This being the case, I am all too aware that great advances in technology are occurring all the time. Where once gas-lamps lit our homes, light-bulbs now sit, emitting their comforting, phosphorous glow into our houses. Where once horse-and-cart transported us through the city, now motorised auto-mobiles chug us along on our journeys. And where once a firm, wooden plank was sufficient for beating one’s man-servant, one can now thrash the bounder with a stainless-steel pipe. Ah, vive le progres!

One most recent technological marvel has been the emergence of the Electronic Hand-Held Book-Reading Device, bringing the great works of literature to a small contraption via tiny atoms or magic or something. I don’t pretend to understand (or indeed care about) the science behind this invention, but I DO acknowledge that it looks, feels and smells very much like the future!

Naturally, I am not one to be left behind, and in wishing to see my journals survive well into the next millennia, I have instructed my own technological bods to go about engineering a way of transferring this very web-log into a form suitable for enjoyment in one of these Electronic Hand-Held Book-Reading Devices! And by jove, they have only succeeded!

YES, dear readers, I am pleased to announce that The Astonishing Adventures of Lord Likely is now available for perusal via Mr. Amazon’s ‘Kindle’ contraption, as of today! HUZZAH!

For a mere, piffling 99p per month (with a FREE 14-day trial) , one may subscribe to these journals and have them delivered electronically into your Kindling device! Think of it like an electronic penny dreadful, only 99 times better, and not at ALL dreadful!

Do not delay! Click HITHER to-day!

I do hope some of you who own these devices shall take up this opportunity. Not only is it the chance to be at the razor-tipped cutting-edge of progress, but NOWHERE else will you be able to receive such a constant stream of sheer ASTONISHMENT and AMAZEMENT, rendering all those so-called ‘books’ completely obselete overnight! Furthermore, it is the chance for many of you to fulfil that most desired of dreams – holding me in your VERY HAND. HUZZAH!

If you do subscribe – or even if you do not – a review of said journals would be appreciated ‘pon this page, so that word may spread and the Likely Empire may forge ahead into thrilling new territories!

Prepare thine tinted-spectacles, chums – the future is bright, the future is LIKELY!

Toodle-pip!

- Lord Likely.

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

“Rrrrarrrggggggh! Rrrrrrarrrrgh! Guuuuuuuuuurrrrrrrggggh! Muuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuh!”

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

“Guuuuuuuuuuuuuuh! Rrrrrrrarrrrrgggh!”

“Very good, milord.”

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

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

“Buuuuuuuuuuuuh?” I groaned.

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

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

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

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

“But I need to – ”

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

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

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

“Very good, milord.”

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

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

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

I tore open the envelope and skimmed the missive within.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Ha! Heavy night eh, old friend?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Oh.” I paused. “OH!”

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

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

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

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

“But that’s…”

“…Charles Dickens, yes.”

“But he’s…”

“…been dead for twenty years, yes.”

“But I…”

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

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

“Oh. Sorry, old boy.”

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

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

- Lord Likely.

Continue on to Part Two…

IF YOU enjoyed this chapter (and who COULD NOT do so?) please consider donating via the button below. All your contributions toward the running of this webbed-site, and the feeding of my scribe, Mr. A. D. Fanton, are gratefully received and allow us to keep astonishing you week after week! MANY THANKS!

“I BEG your pardon?” I spluttered in disbelief. “What did you say?”

“That is your name, is it not?” the conjurer smiled as he straightened his tie, and smoothed down his grey locks. “Lord Ouranos Likely?”

I eyed the man suspiciously, trying to fathom what sort of confounded trickery he was deploying, but his countenance gave away nothing. His was the very epitome of the poker face; to whit, I very much desired to bash it in with a poker.

“Not necessarily,” I bluffed. “It is a secret I shall carry to my grave!”

“I know it,” piped up Botter, rather unhelpfully.

“It is no use trying to bluff me, sir,” the magician replied, slowly circling me. “As a master of my trade, there is much that I am aware of. if there’s one thing that I excel at, it’s being able to know all there is to know about my audience. Your true name screams out to me from every one of your pores, and is etched firmly into your very aura.” He stopped short in front of my face, and paused. “Not to mention the label sewn into the collar of your coat.”

“Pah, I knew it!” I spat. “Mindless trickery.”

“Trickery?” The cove ground his teeth upon my words. “I hate that term. It’s one step shy of fraud, and I am no fraud, Likely!”

“Well, congratulations on being able to read, sir. Yes, my first name is Ouranos, and a very fine, and noble name it is too. It comes from the name of one of the Greek Gods, you know? Fathered the Titans, so I’m told.”

“I know my Greek mythology,” the conjurer beamed. “He was also castrated by one of his sons, was he not?”

I was taking an even deeper disliking to this blaggard with every word he spoke. “And so what is your name, sir? ’Reginald, the Reader of Labels?’ ‘Orlov the Observant’? ‘Samuel, the Stater of the Bloody Obvious?’”

“Pick a card,” said the man, flourishing a deck of cards before me. I hesitated, then decided to humour the trickster, and drew a card out from near the bottom of the deck. “Thank you,” the fellow nodded. “And what does it say on that card?”

I turned the card over and read the words upon it. “Cornelius Quaint, proprietor,Dr. Marvello’s Travelling Circus.”

“At your service,” Quaint bowed.

“Very good,” I said, distinctly unimpressed at this overly-elaborate answer to a perfectly simple question.

“And this is Butter,” Quaint continued.

“Botter,” I replied.

“No, Butter.”

“No, Botter. Heavens, your powers are fading, you old buffoon. I know the name of my own man-servant, thank you very much.

“Ah! I see,” Quaint replied, chuckling to himself. “I was referring to the name of deputy,” he said, motioning toward the little Eskimo fellow hovering behind him. “This is Butter.”

“Oh, I see. And why do you call him that? Easily spread, is he?” I smirked.

“I would have thought that someone with an accomplice called ‘Botter’ is hardly in a position to make lewd aspersions,” Quaint smirked. God, how I hated him and his instance on having the last word, and a salient point.

“Well, marvellous,” I exclaimed. “So now we all know one another, let us be on our separate ways and ne’er talk of this again…”

Cornelius Quaint stepped into my path. “Where are you off to? Is that it? Just throw a punch, doff your hat and take your leave? Aren’t you even a little bit curious as to why I went to the bother of setting you free?”

“Not really. Maybe you just wished to show-off some more, I do not know, nor do I care.”

“I relieved you of your incarceration not as an act of charity, Likely…I believe we may have a common foe,” Quaint intoned, his face darkening. “This Silas Surprise chap…I suspect him of foul play, and I also suspect that you fear the same. What do you know of him?”

“I know that he can pack out the largest theatre in the land, and not have to travel about from city to city like some sort of gypsy,” I quipped. Quaint’s face failed to register any signs of displeasure. Those dark eyes of his remained fixed on me, unblinking. “Oh, very well!” I relented. “Silas Surprise is an absolute arse-belch of the highest order. I have seen him kill men with playing cards, resurrect the dead, and even attempt to saw me in half without the use of trickery.”

“I’m warming to him already,” Quaint muttered.

I ignored the magician’s mumblings, and carried on. “I believed that I had taken care of this cove before, and that he would trouble no one further. But now, like a guff into the wind, he has returned, to spread his foul stench across the land. And that being the case, I’d wager my man-servant’s lungs on the fact that he is up to no good whatsoever.”

Quaint had listened attentively throughout my exposition, and nodded sharply as I finished. “Then it is as I feared. I knew there was something awry about him, and his ludicrous claims that he could make Buckingham Palace ‘disappear’. It is decided, then! We should set aside our differences and -”

“…team-up and try to outwit the fiend, Quaint?” I interjected triumphantly. “Of course, we could join forces, provided you could keep up with me. You’re not exactly as fresh as a goose, if you get my meaning.’

“I don’t like it, but I get it,” retorted the steely-eyed conjurer. “But I rather think it’s you and your manservant that will have a job keeping up with me!”

“I don’t believe you’ve ever seen my manservant in action,” said I, my retort as quick as a whip. “In full effect it really is quite something to behold.”

Botter giggled excitedly. “Oh! Thank you, sir!”

“Shut your cakehole, Botter, I wasn’t referring to you,” I told the loathsome cretin, putting him right back in his place. “Well then, taking into consideration what both our parties know – and because I don’t want you to slow me down – why don’t we go our separate ways, with you and your squire returning to the stage outside Buckingham Palace, whilst Botter and I begin the search for Silas Surprise himself?’

If only the conjurer’s skills extended to seeing within my mind, he might have witnessed several cogs working away. But then again, considering some of ribald stuff that’s in my mind, perhaps he might have been otherwise engaged, the voyeuristic bounder! He looked like he could do with a good thrill. “What do you say, Mr Quaint?” I watched his expression intently. He was a conjurer, after all. His eyes always spun a different coloured yarn than his mouth.

