botter repeated.

I nodded my approval, and began to swig on the bottle of beer. Although I had gone for several hours without any alcohol of any sort passing my lordly lips, this particular brand of beer was doing little to refresh me. It was warm and slightly nutty tasting, but in the absence of any other booze I drank up the entire bottle, and tossed the empty container upon the floor.

“Hmm, I have had better,” I declared, wiping my mouth with a handkerchief. “To be honest, that was akin to drinking tramp’s piss. Still, we are in dire need of alcoholic beverages for my celebratory shindig, so I suggest we gather as much of this beer as we can carry, and take it back to the Likely Estate, post-haste. Tell me, Botter, where did you get that bottle from?”

“Well, that’s the funny thing, milord. For a bunch of homeless geezers, these fellahs certainly have a lot of beer at their disposal. Flakey Jim gave me that bottle, an’ said there was plenty more where that came from.”

“Well, I dare say that these wretches spend each and every ill-gotten shilling on nothing but booze,” I reasoned. “Either that or they steal it all. Come, Botter, let us go and gather together as much beer as we can carry, and get back to glorious civilization as quickly as possible.”

Botter and I traipsed up and down the scrap-yard for what felt like an age, and in all that time we found neither any more beer, or any of the other filthy vagrants with whom we had become acquainted.

“Where in the name of King Solomon’s Colon is everyone?” I said. “It is not as if they have jobs to go to, or anything.”

“Why don’t we try in there, milord?” Botter suggested, pointing to a large, disused warehouse at the end of the yard.

“It looks incredibly ominous and frightfully perilous,” I observed. “Yes, let us go there immediately.”

And so, we went there immediately.

“You go in first, Botter,” I said as we stood outside the warehouse’s doors. “Should there be any crazed lunatics lurking within, I would rather they lopped off your face rather than mine. My face is far too handsome to be sliced up and worn by a deranged psychopath.”

Botter sighed, and cautiously opened the doors. He peered inside, then quickly withdrew his head and turned to me excitedly.

“Milord! You have to see this!” Botter cried.

I pushed past my grubby associate, and strode into the warehouse. The entire place was lined with crate upon crate of beer, stacked up to the very ceiling.

“Fuck me in a Turkish bath, that is rather a considerable quantity of alcohol. One far cruder than I may even describe it as a ‘shitload’,” I said, picking a bottle of beer out from an open crate beside me.

“It’s a shitload!” Botter said.

“Exactly,” I agreed, popping open the bottle and drinking the contents. “Eugh, this stuff tastes just as revolting. Still, needs must, and all that.”

As I opened another bottle, Botter wandered deeper into the warehouse, gazing around him in awe. He disappeared behind some crates for a while, then suddenly he was back, looking as white as a ghost. A stinking, foul ghost with terrible hair.

“Milord, you’d better come with me!” He whispered, pulling at my arm.

“Unhand me, Botter! I am quite capable of walking, thank you ever so much,” I snapped, as I staggered forth, and then crashed into a pillar. “Blow me, this beer appears to be far more potent than I had given it credit for.”

I followed Botter as he led me through the warehouse, and into another, previously unseen, room. Botter pointed inside.

“What is it, Botter?” I said, swigging from the bottle in my hand. “What ish it?“

I walked into this new room, completely unprepared for the sight that would greet me.

Around the entire circumference of the room were dozens upon dozens of unfortunate homeless urchins, all chained up and either asleep or unconscious. They were all stripped completely naked, with tubes affixed to their genitals, through which their urine was being drawn into a large vat in the centre of the room. The vat itself had a complicated-looking pumping mechanism affixed to it, which was taking the liquid up from within the container, and depositing it into bottles moving slowly along on a conveyor belt.

Bottles just like the one I was currently drinking from.

“Shitting Christ!” I yelled, spitting out a mouthful of beer all over the back of my man-servant’s head. “No wonder this tastes like tramp’s piss! It is tramp’s piss!”

I felt sick and revolted, and my head was spinning so fast I feared it would fly off of my neck and fly around the room.

“Focking bash-tardshhh,” I slurred, and then I blacked out completely.

- Lord Likely.

Next Time in The Astonishing Adventures of Lord Likely: Likely is drunk. Very drunk INDEED.

Presenting gaup - another quality venture from the cads responsible for these Astonishing Adventures.

Come, See His Lordship’s Cock and Balls! His lordship has very kindly decided to let all of you join him in The Cock and Balls (his preferred drinking establishment) for light and heavy refreshments, chit-chat and barely-concealed flirting. Do the honourable thing, and visit the Cock and Ball Inn right NOW! Many thanks.

Lord Likely would like to give his warm and incredibly moist thanks to Random Chick, for seeing fit to bestow him with this fine award right here:

Many thanks indeed, m’dear! The fact you have noticed how very ‘cool’ his lordship is has made him incredibly hot!

His lordship would like to take this opportunity to give his hardened, fully-engorged thanks to his loyal readers, for their continued support over the past year. His lordship is truly grateful, and wished that he could penetrate each and every one of you in return. Cheers!

The Further Scrawlings of Mr. A.D Fanton:
Digital Sickbag | New! gaup
The Carrotty Kid
The Best Bit of the Internet (R.I.P)

Other places of interest:
The Clay Pigeon

FuelMyBlog | Blog Catalog | humor-blogs.com

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