I PURCHASED a copy of the brand-new news-sheet, The News of the World today (see cover above).

It does look like a very fine journal indeed, full of integrity and the very finest journalism. I fully expect it to keep running for anywhere up to one hundred and sixty-eight years.

For now, I’m off to knock one out over the pictures of gloveless ladies. Egad, would you look at the fingers on THAT?

- 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’.…

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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!..

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“PLEASE SIR, can I have some more BRAAAAAAIIIIIIIIIINNNNS!” the diminutive demon repeated, as it leapt up at me, jaws slavering, eager to feast ‘pon my noble form. I, however, was reticent to feed the poor at the best of times, let alone with my own flesh, and so I  managed to grab the child by the arms, and hurl him away from me, leading him to crash noisily into a pile of rubbish at the end of the alley-way.

“Hmph,” I said, as I dusted myself down. “I’d wager I’d have been too rich for that urchin’s tastes anyway!” I quipped, wittily.

“Oooh, me ‘eart!” gasped Bella Butterlegs, the harlot with whom I had been hoping to spend some quality nookie-time. “Gave me quite a start, I can tell you.”

“Never fear, my dear,” I smiled, as I assisted her to her feet. “I do believe that is the last we have seen of that little toe-rag!”

“‘E’S GETTIN’ BACK UP!” screeched Bella, right into my lordly lughole. I spun around, and sure enough the blasted boy had managed to recover, and was slowly making his way to us once more, braying for brains.

“Persistent little blighter,” I mused, readying myself with my walking cane. I waited for the shambolic spectre to get within striking distance, and then with all of  my (quite considerable) might, I bought my cane sharply across his legs, forcing him to tumble to the ground. As he lay sprawled on the concrete, I delivered another powerful blow to his shins, which shattered with a satisfying crack. That would certainly put him out of action for a while, I thought.

“There, there, my dear,” I whispered to Bella, who was quite clearly shaken up by the whole affair. “The nasty young devil shan’t be bothering us any – ”

“E’S STILL COMING!” shrieked Bella, pointing behind me. And lo, the damned lad was now crawling across the ground towards us, his hunger for our grey-matter as undiminished as ever.

“For cock’s sake!” I exclaimed, and then I swiftly drew out my pistol and shot the bastard boy clean through the head. The creature howled, and collapsed face-down on the ground, completely still. I slowly moved up to the body, and gingerly prodded it with my foot. There was no movement whatsoever.

“Did…did you see his face?” Bella sobbed. “I don’t fink ‘e was ‘uman, you know. He looked like somefink from me night-mares!”

“I sincerely hope he wasn’t human,” I replied, holstering my pistol. “Else I shall be in an awful lot of trouble.”

“Oh, yer lordship!” Bella wept. “This ‘as been awful! I want ta go home, now.”

“Jolly good idea, m’dear!” I brightened. “A spot of rumpy-pumpy will help us forget this whole business!”

“I’m sorry me lord, but I ain’t in the mood no more. Just please take me home, sir!”

I cursed under my breath. Not only had I nearly had my beautiful brain torn from my skull by a lower-class wastrel, but now I was not going to get my end away either. Just my arseing luck.

However, being the gentleman that I am, I agreed to see that Bella got home safely. But as we left to seek out a hansom, an ominous creak emitted from the dark of the alley.

“What in the name of twattery is it now?” I sighed, peering into the shadows. I could make out that a door had swung open, but nothing else of import. I pondered the possibility that the noise had perhaps come from a cat (a terribly arthritic one, I reasoned), but suddenly, to my horror, another dozen or so monstrous children poured through the doorway, shuffling and groaning, arms outstretched, their voices crying for brains.

This was more than a little inconvenient.

However, just as I was about to re-equip myself with my pistol, a voice suddenly barked out from behind me.

“Sir, m’am, you may want to get down – NOW!”

For some reason, I found myself obeying this blunt order, dragging dear Bella down to the floor alongside me. As she huddled close to me, I looked up at the oncoming  horde, and watched with astonishment as a series of sharp blasts rang out through the darkness, and then one by one, the fearsome fiends’ heads exploded in a shower of flesh and bone.