“I say you’ve got yourself a deal, Likely,” Quaint replied, thrusting out his hand. “And whichever of us gets to Silas first takes him down. May the best man win!”

Cornelius Quaint, although clearly an able man, had played right into my corner and it had just had a fresh lick of paint. “Oh, I intend to,” I chuckled to myself. “Botter! Say goodbye to the nice gentlemen, I’ve got a madman to catch!”

“Don’t you mean I’ve got a madman to catch?” tested Quaint. “Butter! With me!”

*****

Penned by Mr. A.D Fanton & Mr. Darren Craske.

The sun had barely squeezed out its first rays into the morning sky, when I found myself once again embroiled in a titanic struggle with another rogue. Crashing through the doors of a building located on Park Lane, this fellow and I crashed to the floor, limbs flailing, my cane striking the bounder about the shoulder blades in an effort to secure my release from his filthy grasp. Finally, the fellow relented, and disentangled himself from me. He adjusted his neck-tie and pointed a large, meaty finger at my noble form.

“You are officially banned from these premises!” he snapped. “You shall never darken these doors again!”

“I fail to see what the problem is, sir,” I replied, raising myself up on my elbows. “’Tis a gentleman’s, and I was merely relieving myself as was my need.”

“It is a gentleman’s CLUB!” cried the man, emphasising his point by pointing to a sign that read ‘Strong Fellows’ Gentleman’s Club’.

“Well, if that is the case, why on earth do you have that large urinal in there?”

“THAT is an ornamental fountain, you clod!” the man yelled. “My word, we shall probably have to have it destroyed, now.”

“Pfffft,” I snorted, hurling a small, empty bottle of whisky at the retreating man’s back as he returned inside the building, only for the bottle to shatter harmlessly upon the steps. I sighed and collapsed back onto the street, staring up at the sky. It had been almost a month since my last astonishing adventure, and I was missing the thrill of a good mystery. Certainly, I had pumped my way through a parade of pretty paramours in the interim, and drunk my weight in liquor ev’ry night, but adventure was always my favourite mistress, and it was a long time since I had been deep within her.

“Milord!” exclaimed my man-servant, his face hovering into view above me. “What are you doing down there?”

“Being in a state of complete horizontality,” I replied in my most matter-of-fact-tone. “Now stop asking such ridiculous bloody questions, and help me up.”

“Pee-yoo!” Botter gasped as he helped me to my feet. “If I may say so, milord, you smell like someone has vomited in a brewery.”

“You are very astute sometimes, Botter,” I responded, swaying uneasily on my feet. “I did so not but two hours ago. Furthermore, no, you may not say that.” I added, twatting my servant about the head with my cane for his insolence.

Botter rubbed his sore head gingerly. “Milord, I do hate to see you like this! You must do something!”

“Ah, Botter, you feeble-minded fool! Were it so simple! I need an adventure! I need mystery! I need EXCITEMENT! Without all this, I fear my brain stagnates.”

“Stagnates?” mused Botter as he retrieved my topper from the floor and dusted it down. “With all the alcohol you have been knocking back, I’d have thought your brain would have been perfectly pickled by now.”

“Oh, very droll!” I snapped, grabbing my hat from my man-servant’s grubby mitts. “I am at a loss, Botter. I just do not know what to do.”

“Why don’t you go and see a magic act?” cried Botter, pointing to a poster he had just espied.

“Magicians are arse-pipes, Botter. A bunch of poncified poltroons, disguising mediocre trickery as spectacular feat. I hate them all!”

“But milord, I think you’ll be rather interested in this particular show….”

“Botter,” I sighed, teetering along to where my man-servant now stood. “How many times must I tell you, I am not in the mood for – BY THE KRACKEN’S KNACKER-SACK!” I exclaimed, as my eyes fell upon the poster in question. For this was certainly no ordinary magic-show, but a show featuring the crazed conjurer Silas Surprise.

“Egad!” I said as I continued to read. “I thought I had put an end to his twisted trickery long ago!”

“It’d seem not, milord,” Botter nodded. “He has returned, and furthermore, it seems he plans to make Buckingham Palace disappear!”

“Utter scrotum!” I snorted. “I’ll wager my own skeleton that he is up to no good! And naturally, it shall be up to me to stop him! We shall have to go to the Palace forthwith” I slapped Botter heartily on the back. “Ha-ha! I can feel the adrenalin pumping through my veins already!”

“I am surprised there is any room in them, with all the alcohol – “

Another sharp blow ensured that Botter never reached the end of that particular witticism, and we set off upon a fresh, new adventure – quite unaware that Mr. Silas Surprise’s audacious illusion was also attracting attention elsewhere…

*****

PLATFORM 9 in London’s Grosvenor Park railway station was typically abuzz with all manner of odd behaviour. Chinese acrobatic twins bounced about the place like rubber balls, garishly-attired clowns rehearsed a slapstick routine involving a ferret and a wooden mallet, and a gargantuan strongman lifted a young female knife-thrower high into the air as if she was a rag doll. This was a normal day for Dr Marvello’s Travelling Circus, but it was about to become bizarrely abnormal – even by the circus’s standards.

Master conjurer and circus proprietor, Cornelius Quaint, had seen many a spectacle in his fifty-plus years (many of which were of his making) but this day he was promised a spectacle like no other, if the poster for the forthcoming event at Buckingham Palace was to be believed.

“Have you seen this twaddle, Butter?” he growled at his Inuit squire, busily buffing the conjurer’s shoes. “This buffoon must either be clinically insane, a misguided fool, or a liar!”

Butter glanced up to see the poster that his employer referred to, and his narrow eyes scanned left to right. “This magician Silas Surprise is to make Buckingham Place disappear, yes?”

“Point of fact, Butter – this magician Silas Surprise is to make Buckingham Palace disappear, no,” corrected Quaint. “If he’s a magician then I’m a flipping Lord – which I can assure you, I am most certainly not! Pompous bunch of time-wasting fluffs, the lot of them. No, my Inuit friend, this deserves my attention. Not just out of professional curiosity but my own brand of decidedly unprofessional curiosity. Are my shoes done?”

Butter presented the brown leather brogues proudly. “Shiny shiny, boss, yes?”

“Exemplary as always, Butter,” complimented Quaint. “Now, get your coat on. We’re off to the palace to see exactly what this Silas buffoon has got to say for himself!”

Butter hovered on his heels by the door to Quaint’s office. “Boss, a thought sudden to strike my mind…this magician…we go see because we do not believe his claims, yes? And…not of in case he does perform this miracle and you are jealous?”

Quaint’s six-foot plus frame towered over the diminutive Inuit. “Jealous? Butter, do my ears deceive me? You actually believe that I’m…jealous? How dare you, I’m a professional illusionist and one of the best in the business – might I add – which is how I happen to know for a fact that making the palace disappear is impossible!”

“As opposed to impossible that you perform every day?” asked Butter.

“That’s totally different, Butter!” spat Quaint. “What I do is a stagecraft, whereas this…this is tantamount to fraud! Now stop dragging your heels. I’ve got an entire carcass of bones to pick with Mr Silas Surprise, and no one is going to stand in my way!”

*****

“I AM well aware that I am standing in your way!” I barked at the police-officer precluding me from gaining entry into Buckingham Palace. “And I shall not move until you let me pass! I am Lord Likely, Aristocratic Adventurer and Gentle-Man of Action, and I am a close acquaintance of Her Majesty! I have reason to believe that she is in great danger, so – “

“So you keep saying, sir,” the officer replied, scratching his nose. “But I don’t know what you think Her Majesty has to fear from a magician, I’m sure! Think she’ll get a playing card in the eye, do ya? Perhaps she might find herself cougin’ up a string of coloured ‘ankerchiefs, eh?”

“Oooh, I like that trick, I do,” piped up his equally cretinous colleague. “It’s amazing, and ever so pretty.”

“Look, just contact Inspector Spunkleford and he’ll – “

“Listen, sir – we ‘ave quadrupled the police presence ‘ere to-day, and we’ve got the Queen’s own Guard on high alert. This conjurin’ chap won’t be able to release so much as a dove in her majesty’s direction without us bein’ all over ‘im. I assure you, nothing can go wrong!”

“But! –“

“Sir! If you continue to make a scene we’ll have to take you into custody. Now move along, there’s a good fellah.”

I was scarlet with rage, but realised that to continue arguing with these fat-headed idiots would be a waste of my precious voice. Instead, I turned sharply on my heels, and strode back through the gathering crowd who were slowly filling assembling outside the palace in readiness for Silas’ big show.

