The short answer is: you cannot, for I am quite the one-off, and the chances of another such fine specimen of humanity e’er being forged is as remote as the chances of women ever getting the chance to vote. Pure fantastical folly.

However, if you are truly determined, then you may be able to fool others that you are at least a little bit trim by sporting one of the corsets illustrated above, which brings in your unsightly, bulging stomach while simultaneously denying the bearer the facility to breathe, which in turn could prove useful as eating whilst passed out is very difficult indeed. However, extreme caution is advised, as I have witnessed people tying these damned things so tightly that they have literally forced their skeletons out through their mouths as a result. Grim viewing indeed, though one cannot deny the weight-loss that ensues.

Aside from that, my personal fitness regime is threefold:

1. Adventuring. Whether I be leaping across train carriages in pursuit of some bounder or other, of fleeing for my life from irate husbands who have found me in bed with their wives (see point 3), I am constantly on the move and burning up calories like nobody’s business.  Not recommended for those with weak hearts, or weak bladders, mind.

2. Twatting beggars. Thrashing the filthy, wretched paupers that litter the streets of our fair capital keeps me remarkably trim, and has helped me to develop some rather formidable biceps. If you were to have tickets to come and see my personal gun show, you would not be disappointed (and if you were, I’d possibly shoot you with a real gun to stop the negative reviews from spreading).

3. Intercourse. My favourite part of my exercise plan. Leaping in and out of bed with a multitude of women has done wonders for my muscles (especially my love-muscle), and has given me the stamina of twenty men, which is why women often tell me that making love to me is a lot like making love with a one-man orgy.

So there you have it, my three-pronged guide to success! You shall never look as good as me, of course, but at least you might look rather less repulsive than you undoubtedly do at this moment.

Now drop down and give me twenty (guineas, this advice is not free, you know).

- Lord Likely. 

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/random-insertions/rampant-holmes-o-phobia http://www.lordlikely.com/archives/random-insertions/rampant-holmes-o-phobia#comments Mon, 28 Dec 2009 01:45:18 +0000 Lord Likely http://www.lordlikely.com/?p=1070

MY ASTONISHING ADVENTURES have led me to meet more than my fair share of reprehensible human beings; from filthy beggars rolling about in their own effluence, to dead-eyed murderers with souls as black as night and hearts made out of ice. But none of them – NONE! – have filled me with as much revulsion, disgust and sheer HATRED as one Mr. Sherlock Holmes.

EGAD! Even writing his name makes me want to vomit profusely ‘pon the page, and jab this quill into my eyeballs, such is my intense dislike for this blasted cove. Ne’er before has such a smug being strode so smugly ‘pon the earth, drawing smug breath through his smug mouth into his doubtlessly smug lungs. Heavens, I detest him so.

And how people seem to fall at his feet, heralding him as some sort of crime-solving genius! Genius? Geni-ARSE, more like. He simply ponces about the place, speaking a tremendous amount of cock, before stumbling across the solution quite by accident, whereupon he declares the whole affair as being ‘elementary’ and then flounces off to puff upon his pipe or have a quick fiddle. PAH! Has HE ever had to contend with an army of gun-toting prostitutes? Has he ever found himself at the mercy of a sex-mad beast with a todger the size of a man? Has he ever had to fend off a blood-thirsty boot-black intent on sawing one’s feet off? NO. More often than not he simply swans into a large house in the country, looks about a bit, and then buggers off again. The man is a CHARLATAN.

I quite like Dr. Watson, however. Now there is a good egg.

Anyway, I have had the great misfortune to run into this supreme toss-bag on no less than two separate occasions, of which only the second encounter concluded in a satisfactory manner, more of which in a moment.

The other occurrence occurred whilst I was investigating a rather intriguing mystery, involving a group known as ‘The Red-Headed League’, who had recently welcomed a Mr. Jabez Wilson into their fold, before swiftly disbanding in rather curious circumstances. This had troubled Mr. Wilson, who had naturally contacted me to help him get to the bottom of this matter. Upon hearing his baffling tale, I swiftly decided that the best course of action would be to go out into the streets, and thrash the living hell out of any person with copper-coloured locks until they revealed to me the details of this sinister-sounding organisation. It was while I was following this route of enquiry that I had my first run-in with the smarmy sleuth himself.

“Ahem,” Holmes said. “Excuse me, sir – may I ask exactly what it is that you are doing?”

“And who, pray tell, is asking?” I replied, as I continued beating a red-headed rapscallion with my cane.

“Sherlock Holmes!” boomed Sherlock Holmes. “Now answer me – what are you doing, sir?”

“Well, you are supposed to be the ‘great detective’,” I answered. “So deduce!”

Holmes went quiet, and puffed upon his ridiculous, bendy pipe. “It looks to me as if you are needlessly battering this poor chap about the head, in what I can only assume is a misguided attempt to elicit information about the shadowy ‘Red-Headed League’, of which there has been much conjecture in the press of late.”

I stopped mid-twat, and pulled myself up to my full height. “That is precisely what I am doing,” I confirmed, turning around to face the gaunt, thin face of this ‘legendary’ detective. “Am I supposed to be impressed by the fact that you knew as much?”

“Not at all,” Holmes said, allowing a small, smug grin to creep across his hawk-like countenance. “But if I may say so, I rather fear that you have grasped the wrong end of the stick.”

“Nonsense!” I retorted. “This end is most definitely the right end of the stick, for the other end has a large knob on the end which is proving exceptionally effective for battering this cad.”

With that, Holmes shook his head in a terribly dismissive manner, and strode off. Later on, I was apprehended by police for assaulting several members of the public, while Holmes went on to ‘solve’ the mystery. I remain convinced to this day that Holmes had put the police onto me, probably because he had seen that I was making excellent progress in my investigation, and wanted me out of the way so that he could complete my hard work and claim all the glory. The SWINE.

Nevertheless, an opportunity for revenge presented itself a few years later, when I was holidaying in Switzerland with two delightful Swiss au-pairs whom I had befriended back in England. On one afternoon, we decided to pay a visit to a nearby natural wonder called the Reichenbach Falls, which to my great disappointment turned out to be nothing more wonderful than some water tumbling over some rocks. However, my disappointment turned to joy as my two companions began to frolic in the waters, making their clothing entirely drenched and fantastically see-through, leading to me becoming incredibly aroused, which in turn led to us all partaking in a particularly erotic threesome beneath the mighty falls.