As the last, lifeless body slumped to the ground, I picked myself up off the ground and turned to face our mystery saviour.

“Well thank you, sir,” I said. “That was some rather good shooting, I must say.”

The figure stood, head bowed, his large hat covering his face in shadow.

“Well thank you, Likely,” the man replied, tugging at the brim of his hat. My heart sank. That accent. American. NOW I recognised that voice.

“Think that’s the second time I’ve had to save your limey ass, huh?” beamed Evan Hellsinger, raising his head, grinning like the cocky little scrote-ball he was.

And just when I thought this night could not have got any worse…

- Lord Likely.

Continue on to Part Four…

* APOLOGIES for the delay in getting this latest chapter to you so tardily, friends. My scribe, Mr. Fanton, esquire, has recently found some sort of gainful employment, and has thus been occupied of late. Needless to say, I have flayed him for his insolence, and our schedule is slowly resuming. Please do bear with us! Many thanks!

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THERE ARE a few activities from which one should refrain whilst deeply hung-over. Bouncing up and down ‘pon a dirigible is one; taking a small rowing-boat out to sea on a particularly stormy day would be another. And one may most definitely add ‘standing over a bloody, severed, chewed-up corpse first thing in the morning’ to that inglorious list.

“And as you can see, the attacker tore out the victim’s larynx, here,” Inspector Spunkleford continued, pointing at a gaping, bloodied hole in the victim’s throat. The gruesome scene before me, coupled with the after-effects of my previous night’s drinking, was causing my stomach to churn harder than a particularly aggressive milk-maid trying to make butter in a hail-storm.

“Botter,” I said, turning to my man-servant. “You do realise that it is awfully bad manners to keep your hat on in the presence of the deceased?”

“But you – ” Botter began.

“Do not argue Botter! Remove it at once, and pass it here!”

“Very good, milord,” Botter sighed, as he passed me his bowler.

“That is more like it, Botter. A little respect never hurt anyone,” I said, and then I proceeded to empty the contents of my stomach rather forcibly into Botter’s hat.

“There you go,” I said, wiping my mouth with a handkerchief, and offering the vomit-filled bowler to my man-servant. ” You may have it back now.”

“Very good, milord.” Botter glumly replied.

Having disavailed myself of that particular booze-fuelled burden, I felt much more like myself again, and felt my brain wake up and steam back into action.

“Hmmm,” I hmmmed, as I produced a magnifying glass and examined the corpse laying on the street. And then I sneezed.

“Well, we can rule out a wild animal attack. This was most definitely the work of a person. And a rather well-to-do person, at that.”

“And how do you know that, Likely?”

“They seasoned the body with pepper before taking a bite.”

“Well, that certainly corroborates with the night-watchman’s statement…” Spunkleford beamed, evidently pleased that his meagre attempts at police-work had yielded results.

“Yes…but he also stated that the assailant was CHARLES DICKENS, who, need I remind you, is currently deceased, and not in a terribly good position to go out and about as much as he used to do, let alone feast upon the flesh of innocent bystanders…although…what’s this?…”

I stooped down and retrieved a scrap of blood-stained paper lying beside the victim’s right hand. It had been torn from a larger sheet, but the part which remained clearly bore the word ‘DICKENS’. This was entirely too coincidental, I reasoned.

“Inspector, do we have any idea who this fellow was at all?” I asked, motioning toward the body.

“Ah, yes Likely! We recovered a wallet from the body. We believe him to have been a gentleman named Theodore Fruntlope, worked as a publishing editor for one of the big book publishers.”

“A publisher of big books, or a publisher of considerable status?”

“Erm…yes. The second one.”

“I see. And what books does this publisher publish?”

“Oh, you know. Paper ones. Lots of pages, split up into chapters, and – “

I sighed. “Which AUTHORS, Spunkleford?”

“Oh. Well, I…I’m not really sure, old boy…” Spunkleford blustered.

“Well, I suggest you find out right away, Inspector!” I cried, thrusting a finger into the air. “I shall wager that one of the authors on their books is none other than one Mr. Charles Dickens!”

“Ah! Erm. I see. And?…”

“AND!…” I paused, my finger still held aloft. “That means something! I’m not sure exactly what it means yet, Spunkleford – but I assure you I shall work on it! Come along, Botter! There is thinking to be done!”