“Absolute tit-bags!” I raged as I returned to my spot beside Botter. “They’re impossible! Impossible! I shall need a more cunning ruse to gain entry to the palace, I fear…”

“Hmmm?” said Botter, distractedly, watching the small stage that had been set up outside of the gates with considerable interest.

“You glorified gonad!” I spat. “You aren’t even paying attention, are you?”

“I was just watching the stage, milord…there’s a couple of chaps there who seem – “

“I do not give a flea’s piss-hole what is going on there! May I remind you that we are NOT here to gawk at some accursed conjuror’s stupid set-pieces! Now hand me my cane and my gloves, I believe I have formulated quite the plan…”

“You aren’t going to walk back up there and clobber the police-officers are you, milord?”

“No, Botter! Ha! The very notion!” I chuckled, taking my cane from my man-servants hands. “I am going to RUN back up there and clobber the police officers!”

*****

“BOSS, I might you ask a question,” said the Inuit squire, peering over at the ensuing kerfuffle by Buckingham Palace’s gates.

Cornelius Quaint was on his knees at the base of the stage where Silas Surprise was to perform his illusion, his keen eyes searching the apparatus for anything out of the ordinary. “Might you, Butter? Fire away then.”

“You say we must investigate stage for trickery, yes?” asked Butter. “You say Silas Surprise plans some sort of ruse, and is impossible for him to make palace disappear.”

“Indeed so,” answered Quaint, ever mindful of Butter’s loose affiliation with the English language. “And your question is?”

“Why you say the Queen smell fishy?”

“Keep your voice down, Butter, you’ll have me hung!” roared Quaint. “I said nothing of the sort! I said there was something fishy about this Silas chap, and I feared the Queen’s life was in danger! I have it on very good authority that Her Majesty’s personal hygiene is beyond reproach. Just do what you’re supposed to do, and make sure those policemen don’t see what I’m up to!”

Butter went up on tip-toes to get a better look at the ensuing fracas. “I do not think that to be a problem anymore, boss.”
“Oh? And why’s that?”

“They seem busy with someone else causing trouble,” Butter replied.

“What someone else?” snapped Quaint, scrabbling to his feet. “The man’s a lunatic! A well-dressed one, if the truth be told – but a lunatic nonetheless. Why the devil is he on that policeman’s back, thrashing him with a stick like a demented jockey? Let’s take a closer look.”

They had not taken but one footstep when they heard the lunatic’s tirade.

“But you don’t understand!” yelled he. “Her Majesty is in great peril!”

“That man seems most sure of that,” pondered Quaint. “Can it be that he’s got his own suspicions about Silas Surprise? In which case, he just became interesting. Come, Butter, we must speak with that man at once! Perhaps he’s not as much of a lunatic as I thought.”

“Too late, boss!” cried Butter. “Look! Police lock him in their wagon!”

“Then we’d better go and unlock him, hadn’t we?”

“But how, boss?” asked Butter. “Man is prisoned in iron cage, and policeman guards wagon! No way to rescue him. Is impossible!”

Quaint winked. “You forget, my Inuit friend…impossible is what I do best.”

Butter slapped his forehead. “Silly me.”

“Constable Pike, isn’t it?” Quaint snatched hold of the young policeman’s hand, seemingly doing his best to separate it from the wrist. “How’s your mother getting on these days? That nasty old thing with her hip any better?”

The constable looked up, checking the vicinity from where this broad-shouldered, silver-curled man had obviously just fallen from. “The name’s Mitchum, sir. Don’t know any Pike. And me mam’s hip’s still giving her gip, yeah. Now, if you wouldn’t mind moving along, there’s been enough trouble at this shindig as it is.”

“Not at all, Constable Mitchum,” said Quaint, striding away swiftly to rejoin Butter, a triumphant grin on his face. He lifted up a long, silver chain with a key attached. “This should give our friend back his liberty…and then he can answer a few of my questions!”

“How you get key, boss?” asked Butter, keenly. “Magic, I presume?”

“Of a sort practiced by many an urchin down Langdon Lane,” replied Quaint. “Now, all we need to do is wait for the good constable to move on. Now, Butter! Move!”

Keeping as low to the ground as he could, Quaint sprinted up to the police wagon’s rear. His gut instinct was buzzing like a wasp in a jam jar, and something told him that the prisoner was important if he wanted to prevent a tragedy. He tore back the canvas flap, and hastily unlocked the heavy iron door to the cage, ready to interrogate the wagon’s occupant – who clearly had other ideas about the matter, if his striking punch to Quaint’s jaw was any indication.

*****

“HA-HA! Chinned the bugger!” I cried triumphantly as the figure fell to the floor. “That shall teach you to lay your grubby fingers upon my noble form, and – oh!” I stopped as I looked at the well-dressed, grey-haired figure lying on the ground beside the wagon. “Hmmm, you don’t look much like a police-officer, I must say.”

“That would be because I am not one, you ignorant fool!” the man snarled, as he was helped to his feet by a small chap who seemed to be dressed in preparation of a sudden Arctic snap, or something. “I am, in fact a conjurer, sir!”

My fist flashed out and caught the bounder on the chin again, knocking him to the floor once more.

“What on EARTH was that for?” he spat.

“I think I may actually hate conjurers more than police-officers,” I replied, as Botter helped me down out of the police-wagon. “Both dress in the most absurd manner, both make shocking use of handcuffs, and both are prone to wild acts of deception. But conjurers are just so much -” I was silenced by the tall man lashing out with his own fist, sending me spinning into the back of the wagon.

“One thing you need to learn about a conjurer is they always have something up their sleeve!” growled the man, straightening up to his full six-feet of height.

“Oh, really?” said I, wiping a drop of blood from my lip. “Well, I’d wager that you also have something up your trousers, too,” I smirked, before delivering a swift boot to the conjurer’s crotch. ‘Twas a cheap shot, but worth doing, I felt, especially as I watched the cove double over in pain.

“I…I think these gentlemen were trying to help you, milord,” Botter said as I turned away from my fallen foe.

“Nonsense, Botter! The man’s a damned magician! Never trust them, you know. Probably out to steal my wallet or something.”

“It’s no doubt full of I.O.U’s from all the dirty-arsed whores in the East End of London,’ the cad retorted upon me, his fist not only brushing against yours truly’s face, but making an almighty mess of it too.

The next physical object to strike my person was my cane in my posterior as I fell upon it, the hooked end threatening to tear me a new one.

“I do not hide the fact that I make frequent use of harlots, sir,” I rose to my feet and winced slightly at the pain in my backside, whilst addressing the other pain in my backside. “Whereas I dare say the only ladies you have handled come printed on playing cards.” And with that, I cracked the bounder around the head with my cane, sending him hurtling backwards once more.

In an untoward fashion, he kicked back like a mule, sending his trajectory in my personable direction. Fists out in front, as well (the cad). Both of them connected with my chest, sending my lungs screaming for air, and then it was my turn to hurtle backwards. But I had witnessed his little trick, and I too kicked back against the wall. My interpretation of the move was slightly less synchronized with the wall’s vicinity than his though, and I unded up on my (already painful from the cane near miss) posterior.

The fiend towered over me.

“I know everything there is to know about you, Likely, and I have to say, I don’t like what I hear,” said the conjuring cadster. “You womanize and philander your way across this city like a fly seeking a turd to perch on. You squander your inheritance likes it’s going out of fashion…on nothing more than booze, birds and bacon butties! You drink like a fish, and you indulge yourself in what you in the minority refers to as ‘Astonishing Adventures‘? Really? Astonishing? They’re semi-amusing at best, and highly derivative it has to be said. If you want to truly have an ‘astonishing adventure’ then I suggest you to join me on one of my little exploits one day. Now they’re truly astonishing, let me tell you.”

“Oh,” I replied, heaving myself back up, my bones crying out in protest. “So…you HAVE heard of me then? Well, I cannot say that I am surprised, sir. I AM really rather important and well-known throughout the Empire, you know. So if that was supposed to be some sort of mystical mind-reading trick in a futile attempt to impress or awe me, then I am afraid it was all for naught. It seems you know nothing of me that millions of people do not already know.”

“Oh, really?” the magician replied, his black as coal eyes glinting with hitherto unrevealed knowledge. “I beg to differ…Ouranos.”

- To Be Furthered…

His lordship and Mr. Fanton would like to thank Mr. Craske for joining them in chronicling this most astonishing of adventures. Huzzah!

Darren Craske is the author of the Cornelius Quaint Chronicles amongst other things, and lives in Hampshire with his wife and two children. His first published work was ‘The Equivoque Principle’ to be followed by its sequel, ‘The Eleventh Plague’ on March 4th, 2010. His website can be found at www.darrencraske.com and he is on twitter as @DarrenCraske.

