Having roundly defeated Mrs. Dinklesuck and her killer prostitutes, my companions and I entered their house to ascertain exactly what terrible secrets lay within, and hopefully bring this whole awful affair to it’s conclusion.

A thorough search of the building proved fruitless. There seemed nothing remotely untoward about the house, save perhaps the offensively cheap furniture on display.

Inspector Spunkleford and I reconvened in the lounge, having both found nothing of any interest.

“Where’s Botter?” I inquired. “I swear, if he’s gone off to touch himself inappropriately again, I will thrash him to within an inch of his worthless life.”

Spunkleford opened his mouth to reply, when a blood-curdling scream interrupted him.

“Man alive!” I cried. “That was surely Botter himself! Only he could scream in such a womanly manner.”

“I think it came from the back garden, Likely!”

“Then we must make haste to the back garden, Inspector!” I said, and so we dashed off to see what all the commotion was about.

When we arrived at the garden, we saw nothing to pique our interest.

“Well, where is the little bastard?” I asked.

“Look, Likely! The door of that little out-house is ajar!”

We ran over to the smaller building, and opened the door. Botter fell at our feet, out cold. Spunkleford knelt down to inspect the comatose man-servant.

“I fear he has gone into a faint, your lordship.” Spunkleford informed me.

“Hmm. What would cause poor Botter to pass out like that, I wonder?” I said, cautiously edging into the out-house.

The room was dark, and damp. I fumbled in my coat-pockets, until I laid my hand upon a box of matches. I drew one out, and lit it, throwing some light on the situation.

There, on the ground beside me, was a bucket filled with ice. I peered closer, then reeled back in horror. Spunkleford appeared at my shoulder.

“What is it, Likely?” he asked.

I pointed, while covering my mouth and nose with a handkerchief.

“Holy fuck,” gasped Spunkleford.

Inside the bucket, encased in the ice, were dozens of perfectly preserved penises.

I was about to compose myself, and make a witty, off-the-cuff remark, when another voice intruded upon our discourse.

“Unfortunately, that bigger one, at the back there, is mine,” said the voice.

Spunkleford and I reeled round, to face a middle-aged man wearing a suit that had seen far better days.

“Good day, gentleman,” he intoned. “Allow me to introduce myself. I am Sir Marcus Chuffington-Fapps, and I have no cock.”

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