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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.

To Be Continued!…

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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.

To Be Continued!…

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From the diary of Doctor Elton Whelkbladder.

I MUST make a clear and concise note of the events which transpired last night, for they were so wild and fantastical that they seem like something from a dream, but a dream they were most assuredly were not. No, these events were very real, and very, very disturbing…

I was roused from my slumber by a telephone call from the house of one Mr. Strix, who – according to the maid who had contacted me – was in rather poor health, and was fading fast. Despite the ungodly hour I agreed to pay a visit to the stricken fellow, and so I immediately summoned a hansom cab and jumped into it…then I jumped out of it, when I realised I had failed to change out of my pyjamas.

After getting changed into more suitable attire, I leapt back into the cab and headed off to the address of the patient. The carriage rattled through the dark, foggy streets of the city, until we finally reached the destination – a rather large, foreboding house situated on Stake Drive.

I had barely gotten out of the cab and paid my fare, when a young lady scurried out of the house and grabbed me by the arm, pleading with me to make haste to the master bedroom. At first I thought I had struck it lucky with this girl and was being invited upstairs for a bit of  the other, but as it turned out she was the maid who had called me earlier, and her desire to get me upstairs was due to her employer’s condition having worsened, and not because she wanted to engage in some rumpy-pumpy with a middle-aged doctor…much to my dismay.

I was led into a spacious, well-kept bed-chamber, at the centre of which stood a large four-poster bed, wherein lay the sick man in question. I scurried over to the bed to examine the patient, and almost recoiled in horror at what I saw.

Mr. Strix was looking incredibly pale; his skin was as white as the very sheets of the bed that he lay on, while conversely his eyes were as red as the very carpet upon which his bed lay on. His eyes were not merely bloodshot, instead a dark crimson colour had filled the whites of his eyes completely, which left me feeling like I was staring into the eyes of the devil himself.

Mr. Strix was also remarkably thin, and looked completely and utterly drained. I asked the maid to close the window, for I feared the slightest breeze would send poor Mr. Strix floating off down the hallway, so very gaunt and frail did he look.

Mr. Strix was also terribly, terribly cold – I placed my hand on his forehead and withdrew it in shock, for he felt as icy to the touch as a penguin’s backside. Not that I am familiar with such a sensation, of course.

I shook my head sadly, for it seemed Mr. Strix was so awfully afflicted that I doubted he would survive the night. I administered some Laudanum to allay his symptoms and help him sleep, but it was all I could do, and I suspected it would be too little, much too late. I told the maid to keep watch over her master, and to contact me in the morning with any developments. With that, I bade her farewell and ventured back outside.

To my annoyance, I found that my cab had vanished whilst I had been inside the house, leaving me stranded in the perishing cold. I cursed my cab-driver, and turned to return to the house to summon another carriage in its place.

As I shuffled up the path to the big, old house again, I suddenly heard a leathery, flapping sound, and spinning around I saw a rather large bat flying toward me. I instinctively ducked as the beast sailed over my head, before it swooped back and headed for me again.

Then, the damndest thing happened.

The bat stopped short beside me, and seemed to hover, as if it were watching me, staring at me with its beady little eyes. Then, there was a puff of acrid-smelling smoke, and in place of the bat stood Mr. Strix, looking considerably healthier than when I had checked upon him mere moments earlier.

“Good heavens, sir!” I exclaimed. “You gave me quite a start! Why, that is a rather impressive piece of trickery, I must say! How on earth did you ever squeeze yourself into that small bat costume?”

Mr. Strix smiled at me, a smile which sent chills running through my bones: for when Mr. Strix smiled, I saw a set of fangs so fearsome that I almost dislodged last-night’s supper into my undergarments.

And then, as I stood transfixed with terror, Mr. Strix lunged at me.

*****

From the journals of Lord Likely, Aristocratic Adventurer and Gentle-Man of Action.

I WAS sat in my drawing-room, not drawing, but reading, an activity I usually carry out in my reading room, but I was unable to use that particular venue as it was still being cleaned up after I had read a particularly racy erotic novel in there last week. Thus I was forced to relocate, much to my chagrin. I really must set up a masturbation room in the near-future, to prevent such inconvenience in the future.

I mused upon this notion for a while, then I took a sip of my whisky, turned over the page of my book, and continued to read the fiction I was currently working through.

From the Diary of Dr. Seward.

Lucy was breathing somewhat stertorously, and her face was at its worst, for the open mouth showed the pale gums. Her teeth, in the dim, uncertain light, seemed longer and sharper than they had been in the morning. In particular, by some trick of the light, the canine teeth looked longer and sharper than the rest.

I sat down beside her, and presently she moved uneasily. At the same moment there came a sort of dull flapping or buffeting at the window. I went over to it softly, and peeped out by the corner of the blind. There was a full moonlight, and I could see that the noise was made by a great bat, which wheeled around, doubtless attracted by the light, although so dim, and every now and again struck the window with its wings. When I came back to my seat, I found that Lucy had moved slightly, and had torn away the garlic flowers from her throat. I replaced them as well as I could, and sat watching her.

“Oh, this is complete piss-soup!” I bellowed as I lowered the book, just as my man-servant entered the room.

“Pardon me, my lord?” Botter asked, setting his mop and bucket by the wall.

“This bloody book. It is a pile of balls, and no mistake. It keeps flitting from the journals of one character to another, then back again, then on to some ruddy letter from some moaney old tart to another…I simply cannot keep track of what is going on! And vampires? What a load of old cock-paste!” I slammed the book in disgust. “Bram Stoker? Bum Stroker, more like!”

From the Diary of Botter

I fear my lord is even stupider than I had e’er imagined. He has taken to reading Bram Stoker’s seminal work, Dracula, a tome which has been rightfully heralded by the literary establishment as a masterpiece of gothic horror. Alas, I think it is much too intricate for the fat-headed charlatan, for I found him ranting into thin air about it, complaining that it’s epistolary nature was too confusing to follow. I allowed myself a little smirk, but then his lordship hurled the book at my head with great ferocity.

From the journals of Lord Likely, Aristocratic Adventurer and Gentle-Man of Action

“Botter!” I cried, as the book bounced off my man-servant’s wretched bonce. “What in the name of tossery do you think you are doing? Put that ruddy diary down, and go and get me more drink – my glass grows empty!”

“Very good milord,” the sap replied, turning to leave, but as he did so the telephonic device started ringing.

“Answer that, will you?” I asked. “And then you may fix me a drink.”

Botter sighed in that irritating manner of his, and skulked over to the telephone.

“Hello, Likely Towers, Botter speaking. With whom am I speaking?” he chimed into the receiver.

From the Diary of Inspector Albert Spunkleford.

“It is I, Inspector Spunkleford!” I exclaimed into the telephone. “I must speak to Likely…is he there?”