*****

BOTTER and I adjourned to a nearby tavern called the ‘The Soggy Biscuit‘, a place of ill-repute but healthy profits, due in no small part to the fact that the landlord made his premises freely available for prostitutes to ply their trade, which thus made it one of my favourite places to go when I needed a good, hard…think.

I drunk long into the early hours of the evening, enjoying the delicious beer, and the delicious women. Soon I was deep in conversation with a hugely buxom harlot by the name of ‘Big’ Bella Butterlegs, so-called because her legs spread ever so easily. As we talked, Bella took  to whispering sweet nothings into my ear, while I returned saucy somethings into hers, and we soon agreed to depart to her abode around the corner, for a spot of rumpy-pumpy – much to the chagrin of my miserable man-servant.

“Milord,” he whined, “Should we not be working on the investigation?…”

“Botter, why don’t you investigate THIS!” I boomed, extending my middle finger at the wretched cove. “Now, what can you deduce from the evidence before you?”

“That you wish for me to extricate myself from your company?” Botter answered sadly.

“Indeed, to put it politely,” I nodded. “To put it impolitely, FUCK OFF, you wretched little arse-smear!”

And with that, Bella and I left The Soggy Biscuit, laughing heartily at my supremely excellent insult and Botter’s subsequent misery.

As we staggered down the road, arm-in-arm, I felt my spirits rise, along with my proud Lord Palmerston, and suggested to Bella that we slipped into a secluded alley-way so she could tend to my raging erection there and then. Bella giggled, and acceded, as well she might, the filthy slattern.

We dashed into such a side-street nearby, and Bella dropped to her knees before me like the cock-hungry whore she was. But before I could free my tumescent tally-whacker, we were disturbed by the sound of something stirring at the other end of the alley-way.

“Hello?” I barked, re-fastening my belt. “Who’s there? This isn’t some sort of peep-show, you know! Although we may be able to come to some arrangement, for the right fee…”

No reply came, but the sound of shuffling steps.

“Hello?” I repeated, peering into the darkness to see if I could pick out a figure.

“Please sir….” came a small boy’s voice from the shadows, “…can I have some more?”

“More?” I snapped. “More WHAT?”

Then, out of the dark, appeared the most wretched apparition I had e’er seen. He was indeed a young lad, dressed in a cheap, cloth hat, scarf, a grubby waist-coat and equally dirty shorts. But it was not his evident poverty that repulsed me so (although that was indeed disgusting), but the unnatural green-ish tint to his skin, his misty eyes and the blood dripping from his mouth. And, worse still, the bowl he was holding out in front of him, in which sat what looked very much like a human BRAIN.

“Please sir…” the spectre repeated, “can I have some more….BRRRAAAAAAAIIIINS?”

And then, the child lunged forth, jaws slavering…

- Lord Likely.

Continue on to Part Three…

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Illustration by the supremely-talented Mr. Stuart Linfield. Good show, sir!

“Rrrrarrrggggggh! Rrrrrrarrrrgh! Guuuuuuuuuurrrrrrrggggh! Muuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuh!”

“Heavy night, milord?” asked Botter, my man-servant, as I shuffled into the breakfast room.

“Guuuuuuuuuuuuuuh! Rrrrrrrarrrrrgggh!”

“Very good, milord.”

I collapsed heavily into a chair at the table, my head thundering as if it were filled with elephants vigorously humping one another.  Good heavens, what a stupendous night that had been, I thought. At least, I assumed it had been a stupendous night, I could not actually remember any of it. But I had been there, and I am naturally stupendous, so it seemed entirely reasonable to assume that the night itself had thus also been stupendous.

It was then that I realised that my man-servant was still talking.

“Buuuuuuuuuuuuh?” I groaned.

“Can I get you anything, my lord?” Botter repeated.

“Ffffffffffffeeeeeeeeerrrrrrgh,” I burbled. I cleared my throat, and tried again. “Coooooooffeeeeeeeeeeee.”

“Very well, milord. I’ll just prepare some,” Botter replied, picking up a sack of coffee beans from the table.

