A Chronicle To Chill! A Tale To Terrify! A Story To Soil Oneself to! 

IT WAS a dark, chilly October evening, and a blood-curdling scream filled the night.

“BOTTER!” I cried. “This…this is a commoner’s pub!”

My man-servant Botter and I were stood outside a rather dingy-looking tavern called The Pounded Clam, located on a back-alley near the docks. Peering through the filth-encrusted windows, I could see swarms of the great unwashed, laughing and cheering as a loathsome pranny on a piano trotted out a succession of tiresome, jolly ditties designed to make the audience forget quite how awful their existence was proving to be. If there was a Hell, then I imagined it would look like this. Although I expect Hell would be more tastefully decorated.

“Well, yes, m’lord…but I like it here,” my man-servant replied. “It reminds me of my old home.”

“Why? Because it’s horribly cramped, reeks of vomit and everyone in it is insensible to the point of delirium?” I rejoined. Botter opened his mouth and then closed it again, presumably acknowledging that he lacked the intellectual capacity to offer a worthy riposte to my frankly brilliant put-down.

 As Botter floundered, I drew my pocket-watch from my waistcoat and flipped it open. “Bah, the night draws on and I have still yet to have a ruddy drink,” I fumed, snapping the watch shut. “I suppose we shall have to go inside, lest I die of thirst before the evening is out.”

But little did I know that what waited for me inside was a fate far worse than death, and that by the end of the night we would all be changed immeasurably, and our undergarments would be considerably damper.

We pushed open the doors of the pub and stepped inside, and as soon as we did so a blanket of silence fell upon us. Where there had been raucous laughter and tuneless singing, there was now nothing, nothing except suspicious looks and frightened eyes. Even the pianist stopped playing, the last discordant note he’d played floating round the room like a ghost.

“Well, this looks like a friendly place,” I whispered to Botter.

“YOUR END!” screamed a scrawny old man, leaping to his feet and pointing a gnarled finger at me. “I CAN SEE YOUR END!”

“Really?” I said, looking down to my groin. “I was sure I had done my trousers up…”

“GREAT PAIN AND SUFFERING AWAITS YOU!” the old fool continued. “DARKNESS WILL ENVELOP YOU!”

“Well, the ale must be good here at least, judging by how soused that silly old sod is,” I remarked. “Let us go and partake of some, eh Botter?”

Botter nodded nervously, and we slowly made our way up to the bar, dozens of eyes boring into us as we went. It was as if ordering drinks was a spectator sport, which considering where we were it probably was, with so little else to do.

Finally we made it to the bar, where to my delight I noted a buxom brunette behind the counter, a curvaceous creature with ‘come-to-bed eyes’ and ‘then-put-your-penis-here’ lips. At last, things were looking up.

“Good evening, m’dear,” I beamed, doffing my topper. “I was going to ask for a stiff one, but I see you’ve already given me one!”

Usually such a scintillating opening gambit would have a lady turning to putty in my hands, but on this occasion the woman remained stoic and unmoved, more like granite than putty.

“Well, erm…two pints please, m’dear.” I said, slightly unnerved by her lack of reaction to my lascivious line. The barmaid stared at me for a moment or two, then spoke.

“I ain’t got anything up top.” She said in a voice that sounded rather like a cat being dragged through a harpsichord.

“I wouldn’t say that, my dear!” I grinned, making a point to stare fixedly at her heaving bosom lest she miss the joke again. But try as I might, the joke was missed, and it sailed off into the silence of the room unappreciated.

“I ain’t got nothin’ up top,” she repeated. “The pumps are dry.”

I deliberated about making another suggestive innuendo incorporating the words ‘dry’ and ‘humping’, but considering the audience I swiftly decided against it.

“Well, why doesn’t someone go and change the barrel, then?” I asked.

“No-one goes down into the cellar,” interjected another voice. “No-one.”

This latest speaker was a rather portly chap with waxed hair and an equally waxed moustache, and I took him to be the landlord. I leant over the bar to address him directly, mustering as much indignation as I could, which happened to be a great amount indeed.

“Don’t you think someone should go down into the cellar, my good man? Unless you plan to serve air all evening?”

“We haven’t served a drink around these parts for a long, long time,” the man said solemnly.

I looked around the tavern and realisation kicked down the door of my mind and barged its way inside. All the glasses in the place were empty. No-one had been drinking at all; they’d just been cradling empty, useless glasses. And yet somehow they’d still been enjoying themselves. What was going on here?

“This is ridiculous!” I roared,  slamming my fist on the bar to emphasise my displeasure. “Why, a pub without booze is like a woman without a man – useless and dry. I demand you do something about it now!”

“No-one goes down into the cellar,” the landlord repeated again. “No-one dares go down there on account…” The fellow took a moment to compose himself as his voice cracked. “…On account of what’s down there.” 