“Indeed he is, sir. I shall just fetch him for you,” replied Likely’s servant. I heard him converse with Likely, and am fairly certain I heard his lordship bellow something or other in my direction, but it was hard to hear what it was precisely. I am not entirely sure what an ‘ucking dock-hud’ is, at any rate.

From the journals of Lord Likely, Aristocratic Adventurer and Gentle-Man of Action.

“Yes, Spunkleford?” I said as I picked up the candlestick-shaped telephonic contraption.

“Ah, is that you, Likely?” asked Spunkleford, rather needlessly I felt.

“No, inspector, it is the Chancellor of Germany,” I answered in a suitably sarcastic manner for a question quite so incredibly redundant.

“Oh. Well, get Likely, will you? I have nothing to say to you, Herr Bismarck.”

I sighed and pinched the bridge of my nose in despair. How had a man as utterly clueless managed to find himself in the business of collecting clues? The mind literally boggled.

“It IS me, Spunkleford…I was just…oh, never mind. What do you want?”

“Oh! Well, Likely, I have a most curious case for you, if you are interested,” replied Spunkleford.

“Exactly how curious, inspector?”

“Well, a body was found this morning…a dead body, you understand…” the inspector began. “We bought it in to be examined, and, well…um…”

I sighed. “And well what, Spunkleford? Do stop dilly-dallying man, our time on this planet is finite, you know.”

“Well,” Spunkleford continued, “this body…this body has made a complete recovery…its gone from being completely dead, to being…well, completely alive again.”

I lowered the telephone in stunned amazement. I had to admit, that as cases went, this was sounding rather curious indeed…

- Lord Likely.

Next Time in Lord Likely and the Bloody Nuisances: Dead Man Talking!

If you have enjoyed this thrilling installment, or indeed any of the thrilling installments of the journals thus far, then perhaps you would care to donate a farthing or two to help with the upkeep of these tremendous journals? All help is muchly appreciated!

“What in the name of all that is sacred and holy do you think you are doing?” bellowed Professor Ventricle, after I had punched him squarely in the face, strongly suspecting that he was none other than my arch-nemesis, Harold Loathsome, in some sort of shoddy disguise.

“Give it up, Loathsome! Your terrible charade is over!” I cried triumphantly.

“You have gone stark, raving bonkers, Likely! How on earth could I possibly be that Loathsome fellow? I’m considerably taller and older, for starters. And look!” protested Ventricle, tugging firmly on his long, grey beard. “It is all my own hair! Are you quite satisfied now?”

I grudgingly conceded that I was indeed satisfied that he was not Loathsome after all. It seemed that my usually faultless deductive powers were somewhat failing me, with this episode following on so closely from my earlier misapprehension about the caretaker being Loathsome.

“I say,” said Mr. Bertrum Gumbumble, my old head-master. “Is this how you conduct all your investigations, Likely? By punching people in the face until you find the felon? For if it is, then I rather feel you had better leave before you incapacitate all my staff…”

“Yes, I suppose you would be happy to get me out of the way, wouldn’t you?” I mused. “Having me completely and utterly out of your hair would suit you rather well, would it not…HAROLD LOATHSOME?“

With that, I delivered a fine upper cut to Gumbumble’s chin, which sent the old fool tumbling backwards onto the ground.

“Egads!” cried Inspector Spunkleford, who was watching the events unfolding before him with a mixture of shock, horror and outright disgust. Meanwhile, I had set about Gumbubmle, and was trying in vain to prove that his balding pate was nothing more than a skin-coloured skullcap, worn to disguise his true identity.

“Bugger,” I said, as I was once again proven to be incorrect in my assumptions.

“Get off me, you blithering idiot!” spat Gumbumble.

“Hmm,” I pondered, as I disentangled myself from the exasperated educator. “I was certain you were Loathsome…damnation, what the devil is wrong with me today? Maybe I am over-thinking this whole dilemma…maybe the answer is staring me right in the face.” At which point my eyes fell upon the glorious cleavage of a delectable female standing among the crowd of onlookers who had assembled at the crime-scene like vultures assembling at…well, a crime-scene.

I knew precisely what had to be done.

“You!” I said pointing to the pretty creature, a curvaceous brunette who filled her dress in a most pleasing manner indeed. “You aren’t Harold Loathsome, are you?”

“N-no sir,” the woman said nervously.

“Well, if you do not mind, I should just like to make certain of the fact,” I said, taking her hand in mine and drawing her out from the crowd.

“Certainly, my lord,” the cock-worthy creature replied. “Do whatever you have to in order to clear my name!”

“I appreciate your compliance in this matter, m’dear,” I smiled, and then I quickly put my hands upon her breasts, to verify their authenticity. “Well, yes. These certainly do feel genuine…do you mind awfully if I just?…”

“No, no! Not at all!” answered the girl, rather excitably.

“Marvellous!” I cheered, and then I swiftly set about freeing the lady’s filthy fun-bags. Happily, they were most assuredly real, and were a pleasingly firm and fulsome pair, to boot.

“Happy, my lord?” asked the woman, a coquettish smile forming upon her lips.

“Extremely,” I beamed. “But I must just check one last thing…”

“Of course,” the minx smiled back, lifting up her dress.

I tipped my hat in thanks, and then knelt down to examine the lady’s lady-parts. I was gladdened to find myself looking at a beautiful bush underneath that dress, and not the horrid flaccid flesh-stick of my arch-enemy.

“Well, this certainly looks real,” I said. “I wonder, however, does it taste real?…”

“Really, Likely!” Spunkleford objected. “I think that is quite enough!”

“Yes, you would, wouldn’t you…HAROLD LOATHSOME?” I yelled, before leaping up and flooring the fellow in an inevitably spectacular fashion.

“Jesus Christ, Likely!” Spunkleford yelped, as he reeled back. “What the bloody hell do you think you are doing? This is getting ruddy ridiculous! You can’t seriously suspect me, you fool!”

“No, I do not suspect you at all, Spunkleford,” I responded. “I just wanted to clout you for disturbing me in the course of my… cross-examination.“

“You bugger, Likely,” Spunkleford cursed as he tended to his bloodied nose.

“I apologise, Spunkleford. It is just that I am rather on edge…I am not used to being wrong, and yet I have been wrong on no less than three separate occasions now. Furthermore, I am still not absolutely certain that this poor, dead fellow lying before us is not my man-servant, Botter. The only certainty I do have right now is that I would very much like to give this delectable strumpet a jolly good shafting,” I added, indicating to the pretty thing I had just given a good going-over.

“Well, quite,” said Spunkleford. “So we are right back to square one, then. We still have absolutely no clue as to where Loathsome may be”

“Indeed,” I answered, stroking my magnificent moustache in deep contemplation. “Damnation, I know he is here somewhere, gloating…”

“Probably, old boy,” Spunkleford agreed, holding his head back to curb the bleeding from his nose.