It was as I was wildly hammering away at the backside of one of the girls that I happened to look up and notice a figure hovering about on one of the ledges above. Reasoning that some blighter was attempting to get a free show out of us, I vowed to go and confront the cad and register my great displeasure with my fists upon his face.

And so I promptly made my way up the nearby cliff, until I found myself on the ledge where the figure had been. Surely enough, there he was, still skulking about in the shadows.

“Oh-ho!” I cried, startling the figure. “So, thought you might enjoy a live peep-show, hmmm? Well, let us see how much peeping you can do if I punch out your peepers, sir! Have at ye, you cove!”

The figure spun around, revealing himself to be none other than that blasted arse-cavity, Mr. Sherlock Holmes, looking somewhat more haggard than when I had last seen him. “You!” he exclaimed. “I recognise you…you’re that scoundrel who ran amok on the streets of London attacking innocents with your cane!”

“Ha!” I snorted. “They were hardly innocents, sir. They were all red-heads, and as we all know, red-heads only have such oddly-coloured locks because the Devil himself has possessed their follicles. Thus, with Satan himself sewn into their scalps, they are all destined for a life of villainy and crime, and must be subdued at any cost.”

“What imaginative poppycock,” Holmes smarmed. “Now please, be gone from here, for I am in the midst of another investigation, one which is of a particularly perilous nature, and I do not wish harm to come to you.”

“PAH!” I roared. “I am Lord Likely, Aristocratic Adventurer and Gentle-Man of Action! Harm does not come to me, sir – I go to harm! And then…” I paused briefly. “…I harm it.”

“I know full well who you are, your lordship,” Holmes said. “I have followed your career with great interest. But you must believe me when I say that this investigation is particularly dangerous, for I am on the trail of Professor Moriarty, a man of such twisted cunning and terrible evil that he would not think twice of dispatching you in an instant.”

“BALLS!” I bellowed. “You are just afraid that I shall best him in a trice, and reveal you to be the useless pranny you so clearly are, Mr. ‘Shortcock’ Holmes. Well, you may have taken me out of the picture once before, but this time you shall not be so lucky!”

“Please, your lordship!” Holmes whined. “You MUST heed my words, for your own safety. I believe Moriarty is headed my way, and he shall not allow anything or anyone to get between him and my demise! A great battle between two intellectual heavy-weights is about to commence, a titanic struggle betwixt good and evil which – ”

“Oh, do push off,” I sighed, and with that I quickly pushed Mr. Sherlock Holmes off of the ledge. “Honestly,” I muttered as I watched the man disappear into the misty spray below. “What a simpering, whiny old sap. No spine! No sense of excitement! I can only wonder which school he attended in order to learn the fine art of adventure…”

The answer, of course, was elementary.

- Lord Likely.

DESPITE his wild ineptitude, Mr. Sherlock Holmes is the subject of a new dramatic production, wherein a group of jobbing actors do the utmost to portray the wretch as some sort of heroic figure. I believe it may be viewed in a theatre near you now, if you like that sort of thing.

FOR A far more accurate depiction of the alleged ‘super-sleuth’, may I suggest picking up a copy of Mr. Chris Woods’ most chuklesome tome, ‘Sherlock Holmes and the Underpants of Death‘, which does a fabulous job of showing Holmes to be the wholly incompetent dick-tube we all know him to be. HUZZAH!

~ A Christmas Carry On, Part Three ~

For the previous chapter, do please click hither.

“ENCHANTED, I must say,” I said to the rather seductively-shaped spirit who had suddenly materialised in Mr. Scrooge’s bed-chamber. “And you are?…”

“I am the Ghost of Christmas Past,” said the Ghost of Christmas Past, hovering in front of me at just the right height for me to be at eye-level with her glorious, ghostly globes. “I am here for Mr. Ebenezer Scrooge…”

“Him?” I scoffed, jerking a thumb behind me, to where the aforementioned miser was cowering behind a curtain, muttering prayers under his breath for his wretched life to be spared. “Why on earth would such a splendid-looking spectre travel all this way from the afterlife to seek out that cranky old coot?”

“It concerns Mr. Scrooge’s welfare,” the ghost replied. “His soul is in great peril, for he is a wicked man.”

“Ah, if it is a wicked man you desire, m’dear, then look no further – I can be very wicked indeed!”

“Please, sir, I have work to do,” the ghoul said dismissively, and then she glided right through me as if I were not even there.

“Egad!” I exclaimed excitedly. “I have not been so thoroughly penetrated by a woman since the time I attended that dominatrix party in Soho…”

I turned about to see the ghost approach Mr. Scrooge, who’s continued attempts to remain hidden behind his curtains had resulted in him becoming completely tangled up in them, leaving him to the mercy of the advancing apparition. As the spectre warned Scrooge about his impending spiritual reclamation, I decided to prepare a surprise for our ghoulish guest.

“And so, Ebenezer, that is why you must take my hand and come with me..”

“Ahem! Ms. Past?” I interjected. “I believe it is traditional at this time of year for people to share a kiss ‘neath the mistletoe, is it not?…”

Exasperated, the spirit turned around to face me. “Please, sir, I must tend to this…wait a moment…I do not see any mistletoe at all…”

“Cast your eyes lower, m’dear,” I beamed, arching an eyebrow suggestively. The ghost did so, until her eyes fell upon a sprig of mistletoe fastened to my belt, just above a spectacularly large protrusion in my trousers, caused by my ever-mighty Lord Palmerston.

“Oh!” gasped the ghoul. “OH!” she went on to exclaim, her eyes widening at the sight of my trousered tent-pole.

“‘Oh’ indeed, m’dear…so how about it, eh? You must surely miss a bit of rumpy-pumpy now and again, what? I’d wager that the last time you had something stiff in your box was when you were buried…”

“Heavens! I can resist you no more!” exclaimed the spirit, and then, using her supernatural powers, she lifted me clean off of my feet, and hurled me onto Mr. Scrooge’s bed, where she quickly joined me for a spot of paranormal hanky-panky.

“Wh-what is going on?” blurted Mr. Scrooge, disentangling himself form the curtains.

“It is probably for the best that you do not ask, sir,” replied Botter. “Things are about to get rather odd.”

*****

TWO o’clock came and went, and then three o’clock passed by. It was not until the clock heralded the arrival of four o’clock that the Ghost of Christmas Past and myself emerged from our sensual seance, to a small group of rather shocked onlookers. Now joining Mr. Scrooge and my man-servant were two more spectres: one, large and plump, with a big, red beard who was surrounded by food;  the other a rather more sinister figure in a dark cowl.