‘The Eleventh Plague’ (book 2 of the Cornelius Quaint Chronicles) – is released in paperback by The Friday Project, an imprint of HarperCollins on March 4th 2010 and can be bought (amongst other fine retailers) here, and  ‘The Equivoque Principle’ (book 1 of the Cornelius Quaint Chronicles) can be bought here.

As well as a little sneaky peeky at ‘The Eleventh Plague’ – ‘The Equivoque Principle’ is being offered as a FREE download for a limited time via this link and also on Kindle via this link.

11:36am, 29th of January, 1891.

I CAME to moments later, a hand furiously tugging at the sleeve of my coat. I blearily looked round to see Felicity Boondoggles eagerly trying to rouse me from my explosion-induced stupor.

“Quick, Likely!” she hissed. “We’ve got to keep moving!”

“How is it,” I enquired groggily. “How is it that you appear to be fine, my dear, while I feel rather like…well, rather like I’ve just been in a ruddy big explosion?”

“Maybe I’m just made of stronger stuff, your lordship!” Felicity winked. “That, and the fact I was wearing a reinforced corset,” she added, tapping her midriff proudly. “Now come along, we have a Queen to save!”

“Where are we?” I muttered, slowly getting to my feet.

“We are inside Buckingham Palace, your lordship,” Felicity said. “That explosion hurled us clear over the gates, and through one of the front windows. ‘Tis one way of navigating past the guards,” she chuckled.

“Your hat, milord,” said my man-servant, Botter, proffering forth my terrific topper.

“Oh, I see you are quite alright as well, more the pity,” I remarked. “Don’t tell me that you were wearing a reinforced corset as well, eh?” I laughed.

Botter lowered his eyes. “Your hat, milord,” he repeated.

I gave Botter a curious glance, snatched my hat from his grubby mitts, and then we all raced down the hall to try and locate Her Majesty before that twisted terrorist Samuel Ben-London could place his bomb-laden crown ‘pon her august head.

We zig-zagged through resplendent hallway after resplendent hallway, each adorned with the finest furnishings and decorations, with row after row of portraits of round, ruddy-faced kings and queens peering down at us from their elevated position ‘pon the walls, almost as if they were willing us on in our mission to save the Queen, the country and the entire EMPIRE.  I ran on ever harder, ever more determined. I was DAMNED if I was going to let a collection of paintings down, confound it.

We wound our way up an ornate, winding staircase, whereupon we met a footman heading down the stairs.

“Where’s Vicky?” I demanded, grabbing the footman by the arms.

“Whom?” asked the footman.

“Vicky..Victoria…gah! Queen Victoria…you know, sits ‘pon the throne, rules over us all…”

“Ah! Her Majesty is in the Crowning Room,” intoned the footman.

“They have an entire room for putting on the crown?” whispered Felicity.

“Either that, or Her Majesty is giving birth again,” I replied. “Either way, we need to get there as soon as ruddy possible! Sir!” I continued, turning back to the footman. “Where is the Crowning Room? We have URGENT business with Her Majesty!”

“Well, ’tis just at the end of the hall, here,” indicated the footman. “B-but who are you? I cannot just let anyone burst in on Her Majesty, you know!”

“I’m not just anyone!” I snapped, flourishing a small business-card from my pocket. “I am Lord Likely – Aristocratic Adventurer and Gentle-Man of Action!”

“This says, ‘For A Thoroughly Good Rogering, Please Visit Madam Underlay‘…” replied the footman.

“Bugger…wrong card,” I noted. “Look, you’re the footman, yes?”

“Yes?”

“Well hop it, then!” I snapped, and with the poor devil reeling from my verbal dexterity, we dashed off to the Crowning Room, pausing momentarily to allow myself to admire my handsome reflection in a nearby mirror, to make sure that I was looking my very best while heroically saving Her Majesty from armed lunatics. Satisfied that I was looking as incredibly debonair as ever, I consulted my pocket-watch.

It was 11:52am. We could ill-afford to dilly-dally any further….

“HOLD EVERYTHING!” I yelled, as Felicity, Botter and I finally burst into the Crowning Room.

“How very forward of you,” replied Her Majesty, coolly and calmly, as befitting one who has seen and heard it all. “Might I suggest that you at least have the common decency to buy me a drink, first?”

Egad, I thought as I beheld the bewitching form of the Queen stood before me, in all her regal splendour. While she was undoubtedly in her twilight years now, she was still a fine, full figure of a woman, and was still rather attractive, probably due in no small part to the fact that she currently ruled over of a quarter of the globe. Power is after all an aphrodisiac, and with that sort of power at one’s command I was surprised that Her Majesty wasn’t constantly chock-full of cock, to be frank.

“Your majesty,” I said, regaining my composure long enough to form words. “You are in great danger!”

“The only danger I can foresee is that my morning is in danger of being irreparably ruined by this intrusion…what is the meaning of this, sir?” the Queen replied.

“Your highness, Miss Boondoggles and I have very good reason to believe that there are sinister forces at work who wish to end your life…” I looked around at the two maids who were helping Her Majesty dress for the day, one of whom was clutching a velvet pillow, upon which lay what could only be the booby-trapped crown we had been seeking.  ”With THAT very crown!”

“Ha-ha-ha! Ridiculous!” chuckled the maid carrying the aforementioned article. “This man is clearly a lunatic, your majesty! Shall I call the guards to remove him?”

Her Majesty eyed me cautiously. “My dear,” she said to the maid. “I have not survived numerous assassination attempts on my life without being cautious and considerate,” she continued. “Let me hear this gentleman out.”

“Thank you , your highness,” I beamed, bowing. “If I may?” I asked, motioning to the deadly diadem. The Queen nodded, and I strode into the room and carefully plucked the crown from it’s velveteen plinth. “Hmmm…yes, I see…hmmmm…yes, of course…” I said as I slowly turned the crown over and over in my hands. And then, before anyone could stop me, I spun round and punched the maid right in the jaw.

“What in the name of me do you think you are doing to that poor maid?” exclaimed the Queen, clearly shocked.

“Allow me to explain, your majesty,” I said as I roughly dragged the maiden to her feet. “This is no maid – but a MALE!” I proclaimed, whipping the curly blonde wig from the maid’s head, to reveal the considerably less coiffured locks of Samuel Ben-London, the terrorist leader of the Anti-Hat League.

“Curse you, Likely!” he spat. “How on earth did you know?”

“Well, firstly the style of maid’s uniform in which you are dressed is out of date by a good four or five years, sir. Secondly, the crown is heavier by quite a few pounds, suggesting to me that something has been added onto it – an explosive device, no doubt. And finally,” I continued, pointing straight at Ben-London’s upper-lip. “Your moustache was rather a keen giveaway, I’m afraid.”

“Damn you! Damn you to Hades! But not to worry!” cackled Ben-London, swiping the crown from my hands. “I still have this! I can set it to go off RIGHT NOW, destroying the Empire’s most powerful hat FOREVER! And once that is gone, a NEW world order shall rise, with THE PEOPLE in control!”

“But people are damned fools,” I reasoned. “You clearly have not thought this through.”

“Gah! Enough of this! Mr. Wallops, get them!” he shouted to the other maid, who turned out to be the big, brutish cad I had come up against at Sir Rhubarb Muddick’s gala ball earlier. As he advanced toward me, Felicity suddenly stepped in front of him, hitched her dress up and delivered a rather stunning round-house kick to the oaf’s head. The blaggard stumbled backward, crashing into a full-length mirror as he did so. Slightly dazed, Wallops staggered back to his feet, but before he could fully regain his composure Felicity was upon him, fists raining down upon his head like a most violent rainstorm.

“Don’t just bloody stand there, Likely!” she called out to me as she drubbed the bounder senseless. “Go and save the Queen!”

I turned to see Ben-London edging slowly backwards to a set of double-doors leading onto a balcony, forcing Her Majesty to follow him by pressing the loaded crown to her temple as if it were a pistol.

“Now, now, yer lordship,” sneered the bastard bomb-maker. “Don’t try any funny business, right? Else Her Royal Highness shall become Her Royal Sky-Highness!”

“You unhand that monarch immediately, you fiend!” I bellowed.

“Hahahaha!” guffawed Ben-London. “You can’t stop me now!”

“Maybe he cannot, but I am jolly well certain I can!” interjected the Queen, thrusting her elbow so hard into the rogue’s ribs that she not only succeeded in knocking the wind out of him, but also sent him careening through the double-doors and onto the balcony outside.

“Oh! Well played, your majesty,” I smiled, applauding politely.

“Yuh…(cough)…you sh-shall regret that, yer..(cough)…majesty…” wheezed Ben-London, as he picked himself up and shook the shards of glass from his person. “Yer…yer all going to be blown to bloody bits, now!” He said, triumphantyl holding the crown above him. But, as he did so, a pigeon suddenly flew at him from nowhere, flapping wildly about him, its wings beating the wretch about his face.