“I dare say that the cad is probably watching me right now, laughing at me…mocking me….”

“Oh! Wait a moment! Isn’t that him up there?” Spunkleford exclaimed, pointing up to the school’s bell-tower. I followed the direction of his finger, and saw a thin figure clad in a black suit standing atop the building.

“Oh yes. So it is. Well, that was considerably easier than I had imagined,” I remarked.

And with that, I set off to go and pummel the bastard.

- Lord Likely.

Next Time in The Astonishing Adventures of Lord Likely: Likely vs Loathsome!

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Getting a new man-servant is an awful ball-ache, you know. And I should know, for I have had over twenty different servants in my lifetime, of varying degrees of uselessness.

When my father, Lord Eustace Likely, disappeared from the Likely Estate, ne’er to return (and now presumed deceased), I was left in the care of the family butler, Philtrum. However, this arrangement did not last long, for at the age of one hundred and twenty-three years old, the useless bastard decided to go and die on me, throwing me into the most inconvenient predicament of having to go out and hire new help.

Luckily, I found a new lackey at a servant market in Dudsbury, who was on sale for the incredibly low price of one shilling. However, it did not take me long to discover why this particular valet was going for such a remarkably discounted amount – it transpired he was blind, deaf, mute and had wooden hands. Naturally, I was all set to return the defective domestic and give the vendor responsible for selling him to me a damned good drubbing, but before I could, my new man-servant unwittingly mistook the stove for the wash-basin, and went up in flames shortly thereafter. Clearly, one should always check the goods thoroughly before purchase.

My next effort led me to hire a man who seemed to be actually competent in his work, and was incredibly fastidious in his duties, especially when cleaning my various trophies, gold-plated trinkets and diamond-encrusted sex-aids. However, it quickly became apparent that this high level of meticulousness was not born out of a desire to see my valuables shined to the brightest of sheens, but rather out of a desire to steal the goods from under my very handsome nose. Needless to say, when I caught wind of his duplicitous scheme, I made sure he could not grab my assets (as t’were) by physically breaking his hands. No-one man-handles my treasure and gets away with it, dear readers.

Having been let down by quite so many man-servants, I next elected to hire a maid. Naturally, I hired the most attractive maid I could find; a beautiful, comely wench with ‘come to bed’ eyes and ‘fuck my mouth’ lips. After watching her frantically scrubbing the gussets of my trousers for a while, I could no longer control the wild animal inside me, and quickly set about pumping her for hours and hours every day. It soon became obvious that I was servicing her far more than she was servicing me, and when the mansion began to fall into a filthy, grubby state through my maid’s neglect, I thought it might be time she was fired. When we both found ourselves stricken with cholera, I knew it was definitely time to fire her; and thus I had to (rather reluctantly) let her go.

On top of these few poor shows, I’ve also had to put up with illiterate proles, woefully inept workhouse children, wretched foreigners who did not understand one word of the Queen’s English, infuriatingly smug butlers and – worst of all – a Liverpudlian man. I mean, well, really.

With such an unsuccessful record for hiring quality help, you can sympathise with my current plight, where I believed my current man-servant – Botter – to have been slain by my arch-enemy Harold Loathsome. I had just witnessed Botter’s body pass by a window at St. Bumthrusty’s in a worryingly vertical direction, as if he had been thrown out of a higher window to meet his doom on the harsh ground below. While I held no great affection for my simple servant, he had proven to be the least useless menial I had ever hired, which may not say a lot for the foolish oaf, but it did mean finding an equally adequate replacement would be a most challenging task indeed, and a task I was not entirely sure I could be bothered with any time soon.

It was with this dreadful burden hanging over my noble head that I headed outside to go and identify the corpse, accompanied by Inspector Spunkleford, my old head-master Betrum Gumbumble, my former biology teacher Professor Ventricle and a couple of my past classmates.

“Alright, alright,” said Inspector Spunkleford as he cut through the small crowd of morbid onlookers who had surrounded the body. “Move along, please! Move along! There is nothing to see here!”

“What about that dead body?” replied one of the gawpers.

“Oh! Yes, that is rather interesting, I suppose,” Spunkleford reasoned. “Why, look at that! Can you see how this poor chap’s brains have sprayed out the top of his head in a perfect arc, like some sort of ghoulish rainbow? Remarkable! Likely, take a look at this!”

I strolled up beside the Inspector, and beheld the macabre scene. The victim was sprawled on the ground, face down, his limbs twisted in various unnatural directions. As for whether this was indeed my man-servant, I could not be certain without turning the body over, but the attire sported by the man certainly seemed to match that traditionally worn by Botter; a small, bedraggled waist-coat, ill-fitting trousers and those filthy, scuffed shoes. And there, lying a few feet away from the stinking carcass was the all-too familiar bowler hat. But there was something else bothering me about this terrible tableau…

“I have come to the conclusion,” I boomed, after a moment’s pause, “that this unfortunate fellow was murdered before being hurled out of the window.”

“Good heavens!” exclaimed Spunkleford. “How on earth can you tell, Likely?”

“I believe you may have overlooked a vital clue, my dear inspector,” I explained, crouching down beside the cadaver. “Namely, these three knives sticking out of the victim’s back.”

There was a collective gasp from the crowd.

“Remarkable!” Spunkleford enthused. “Truly remarkable!”

“Well spotted old bean,” said Professor Ventricle, leaning in to observe the crime scene. “Why do you suppose someone would want to murder your man-servant?”

“That is if this poor bounder is indeed my shambolic scrotum of a man-servant…” I said, turning the body over with my foot. Alas, it seemed that confirming the identity of the departed from the face would be an impossible task, as the countenance had been splattered beyond all recognition from the impact of the fall. Unless someone had beaten the face to a pulp beforehand…

“Well, it certainly looks like him!” said Ventricle. “No doubt about it, that’s the chap I saw talking to the new janitor earlier. I never forget a face, you know! I can still remember him clearly, asking the janitor for directions to the bath-room, saying that he wished to take a quick shower…”

“Hmmm?” I replied, my mind racing as I tried to put together the various different pieces of this particular puzzle. One thing that had just struck me was that Botter seemed taller now. I might have expected him to become considerably wider after a fall from such a height…but actually, physically taller?

And how had Ventricle’s tip-off about the janitor proven to be so wrong?

And how…

“Wait a minute!” I suddenly cried, grabbing Ventricle by his lapels. “What did you say?”

“I…I just said that this fellow was asking for directions to the bath-room….he…he wanted to take a shower, by all accounts.”

I smiled broadly, to Ventricle’s bemusement. Then, I began to chuckle quietly, before I burst into full, roaring laughter. Ventricle returned a confused titter, fear rising in his eyes. I grinned once more, and then gently released Ventricle from my grasp. I turned my back on the professor, then in an instant I swung back around, delivering a terrific blow to the bewildered biologist’s face.