“PAST!” bellowed the fat phantom, tossing a half-eaten chicken leg over his shoulder. “There you are! Have you quite finished haunting this man, may I ask?”

“Haunting?” said the Ghost of Christmas Past.

“There appears to be ectoplasm all over my sheets,” Scrooge observed as he inspected his bed-covers.

“We heard plenty of wailing and moaning coming from within that bed, so we assumed that…” the Ghost of Christmas Present (for it was he) trailed off, as Past lowered her head. “Hold on a moment…you…you DIDN’T, did you?”

“Aye, sir,” replied the spirit, who would have undoubtedly blushed at this point, if she were indeed able to do so.

“HA!” roared the Ghost of Christmas Present, spraying crumbs from his mouth. “Good work, sirrah,” he exclaimed, turning to me. “I have been longing to do the same myself…”

“Listen, can we hurry up and get this job done?” whined the other ghoul, the Ghost of Christmas Future. “It’s bloody freezing here, it’s Christmas Day and I have a party to go to. And if you think I’m going in this dreary old robe then you are sorely mistaken.”

“Oh, put a cork in it, you bony berk,” snapped Present.

“Hmph! Why don’t YOU just shove another cake into that over-stuffed cake-hole of yours, hmmm?” Future shot back.

“Are you saying I am FAT, you cad?” asked Present.

“No, not at all,” said Future. “I’m saying that you are FATTEST.”

“RIGHT!” boomed Present. “That does it! Have at thee, sir! I shall snap you like a bloody cocktail stick…”

“Sirs, please!” implored the ever-lovely Ghost of Christmas Past. “Let us not fight. ‘Tis Christmas Day, after all, and we still have a man’s soul to save…”

“Hmmm,” I mused, stroking my magnificent moustache in contemplation. “Deceased ladies and gentlemen, I think I have a solution to all our problems…”

*****

AND so we all adjourned back to Likely Towers, whereupon I threw a most magnificent festive shindig, which was naturally very well attended. I got blind, roaring drunk, while Botter just got blind and roaring (he temporarily lost his sight after a cork shot into his eyes, leading him to subsequently topple into the fireplace). Meanwhile, the spirits quaffed spirits which served to raise their spirits, resulting in much raucous laughter and shenanigans.

I took it upon myself to raise Mr. Scrooge’s mood, plying him with plenty of booze. Soon enough, Mr. Scrooge went from hum-bugging to bum-hugging, as he chased many a delectable damsel about my estate,  a sloppy grin spread about his previously gloomy countenance. Truly, ’twas a Christmas miracle.

And all it took was a visit from the Host of Christmas Party. HUZZAH!

A very MERRY CHRISTMAS to you all, dear readers! Lord Likely bless you, ev’ry one!

- Lord Likely.

~ Lord Likely and the Bloody Nuisances Part Five ~

For the previous chapter, please click here.

THREE DAYS had passed since I had soundly defeated the nefarious neck-biter Mr. Strix, a skirmish which had resulted in the blood-sucking bounder dissolving into a pile of bones, guts and well-tailored clothing. Naturally, the whole spectacle rather perturbed Strx’s housemaid, Helena Handbaskett, leaving her deeply traumatised. Of course, being a naturally caring and benevolent fellow, I immediately offered her lodgings at Likely Towers, where I spent the following three days comforting the poor girl, offering her a shoulder to cry on, and a penis to wildly straddle, both of which she gladly accepted.

After three days of such strenuous counsel, wherein I offered solace to the lady in numerous different positions and locales, we wound up back in my magnificent bed-chamber. Helena lay on her back, with me holding her legs in the air, pumping away at her quivering mound like a piston on a particularly well-oiled (and damnably attractive) machine. With each impressive thrust Helena moaned and gasped with delight, as in the manner of many a lady before her, and dare I say, many a lady after her as well.

“RULE BRITANNIA!” I bellowed, as I shot my ennobled ejaculate into Helena’s silken flesh-purse at the precise point at which she climaxed with all the force of a raging river crashing through a damn. Sweaty and utterly sated, I rolled off the gasping form of the maid and lit myself a cigarette.

“Do you always smoke after intercourse, my lord?” asked Helena as she caught her breath.

“Sometimes,” I replied, dragging on my cigarette. “Sometimes, I smoke during intercourse. The friction can be incredible, you know.”

A post-coital silence fell upon us as we both lay back on the pillows, a silence that lasted up until the point that Helena spoke once more.

“My lord, may I ask you a question?” she spake.

“Well, you have already asked two question, including that one, so I cannot see what difference a third would make.”

“Very well,” Helena responded, “My lord…are we to be married now?”

I nearly swallowed my cigarette in shock at this abrupt suggestion.

“M-m-married?” I stuttered in a stunned staccato. “Why on earth would you want to go and ruin a perfectly good relationship by getting married?”

“But my lord, you have laid with me these past few days…surely you must be planning to wed me as well?”

“Good heavens no, dear,” I said. “I have something of a distrust of the institution of marriage. I liken it to glueing together two fifty pound notes…far from ending up with one, crisp hundred pound note, all you have is a messy lump of glue and paper that is worth considerably less than the two component parts.”

“My lord!” raged Helena, her face turning scarlet, which actually complimented her red hair rather nicely. “You must make an honest woman of me!”

“You are a woman, honestly!” I retorted. “I should know, I’ve seen a few. Look, dear Helena, you are a sweet, innocent girl but I am…I am Lord Likely, Aristocratic Adventurer and Gentle-Man of Action! I am a bachelor, a man-about-town, a wild and free spirit. Think of me as being a lithe, world-class race-horse. You do not get yourself a champion racer and then tether it to a large, heavy carriage, expecting it to drag the blasted thing about with it all day and all night. Why, to do so would be absolute insanity, and would only serve to crush the spirit and drain the soul of the poor creature.”

“Oh! So I am a ‘large, heavy carriage’ now, am I?” wailed Helena, rising up out of the bed with the sheets wrapped around her slender frame.

“Only in a metaphorical sense,” I cooed. “In actuality you are rather pleasingly assembled indeed.”

Helena stared out of the bed-room window for a while, then turned back to me. “Fine, my lord. I see that you have your beliefs, and are quite certain of yourself. I can accept that.” She sat back down beside me, and placed a hand on my arm, while she gazed deeply into my eyes. “But I am completely certain that you shall change your mind in no time at all, and that you shall very soon acquiesce to my demands to marry me.”