“Grrrarrrgh!” Ben-London cried, as he tried to shake the pigeon off him. “Get off me, you blasted bird!”

I saw my chance, and I quickly leapt forward and wrestled the bugger to the ground, wrenching the crown from his grasp. As Ben-London flailed uselessly at me, trying to get the accursed head-wear back, I quickly turned a small dial on the base of the crown, and then in a flash, rammed the crown firmly on the bastard’s bonce.

“Congratulations on your coronation, dear boy!” I beamed, and then I tipped the felon over the side of the balcony. Ben-London cursed loudly as he fell, and then suddenly he exploded like a fire-work, except with less pretty colours and more flying entrails.

“Poor sod. I fear he rather let it all go to his head,” I quipped wryly, as Felicity and Her Majesty joined me on the balcony to watch the show.

“We are quite amused,” said the Queen.

As we observed the ongoing explosion, the heroic pigeon fluttered gently down onto my shoulder, whereupon I noticed it had a small note attached to its leg. I carefully opened the note and read:

At: Samuel Ben-London: This is the police! Give yourself up, you are surrounded! From: Inspector Spunkleford.

I peered over the edge again, to see Spunkleford and some officers down below. He waved, and I waved back, never before having been so pleased to see him and his frankly ludicrous Twittering Messaging Service.

“I must thank you for your sterling service to not only myself, but the whole Empire,” said the Queen, turning to face me. “Naturally, You shall be honoured, and medals shall be awarded for your heroic deeds.”

“Victoria Cross?” I asked.

“No, I am very pleased,” Her Majesty replied, a small smile creeping across those stern lips of hers. I smiled in return, and she departed, ferried away by a score of worried assistants and servants.

“Well, it has been…interesting working alongside you, your lordship,” said Felicity. “But I must go. Heaven knows I shall have a mountain of paperwork to complete now.”

“Must you go so soon?” I enquired, laying a hand softly on Felicity’s shoulder. “I did bring this along, after all,” I continued, drawing from my pocket the lady’s self-pleasuring device which I had taken from the offices of CTUN earlier. “It seems a shame not to make use of it…”

Felicity raised an eyebrow, and grinned. “I suppose so…”

And so, after a day of explosions and bombings, the banging continued long into the night…

- Lord Likely.

* His lordship would like to thank each and every one of you who supported this attempt at a twenty-four hour adventure. While his useless scribe, Mr. Fanton, only managed twenty-one hours in a row, we hope you still enjoyed this rip-roaring tale nonetheless! Many thanks to you ALL! HUZZAH!

If you have enjoyed One Score and Four, or indeed any of his lordship’s wonderments, please feel free to donate to allow us to buy a few beers so that we may drink ourselves delirious in celebration! Many thanks, chums.

10:30am, 29th of January, 1891.

IT WAS clear from the Anti-Hat League’s latest threat that their forthcoming ‘crowning achievement’ was going to be an audacious attempt on the most powerful hat in the Empire – the crown of Her Majesty, Queen Victoria…an attempt I would thwart if it was the last thing I ever did.

Miss Felicity Boondoggles and I wound our way through the headquarters of the Criminal Underworld Neutralisation Team (or CTUN for short, to prevent people passing out in shock at the actual acronym), until we turned a corner into another dull corridor, at which point Felicity suddenly stopped short, and quickly pulled me into a nearby room.

It was pitch-black in the room, and I felt Felicity’s hand leave my arm. “Wait here,” she said. “I’ll go and turn the lighting on.”

There was a momentary silence, save for the gentle click-click sound of a gas-lamp being lit, and then the room was bathed in a warm glow.

“Right, ”tis time we made sure you were properly equipped…oh!” Felicity said, tailing off as she turned to face me, only to find me standing in the doorway with my trousers and underpants around my ankles, my Lord Palmerston hanging freely betwixt my legs.

“As you can clearly see, my dear, I am very well equipped indeed!” I smiled, raising an eyebrow.

“Gracious! Cover yourself up, sir! What on earth do you think you are doing?” she gasped.

“Well, when you dragged me in here I naturally assumed it was to ravish me senseless, m’dear!” I protested.

“No! NO! I wanted to collect some items from here – the CTUN control room!” she said with a flourish, affording me the first proper look at my surroundings. The room was full of large, imposing machines, replete with a multitude of buttons and levers, their cogs churning, pistons pumping, and steam issuing forth from pipes hither and thither. ‘Twas rather akin to stumbling into a clockwork orgy, or something.

“Egad! What in the name of mechanized arse is all this?” I spluttered.

“This is our central computation device. We keep files on all of the Empire’s most-wanted felons in here.” Felicity explained, tapping the side of one of the contraptions with almost maternal pride.

“Oh, really?” I sighed, my distinct lack of interest permeating my voice like a cannon-ball tearing through a giant, wet tissue. “Do please show me!”

“Fine! I shall!” snapped Felicity, pulling a lever beside her. The machine creaked into action; wheels turned, gears crunched, sparks fizzed, a horn blew, steam gushed forth and then…a little drawer slid open before me, filled with brown-coloured files. Felicity smiled, rifled through them and then drew one out triumphantly. “See? Rather impressive, yes?”

“It strikes me as nothing more than a rather elaborate filing cabinet,” I observed haughtily.

Felicity shot me an angry glare, and opened the file in her hands. “Here, look,” she said, thrusting a photographic print into my hands. “This is the ring-leader of the Anti-Hat League – Samuel Ben-London. I think if we can put him out of action, the entire group will swiftly tumble behind him.”

I gave the picture a cursory glance, and noted that the fellow in question was the same thin-moustached miscreant who had been masquerading as a waiter at Muddick’s gala ball. I had despised him then, but now I knew he was the mastermind behind a despicable plot to explode the monarch’s crown, I LOATHED him and wanted his HEAD on a very, very sharp SPIKE. ABLAZE.

“Right, let us dilly-dally no more!” I resolved, straightening my tie, and adjusting my trousers. “We must put a stop to this terrible plan IMMEDIATELY! Now, where did you put my possessions, m’dear? I cannot help but note that I am lighter to the tune of one pistol, one cane, my top-hat and my hip-flask of whisky. Oh, and my man-servant, Botter.”

“All your belongings have been stored away safely since we bought you here, your lordship.” Felicity stated, turning another lever. Machinery jolted into action once more, and then a cupboard door swung open next to me, with my personal effects located within.

“Ah, good,” I nodded. “And Botter?”

“‘Tis as I said, all your belongings have been stored safely away,” Felicity replied, flicking a switch. Another cupboard door fell open, to reveal Botter stashed inside, like a rather unsightly item of luggage.

“Good mornin, your lordship!” he smiled, as he struggled out of the cupboard.

“Well, marvellous, I have everything I need, so -” I began.

“Not quite,” Felicity interrupted, spinning a dial on another wretched contraption. Another drawer noisily slid out a recess within a wall, laden with various items and objects. “You shall need some extra fire-power, your lordship.”

“This,” I said, picking up an umbrella from the drawer. “This is an umbrella, my dear.”

“Not quite,” said Felicity, grabbing the brolly from my hands. She held it out at arm’s length, pressed a button on the handle, and a jet of fire blazed out from the umbrella’s tip.

“Heavens!” I exclaimed. “This shall prove extremely useful for flambéing. I dare say I could toast a beggar in SECONDS with this thing!”

“Then there is this,” Felicity continued, taking a fob-watch from the drawer. “While it looks like an ordinary fob-watch, it actually is not…” Felicity turned the dial on the watch, causing some rather sharp spikes to pop out around the outside of the base. Then, holding onto the chain, Felicity spun the watch out across the room, until it embedded itself in a wall.

“Impressive,” I noted. “And let me hazard a guess,” I said, picking up what appeared to be a large dildo from within the drawer. “I suppose this contains some sort of compact cannon within it, which can blast holes through walls, hmm?”

“No,” Felicity answered, taking the dildo from my hands. “It brings me to a screaming orgasm whene’er I thrust it deeply and repeatedly within my aching mimsy. Now, choose your weapon, your lordship, and let us go and save Her Majesty!”

I watched Felicity leave, my mouth positively AGOG.

- Lord Likely.

* VOTE NOW! Which weapon should Likely take with him on his mission to save the Queen? The flame-throwing brolly, the razor-spiked fob-watch, or the…um…dildo? Leave a comment below, or vote on Twitter (using the #1score4 tag) or on Facebook! Be fast, dear readers – TIME is RUNNING OUT!

ALSO! Lord Likely himself has granted an EXCLUSIVE interview with the lovely ladies at ErgoFiction magazine! The resulting spectacle may be perused by clicking right here! HUZZAH!

Now where was I?