Another chorus of gasps erupted from the crowd.

“Likely! What on earth?…” began Spunkleford.

“Botter? Take a shower? Ha!” I shouted, as I stood over the floored fellon. “The very notion is absurd to the extreme! I am afraid you have made a terrible mistake, Ventricle…” I leant closer to the professor’s face. “…Or should that be Loathsome?“

There was yet another simultaneous gasp from the onlookers.

“I’m buggered if I know what’s going on,” mused Spunkleford, befuddled to the very end.

- Lord Likely.

Next Time in The Astonishing Adventures of Lord Likely: What the buggeration is going on?

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Announcement: His lordship wishes to apologies for the lack of updates this week. This can be solely attributed to the continued rubbishness of his official scribe, Mr. A.D. Fanton, despite his protests that he is working on something ‘really incredible’ behind the scenes. Such talk is clearly complete and utter cock. As recompense, we have thus made today’s entry 25% longer, and 176% more thrilling!

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While my wretched man-servant Botter may well have been in great danger at the murderous hands of my arch-nemesis Harold Loathsome, I saw no reason to cut short my current orgiastic duties with the delectable Miss Lizzie Flapkiss and company. It is awfully bad manners to pull out early, you know.

Thus I did not emerge from the room until some one hour and thirty-two minutes later, having made sure I had taken care to attend to each and every one of Miss Flapkiss’ orifices thoroughly, as well as making friendly small talk with the rest of the group. All in all, it was a most delightful way to pass an afternoon.

I practically skipped down the stairs of St. Bumthrusty’s afterwards, so high were the spirits within which I found myself currently enveloped. That is until I reached the bottom of the stairwell, and found a stern-faced Inspector Spunkleford waiting for me.

“Where in the blue blazes have you been, Likely?” he snapped, his face redder than a baboon’s bottom after a good, hard bumming.

“I was…catching up with an old friend,” I replied cryptically.

“Oh yes? And how was your old friend? Was she well?”

“As a matter of fact she was…” I paused as realisation hit me like a sock full of farthings. “Oh, you know.”

“Yes, Likely, I do indeed know. You cannot keep these things from me, dear boy! I am a detective, after all.”

“Yes, I keep forgetting that fact,” I deadpanned.

“It is disgusting, Likely! Disgusting! I thought you were supposed to be investigating these terrible murders, not…sticking your…your tingle-tangle in her…her…her moochie-moo!” Spunkleford blustered, prudish to the very end.

“My what in her what?” I asked, utterly bewildered by Spunkleford’s muddled nonsense.

“Never mind all that! We have more serious concerns at the present!” Spunkleford shouted.

“Let me take a guess,” I said coolly, as I casually lit a cigarette. “My bumbling arse-crack of a servant has gone missing, and is presumed to be the latest victim of the serial-killer stalking these very corridors?”

Spunkleford’s complexion reddened even further, leading me to worry that his head might well explode, leaving nothing more than a moustache and a bowler hat.

“Egads, Likely!” he boomed. “Do you mean to tell me that you knew all the time, and yet you persisted in carrying on with your….your…dirty dilly-dallying!”

I rolled my eyes. “Ruddy hell, Spunkleford, you act like you have never had intercourse or something.”

“Well, of course I have,” Spunkleford grunted, adjusting his tie. “Though not for quite a while, I shall warrant you. Mrs. Spunkleford maintains that such…activities are evil, and she refuses to let the devil enter her.”

“And thus neither can you,” I smiled, resting a hand upon Spunkleford’s shoulder. “You have my sympathies, my good fellow. You must be so terribly backed-up I am quite surprised you do not shoot ejaculate out of your nose whenever you sneeze. I really must treat you to a prostitute one of these days…”

“Look, can we stop talking about my wife and I, and focus our attentions back onto the case? I mean, what are we going to do about Botter?”

“Ah yes. Him.” I sniffed. “Follow me, dear Inspector, and watch in awe as I bring this whole affair to a rather satisfactory conclusion!”

I turned sharply on my heels, and then turned back again to face the Inspector.

“Which is more than you will have ever said to your charming wife, I am sure,” I beamed.

I threw open the doors of the school hall in a typically grand and theatrical manner, just as my old headmaster, Mr. Bertrum Gumbumble, was preparing to give a toast to the assembled former pupils of St. Bumthrusty’s.

Gumbumble had seemed positively ancient back at school, and I was rather surprised to see that the cantankerous old fool was still alive, or at least not quite yet dead. Gumbumble had been responsible for a large number of the canings, birchings and general thrashings I had received during my time at St. Bumthrusty’s, and I had rather hoped that he might have collapsed through exhaustion after tanning my hide so frequently. But alas, no, there he was; stood behind a long table at the back of the hall, hunched over so badly he rather resembled an ill-tempered question mark. As I entered the hall, Gumbumble pushed his spectacles up his nose, and squinted in my direction.

“Who the bally hell is that?” he spluttered.

“It is I, Lord Likely, Arisotcratic Adventurer and Gentleman of Action!” I bellowed, my voice echoing around the hall magnificently.

“Lord Lychee?” snorted the deaf old scrote. “What a ridiculous name.”

“Likely,” I repeated patiently as I strode up to the table.

“Likeboys?”

“That does not even sound the same, you silly old fart,” I sighed.

“Oh! It is you, Likely!” the old codger exclaimed as I stood mere inches away from his face. “I recognise you now!” He paused. “Wait a moment, I hate you. Oh, yes I remember now! You were an awful boy, Likely. You really were! A terrible, terrible deviant, absolutely no good at all!”

“He seems rather astute for a man of his advanced years,” Spunkleford whispered.

“Thank you, sir, you are too kind,” I grinned, ignoring Spunkleford’s slur upon my good name. I picked up a bottle of champagne from the table and swigged at it, an act I immediately regretted. “Ugh. That tastes like piss. I would have thought you might have splashed out on something a little more luxurious, you cheap bastard.”

“Bears turd? What are you rambling on about, Likely? Sit down at once, or else…”

“Or else you’ll beat my firm buttocks again? Aye, I’d wager you would relish such an opportunity, you wrinkled old pervert. Bottoms up, eh?” With that I held the champagne bottle up above my head, then threw it onto the floor.

“Good heavens, Likely!” spluttered Spunkleford as the bottle shattered into a thousand cheap pieces.

“What is the meaning of this outrage?” cried Gumbumble as the excited chatter from my ex-classmates subsided. “What do you think you are doing, boy?”

“Terribly sorry, sir,” I replied. “Why don’t you call the janitor?”

“Why should I want to call the janitor anything? He’s a rather pleasant chap, by all accounts.”

“Just summon the janitor, you wretched old coot,” I sighed.

But Mr. Gumbumble did not have to summon anyone, for at that precise moment the caretaker himself entered the hall, carrying a mop and bucket. He was a reasonably well-built man, with blonde hair, and had a large-peaked hat on, which conveniently covered most of his face. The man passed by me and got to work clearing up the mess.