I stared into her dark eyes, for what seemed like an eternity.There was something about them, something intangible that seemed to hold one’s gaze, drawing one further and further in. Everything else seemed to fade away into the background, and all that was left were the eyes, those dark, beautiful eyes…

I shook my head sharply to free myself of the daze that I had found myself in.

“Sorry, my dear? You were saying?”

“I was just wondering, my lord,” Helena said, taking my hand and holding it close to her. “Shall we get married?”

I smiled.

“Why, most certainly, my dear! How about tomorrow?”

- Lord Likely.

Next Time in The Astonishing Adventures of Lord Likely: Nice Day For A Bite Wedding!

Enjoyed? Then do please donate! Times are hard at Likely Towers – indeed, my wretched scribe, Mr. Fanton, nears ever closer to complete financial, physical and mental collapse. To prevent him from passing out and thus ceasing all work on my journals, please do toss a farthing or two his way. All help is muchly appreciated, and those who help now receive access to his lordship’s top-secret Member’s Lounge! HUZZAH!

WELL HUZZAH! ‘Tis time to hang out the bunting, crack open the champage, and set fire to an urchin in celebration – my beloved journals have been relocated!

Hip, hip, hoo-bloody-ray!

Regular readers will recall that I had somehow misplaced my beloved journals – those fine diaries into which I chronicle my astonishing adventures and exhilarating exploits – whilst in the midst of transcribing one such escapade for the collective enjoyment of the entire globe.

Well, fear not, ladies and gentlemen, for the journals have now resurfaced, and thus humanity need not be deprived of the finest story-telling e’er read by man, woman or particularly literate beast.

Huzzah, I say again.

But where were the journals, you may be wondering? And if you aren’t wondering that at all, then what in the name of blue blazes is wrong with you? I fear you may have suffered a head trauma, rendering you an imbecile.

Upon losing said diaries, I turned to you – my loyal followers – for assistance. Naturally, you all leapt to my aid, scouring the corners of the earth in search of my treasured journals, seeking high and low in every nook and cranny, and every crook and nanny.

The first lead came from Mr. Jeffman, who suggested the books may have been lurking under my top-hat. Upon closer inspection, however, it transpired that they were not there, although I did find several pounds in change, a half-eaten sandwich and a copy of Strumpets and Trumpets magazine – a most delightful read if e’er I saw one.

Mr. Augusto hinted that he had found in underneath my dear friend Dorothy Mount-Worthy’s dress, but after a thorough search I turned up nothing, save for Ms. Mount-Worthy’s knickers, which subsequently came down and…well, let us just say she has nothing hidden about or indeed inside her gorgeous form.

Ms. Tiggy thought that I might have lost it in Penge. A quick telegram to Penge revealed that the place was still as bum-achingly dull as ever, so clearly my journals had not turned up and roused the spirits of its inhabitants, else there would no doubt have been a frenzy of wild boozing and wilder intercourse on the streets.

Mr. Scaryduck made the bizarre claim that I had left it up a goat, but his promise of pictures to follow was never realised. I can only imagine that he had become so lust-filled whilst taking the photographs that he spent the rest of the time humping the goat, and it would not surprise me at all if he and the goat were now married, with kids.

Mr. Wood offered the possibility that I may have lost the journals in a card game. I have, as you will recall, once lost my entire house in such a fashion, but since then I have learnt my lesson and now only gamble things of no use to me (e.g my trousers, my man-servant). So once again I came up blank.

Sir Static attempted the old blackmail ruse upon me, by claiming he had the journals and would return them for ten thousand pounds. Naturally, I saw through his caper, and so by about…now, Sir Static should be falling ten thousand feet, after I arranged to have him hurled off a dirigible for daring to tangle with this particular aristocrat.

Lady Catherine came up with a most intriguing proposition, that my journals may have been taken from me and used to form the basis of a new religion. The suggestion may have proven to be incorrect, but it is still an excellent idea, which should be enacted upon IMMEDIATELY, if not sooner.

But then, a breakthrough! The ever-enchanting Lady Softbreath helped jog my memory, by sending me this marvellous missive:

Kind Sir;

Far be it from me to suggest that your memory is failing, but I hasten to remind you that the aforementioned diary was not, in point of fact, lost at all.

It remains precisely where you left it, and however it might disturb me that your memory of the leaving is not as sharp as mine, I will make an attempt to clear what is quite obviously a muddy recollection on your part. Being a lady, please be assured that I will not divulge those things about the evening that might be unsavory to those whose eyes pass over this missive.

After a most delightful evening spent debauching each other, you propped up a device – which has been known to give me quite a lot of pleasure – proudly atop the diary. Upon arranging it just so, you declared to me that the things that gave me the most glee should be kept together in a place of honor near my bedside. The diary to be kept, of course, as a reminder of the decadent evening passed in your company.

It would seem that it was not I that required such a reminder, your Lordship. As such, I shall endeavour to return the diary by post at my earliest convenience.

It will be returned to you inside your missing left sock.

Ever yours,
Lady Softbreath
So THAT is where I left it! Of course! Sometimes it is rather difficult to keep track of who’s bed I have been in, so these things can naturally get quite confusing and muddled.

Suffice to say, I shall now journey to Lady Softbreath’s abode, to reclaim my journals and deliver her the grand prize of a damned good pounding.

All is well that ends well, and I thank you all most fervently for helping me locate my missing diaries. Truly, each and every one of you is a credit to the human race!

I shall return Monday, when I will no doubt have lost a fair amount of my seminal fluid, but gained a journal. And having done so, I shall immediately set about recommencing the transcription of my latest astonishing adventure – The Puzzling Pearl Necklace Puzzle!

Until then,

Toodle-pip!

- Lord Likely.

The Puzzling Pearl Necklace Puzzle:

Chapter Four.

THE party-goers swarmed around the choking form of the Duchess of Fircombe, rather like particularly well-dressed vultures circling a carcass. Indeed, had they actually been vultures, then I dare say there would be enough meat on the Duchess to feed a family of four vultures very well for an entire year.

But I digress.

I watched with bemusement as the assorted toffs and dignitaries flapped about the poor Duchess, quite unsure of how to proceed. While I have moved in such social circles for all of my life, it never ceases to amaze me that while the upper classes posses considerable wealth and prestige, they posses absolutely no common sense or practical abilities. Thus, with a weary sigh, I realised that it would be up to me – Lord Likely, aristocratic adventurer and gentle-man of action – to save the day once more, and so I reluctantly left my spot standing betweixt the beautiful Dorothy Mount-Worthy and the bewitching Maud Dreadful, and leapt up onto a nearby table, to address the hall.