Ah, yes. In the gutter, in a pool of my own urine, apparently homeless and with no recollection of who I really was.

In other (decidedly more succinct) words, I was in big trouble.

I elected to try and get up, and maybe take a stroll to see if there was anything about that might help refresh my memory as to my true identity. It would transpire, however, that this plan was much easier to formulate than it was to practice, as getting to my feet proved to be a task of near Herculean effort. Every bone and muscle screamed with pain, and my head began to spin wildly like an out-of-control carousel driven by a drunk.

I steadied myself against the wall behind me, and tried to regain some composure. As I did, I felt my trousers moisten, and not in a sexual way, either. I fumbled at the zipper of my trousers, and found that I was, in fact, urinating. I grappled with the gargantuan organ within my trousers, and directed it towards the wall, whilst urine gushed forth like a powerful jet of water from a (particularly large) firehouse.

As I continued to pass water, my head began to spin again, and nausea enveloped me. Before I could do anything, I found myself spewing up vast quantities of yellowy liquid.

So there I was: standing in a street, in urine-soaked trousers, with my cock out, pissing and vomiting in equal measure.

Truly, there has never been such a terribly tragic sight.

Once I had stopped peeing, and puking upon my own pee, I collapsed to the floor again, exhausted and (quite literally) drained.

Ruddy Hell, I thought to myself. Where in the name of arsery is… what’s his name when you need him?

I frowned. What’s his name? Who was this what’s his name? Did I have some sort of acquaintance with me? A friend, perhaps? Or was it a pet…I seemed to recall something small, hairy and incredibly foul-smelling following me around…

Blotter. Butter. Blister? Buttocks?

Confound it. I almost remembered something.

I sighed and closed my eyes. Maybe there was nothing else to remember. Maybe the pitiful existence with which I was currently presented was the sum total of my life. Maybe I was nothing more than a homeless shambles, a piss-stained mockery of manhood.

I felt something gently fall into my lap. I opened my eyes and blearily gazed down, to see a coin resting there, head-side up. I raised my eyes to see a smartly-dressed man smiling sympathetically at me.

“There you go, you poor blighter,” said he. “Perhaps you can afford to buy some bread now, or some such thing.”

I smiled back, and looked back down at my lap. I beheld the image of a woman’s face upon the surface, my brow knotted in deep concentration. I knew that stern, noble face. She was important.

“Sir!” I said, still slurring slightly but I was far more comprehensible than I had been earlier. “This woman, on the face of this coin. She is someone of great importance, is she not?”

“Why, I should say she is, friend!” The man beamed. “That is Queen Victoria, after all! God Save Her!”

Queen Victoria, I thought. Queen Victoria…

Suddenly, I felt that python-like appendage betwixt my legs stiffen to attention.

Queen Victoria! Yes, I knew her alright. Her Majesty gave me the raging horn, I seemed to remember. I wanted to take her, and pound her with my Lord Palmerston, thrusting away at her magisterial mimsy until…

Lord Palmerston! Yes, of course! My penis had a name! Lord Palmerston! I clawed excitedly at my zipper once more, and unfurled my mammoth member. It was fully erect and throbbing with barely-contained excitement. Clearly I was in a state of considerable arousal bought about by the thought of humping the Queen.

I looked at my penis. I looked at the coin in my other hand. This seemed familiar, I thought. I am sure I have been in this position before…

“I say, friend! What on Earth are you doing?” cried the man, looking upon the spectacle unfolding before him with shock and disgust.

“I am not yet entirely certain,” I replied. And then, for whatever reason, I began to masturbate furiously. It seemed like something I should do.

I pounded my Palmerston for a few, short, blissful minutes, ne’er once taking my eyes off of the embossed portrait of Her Majesty. The building excitement proved to be too much for any sustained act, and I soon found myself spurting forth a glorious jet of my fantastical cock-foam, narrowly missing a young couple on the other side of the street.

From that point on, everything seemed much clearer, almost as if I had spunked out any last remnants of doubt and uncertainty through this splendid act of self-abuse.

I now knew exactly who I was.

“Thank you, sir!” I bellowed, leaping to my feet and shaking the horrified man’s hand. “You have helped me to find myself once more!”

“So..who…who are you?” stuttered the flustered fellow, as I gathered up my top hat from the floor.

“I am Lord Likely, aristocratic adventurer and gentle-man of action,” I replied firmly, as I placed the hat upon my noble head, showering myself with pennies in the process. “Now if you will excuse me, I must go and have a frightfully violent discussion with a bunch of homeless bastards.”

I strode off, leaving the man bewildered and confused, and with a rather sticky hand to boot.

- Lord Likely.

Next Time in The Astonishing Adventures of Lord Likely: His Lordship seeks vengeance upon the vagrants!

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

Likely Bags A Blogscar! Dear Valerie Morrison, writer of the marvellous ‘Thinking Out Loud‘ web-log, has chosen to honour his lordship with this fine, shiny award:

His lordship is truly grateful, and plant to spend many hours diligently polishing his little chap to celebrate. Many thanks indeed!

As his lordship attempts to penetrate each and every nook of the inter-net, we are proud to announce the unveiling of his latest undertaking – Lord Likely’s Fanatical Followers, a brand-new fan club for Lord Likely on the ever-popular Facebook web-site. Do feel free to join up, and declare your moist lust for his lordship!

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1st of May, 1851.

As Mr. Harry Flashman and I dashed off to find my missing man-servant, I took the time to explain precisely how my stinking servant had become an integral part of our latest mystery, the disappearance of the Koh-i-Noor Diamond.

“Here is what I believe occurred,” I said as we pelted along the corridors of the Crystal Palace, doing our best to make our way through the teeming masses who had come to witness the Great Exhibition. “This fellow – the Queen’s aide – was placed in charge of the Koh-i-Noor Diamond, and its display here at the exhibition. This was to prove to be a terrible mistake on behalf of Her Majesty, for this wretch had desires upon the diamond. He wanted it badly for himself, and would do anything to get it. Oh, how he must have counted his lucky stars when the gem was placed in his care. He was in the perfect position to – GET OUT OF THE WAY, YOU FAT SOW,” I roared as a portly woman made herself an unwitting obstacle in our path. “He was in the perfect position to swipe the diamond. However he needed a plan, for he could not just take the diamond and run, that would be too obvious.”

“Aye, he’d be the prime suspect if that stone disappeared,” concurred Mr. Flashman.

“Correct. So he took the diamond away, claiming he was going to get it cleaned up for the exhibition,” I continued.

“Like that lady with the lovely tits told us!” Mr. Flashman cried.

“Indeed. However, this rogue did not take the Koh-i-Noor Diamond to be cleaned. He took it and – WIIL YOU GET OUT OF MY FUCKING WAY!” I yelled to a dopey chap who was standing in our way. “No, this fellow took the gem to one of the stands selling various cheap nick-nacks, and switched it with a large crystal, taken from the body of one of those awful crystal pigs, while manipulating the diamond to make it resemble one of those porcine trinkets. I suspect the Queen’s aide had planned to return to the same stand later that day, purchase the pig which now had the diamond as its body, and make his exit. It was a cunning and ingenious plan, but with one fatal flaw.”

“Your man Botter bought the pig with the diamond in it!” exclaimed Flashman.

“Spot on, my fellow. That is why this awful arse-nugget of a man has been pursuing us. He aims to retrieve the diamond pig from my man-servant, and I fear he will not stop at anything to do so. WILL YOU MOVE YOUR STINKING CARCASS, YOU TEDIOUS LITTLE PRICK!” I bellowed as another idiotic prole blocked our path.

We continued on in silence, weaving our way through the buzzing crowds, until I stopped abruptly almost causing Mr. Flashman to become rather intimate with my posterior. I sniffed the air.

“What is it?” said Flashman, as I continued to sniff loudly.

“Do you smell that, sir? That smell of faeces and god-awful body-odour?”

“Eurgh,” Flashman recoiled. “Aye, I do. I wish I didn’t, but I do.”

“That’s Botter. He’s near.” I sniffed some more. “I think he is down this way,” I said, indicating to a small door to the right of us. “Come, let us hurry!”

We burst through the door and found ourselves in a dimly-lit store-room, where various artifacts due for display were being kept. And there, sat on a chair in the centre of this room, was Botter, forlornly stroking his wretched crystal pig.

“Botter, you cretinous cock-shaft!” I barked. “Why must you insist on running off like this? I swear, I shall have to put a ruddy great bell around your neck in the future…”

“Um, your lordship,” said Flashman, tapping me on the shoulder.

“What? Can’t you see I admonishing my man-servant? I do so hate…oh. Shit.”

There, lurking in the shadows behind us, was the Queen’s aide, pointing a pistol right at us.