“Awfully sorry, old boy,” I said as the cleaner mopped up the bubbly. “I am so very clumsy sometimes. Mind you, it was not a terribly good champagne, to be honest. Why don’t you take a closer look, and let me know what you think?”

With that, I tripped the man over and then forced his face into the sodden floorboards with my boot.

“Saints preserve us!” exclaimed Gumbumble. “Likely has gone quite, quite loopy!”

“Good God, Likely! Leave that man alone!” barked Spunkleford.

“This is no man, Inspector,” I said calmly. “This is a maggot. A filthy, pathetic little maggot by the name of Harold Loathsome!“

Upon crying out Loathsome’s name, I triumphantly whipped off the bounder’s hat and cast it aside. There was a stunned silence, before a small voice piped up.

“That’s not Harold Loathsome,” it said.

I pulled the man’s head back in order that I might get a better look for myself, and found myself looking at the face of a complete and utter stranger.

“Well, of course it doesn’t look like Loathsome. He is, after all, a master of disguise!” I said hopefully, and then I began to set about the man’s head, desperately searching for the edges of a mask, or the tell-tale signs of a wig. Neither were forthcoming, and all I wound up with was a rather intense feeling that everything was beginning to go distinctly tits-up.

Furthermore, I had filthy commoner all over my hands.

Finally, Spunkleford had seen quite enough and dragged me away from the man, at which point the school bell suddenly chimed the hour. It was three o’clock, and on the third strike a body suddenly hurtled past one of the hall’s window. A body which – although glimpsed only briefly – rather resembled a certain man-servant of mine.

I gulped. Absolutely everything was going wrong, and wrong is not a word with which I am well acquainted. Indeed, if I were to pass wrong in the street, I dare say I would not recognise it at all.

In short, it felt like the bottom had fallen out of my world.

And if the feeling in my guts was anything to go by, the world would be falling out of my bottom shortly thereafter.

- Lord Likely.

Next Time in The Astonishing Adventures of Lord Likely: Is Botter really dead?

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Announcement! His lordship has been thrilled to the point of ejaculation by the fact that over three-thousand people have dropped by his journals over the course of the past twenty-four hours. Truly, that is something worth celebrating, and his lordship extends a moist welcome to any new readers…although he would like to know one thing: what took you so ruddy long?

Hungry for more inter-net based fiction? Then may I suggest you peruse The Web Fiction Guide, Pages Unbound or The Blog Fiction Blog, all of which are thoroughly excellent, due in no small part to the fact that I am listed with them all. Huzzah!

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“Well, come on, man!” Spunkleford exclaimed. “Who exactly is this Loathsome fellow? Why do you suspect him of these terrible crimes? Speak up, man! Why must you keep us all in such terrible suspense?!”

I was looking out of the school kitchen’s window, lost in a mixture of quiet contemplation and remembrance of times past.

“Harold Loathsome,” I said eventually, “is one of the most wretched souls to have e’er walked this earth.”

“Really?” scoffed Inspector Spunkleford.

“Harold Loathsome’s evil knows no bounds, my dear inspector. There lies a darkness in his soul that permeates every fibre of his being, and which engulfs all those who are unfortunate enough to come into contact with the wretched cove; no matter how brief their encounter. He is the devil incarnate, a walking abomination who would destroy us all if he could.”

“Good heavens!” Spunkleford cried, his face ashen with fear.

“Furthermore,” I continued, turning away from the window to address the white-faced crowd. “He once reported me to my own father, simply because I was slipping out of school to get pissed.”

“Ye Gods!” spluttered Spunkleford. “What a rotter!”

“I know, I know,” I shook my head sadly. “He really is a massive bell-end.”

“And do you really believe that this bounder really poses a threat to you, Likely?” Spunkleford asked.

“Loathsome has killed twice already, my good inspector. I dare say he shall be willing to kill again. I would imagine he still holds some small ill-feeling towards my good self, after I successfully managed to get the swine exiled to Africa when he was but fourteen years of age.”

“Good gracious!” Spunkleford ejaculated (though not literally, I am happy to report). “Well, yes, I suppose that would leave one feeling rather sore. I must confess, Likely, that if I was in Loathsome’s shoes, I would probably have already killed you dead! In fact, I imagine I would have probably stabbed you many times over, in a bloody, revenge-fuelled frenzy of horrific proportions! And then, furthermore, I think I would probably have curled out a giant poop into your deceased mouth, and then set fire to your awful, bastard corpse!”

There was a lengthy silence as Spunkleford regained his composure, while I did my best to discreetly move myself several feet further away from the disturbed detective.

“Well…thank you for that little outburst, inspector,” I said finally, from my new vantage point behind a spice-rack. “That really was most…edifying. And now, if you have quite finished being totally insane, I think I shall press on to the reunion, and see if anyone has seen anything of Loathsome…”

I strode into the school hall, where a rather elegant banner had been hung from the ceiling, which warmly welcomed us to ‘St. Bumthrusty’s School Reunion for the Class of 1831‘, in wonderful cursive script.

Beneath the banner my old classmates were busy chattering away to each other over a selection of fine wines and delicious hors d’oeuvres, laughing and chuckling in equal measure as they recollected tales of their long-gone schooldays.

I recognised some of the people gathered about; over there, by the punch-bowl was Spotty Flapkiss; beside him Peter P. Petersson; there was Duncan Biscuits (‘Soggy’ Biscuits had been his nick-name, due to a most humourous and ribald tale I may recount at a later time); Filthy Daniel was stood over by the door, next to Speccy Spencer and Charlie Poleblow; and over by the stage was Nobby Henderson, ‘Wanky’ McWank and Tommy Ticklestick-Thinn. Quite an array of familiar faces, and I had quite forgotten exactly how much I despised the majority of them.

I quickly snapped myself out of my nostalgic reverie. It was no use getting caught up in my own memories: there was still a killer stalking the grounds, and I had to find him before he dispatched any more of the Class of 1831 or worse – me.

I marched purposefully over to the group huddled around the punchbowl.

“Likely!” beamed Peter P. Petersson, extending a hand I chose not to shake.

“Good heavens, is that really ol’ Likely? Splendid to see you, old chap!” chimed in Spotty, offering another unaccepted hand.

“We were just talking to Duncan here…seems to be doing rather well for himself, don’t you know? Tell Likely what you told us, old boy!” Petersson rambled on, ignoring my evident disinterest.

“Yah, well I was just telling the chaps here…I have my own business now, yah,” droned Duncan. “Investments, savings and loans, that whole game. We’re doing terrifically well, posted some rather impressive figures at the end of the financial year…”

“Really?” I said, stifling a yawn. “Well, I am still filthy cocking rich, and I imagine I have had more sex in the past year than you’ve had tedious, soul-sapping meetings about interest rates and credit notes. Now listen, have any of you seen Harold Loathsome at all?…”

“Why you beastly little…” Duncan began, his face crimson with rage.