“Ladies and gentlemen!” I bellowed, my powerful voice commanding the immediate attention of the guests. “Is there a doctor in the house?”

There was a brief pause, before Winsome Pine, the pathetic poet, stepped forward.

“I…I am a doctor,” he said.

“Really?” I asked, raising a quizzical eyebrow.

“Well, I have a doctorate in creative writing,” the sap continued.

“Hmmm, well I am not sure that is entirely relevant to the current problem, is it now? Unless you plan to make the Duchess vomit profusely by reading her another of your sickening verses…actually, that might work…”

Pine glowered at me and then returned to the crowd, who had refocused their attentions on watching the Duchess turn a rather deep shade of crimson.

“Excuse me,” said a tall, blonde man nearby. “I am a doctor!”

“Yes?” I said, lowering my quizzical eyebrow and raising a sceptical eyebrow instead.

“Yes! My name is Albert Doctor! I’m literally A. Doctor!”

“But are you an actual doctor?”

“No,” replied Albert Doctor. “I am an accoutant.”

“Then kindly fuck off and come back when you are useful,” I snapped, stepping off the table. “In the meantime, it looks like I shall have to sort this whole ruddy mess out.”

I left Mr. Doctor looking rather sorry for himself, and pushed my way through the massed crowd assembled around the still-choking Duchess.

“Let me through, you swine!” I roared. “And give the woman some room, for Christ’s sake!”

The crowd duly parted, allowing me to get behind the Duchess, whereupon I placed my arms around her (which was quite a challenge in itself) and with my hands clasped at the base of her diaphragm, I begun to perform some wild exertions upon her person.

“Heavens above!” exclaimed the Duke of Fircombe as he watched me thrusting away at the Duchess’ hindquarters. “This is no time for you to start dry-humping my wife, you blaggard!”

“You are quite right, of course,” I said between thrusts. “I should require several more whiskies first.”

The Duke was about to chastise me some more, but then all of a sudden the Duchess let forth and almighty cough, and the offending olive which had been trapped in her throat came flying out of her mouth with tremendous force, smashing through a window and sailing off out into the night.

“There.” I said, wiping my hands together with much satisfaction. “The problem is solved.”

“How the devil did you do that, sir?” The Duke asked, clearly and rightfully amazed.

“It is a little trick I picked up in the tropics,” I explained. “I had been engaging in the act of oral sex with a young Brazilian beauty I had met on my travels, who had gratefully received my noble nut-juice and had swallowed it down greedily. After that, I bent her over a chair and began giving her arse-hole a damned good pasting, when all of a sudden she started choking. Clearly, my lordly love-cream had proved too much for her to take, but she claimed she was alright and urged me to continue. As I thrust harder and faster, she began spluttering and wheezing, until suddenly a great big globule of my man-milk came whizzing out of her mouth. Somehow, the act of my exertions and her position over the chair had dislodged the obstruction, and she was perfectly fine again. So I went on to penetrate her five more times that night. A thoroughly good time, by my recollection.”

The Duke and his guests had fallen completely silent and were looking at me agog.

“What?” I asked indignantly. “You did ask. Anyway, since that night I have used that procedure many a time, and it never fails. I call it the Likely Manoeuvre, don’t you know? I dare say my name shall become synonymous with choking and thrusting, quite as it should be. I wonder if – “

But my musings were quickly cut short by a piercing scream from the Duchess.

“Oh God,” I muttered. “It seems she is back to normal.”

“My necklace!” cried the Duchess, desperately pawing at her bare neck. “Someone has stolen my necklace!”

“Bloody hellfire,” I sighed. “It never ruddy ends, does it?”

- Lord Likely.

His lordship would like to apologise for the tardiness of this chapter, but it seems his scribe, Mr. A. D. Fanton, is currently broken. Needless to say, he shall have his hide thrashed soundly until he pulls himself together and bloody gets on with it.

His lordship also extends his best wishes to all his loyal readers for this Easter holiday. May you all enjoy some cream-filled delights this week-end!

The Puzzling Pearl Necklace Puzzle is a Which Ruddy Bastard Did It? mystery, meaning that YOU can also partake in the mystery! Read carefully, dear readers, for their shall be clues and hints aplenty, and when the time comes to reveal the bounder responsible for the crime, YOU will be able to thrust forward your own suggestions as to the identity of the culprit, and see if you have what it takes to be an astonishing adventurer!

Please, keep your eyes peeled and your genitals scrubbed…

The Puzzling Pearl Necklace Puzzle:

Chapter Three.

AND SO the party finally got into full swing -  indeed, it would not be an understatement to say that the party swung so much, it positively rotated.

The Duke and Duchess of Fircombe proved to be excellent hosts; the food was plentiful and delicious, the drink flowed freely and there were enough beautiful women in attendance to maintain my interest, and my increasingly noticeable erection.

With the booze so readily forthcoming, it did not take me at all long to become completely and utterly sloshed, which in turn led to me staggering around the ballroom, making slurred, sexual advances towards all of the female guests. Some of the ladies found my propositions entirely enticing, and laughed coquettishly, whilst furiously fanning their flushed faces. Others took great offence and slapped me heartily around my cheek, an act which, frankly, only made me more aroused, and more determined than ever to bed them.

More time passed, more drink was drunk, and after a quickie in the bathroom with the delightful Jennifer Eels (during which I unleashed my own mighty eel, which she gobbled at greedily), I found that I was so thoroughly pissed that I was able to withstand the dreary banter of the far less interesting (and much less vaginal) guests. For example, I spent thirty minutes happily listening to Major Thrashing waffling on about his time in the army, and his natural distrust of foreigners. When I asked him if he was a racist, he snorted and said, “No, sir! Not in the least! Why, I’ve shot men of every colour – black, red and yellow!”

Next I found myself in the company of the poet Winsome Pine, a terrible sap of a man who spent a lot of time sighing and whining on about the mysteries of love.

“Have you ever love and lost, your lordship?” he asked.

“No, no. I always win,” I beamed, while knocking back another whisky.

“You are very lucky sir,” Pine continued. “I lost my love very recently. It is a pain quite unlike any other, a pain that may dull over time, but never truly fades.”

“Much like trapping one’s scrotum in a door, then?” I suggested, but Pine seemed to not hear me, and carried on regardless.

“I have written a poem about this very subject. Perhaps you would care to hear it?”

“Perhaps not,” I replied.