“Welcome, gentlemen. You are…” the cad consulted his pocket-watch. “Yes, you are right on time for having your brains shot out of the back of your head.”

“How very fortuitous,” I muttered. “Truly, we are blessed, Mr?…”

“Mr. Reginald Spankswood, at your service. But you probably know me better as…The Brown Mist!”

Flashman and I exchanged puzzled looks, then collapsed into fits of laughter.

“SILENCE!” screamed the fellon. “Show some respect for The Brown Mist!”

“I…I cannot say I am familiar with the name, Mr. Mist,” I said, trying to regain my composure. “But you may want to consider changing it, for it is quite blatantly ridiculous, and quite shit-awful.”

“Shut up. SHUT UP!” screamed The Brown Mist, waving his pistol about frantically. “Soon, you shall all tremble before the fearsome might of The Brown Mist!”

More helpless laughter erupted from Flashman and I, as The Brown Mist became more and more frustrated.

“SILENCE! I am a notorious diamond thief, you know! You are in the presence of criminal nobility!”

“Oh really?” said Flashman, wiping tears of laughter from his eyes. “And how many diamonds have you stolen, Mr. Brown Mist?”

“Well,” said The Brown Mist, scuffing his shoes against the ground. “The Koh-i-Noor Diamond will be my first, admittedly…but oh!” he suddenly brightened, a mad glint in his eye. “Oh! What a first! Taking this valuable gem from right under the Queen’s nose! I shall become a legend in my own lifetime! Soon, The Brown Mist will be on everybody’s lips!“

Upon hearing that ludicrous statement, Mr. Flashman and I burst into further uncontrollable gales of laughter.

“Shut up! Both of you! SHUT UP!” screeched The Brown Mist. “I will shoot you both, you know! With my gun! So shut the HELL up, and drop your weapons!”

Flashman quickly tossed his own pistol over to the Mist, and then thrust his hands in the air.

“What in the name of the Sodomites are you doing?” I hissed. “This man is clearly a buffoon, and probably does not even know how to handle a ruddy gun!”

The subsequent shot from The Brown Mist’s pistol, and the bullet hitting my right arm, soon put paid to that theory, however.

“YOU BASTARD!” I roared as my arm began to seep my noble claret. “You absolute dick-rag! Christ! That is my masturbating arm, as well. Fuck it!“

“Now maybe you shall take me more seriously,” The Brown Mist said, training his pistol on me. “I will have this diamond, and you will not stop me. You!” He nodded towards Mr. Flashman. “Get the diamond off of that filthy creature.”

“Certainly,” said Flashman, strolling over to Botter and wrenching the diamond pig from my man-servant’s firm grasp.

“Glyn!” cried Botter, reaching out for his pretend pet.

“You know, you would not believe the trouble the Koh-i-Noor Diamond has caused me.” Flashman continued, ignoring my man-servant’s pathetic pleadings. “You would not believe what I had to go through just to get it here in the first place¹. But if you want it, Mr. Mist, then I suppose I have no option to give it to you.”

With that, Flashman spun round and launched the diamond with tremendous ferocity at The Brown Mist. Before he could react, the Mist found the gem embedded firmly in his forehead.

“Oh. Oh bollocks.” said The Mist. ” The Brown Mist…is…defeated!” Then the rapscallion fell to the floor, utterly dead.

“Marvellous work, Mr. Flashman!” I said as I attempted to staunch the flow of blood from my arm. “For a moment there, I was worried that my assessment of you as a no-good coward was spot-on.”

“Never!” beamed Flashman.

His lordship may be seen to the right of this picture, waving his hat in the air. Mr. Harry Flashman is stood behind him.

“You two have done me a great service to-day,” said Queen Victoria, as Mr. Flashman and I were presented to her in the main hall of the Crystal Palace. “You have spared me a great deal of embarrassment, and guaranteed that the Koh-i-Noor Diamond shall forever more be in my collection. I shall see to it that you are both amply rewarded. Anything you desire, speak of it now, and I shall see to it that it is bestowed upon you.”

I desperately wanted to say that I would very much like to ejaculate upon her heaving breasts, but I somehow managed to restrain myself, and instead I said: “Not at all, Your Majesty. The greatest reward is the appreciation of a grateful Monarch, and her glorious Empire.”

The Queen smiled. “Very good, Lord Likely. You are a true gentle-man, and a true hero of the Empire. Thank you both for your fearless dedication to your sovereign, and long may you continue.”

Her Majesty turned to Prince Albert, who had also arrived upon the scene, and together they made their way out from the exhibition, to hearty cheers from the assembled crowd.

“God Save the Queen!” I roared, joining in the chorused cries of celebration. “And God Save Her Magnificent Knockers!”

“Why did you have to go and say all that rot about not needing a reward, you old coot?” hissed Flashman, angrily elbowing me in the ribs. “We could have been set up for life!”

“Well, I did get to catch the briefest of glimpses at her considerable cleavage,” I replied as I watched the royal couple depart from the hall. “And that is an image I shall carry with me always, and which I shall contemplate at great length later on. Just as soon as my arm as healed.”

Flashman grinned and slapped me on the back heartily.

“What say we go for a drink?” he said. “I’m sure you would appreciate a stiff one.”

“You know me too well,” I nodded.

So, there you have it, dear reader. A tale of daring-do, diamonds and desire. I cannot quite recall what happened after we went to the local ale-house, as we both got completely and utterly pissed-up. I recall learning that Mr. Flashman was arrested later that night for drunk and disorderly conduct, while I wound up being fellated by the three ravishing Indian beauties I had met earlier that day.

I never saw Mr. Flashman again, but I hear talk that he is currently back in India himself, getting embroiled in the mutiny in that country². I am sure it will all blow over soon, however.

Botter, meanwhile, is still mourning the loss of his beloved crystal pig. I try to keep his mind of it by keeping him busy about the mansion, and by thrashing him once every hour.

The Koh-i-Noor Diamond remained one of the highlights of the Great Exhibition, and afterwards Prince Albert ordered that the gem be recut. Probably to get rid of some of the dried blood from its time spent crammed in The Brown Mist’s forehead.

Speaking of the brown mist, I must excuse myself now. I really do need a shit something chronic.

- Lord Likely.

Those of you who have not masturbated so regularly so as to diminish your eye-sight completely, will have noticed that there have been a few aesthetic changes around here, as well as the introduction of an astonishing new About Page. Please do take a moment to admire the fresh decor, and do let us know what you think. As long as your thoughts are firmly in the positive, that is.

The Astonishing Adventures of Lord Likely has been the recipient of a rather nice review from Manic’s Tasty Bites of the Day. Despite not awarding his lordship the perfect ten he so richly deserves, it is nonetheless a fair and honest review. Many thanks indeed!

Mr. Harry Flashman, my man-servant Botter and my fantastically fabulous self made quick on our collective legs, and dashed off to try and escape the oncoming police, who had been alerted to our presence by our fantastically furious bout of fisticuffs just moments before.

As we sprinted through the bustling aisles of the Crystal Palace, I mused upon the fact that I seemed to spend a great deal of my time fleeing from the police, more often than may be expected of a man in my exalted position. I wondered if one day I would be rewarded for my services to the police force, in keeping them so fit and healthy throughout the years.

“Look! Over there!” cried Flashman, pointing to a large crowd assembled around one of the many exhibits in this Great Exhibition. “I reckon we can shake off the peelers if we join that crowd! What do you think, your lordship?”

“Capital idea!” I found myself agreeing. Sometimes, moments of great peril can somewhat cloud one’s judgment, it would seem.

Nevertheless, we dove into the throng of gawking faces, and made our way to the front of the crowd to better avoid detection. As Botter and Flashman faked interest in the nearby exhibit, I kept an eye out for our pursuers. Surely enough, mere moments later, a couple of police-officers appeared. They came to a stop rather too close for comfort to our present location, and stood looking this way and that in complete befuddlement.

“I’m sure they went this way, sarge,” said one of the officers, scratching his head.

“Well, where did they go then, Hopkins?” asked the sergeant, evidently frustrated with his lack of progress in apprehending us. “Did they disappear into thin air, Hopkins? Maybe they slipped between the grills of one of the drains, hmmm?”

“That’s a thought, sarge,” replied Hopkins. “They could be down in the sewers underneath right now, making their escape!”

“I was being sarcastic, you dolt!” cried the sergeant, slapping Hopkins about the body with his hat. “Bleedin’ hell, how on Earth did you ever become a copper, Hopkins? Was everyone else out of the country at the time, eh?”

“Officers! Please!” interjected a third man, whom I instantly recognised as being the Queen’s personal assistant, the self same toss-rag who had been instrumental in seeing my noble form carted off to the cells earlier in the day. “We must find these felons right away! Her Majesty’s Great Exhibition must not be disturbed! Get to it at once, or mark my words I’ll have your badges for this!”