“Loathsome? My, what an awful little weasel that man was!” Spotty recalled. “I don’t know if he was even invited, to be honest, Likely. I certainly haven’t seen him here at all…”

“Right, well thank you, gentle-men. Now if you shall excuse me I must…oh! Hello! And who is this radiant beauty?” I said, noticing that there was a rather gorgeous, buxom brunette standing behind Spotty, quietly sipping some punch.

“Oh! Yes, you remember my sister Lizzie, don’t you Likely?” Spotty said, putting a friendly arm around his sensational sibling.

“Why, of course I do!” I grinned, laying a kiss upon Lizzie’s hand. “It has been a fair old while though, has it not? You’ve certainly…grown.”

Lizzie certainly had grown. I distinctly remembered meeting Ms. Flapkiss on the few occasions Spotty’s family picked him up or dropped him off at school. Back then, she had been rather short and squat, with a most angry little face, her features permanently scrunched up in anger, like a cat’s arse-hole.

“I remember you,” Lizzie sneered, withdrawing her hand quickly. “You used to be awfully cruel to me. You used to call me ‘Lizzie Cat-Anus Face’.”

I smiled wearily. That certainly wasn’t one of my more creative nicknames, it had to be said.

“Well, m’dear, I can only apologise for my younger self’s abhorrent manners. Suffice to say, the Likely you see before you know is a much more refined gentleman; a man of honour, dignity and grace.”

Lizzie’s face softened.

“I am much relieved to hear that, sir.”

“Jolly good. Now, how about a quick fuck, hmmm?”

- Lord Likely.

Next Time in The Astonishing Adventures of Lord Likely: Loathsome Strikes Again!

News Just In! Lord Likely’s official, wretched, jobless scribe Mr. A. D Fanton, has been interviewed by the excellent people at Fuelmyblog. Should you wish to read what the cad has to say about his experiences in the Blogosphere (which I believe may be off the coast of Norway, if I’m thinking correctly), then you may peruse the entire article by CLICKING HERE. A great many thanks to the FMB team for putting up with the wretch’s witterings!

Hungry for more inter-net based fiction? Then may I suggest you peruse The Web Fiction Guide, Pages Unbound or The Blog Fiction Blog, all of which are thoroughly excellent, due in no small part to the fact that I am listed with them all. Huzzah!

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“Oh dear,” I sighed, as we entered the kitchens of St. Bumthrusty’s. The scene was one of utter chaos; items of cutlery were strewn about the place, food items were spilt everywhere, and slumped next to the stove was the body of a man. I knelt down beside the corpse, which I noticed was covered with a mixture of eggs, milk, and flour. On closer inspection, it seemed that the poor bounder’s head had then been shoved roughly into a pan of boiling oil.

I sighed again, and straightened up.

“I am afraid to say,” I began, addressing the rapt audience before me, “that this poor fellow has been battered to death.“

An audible gasp was raised by the assembled few, while the rather pretty young thing who had alerted us to the crime broke down in tears again.

“There, there, m’dear,” I cooed softly, putting a comforting arm around her shoulders (whilst also taking a quick peep at her fabulous cleavage, naturally). “We shall find the cad responsible, do not fear!”

“Oh, it is awful,” the dear creature sobbed, drying her beautiful, blue eyes on my lapel. “How are we going to get our hands on that many eggs again at such short notice? I am supposed to be baking a big cake for the reunion to-day…and then this happens!”

The poor girl buried her head in my chest, weeping loudly.

“Um…yes, I see,” I said, not altogether seeing. “Well, I am sure the cake would have been delicious, m’dear…”

This attempt at placating the troubled totty failed rather miserably, and only elicited further prolonged wails from her mouth.

I am not the best chap at dealing with such outward displays of emotion, and felt increasingly uncomfortable with a weeping woman in my arms. Being an English aristocrat, I firmly believe that such emotions should be bottled up inside one’s self, until they either explode within you, leading to a full-blown mental breakdown, or letting them gush forth in a torrent of terrible twaddle when pissed out of one’s head. Much more healthy, I am sure you will agree.

Anyway, I unburdened myself of the blubbering beauty, forcing her into the arms of my bemused man-servant, Botter. I dare say Botter was even less equipped to deal with a female in any state, but I had more important things to worry about. A dead body in the kitchen of my old school, for example.

“Do we have any idea who this poor man is?” I asked. “His face is barely recognisable any more.”

Inspector Spunkleford, relishing the chance to finally do some detecting, bounded over to the body of the recently deceased, and began frisking the body earnestly – maybe rather too earnestly, in fact.

“Ahem,” I coughed politely, as Spunkleford continued to rummage through the man’s pockets for slightly too long. “Find anything, Spunkleford? Apart from maybe a new-found preference for the same gender?”

“Ah-ha!” Spunkleford beamed, holding aloft a brown leather wallet. “I believe this shall shed some light on the identity of the victim.”

“There is no need to look so smug,” I sniffed. “Just tell us who it is, man!”

Spunkleford looked slightly crestfallen at this remark, but obliged by opening up the wallet and removing a small business-card from within.

“It seems this fellow is a mister Edward. J. Crotch-Staiyne…he is a banker, apparently…”

“Wait!” I said, as another wretched memory sprang forth into my mind. “What was that surname again?…”

“Crotch-Staiyne,” Spunkleford repeated. “Why? Do you know him?”

“I believe I did,” I nodded sadly. “That is old Crotchy…another of my old school-chums.”

“Crotchy!” gasped Ginger Nadgers. “Oh my! Poor, poor Crotchy.”

“Tell me, Inspector,” I continued, a sense of dread welling up inside of me. “Do we know the name of the teacher who was murdered here earlier?”

“Ah, yes!” Spunkleford exclaimed, retrieving his note-book from his back pocket. “Let me see….ah, yes, here we are…he was a mister…Harrison. Yes, Thomas Harrison.”

“Ginger Harrison,” I sighed. “I had no idea he had become a teacher.”

“How many Gingers were there in your school, milord?” Botter asked, struggling with the still-inconsolable girl in his arms.

“Ginger Harrison wasn’t even ginger-haired,” Ginger Nadgers replied. “I believe he got his name from having been caught molesting the school cat, Ginger, if I recall…”

“Never mind all that bollocks!” I snapped, my brow furrowed in deep concentration. “Do you not see what is transpiring here? Some bastard is offing my old school chums, and has already threatened to see me run through as well. Clearly this is someone who knows something of my school-days…someone who maybe attended this very establishment with me…but not long enough to grasp the very basics of the English language, if his note was anything to go by…”

I froze.

“What is it, Likely?” Spunkleford asked, noticing the look of horror etched across my handsome face.