“It is called, ‘Hole, Not Whole‘,” Pine said, ignoring me once more, and then he cleared his throat and ploughed on with his tiresome verse.

“In my universe, there is a hole shaped like you,
Which nothing can fill, whatever I do.
You made me feel wanted, loved and adored
Now words have no meaning, and I am abhorred.
My heart still beats but each thump brings fresh pain,
I know not if it will ever feel true love again.
I miss your good night, I miss your good morning,
You may not have passed, but yet I ‘m still mourning.
I reach for hands that are no longer there,
Seeking some comfort in naught but thin air.
I would give everything, without any qualms,
To spend but one night, held in your arms.
There is a hole in my universe, into which I do tumble – “

“Now how about you drop your knickers, and let’s have a fumble?” I grinned, finishing the poem as I saw fit.

“How dare you, sir!” Pine snapped, shaking with anger, clearly not taking the time to fully appreciate my mastery of the poetic voice. “Do not make light of my anguish and woe! Terrence was my everything, my all and you – ”

“Terrence?” I said, raising an eyebrow. “I thought as much! I knew you were a plumber of the dirty sink.”

“And what of it?” Pine snapped. “Do you fear homosexuals, Lord Likely?”

“Oh, no, no,” I answered. “Unless they’re charging at me with an axe or something. Still, it is no wonder the poor bastard left you – you strike me as a terribly tedious and whiny little runt.”

“You…you BEAST, sir!” cried Pine, to which I responded by roaring with laughter, and then I trotted off to find something to mount.

That something turned out to be the gorgeous Dorothy Mount-Worthy, and the equally-ravishing Maud Dreadful, two of my closest companions. In fact, so close had we become that more often than not we were actually entwined.

As I approached the highly dickable duo, the orchestra Fircombe had hired for the evening suddenly struck up, and so, being the gentleman I am, I swept Maud off of her feet, and led her to the dance-floor.

As the orchestra played on, Maud and I spun and swirled around the room with incredible grace, our every move so very synchronised that to the onlookers it must have looked like we had been practising for an entire age. We danced like we had been born to dance, and as we danced Maud smiled a smile that seemed to illuminate the entire hall, her blonde hair trailing behind her head, like the tail of a particularly beautiful comet.

Truly, it was a wonderful and magical moment. Well, in my head, at least.

In reality, it was more like drunken groping set to music, which was still great fun, none the less.

After a while the music died down as the Duke of Fircombe took to the floor and beckoned us to all fall silent, as he had something to say. I sighed very loudly to express my dissatisfaction, but then Maud and I dutifully returned to our spot alongside Dorothy.

Fircombe started blathering on about how he had recently returned from a trip to Japan, where he had met Emperor Gojira or some such twaddle. I wasn’t really paying attention, as I was distracted by the sight of dear Dorothy playfully toying with an olive on a stick, which had been served in a glass of gin she had been drinking. I watched, positively agog, as she suggestively rolled the olive across her soft lips, and then slowly started sucking upon it, thereby making that olive the luckiest damned olive on the planet. It took an immense amount of willpower on my part not to ravage Dorothy right there and then, so I tried to refocus my attention on the Duke’s dull speech.

“…and so, after meeting with the Emperor, he bestowed upon me a great gift,” the Duke droned on. “A gift which I would now like to present to my darling lady wife, Esmerelda. Esme?”

With a delighted squeal, the Duchess of Fircombe waddled up to the Duke’s side, still clutching a a plate of canapés in her her hands. The Duke smiled at her, and then presented her with a thin, oblong box. For a moment the Duchess looked torn between her food and the box, but finally she put down her plate and tore open the box, revealing an admittedly spectacular peal necklace. It was a dazzling piece of jewellery and as such drew admiring gasps from the crowd – most notably from Pilferton Swypes, the reformed jewel thief, who not only gasped but went on to exclaim, “Fuckin’ hell!” at the top of his voice.

As the Duke put the necklace around his wife’s neck (which seemed to be rather a struggle), the Duchess went on and on about how overjoyed she was, and how she hoped to find an occasion special enough to allow her to wear the necklace.

“I think she should wait until a time when the ruddy thing will fit around her neck,” I whispered to Dorothy, which caused her to spit out the olive she was still slurping upon, sending it tumbling into her cleavage.

“Allow me!” I volunteered helpfully, and then I plunged my hand between those bountiful breasts, in search of the elusive fruit.

Meanwhile, with the necklace now around her neck, the Duchess had decided that she was so happy that she was going to sing, so that she might fully express the joy she was feeling. The Duke looked faintly embarrassed, but instructed the orchestra to start playing.

The first note was struck,  and the Duchess opened her mouth…

…at which point I successfully retrieved the olive from betwixt Dorothy’s fun-bags, with a triumphant cry of, “Huzzah!”

But, dear readers, my hand had become rather sweaty in the pursuit of the olive, and I could only watch helplessly as the fruit flew out of my grip and sailed across the room…

…and straight into the Duchess’ open mouth. The Duchess seemed to freeze for a moment in shock, then her hands went up to her throat as she started coughing and spluttering, the olive clearly having come to a rest somewhere in her larynx.

“Well thank heavens for that,” I said, as the rest of the guests swarmed to the frantic Duchess’ aid. “At least she shan’t be able to ruddy well sing now.”

- Lord Likely.

Today’s chapter is dedicated to dear Sarah, who has just become an auntie. Congratulations, m’dear!

Also, many thanks to Mr. Scott Pack for singling out my astonishing adventures within the pages of his own web-log. Mr. Pack is a publisher, so clearly knows good words when he sees them! Hoorah!

*****

The Puzzling Pearl Necklace Puzzle is a Which Ruddy Bastard Did It? mystery, meaning that YOU can also partake in the mystery! Read carefully, dear readers, for their shall be clues and hints aplenty, and when the time comes to reveal the bounder responsible for the crime, YOU will be able to thrust forward your own suggestions as to the identity of the culprit, and see if you have what it takes to be an astonishing adventurer!

Please, keep your eyes peeled and your genitals scrubbed…

The Puzzling Pearl Necklace Puzzle:

Chapter Two

IT TOOK me over half an hour to complete the lengthy task of washing my mammoth man-hood in preparation for the evening’s festivities. ‘Tis never an easy task cleansing such a lengthy love-pole, you know. Usually it is a three-man job.

Anyway, as well as having tended to my tumescent tally-whacker, I also made sure to secure some company to escort to the ball, as it would not do at all for a gentle-man of my considerable reputation to arrive at a social gathering without a beautiful woman on my arm. Or better still, my face.