The weaselly old coot prodded the officers back into action, and I watched with growing satisfaction as the three fellows scurried off in freezing cold-pursuit of their men. I let out an audible sigh of relief as they left.

“‘Ere, mister. What d’ya reckon to this diamond? It isn’t as good as I was ‘oping,” piped up an awful, common old crone standing next to me.

“What?” I snapped, then I realised that we had come to a stop by a diamond being exhibited for the first time on these shores, hence the fevered excitement among the assembled proletariat.

“I mean, it’s quite big, I suppose, but it ain’t all that shiny and sparkly, is it?” continued the woman.

“Oh?” I scoffed. “And I suppose you have a bountiful array of diamonds back in your wretched hovel, have you? Do you perchance own dozens of unique gems pertained from the far-flung reaches of the globe, proudly on show in your filth-sodden mud-hut? Maybe you’ve got the Regent Diamond on display upon an upturned crate in the middle of your rat-infested lounge, next to your other treasured, priceless artifacts? Hmmm? Does the Orlov sit atop your grubby little mantle, next to a shockingly tacky porcelain clown and a poor-quality photograph of your slab-faced mother? Honestly. You commoners are such a frightfully ungrateful bunch, you know. I mean, Queen Victoria and Prince Albert put on this fine exhibition for you all, and all you can do is waltz in here, reeking of piss and cheap cider, picking holes in everything you see. Well, madam, in light of your beguiling lack of respect for Her Majesty, I should like to take my belt off to you, and lash you firmly about the -”

“She’s got a point, your lordship,” Flashman interrupted, just as I was approaching the apex of my furious rage. “This diamond is a bit…shoddy, you know. “

“What?” I barked. “What is all of this talk about shoddy diamonds? Here, let me see it!”

I elbowed my way through the assembled wretches, as I made my way to the front. There I found Botter, regarding the diamond much like one might regard a dog-dropping smeared on a sandwich. I pushed him out of the way, and beheld the gem on display before me.

I have seen a lot of diamonds in my time, as you would expect of one who lives in such opulence and luxury as I do. Indeed, I did, for a while, posses a diamond-studded cock ring, until the ring itself snapped during a particularly vigourous bout of intercourse with Lady Muphdyver, back in ’45. Alas, I lost the ring for ever more up milady’s quim, but on the plus side I was able to auction off Lady Muphdyver at Sotheby’s for tens of thousands of pounds. I believe that even to this day, she still has the most valuable vagina in the entire Empire, excluding Her Majesty, of course.

On a curious side-note, I believe the practice of having one’s cock-end pierced in such a manner has become known colloquially as having a ‘Prince Albert’, after His Royal Highness. Whether getting a cock-ring is named after him because he has one or is one, I cannot say. If he does indeed own such an article, then it a wonder that Her Majesty can sit on the throne at all.

Anyway, I digress. Upon clasping my eyes upon this particular diamond, I had to concur with the vile old bag and Mr. Flashman; the gem did not seem to have any fire in it, no shine. It was possibly the dullest rock on the planet, not including Guernsey.

“It says it’s the Koh-i-Noor Diamond,” said Flashman, indicating to a sign affixed to the display. “I”ve seen the Koh-i-Noor many a time¹, your lordship, in all sorts of unexpected places, believe me. An’ that, that ain’t it, or my name’s not Harry Flashman.”

“Are you trying to say that this is…a fake?”

“Undoubtedly.”

“Well slap my todger and call me madam, then we have a mystery!” I cheered, my mood brightening. “I must say, it is about cocking time.”

- Lord Likely.

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Now, where the bloody hell was I?

Ah, yes.

May 1st, 1851.

“Harry who?” I asked, although to be honest my actual interest in my cell-mate was extremely minimal.

“Harry Flashman,” repeated the fellow, “I imagine you have heard of me, of course.” He grinned with self-satisfaction and pride, characteristics I was not entirely convinced he had any right to exhibit.

“No, I cannot say I have,” I replied nonchalantly. “Why, are you a notorious criminal, or something? No wait, I have it – are you perchance the most diseased man in the Empire?”

Flashman bristled upon hearing my words, and fixed me with a furious glare.

“I am highly celebrated and much admir’d, actually,” he said. “I am the champion of Afghanistan¹, I’ll have you know!”

“Feh!” I snorted. “You do not strike me as a military marvel. I dare say you earnt your honour by simply staying alive the longest, probably by spending most of the war hiding and trembling.”

“Ha! I do not expect you to understand, your lordship. I suppose you were too busy lounging around on your fat, ennobled behind during the war to pay it much heed.”

“Now listen here,” I snapped. “I was very ill at the time and – “

“Whatever you say, your lordship,” beamed Flashman. “Whatever you say. I was honoured by the Queen for my dashing heroics.”

“Well, I have solved countless mysteries and crimes for the police.”

“I got a medal.”

“I have a title.”

“I recovered a priceless gem².”

“I shot a Turk.”

“I bested Bismarck³.”

“I beat my man-servant.”

“I dined at the palace.”

“I HAVE A HUGE COCK!” I roared triumphantly, at which point I noticed some of the other prisoners had taken rather a keen interest in the conversation, and were eying me up as if I was a three-course meal, with all the trimmings.

“Well,” I said, straightening my tie, “if you really are such a treasured and revered member of society, then what in the bloody blue blazes are you doing here? I doubt they arrested you for being too wonderful.”

“Well, if you must know, I was arrested for having sex.”

“Correct me if I am mistaken, but I do not believe that intercourse has been outlawed yet.”

“No, but then again I was having sex in the middle of Hyde Park.”

“Ah!”

“With the police captain’s wife.”

“Oh.”

“So what’s your story, your lordship? How does a member of the aristocracy wind up in a small cell with deviants like me?”

“I accidentally bared my buttocks at the Queen,” I said sullenly, as I recalled the horror that had befallen me earlier. “She was not amused.”

“Ha! My, that is rich! She is a frumpy, miserable old sow, isn’t she? I can’t think ol’ Albert is delivering the goods in the sack, else she’d always be smiling.”

“Now listen here,” I snapped, lunging at Flashman and pinning him against the wall. “You show some ruddy respect for Her Majesty, or God help me I shall smack your miserable mouth so far in, your breath shall stink of effluence for ever more.”

“Hey! I’m just trying to lighten the mood here, you know!” Flashman protested. “It’s pretty grim in here, isn’t it?”

“Indeed,” I agreed, releasing Flashman’s collar from my grip. “I have to get out of here.”

“Well, here’s what I was thinking, your lordship. How about if I feign an injury or illness, you know, play-acting and all that. Then, you summon a guard to come and tend to me, and while he’s giving me the once over, you sneak up behind him and WALLOP! We’re home free!”

“Lord Likely?” said a guard, as I mused upon Flashman’s hair-brained scheme. “You’re free to go, milord. Inspector Spunkleford has guaranteed your release.”

“I think I shall go with this plan,” I said, pointing to the bars where Inspector Spunkleford had appeared, waving a piece of important-looking documentation at me. “You see, Flashman, it is simply a matter of who you know, and I know a lot of terribly important people, being so terribly important myself. Good luck with your stupid little scheme, though.”

“Likely, you ruddy fool!” Spunkleford wailed. “Can I not let you be for one moment, without you getting yourself into some sort of trouble? You have no idea how many strings I have had to pull to get you released. I should be a ruddy puppeteer.”

“Good man, Spunkleford! Remind me to buy you an ale one day. Wait, we’d better make that half an ale. We do not want to go crazy, now. Well, Mr. Flashpants,” I said, turning to my recent acquaintance. “I would like to say it has been a pleasant experience, but unfortunately it has been incredibly tedious and really rather awful. I would have rather passed the time having wasps inserted into the top of my penis, to be honest. Toodle-pip!”

“Flashman?” Spunkleford exclaimed, craning his neck through the open door. “Harry Flashman? The hero of Afghanistan?”

Flashman smiled. “The one and the same, sir!”

“Gosh, I’m a ruddy huge fan of yours, Mr. Flashman. You’re an inspiration to us all!” Spunkleford babbled, furiously shaking Flashman’s hand. He turned to the guard next to him, and barked some orders that made me quite certain the Inspector had taken leave of his senses. “Guard, I am also releasing Mr. Harry Flashman here. A man of his stature has no business in these squalid surroundings. Make the necessary arrangements at once. We’ll have you out of here in a trice, Mr. Flashman, sir!”

Flashman sauntered across, and placed a hand on my shoulder.

“It appears that I must be terribly important as well,” he said smugly. “Toodle-pip.“

I felt myself grimace, and prayed to the Good Lord for another war to break out immediately, to further thin out the ranks of such vapid Neanderthals as Mr. Harry Flashman.

- Lord Likely.

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