“Noooooooooo. Cooooooffffffeeeeeeeeeeeee,” I repeated, my arms flailing in the direction of the sack.

“But I need to – ”

“COOOOOOOFFFFFFFEEEEEEEEEE!” I yelled, as I reached forward and grabbed the sack from my man-servant’s wretched mitts. Botter duly stepped back, as I took the bag and proceeded to bury my head inside its contents.

“Are…are you all right, milord?” Botter asked nervously, as a full ten minutes passed during which I did not move an inch from this position – that is until I felt the cretin’s hand upon my shoulder.

“DO NOT TOUCH ME!!” I bellowed, springing back upright, spraying coffee beans from my mouth as I spoke. “Touch me again, and your hand shall find itself wedged firmly up your anus.”

“Very good, milord.”

“Hmph,” I grumbled, as I finished chewing the beans still in my mouth. “Anything new to report, Botter? Any post?”

“A couple of letters, my lord,” Botter answered, handing me the aforementioned couple of letters. “And a great big sack of mail from your admirers,” he added, placing the large sack on the table. “I am afraid we have lost another post-man, however. He threw his back out bringing that to the door.”

“Pfffft. The Royal Mail really needs to employ stronger men, if you ask me. Unless they are planning to change their name to ‘Royal Female’. HA!” I chuckled, as I flicked through the post disinterestedly. “AH! Look, Botter! A letter from Poppycock Press, my would-be publisher! I imagine they’re writing to offer me a small fortune for the privilege of publishing the manuscript I sent to them.”

I tore open the envelope and skimmed the missive within.

“BALLBAGS!” I roared, hurling the letter aside. “They are refusing to print my masterpiece! They say that it is much to crude and far too depraved for print! Bah, these fellows would not know a good thing if it came up to them, lowered its trousers and excreted a lump of solid gold upon their chests! A pox on them, I say!”

“Maybe you should tone it down a touch, milord, and resubmit? I mean, there is an entire chapter in there where you go into great detail about masturbating over an image of the Queen…”

“TONE IT DOWN?” I bellowed. “I am Lord Likely, not Jane ruddy Austen! I shall simply have to find a publisher with rather bigger balls, is all…”

My tirade was cut short by a knock on the door.

“Go and see who that is, Botter. I wish to fume some more.”

Botter nodded and scurried off to answer the door, while I sat in my chair, looking mean, moody and magnificent.

“It’s Inspector Spunkleford, milord,” Botter said, re-entering the room. “He wishes to see you right away, says it is most urgent.”

“Dear me,” I sighed. “Whatever is it now? Can he not find his way back to Scotland Yard on his own, or something? Fine, send him in.”

Botter nodded smartly, and withdrew, to be replaced by the portly form of Spunkleford.

“Ah, Likely!” boomed the big man, rather too enthusiastically for my aching head.

“Gah! A bit quieter if you could, Spunkleford, there’s a good chap.”

“Ha! Heavy night eh, old friend?”

“What? Why does everyone keep saying that? How can a night be ‘heavy’? Unless you are calling me obese. Are you calling me obese, Spunkleford? I mean, I concede I have developed something of a ‘champagne gut’ of late, but still….”

“Never mind, Likely,” beamed Spunkleford. “‘Tis not important. What is important is this rather interesting case that’s come up…think you’ll be interested, as it’s rather astonishing, you see…”

“Oh?” I said, leaning forward, my ears pricking up at the ‘a’ word. “Do tell.”

“Well, I’ve just come from the scene of a rather brutal murder. Chap seems to have been savagely attacked… but furthermore, he was EATEN.”

“Eton? Well, they’re rather wealthy, those college boys. He was probably mugged, I’d wager…”

“What? No, not ETON, Likely! EATEN. As in devoured. Feasted upon. Chewed up. That sort of thing.”

“Oh.” I paused. “OH!”

“‘Oh!’ indeed, Likely. But wait for it, this whole matter gets stranger still. You see, we have a witness to this ghastly crime, a night watch-man from a nearby clockwork book factory. Saw the whole thing, and he was therefore able to give us a full description of the assailant.”

“Oh! Well, it seems like a rather open and shut case then, Spunkleford. I don’t understand why you’re here, frankly.”