“I know who the culprit is.” I said slowly. “If my hunch is right – and I am very rarely wrong, of course – then this murderer is Loathsome.”

“Loathsome?” Spunkleford repeated. “Downright despicable, I would say! Now who is it?”

I rolled my eyes in despair. “Loathsome, my dear, slow-witted Inspector, is a name in this instance, rather than an adjective. Although, truth be told, the adjective does suit him well. You see, I am almost one hundred per-cent certain that the killer is none other than…”

I paused for dramatic effect.

“…Harold Loathsome.“

There was a stunned silence.

“Who?” said Spunkleford, rather ruining the mood somewhat, the tedious little twat-bag.

- Lord Likely.

Next Time in The Astonishing Adventures of Lord Likely: Looking for Loathsome!

Lord Likely would like to thank everyone who sent him birthday well-wishes earlier this week. So wrapped up in his adventures was his lordship, that he quite forgot it was his birthday. Many thanks to you all!

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It was a typical, completely unremarkable after-noon in London Town; carriages clattered noisily up and down the cobbled roads, smartly-dressed gentlemen doffed their hats as pretty ladies glided past them, cheeky cockney urchins weaved in and out of crowds, laughing and screaming as they did, while high above their heads Big Ben loudly signalled the hour with three, booming chimes. Meanwhile, Mrs. Eleanor Grunderson stood outside Tightfist & Son’s bank, looked up and observed (to no-one in particular) that it rather looked like it was going to rain.

Completely unremarkable, you see.

Of course, I am not here to chronicle the ordinary and banal. Who would desire to read a publication entitled ‘The Ordinary and Banal Non-Adventures of Lord Likely’? No-ruddy-one, that is who. No, my duty is to regale you with adventures of a distinctly more astonishing nature. Happily for us, shorty after Mrs. Eleanor Grunderson had made her trite observation, something astonishing did indeed manifest itself.

As Mrs. Eleanor Grunderson contemplated the skies, the window of Tightfist & Son’s bank shattered with an almighty smashing sound, as two men crashed through the glass and tumbled into the street outside, where they wrestled and struggled with one another in front of dozens of stunned onlookers.

Mrs. Eleanor Grunderson, however, was more concerned about whether or not she should nip home and retrieve her umbrella.

One of the gentle-men who had just made such an explosive entrance was, of course, my glorious self – Lord Likely, Aristocratic Adventurer and Gentle-Man of Action. The other (considerably less than gentle) man was a bare-knuckle boxer who went by the name of Finnegan ‘Fists’ O’Fury.

O’Fury had, until recently, been rather successful in his chosen sport, earning himself a clutch of awards and trophies for his pugilistic prowess. However, during his last fight, O’Fury sustained a twisted ball-bag, an injury that was to prove so serious that he was unable to continue his brawling career any further.

As his earnings dwindled, O’Fury had decided that he would deploy his skills elsewhere, namely in pursuit of a life of crime. Thus began O’Fury’s reign of terror, where the former boxer robbed several banks over the course of a few weeks, holding the cashiers up with nothing more than a loaded fist, which he threatened to use if he was given any trouble. One foolish banker who refused to cooperate is still looking for his jaw to this very day.

Naturally, as all the police’s efforts to capture the elusive O’Fury had failed, I was bought in by Inspector Albert Spunkleford of Scotland Yard, in the hope that I would succeed where they had cocked it right up. Naturally, I had quickly concocted a brilliant scheme to lure O’Fury to a nearby bank, and well, to cut an increasingly long story short, it ruddy well worked, which is how I wound up smashing through the bank’s window with the fellon in my grasp.

I know. I am cocking well amazing.

“Give it up, O’Fury!” I roared, as we disentangled ourselves from each other. “Your life of crime bally well stops here!”

“Feck you, you stinkin’ bag o’ shite!” spat O’Fury, wiping the sweat from his brow.

“Oh, for the love of buggery,” I sighed. “Can you not just come quietly, you irksome sod? I am really rather exhausted, and I have to be at the opening of an envelope in approximately twenty-seven minutes…”

“If ye want me to stop, yeh’ll have to make me stop!” snarled O’Fury, raising his fists.

“Fine.” I said, and then I calmly strolled over to O’Fury and kicked him right in his injured scrotum.

O’Fury winced, then grimaced, and then gently shook his hips. A broad smile crept across his battered face.

“Bloody hell!” he beamed. “I think ye’ve put me bollock back in place! Yes! I can feel it! Ye’ve feckin’ well cured me, so ye have! Ah! I’ll be able to go back in the ring again! I can win back me title! And maybe, just maybe, I can get back together with me sweetheart Mary, and see little Finny Junior. Thank ye! Oh, thank ye!”

But just as O’Fury was celebrating the realignment of his misplaced man-package, Spunkleford emerged from the bank with several burly policemen, who all decided to pounce upon the boxer, knocking him to the ground, where they then enthusiastically set about his head and body with their truncheons.

“Well you certainly took your cocking time,” I said curtly as Spunkleford strode up to me.

“Sorry, Likely. I thought that I should pay off a couple of bills, being in a bank and all. Saves me getting my ear chewed off by the wife, you know? Still, it looks like you handled yourself pretty well out here.”

“Naturally.”

“Good show, Likely. Good show!” Spunkleford smiled, slapping me heartily on the back.

“Please, do not touch that which you cannot afford, Spunkleford,” I said.

“Ah-ha! Likely, you crease me up!” chuckled Spunkleford. “Oh! And talking of creasing, I believe I have something to show you…hold on…”

Spunkleford rifled through his suit pockets, and then with a triumphant cry removed a wedge of folded-up paper from his coat pocket.

“Here it is! We received news of the murder of a school-teacher that took place last night,” Spunkleford informed me, unfolding the sheets slowly. “I wouldn’t bother you with this, of course, only I believe that this case may be of particular interest to you.”

“Oh, really?” I asked, my interest piqued. “What makes you think that?”

“Well, firstly, the murder took place at your old school – St. Bumthrusty’s School for Boys!“

“Really? Good heavens!”

“Quite. And secondly, there was a note was left on the body, which was addressed to you…here,” Spunkleford said, handing me a small piece of paper. I raised a quizzical eyebrow, and opened up the note.

This is what it read:

“By Goliath’s gonads!” I cried. “This is awful. Simply awful.”

“I know,” Spunkleford agreed, shaking his head.

“Look at this! Whoever penned this missive has used the possessive pronoun ‘your’ as opposed to the correct, contracted form of ‘you are’. It renders the whole thing nonsensical! I mean, ‘Likely, Your Next‘? Your next what? The writer clearly is a meat-headed poltroon. I am surprised he could even hold a pen, to be honest.”

“Never mind that, Likely!” Spunkleford cried. “This fiend clearly has plans to murder you!”

“Oh yes. Well there is that too, I suppose,” I replied.