Naturally, me being me, I had to go that little bit further, and so secured the services of two delectable darlings to accompany me to Fircombe Hall; my frequent copulatory companions, Dorothy Mount-Worthy and Maud Dreadful.

The two beauties arrived precisely on time, but one glance at them – Dorothy with her gorgeous, almost feline eyes, soft lips, impressive curves and considerable cleavage, and Maud smiling brightly, with her golden curls cascading over her slender shoulders – and I was worked into such a fanny-hungry frenzy that I instantly threw them onto a nearby settee and gave them both a damned good rogering, making full use of the six orifices presented before me.

This impulsive act, along with the time it took to clean up afterwards, meant we did not arrive at Fircombe Hall until a good couple of hours later, by which time the party was already in full swing. This did not bother me, of course. I am always fashionably late, and am always well worth the wait.

My man-servant, Botter, and the two strumpets waited behind me as I firmly rapped upon the door of the large mansion belonging to The Duke and Duchess of Fircombe. Moments later, the sound of bolts being drawn aside could be heard, and we were soon confronted by a rather miserable looking butler in his early fifties, his weathered face topped off with an increasingly balding pate. I assumed that the lack of hair was due to his locks hurling themselves off of the top of his head in despair, lest they spend any more time in his woeful company.

“Yes?” the man drawled.

“Good evening, my good fellow,” I chirped. “Lord Likely, Aristocratic Adventurer and Gentle-Man of Action here, and company,” I added, indicating to my female friends. The butler craned his neck round to examine my entourage, and then sighed loudly.

“You can’t bring that in here,” he said, pointing at Botter.

“Oh, well, of course!” I concurred. “Is there somewhere I can keep him until the party is over?”

“Yes. We shall put him in the kennel,” the butler informed me, indicating to a large, metal cage to the right of the house, inside of which more abandoned servants, maids and other assorted flotsam dredged from the service industries skulked around, looking sullen.

“Marvellous!” I beamed, turning to my man-servant. “Off you go then, Botter. And do try and refrain from chewing anything you should not, and if you must soil yourself, make sure you put down some newspaper first, hmm?”

Botter rolled his eyes and slouched off, while the rest of us went inside to mingle with the magnificent.

*****

“PRESENTING LORD LIKELY AND…ahem…FRIENDS!” shouted the butler, introducing us to the gaggle of party-goers massed in the main hall of the house. “I bloody hate my job,” he added quietly as he turned and left the room.

“Ah, Likely!” beamed the Duke of Fircombe, a rather short but immaculately dressed fellow, sporting a very proud, grey moustache that practically covered the entire lower half of his face.

“Charmed, Fircombe, ’tis a pleasure for you to have me here,” I grinned, shaking his hand firmly. “By the way, is your butler alright? He seems terribly displeased about something or other.”

“Oh don’t mind him, that’s just Peeves. He’s always miserable, to be honest. Ah, here’s my wife!” the Duke exclaimed, as the rather plump Duchess waddled into view,  her hair piled up so high atop her head that it shook violently from side to side whenever she moved. I rather feared it would topple off of her head at any moment.

“So pleased you could make it, your lordship,” she smiled, an awful smile with bits of vegetable and what appeared to be chicken wedged between her teeth.

“Delighted,” I lied, as I fought my natural reaction to vomit profusely.

“Come, Likely, come – I want you to meet some friends of mine,” the Duke said, grabbing me by the elbow. I groaned inwardly. How I loathed this part of any social gathering, the greeting of total strangers with a fixed grin, feigning interest in tedious life stories told by tedious individuals you shall never see again. I just wanted to go straight to the drinking and fucking part, that was all I was here for, after all.

However, my interest was rather piqued as I was introduced to the first couple, as one of the two was a rather voluptuous red-head, with a frankly incredible bosom. If I could choose the manner of my own death, then I could think of no greater way to go than suffocating betwixt this charming lady’s massive mammaries

“This is Lord Marmalade, the marmalade magnate,” said Fircombe, introducing me to the less interesting half of the partnership.

“So you must be Lady Marmalade,” I smiled, taking the lady’s hand and gently kissing the back of it. “Tell me, m’dear….do you spread easily?”

Lord Marmalade was apoplectic with rage at my opening gambit, and had to be calmed down by Lord Fircombe. Lady Marmalade, on the other hand, seemed rather taken with me – as well she should, being a female with eyes and all.

After that particular highlight I was whisked around the hall and introduced to other far less intoxicating individuals. There was Major Thrashing, a rather crusty old war veteran; Winsome Pine, a distinctly fey gentleman who apparently wrote poetry; Lady and Lady Mimshole, who were either sisters or lesbians (I naturally hoped it was the latter); Sir Flaxon Twist, a loud and rather obnoxious Member of Parliament; Jennifer Eels, the heiress to the late Sir Rodney Eels’ eel empire; Trent Straddlenuts, an American oil baron and friend of the Fircombes, and Pilferton Swypes, an apparently reformed jewel thief who had just written his first book, ‘Stealing the Hearts of the Nation‘, chronicling his change from public enemy to national treasure, or some such twaddle. As far as I was concerned, he was still a complete arse-smear of a man.

“Lovely to meet you all,” I smiled as I shook my final hand of the evening. “Now, what say we all get thoroughly pissed and maybe thrust our genitals together in the act of sexual union, eh?”

- Lord Likely.

The Puzzling Pearl Necklace Puzzle is a Which Ruddy Bastard Did It? mystery, meaning that YOU can also partake in the mystery! Read carefully, dear readers, for their shall be clues and hints aplenty, and when the time comes to reveal the bounder responsible for the crime, YOU will be able to thrust forward your own suggestions as to the identity of the culprit, and see if you have what it takes to be an astonishing adventurer!

Please, keep your eyes peeled and your genitals scrubbed…

]]> http://www.lordlikely.com/archives/adventures/fircombe-hall/feed 17 http://www.lordlikely.com/archives/adventures/bastard-bootblack/lord-likely-and-the-cake-of-doom http://www.lordlikely.com/archives/adventures/bastard-bootblack/lord-likely-and-the-cake-of-doom#comments Mon, 19 Jan 2009 14:38:00 +0000 Andy Fanton http://www.lordlikely.com/wp/?p=217 Previously in The Astonishing Adventures of Lord Likely: His lordship, hot on the trail of a villainous bootblack who had been severing the feet of his customers, tracked down the cad in question and, through an ingenious use of origami, forced the bounder to confess to his crimes. However, the bootblack then surprised Likely by revealing that he had not been acting alone, and was in fact working for Mrs. Bapps the baker, who was using the feet as a special ingredient in her baked goods. Is the bootblack telling the truth? Is Mrs. Bapps really so twisted? And where the ruddy hell is Botter?