“Ah! Well you see, we got in a sketch artist to draw up a picture of the attacker, as we do in these instances. And…well, take a look for yourself, Likely.”

Spunkleford pushed a drawing across the table. I picked it up, looked at it, rubbed my eyes, and then looked at it again.

“But that’s…”

“…Charles Dickens, yes.”

“But he’s…”

“…been dead for twenty years, yes.”

“But I…”

“…don’t understand how a dead man could possibly murder someone?”

“No, I was actually going to say, ‘…but I really wish you would stop finishing my sentences, Spunkleford. It is terribly irritating’.”

“Oh. Sorry, old boy.”

I pondered upon this latest mystery. Having a world-renowned author embroiled in a murder investigation was astonishing enough to warrant my time and energy, but a DEAD world-renowned author embroiled in a murder investigation? How could I possibly resist?

“I’LL TAKE THE CASE!” I roared, leaping to my feet and then tumbling to the floor in quick succession. “And some more coffee,” I added from my spot on the ground.

- Lord Likely.

Continue on to Part Two…

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THIS WEEK, dear readers, you find me plummeting down the side of a rather tall cliff, rapidly heading towards a doubtlessly painful and potentially messy encounter with the ground below. You may (quite naturally) be wondering how I found myself in such a predicament, so please allow me to elucidate.

I have noticed of late the rise of a curious literary phenomenon, that being the appearance of a vast array of autobiographies penned by the rich and famous, which are cluttering up the shelves of book-shops up and down the land, like literary pigeons depositing their word-droppings into the eyes of anyone passing by.

This year sees publication of such tomes as Mr. Charles Dickens’ ‘What? THE Dickens?’; Sir Robert Peel’s ‘Unpeeled’; Charles Darwin’s ‘The Origin of Charles Darwin’ and ‘Bell Ends’, by Alexander Graham Bell, all vying for the punter’s hard-earned (or hard-inherited) cash. It is certainly a lucrative market, which gave me a rather glorious idea…

“Pah!” I exclaimed, as I slammed shut a copy of Mr. Bell’s book, which I had been reading in the drawing room of my spacious mansion. “Alexander Graham Bell! What has HE done to warrant such a publication, eh?”

“Well, he revolutionised the way we communicate with one another by developing and patenting the telephonic device, milord,” Botter replied.

“Pah!” I repeated. “But did he ever wrestle a bear, I ask you?”

“Not to my knowledge, milord.”

“Precisely! But I have!” I cried.

“As I recall, milord, that was just a rather large lady in a fur coat…”

“Aye, but she was wild!” I beamed. “Anyway, the point remains – my life has been considerably more interesting than these bearded buffoons who have been blessed with biographical books! But where is my autobiography, hmmm? Nowhere, that is where! Well, that is a publishing oversight that I shall attempt to rectify right now! Quick, let us hasten to the ‘Wonder Factory’!”

“The…the what, milord?”

“My STUDY, Botter. Heavens, do try and keep up.”

*****

AS YOU all should know by now, whene’er I embark upon another Astonishing Adventure, I am careful to chronicle it in one of my journals, so that future generations may read them and revel in their sheer majesty, thus keeping my memory alive for time immemorial, if not longer. Once completed, my journals are carefully stored away in the bookcases of my study, which were now being viewed by my considerably widened eyes.

“Bugger me!” I declared as I surveyed the rows upon rows of journals before me. “There are a lot of ruddy journals here!” I plucked one from a shelf, and flipped through its yellowing pages. “Ha-ha! Listen to this, Botter: ‘March the Sixteenth, 1864. My man-servant Botter got his head trapped in some railings today. I had rather a good laugh at his expense, and then helped him free. Several hours later.‘ Ha! Do you remember that?”

“Yes,” Botter winced.

“Good times, good times,” I chuckled as I slid the leather-bound volume back in the shelf.

“I must say, milord, I’m rather impressed that you are willing to put so much work into this autobiography of yours…researching through all of these journals will take you months, I’d wager!”