- Lord Likely.

Next Time in The Astonishing Adventures of Lord Likely: His Lordship Goes Back to School!

Hungry for more inter-net based fiction? Then may I suggest you peruse The Web Fiction Guide, Pages Unbound or The Blog Fiction Blog, all of which are thoroughly excellent, due in no small part to the fact that I am listed with them all. Huzzah!

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April, 1857.

“Your ladyship, I have decided I would like to commence my investigations by seeing the body,” I remarked, as I leaned casually against the banister of the stairs.

“Well, good,” replied Lady Rydeham-Harde. “At last, some progress.”

“Of course, when I say ‘the body’, I mean ‘your body’. And when I say ‘seeing’ I mean ‘pumping.’ To whit, I wish to ravish you, your ladyship.”

Lady Rydeham-Harde’s face dropped in astonishment, and then before I knew it she lunged forward and slapped me hard across the face.

“Please, m’dear, surely we should adjourn to the bedroom before we commence the rough stuff?” I said, rubbing the side of my face.

“The very impertinence! Just who do you think you are?” she screamed.

“I am Lord Likely,” I replied casually.

“Well, Mr. Likely, I don’t know if making lewd advances towards recently bereaved women is part and parcel of your investigatory technique, but I for one shall not abide it! The very idea, sir! For shame! Just you wait until my husband hears about this outrage…”

I sighed. It seemed that this filly would be particularly difficult to tame.

“What is all the fuss, dearest?” came a voice from up the stairs.

“Hubert!” cried Lady Rydeham-Harde. “Oh, my dear Hubert!”

I looked up to see a small, bald man, wearing thin, round horn-rimmed spectacles standing at the top of the stairs. If a hamster was to ever start wearing suits, then it would be indistinguishable from the gentleman currently descending the stair-case. To say he was meek would be an understatement, akin to claiming that The Black Death was just a slight flu.

“What ails you, dearest?” said Lord Rydeham-Harde, as he joined his wife at her side.

“This…this awful man, Hubert! He made some particularly filthy remarks about me! Horrible, dirty, depraved remarks!”

“Oh dear,” said Hubert. “What a shame.”

“Is…is that all you have to say? Hubert, this man made untoward advances towards your wife, and all you can say is ‘what a shame?’ Are you not even going to attempt to defend my honour?” yelled Lady Rydeham-Harde.

“Um, well, he is considerably taller than me, dearest,” replied Hubert, nervously readjusting his spectacles upon his nose.

“HUBERT! I thought you were going to be more of a man from now on!”

“Well, I…I am trying, my dear. I…I am still taking the medicine…”

As a full-blown argument broke out between the Lord and Lady of the house, Inspector Spunkleford, Botter and I decided to leave the quarreling couple to it, and ventured back outside.

“Confound it, Likely!” barked Spunkleford as we stepped out into the cool night air. “Your damned libido has nearly ruined our investigation before it has even begun! We shall have to work doubly hard to find any favour with the Rydeham-Harde’s now.”

“I do not apologise for being a man, with a man’s appetites,” I replied haughtily.

“Hmph,” snorted Spunkleford. “Well, at any rate we shall have to begin the investigation with due haste. Come, let us go and visit the crime-scene, and see what clues the poor maid’s body may offer us.”

“But of course,” I said. “But maybe first I should go and quickly tend to my Lord Palmerston. My brief physical interaction with her ladyship has left me harder than a concrete dildo.”

“She slapped you, Likely,” Spunkleford reminded me.

“Indeed. And powerfully arousing it was too!”

“Damn it, Likely, I shall not let you delay us any further! We are going to the scene of the crime right now, you hear? RIGHT NOW!”

“Not even time for a brief hand-shandy?” I offered, but Spunkleford’s furious glare made me reconsider, and so we departed to view the body of the recently-deceased maid.

“Oh, it is terrible. Awful. Horrendous,” I wailed, dabbing at my eyes with a handkerchief, as I beheld the horribly mutilated form of the Rydeham-Harde’s murdered maid. Despite the fact that she had been horrifically savaged by a creature or creatures unknown, despite the on-set of decay, and despite the family of worms which had taken up residence in one of her eye sockets, I could still see what a stunning young lady she must have been in life.

“I know, Likely. Such a senseless waste of a human life,” Spunkleford replied, patting me gently on the back. “Be strong, old man, be strong.”

“It’s a shocking waste of a perfectly pumpable vagina,” I nodded, sadly. “Here I am, with a raging hard-on, a beautiful girl laying in front of me, and I am powerless to act upon my desires. If only I had cracked one out before we got here, then – “

“Ah, good! I see you are dabbling in detective work now!” spoke somebody behind us. It was Lady Rydeham-Harde, who regarded me like one might regard a piece of excrement found in one’s caviar. “I suppose there is a first time for everything.”

“Your ladyship, a pleasure to see you again,” I smiled. “My offer is still open, you know.”

“And my legs are most definitely not,” sniffed Lady Rydeham-Harde dismissively.

“So, your ladyship,” Spunkleford said, trying to diffuse a repeat performance of our earlier conflagration. “Tell me, who discovered the body?”

“It was my gardener, Grimes. He was tending to the lawn early on Saturday, when he stumbled upon my poor maid’s body. I think it must have been a…” Lady Rydeham-Harde trailed off. “Mr. Likely, what on Earth is that in your pocket?”

“Hmm?” I said absently, before realising that her ladyship was referring to my aroused member, which had created a rather impressive tent in my trousers.

I had to think fast. I did not want to create further conflict with her ladyship by revealing that I was in possession of a thundering, great love-rocket whilst in the vicinity of her dead maid, but then again maybe her ladyship would be so impressed by the size of my excitement, that she would quickly offer me upstairs for a spot of ‘how’s your father’.

Oh, what a sticky situation I now found myself in!

- Lord Likely.

What Should His Lordship Say Is In His Pocket?
( polls)
This time, we have even left you the option of entering your own suggestion, so if you can think of a better course of action, do not be afraid to speak up, and thrust it proudly in the thin, black box above!

You have until 21:00 hours PM(GMT) on Saturday the Nineteenth of April to cast your vote.

POLL UPDATE! Due to an extremely tiring day lounging around and quaffing glass after glass of champagne, I will not be updating my journal until Sunday night. As such, the poll has been extended until 16:00 hours pm (GMT) on Sunday the Twentieth of April. So there is still time to cast your vote, dear readers – time you would be wise to employ RIGHT NOW!

As an added incentive, one randomly-selected winning voter will be rewarded with a gratuitous link to their web-page in the next thrilling installment. But please note – we shall only be able to award said prize if you let us know which action you chose!

The last randomly-selected winner, who has thus earnt a free hyper-link placement upon his lordship’s journals, is…

Congratulations to you, m’dear!

Now choose wisely, dear readers…his lordship is in YOUR HANDS now.

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