Read on, dear readers…

“YOU had better not be lying to me, Swishbuckle,” I growled, training the blade of my origami cutlass at the bootblack’s neck. “Or next time, I shall bring a real cutlass and slice off your balls, and force feed them down your awful throat.”

“I ain’t lying, sir! Honest! Mrs. Bapps is deranged, sir! She’s a sick and twisted individual!”

“Hmmm,” I said, lowering my paper sword. “So what is in this for you, Swishbuckle? Why are you working for Mrs. Bapps?”

Mr. Swishbuckle lowered his head meekly. “She…she lets me keep the shoes, sir.”

“What?”

“I…I love shoes, sir. I mean…I really love shoes, if you get my meaning…”

I paused a moment to try and get Mr. Swishbuckle’s meaning, and then got it, and instantly regretted getting it.

“Are you trying to tell me that you are a shoe-fucker, Swishbuckle?”

Mr. Swishbuckle nodded slowly. “Aye, sir. I…I cannot help myself, sir. That is why I became a bootblack. I just love shoes. I love the smell of the leather, the feel of their tongues against my skin…”

“Good God, man!” I exclaimed. “And you claim Mrs. Bapps is the sick and twisted one? Talking of which, I had better go and pay Mrs. Bapps a visit, I feel. I shall deal with you later, Swishbuckle….Swishbuckle?”

I looked down to see Mr. Swishbuckle gently licking the top of my boot, his hands straying perilously close to his groin.

“Argh! Shoo, shoo!” I cried.

“That’s it, sir!” the bastard bootblack panted. “Keep talking dirty!”

“Gah! Get away, your depraved hound!” I yelled, kicking Mr. Swishbuckle square in the mouth, dislodging a couple of teeth in the process. The swine thus subdued, I made a hasty exit.

There are some truly disgusting perverts out there, you know.

I STRODE into Mrs. Bapps’ bakery once more, my heroic return rather diminished somewhat by the cheery tring of the shop’s bell. Mrs. Bapps looked up and flashed a rather saucy smile at me, which almost made me want to bend her over the counter and roger her senseless. But, somehow, my sense of justice prevailed.

“Mrs. Bapps! The game is up, you sexy fiend!”

“Game? What game?” asked another voice. I turned around to find Inspector Spunkleford innocently chomping on a sandwich, containing a mystery meat which I could only assume to be the flesh from some poor swine’s feet.

“Inspector, this woman is a lunatic, and has been using the hacked-off feet of the bootblack’s victims in her baked goods!”

“Really?” said Spunkleford, taking another bite from his sandwich.

“Really,” I repeated.

“Good heavens!” Spunkleford gasped, still chewing upon his food. I watched patiently as my grizzly news was processed by Spunkleford’s rather sluggish brain. His eyes widened in horror. “Then that means…”

I nodded. Spunkleford grimaced, then spun around and proceeded to be violently sick all over a nearby table. I left Spunkleford to empty the contents of his stomach in peace, while I went to apprehend Mrs. Bapps.

“As for you, m’dear,” I said, as Mrs. Bapps continued about her work. “I am afraid you shall have to accompany me to the police-station…”

“And what if I refuse?” purred Mrs. Bapps.

“Then I shall have to take you by force!”

“I rather like the sound of that,” whispered Mrs. Bapps.

“Fine!” I snapped striding back over to Spunkleford who had, by now, managed to regain his composure. “Spunkleford, your handcuffs, if I may.”

Spunkleford nodded and groggily handed me the handcuffs. I muttered a ‘thank you’ and marched back over to Mrs. Bapps.

“That’s it, Likely! Handcuff that harlot at once!” Spunkleford cheered as he watched me go about my duty. “Yes, yes, chain her to the stove – capital idea! Oh yes, you had better frisk her as well, check she has no weapons about her person, eh? Good show! Yes…yes…I must say, you are doing a rather thorough job there, Likely….Good God, man! I don’t think she will be hiding any weapons up there! My word! Now what are you doing? Is that your pistol you have taken out of your trousers, there? Wait a moment! That is not a pistol at all! Why, that’s your…goddammit, Likely! Stop that! Don’t put it in there! Stop it! Stop it at once!”

Naturally, I ignored Spunkleford’s demands and continued thrusting wildly at Mrs. Bapps’ hindquarters, until I came to an explosive climax which nearly wrenched the very stove from the wall. Thus relieved, I was able to think with a slightly clearer mind, and could refocus on the case in hand.

“Right then, my dear, while you are manacled to the stove in such a fashion, I think you might be able to answer some questions pertaining to the…great big knockers!“

“Sorry?”

“This cake!” I continued, pointing out a cake which was cooling on a tray on the counter beside me. “It looks exactly like a pair of breasts!”

“Oh, yes,” said Mrs. Bapps. “I made it for you, your lordship. Thought you might like it! Go on, have a taste! I promise there are no feet in that particular cake.”

“Hmmm…I shall just have a nipple,” I answered, breaking off a piece and putting it in my mouth. “Mmmm. yes, very delicious indeeed, I must say. Now, where was I? Ah, yes, your crrrrime. Crime. Oh my, I do feel peculiar…” I said, as my vision began to blur.

“Oh, silly me,” Mrs. Bapps smiled. “I forgot to tell you! While there are indeed no feet in that cake, there were rather a lot of sleeping pills baked into it. How stupid of me! It must have slipped my mind, sir…”

“You whorrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrr-” I began, before I completely blacked out, and crashed to the floor.

- Lord Likely.

What Should Lord Likely Do Now?
( polls)

Well, dear readers, now YOU must help to shape this most astonishing of adventures! Simply select one of the options above, and then click ‘vote’ to cast your…well, vote. After the poll has closed, the most popular choice will be the one pursued in the very next chapter of Lord Likely’s Incredible Inter-Active Adventure! Exciting, yes? YES.

Furthermore, if you leave a comment outlining your choice (and the reasons therefore), then one specially-selected commentator will be selected to receive a FREE link to their website or blog in the next thrilling chapter! Woooooh!

Last Week’s Worthy Winner: Mr. Max, he of the brilliant British Speak web-log, who has seen fit to carry out a full and thorough investigation of Lord Palmerston…click here to discover more!

Toodle-pip!