“Oh, scrotums to that, Botter!” I beamed, spinning away from the bookshelf. “I have thought of a far easier, and much more exciting way of preparing for this task! Quick! Let us hasten to the Likely Mobile!” Botter’s face suggested a complete absence of comprehension. “Ready the horse and carriage, you wretched sphincter.”

*****

“MILORD,” Botter said slowly. “I cannot help but wonder why we have come to Death Ridge, and why we are standing at the vey edge of an extremely tall cliff.”

“Ha! Poor, stupid, intellectually-impaired Botter!” I cheered, slapping my man-servant so very heartily on the back that he nearly toppled over the edge. “A small cliff would never suffice!”

“Suffice for what, milord?”

“Let me explain, you poltroon! You see, they say that when a man finds himself in a life-threatening situation, facing near certain death, his entire life flashes before his eyes…”

“Uh-oh…” Botter began.

“Thus, I have decided to hurl myself off this very cliff, so that my life may flash before my eyes, thereby saving me all that terribly tedious research I would otherwise face. And naturally, as I have lived such a full, rich and exciting life, I shall need a very tall cliff from which to leap, as opposed to a much smaller cliff which would be more than adequate for someone like yourself, who has lived a very dull and remarkably uninteresting life. Do you see? ‘Tis rather ingenious, is it not?”

Botter shook his head. “If you shall forgive me for saying so, milord, I think it is rather – ”

“It is, rather!” I beamed. “Toodle-pip!”

And with that, I jumped right off the cliff, which is where you came in, dear readers.

And as I began my descent towards the decidedly solid ground below, my life did indeed begin to flash before my very eyes. My plan was working PERFECTLY.

I could see myself as a mere lad, playing and frolicking on the grounds of the Likely Estate – ah, such fun! And there I was, being caught reading some pornographic literature behind the old oak tree, my father quickly confiscating said pamphlet from me…

My father. Lord Eustace Likely, Gentle-Man Explorer – a hero to millions, and a father to me, or at least he was, until he buggered off when I was six years-old. I had since presumed him to be dead, but a recent run-in with my arch-nemesis Lord Loathsome had revealed to me that he was still very much alive. I should really go and look for him, I suppose. But what if he has forgotten me? What if he simply does not care? What if he turns out to be a massive, terrible twat-hole? The disappointment could kill me!

Damn that Loathsome for imparting that news to me. Damn him to Hades, the snivelling little tit-sack.

Ha! Tit-sack. Tit. TITS. Hmm….

Suddenly a stream of memories relating to the ladies I have pumped over the years trickled through my mind, forming an ocean of breasts, a sea of vaginas and a beautiful, babbling brook of buttocks. Ah, so many beauties! Ladies, female pirates, sensual Russian spies, bakers, paupers, wives, dancers…so many notches had been carved upon my bedpost that it had been whittled down to a toothpick. Ah, happy times!

Hmmm, I pondered as I tumbled through the air, I wonder how my dear Dorothy Mount-Worthy is keeping? It has been a while since I last beheld her fine form, and longer still since I last bedded that fine form. Ah, what a woman! She was one of the few ladies who could lay claim to my heart as well as my ‘part’. The last I heard she had returned to her husband, Count Mount, a fellow I always thought had one too many vowels in his title to adequately describe him.

Ah, well, I sighed as I continued my downward trajectory. There is plenty more fish in the sea, as they say. But in all honesty, I don’t really want to have sex with a fish. A mermaid might be interesting, I suppose, although it’d depend largely on which half is which. The traditional mermaid build, with a human upper-half and fishy lower-half does not really work for me. If it was the other way around, then one is blessed with a chuff AND a creature with a mouth that looks like it was designed with fellatio in mind. Perfect!

Good heavens, now I’m incredibly aroused, I mused.

And then I hit the ground.

*****

I AWOKE with a start.

“Wh-where am I?” I blurted.

“‘Tis alright, my lord,” said Botter, carrying a tray of broth over to me. “You are back home, in your own bed.”

“How…why…who…what the ARSE is going on?” I snapped, springing up into a sitting position.

“You were rather lucky, milord. You landed on a group of schoolchildren who were collecting seashells on the shore”

“Oh,” I laid back gently. “Anything broken?”

“A dozen conch, a bucket of wentletraps and you also crushed their teacher’s cockles.”

“Well, that’s alright then.” I smiled weakly.

“Did you at least manage to see your entire life flash before your eyes milord? Have you now got adequate notes for your autobiography through this foolhardy scheme?”

“Er…no, sadly not. I got rather…distracted. I fear we shall have to find a bigger cliff, I simply have too much life to recall!” I paused. “Either that, or I shall get you to do all the research for me, Botter.”

“Very good, milord.”

I smiled and allowed my eyes to gently close once more. One day, I thought, one day I shall compile my adventures into the world’s most thrilling book. ONE DAY.

And who knows? Maybe there shall even come a time in the future when all of my adventures are transmitted through a series of wires, to strange glowing boxes all across the Empire.

At any rate, I confidently anticipate that I shall still be much celebrated and admir’d for centuries to come. I am much to marvellous to fade into obscurity.

Unlike that Dickens fellow.

- Lord Likely.

Do Not Forget!

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This document is being written in the hope that it might be smuggled out of this wretched place and its contents disseminated, so that I may be freed and my name cleared. At the very least, I hope that my family and all the Dickkens to follow will know the truth about me.

My name is Charles Dickkens, and I am the proud bearer of my family name.I am a writer who only seeks to document the truth and wishes to bring to light social injustice and the miseries of my times.

My story is a simple one. My start in life is simple and my fall from grace simpler still. For I was no match for that devil called Lord Likely. Pray, dear reader, for I believe you to be a person of kind heart and trustful disposition, and I rely on your magnitude of heart to look charitably on this state of opprobrium.

So let us begin.

I, Charles Dickkens was born at an early age, and after a period of time spent as an apprentice nutmeg mender, I slowly developed my career as a writer. The remuneration was modest, but the future looked promising until my path crossed with that of the cad Lord Likely. That swine ruined my career and wrecked my life, stealing my work and my identity, whilst causing me to be incarcerated in this ghastly place.

My downfall was in taking the blackguard into my confidence and revealing the shocking, but little known facts concerning Queen Victoria that I had recorded.

I can remember as if it were yesterday when I first came across the blighter. That bleak and rainy December evening when on my way back from a séance in a cold and gloomy house in Shadwell to my garret in Bloomsbury, soaked to the skin and low of spirit I took refuge in ‘The Old Curiosity Shop’.

And a strange sort of shop it was indeed. For upon crossing the threshold I was confronted by the sight of a man of gentlemanly appearance (as far as I could discern, seeing that he was not wearing any britches or any other garment on his lower half) on all fours with a horse’s bit between his teeth. Sitting astride him was an obese hag who I later discovered was called Little Nell, a joke that the other members of the establishment enjoyed because of her gross size.

Nell had a riding crop in her hand and was beating the person (who it later transpired was Lord Likely) across the buttocks, goading him forward across the carpeted floor with grunts and vicious kicks to his nether regions with her heels.

Likely was still wearing his characteristic top hat and was breathing heavily. His eyes were red and wild, and he had snot escaping from his nostrils.

You can imagine my shock, dear reader, to witness this terrible exhibition of depravity. Realising my mistake I quickly turned ready to make my escape, but my path was blocked by a character wearing an ill-fitting red wig and whose mannish face was covered with vast amounts of ladies’ face powder. Beneath an unfastened salmon-pink silk dressing gown could be seen frilly drawers and silk stockings. As I took stock of the figure before me, I quickly realised that this was no lady. In fact it had nothing to do with the female personage at all.

Please understand that I am no prude, nor am I quick to make moral judgements. My involvement with the poor and lower classes of London has exposed me to all forms of indelicate behaviour. Therefore my feeling of ill ease was born of a sense of looming danger which filled my soul with deep foreboding and dread.

The character stood with one arm stretched across the doorway, the palm of the hairy hand resting on the doorpost, and the silk dressing gown gaping open. “Want to buy a lady a drink?” she said in a deep-pitched voice.

Realising that I would have to use all my guile to extricate myself from this unfortunate situation, I attempted to engage the person in conversation. “And what might your name be, Madam?” I enquired.

The person thrust the obviously padded breasts towards me and gave a pout. “You can call me Botter,” she said in a husky voice.

I didn’t like the way things were turning out and began wondering how I could have been so foolish to have mistaken this place, full of harlots and miscreants, for a simple temperance society meeting room where I might have taken refuge from the elements for a few moments.

Before I could decide upon what action to take next, Lord Likely gave a sudden shudder and heaved his back upwards, throwing Little Nell onto the floor, in a bundle of belly fat and open-crotch drawers.

He cast his bloodshot gaze towards me, then with some effort rose and after taking a moment to compose himself he moved towards me. As he approached, and without breaking his gaze his right arm shot out and hit Botter in the groin, causing the poor wretch to scream out in a flurry of distress and face powder.

“Gown,” was all that Likely said in a clipped tone.

Botter, a picture of pain and humiliation, slowly pulled the dressing gown from his body. Likely stood without moving as this poor excuse for a woman – or man for that matter – draped the garment over his shoulders.

With a strangely engaging smile Likely stuck out his hand towards me.

“Likely, sir. And you are …?”

He cocked his head slightly and continued, “You appear, sir, to have me at a disadvantage.”

His absolute self-assurance and perfect manners, despite the fact that his Lord Palmerston was making an appearance every now and again from behind the gown, made it perfectly clear that he was in control of this chance encounter.

Overwhelmed by his self-confidence, I instinctively extended my hand to meet his.

“Charles ……. Aagh.”

I am afraid to admit that I let out a rather girlish scream before I could complete the sentence, as I felt my hand crushed in a vice-like grip.

Likely kept hold of my hand for what seemed like an age, as he applied the dreaded ‘Caledonian Knuckle Crunch‘, sadistically relishing his dominance and my agony. Then in an almost feminine manner he broke the grip and let his hand drift away as if in a genteel wave.

“You were saying,” he said abstractedly, pulling the gown about his person.

I let out a nervous cough, flexing my fingers behind my back, then said “Charles Dickkens, sir. At you service.”

Likely looked up, then cast a glance at Little Nell, who was still lying on the carpet with what in the dimness appeared to be a black cat sitting in her lap. “This is all rather tedious. Why don’t we retire to partake of some refreshment?”

Before I could respond he turned and strode towards a door at the end of the room. Never looking back he simply opened the door and walked in, aware, just as I was that I would be following him.

Almost in a trance I crossed the short distance and entered the room, which was even more dimly lit than the one we had just left.

As I stepped in, I noticed a couch to my right on which a Chinaman was lying. His eyes were half closed and he had a sleepy look of ecstasy as he sucked on a pipe.

Likely was now draped on a couch at the back of the room, the gown unfortunately gaping open.

Likely patted the cushion beside him. “Don’t be shy,” he said in an almost brusque tone.

I moved towards him, trying not to appear to be aware of the state of his dress, and sat next to him on the couch.

Just then a ghostly figure appeared out of the shadows and placed a tray of drinks on the table in front of us. Likely said, “Now pray, tell me all about yourself.”

For the rest of the night I was unaware of the passing hours. The dark seduction of the evening, the scent of the Chinaman’s pipe, Lord Likely’s medicine (which I later found to be a mixture of port wine and laudanum), together with the sheer force of the man’s personality lead me to talk, and talk and to offer all the details of my life and my future aspirations.

I could hear my own voice and see Likely’s fiendishly smiling face shimmering in front of me – and then no more.

My next recollection was of waking in a back alley in the district of Whitechapel with guttersnipes rifling through my pockets.

But, oh if that were the extent of my misfortune. For after stumbling my way back to my garret, constables were waiting for me. Everything that I had blurted out to Lord Likely had been turned against me. I was about to be tried for high treason, and while I was suffering incarceration, Likely stole all my works.

Rewriting these pieces of literature he completely devastated the beauty and truth of the originals.

By the cunning means of taking my family name and removing one ‘k’ he created the pseudonym ‘Dickens‘ which he used to publish these poor imitations of my works in a style that would appeal to the masses.

I shall endeavour ………..

Quickly, I can hear the approaching footsteps of the jailer. I must stop writing and conceal this message behind a loose brick in the wall of my prison for later completion.

- Charles Dickkens.

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