I rolled my eyes. Now things were beginning to at least approach some sort of sense. Something had clearly spooked these simple-minded cretins, either an unexplained noise or an old ghost story that meant everyone was now too scared to descend into the cellar lest they be devoured by some imagined beast. Ah, the working class. So easily scared by shadows, and so easily steered by superstition! It was a wonder they got out of bed for fear of being devoured by the mysterious floating yellow orb they saw in the sky each morning.

“Very well,” I sighed, adjusting my cuffs. “I shall go down into the cellar for you, for I am none other than Lord Likely, Aristocratic Adventurer and Gentle-Man of Action, and I laugh in the face of fear and kick it in the plums!”

I’d rather hoped for a round of applause or to be ferried around the room on people’s shoulders, hailed as the greatest English hero since Nelson for my stirring proclamation,  but all that I got were blank looks and the wizened old doom-monger leaping back to his feet and screaming, “THE END! THE END!”

“Oh shut up, you senile old bastard. Landlord, get me a lantern, a pistol and the address of your delightfully-breasted barmaid. I am going in…”

*****

THE CELLAR door fell open with an almighty thud, revealing beneath it a seemingly bottomless, dark void. I waved the lantern over the opening and saw some rickety old steps leading down into the blackness. This would be easy, I thought.

“Well, here I go. Botter, I trust you’ll accompany me?” I asked. He shuffled nervously on the spot.

“Erm, if it’s okay with you, m’lord, I’ll stay up here and provide er, back-up.” Ah, the working classes, I mused again.

“You gutless coward, Botter,” I snorted as I began to descend the steps. “Remind me to dock your pay.”

“You haven’t paid me for three months, milord,” Botter said.

“Details, details!” I cried back as I disappeared down into the cellar, carefully creeping down the stairs, each step creaking and groaning like a coffin door. Or any door, really. I just said ‘coffin door’ to add to the tension.

As I got to the last step I held my lantern out, bathing the cellar in flickering candlelight. Shadows jumped and fell in the flame as I moved cautiously into the room to investigate.

The cellar was a large, open space with wooden beams running along the ceiling, and old, dusty shelves lining the walls, the latter completely empty of anything resembling alcohol. I shook my head sadly and pressed on towards some shadowy shapes against the back wall, which I presumed to be the barrels.

As I edged nearer I suddenly heard a shuffling, scratching sound behind me. My blood froze and my fingers slowly tightened around the comforting form of the pistol in my other hand. Whether it was ethereal or not, whatever was behind me was going to get a bullet in its real or ethereal face and no questions asked.

I spun round and saw a dark shape on the shelf beside me, but before I could turn the lantern on it the shape scurried along the shelf and then lunged at me. I briefly saw teeth and claws in the lantern-light, and then the creature fell to the floor with a squeak.

A squeak?

I moved the lantern across the floor and saw the devil itself – a wretched little rat, which now sat on its hind legs washing itself. I smiled.

“You gave me quite a fright, little fellow,” I grinned, and then I shot the little blighter right in the face. “Bloody dirty little twat-funnel,” I muttered as I turned my attention back to the rest of the room.

I walked over to the shapes in the back of the room, which as I drew nearer revealed themselves to indeed be a collection of beer barrels. I smiled lovingly at the casks of ale before me, as if I were being reunited with a long-lost relative, and set about connecting them to the pumps and getting their sweet nectar flowing again.

But as I began to move the first barrel it revealed to me something so horrifying, so shocking, that I advise those of a nervous disposition to stop reading NOW. For, dear reader, as I moved the barrel I noticed that it too was completely empty. I tried another; it was empty also. Then another, and another, my search for a full barrel growing more and more frantic as each successive cask proved themselves to be completely and utterly EMPTY.

“They’re all empty,” said the landlords’ voice behind me. “Every single one.”

“What…what is going on here? I don’t – ” I began, turning to face the landlord, his eyes glazed with tears.

“This is why we cannot come down here, your lordship,” the man sniffled. “Because there is nothing down here. The delivery we expected today just…just..” The big man faltered, then rallied. “The delivery didn’t show up, and then we ran out of booze at about half two. Since then…we’ve had nothing.” At this point it all became to much for the chap, and he broke down and wept openly.

I felt like I’d been punched in the stomach. My head reeled, my heart pounded like a drum and I fell to my knees, arms outstretched, and let out a long, tortured cry.

“NOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!” I cried, longly and tortuously.

My screams filled the cellar, the tavern, and the night sky outside. Horror had come and paid a visit to this small pub this night, and it didn’t bring any drinks.

It truly was ‘last orders’ at this tavern. The very last orders.

Until the next afternoon.

– Lord Likely.

Post-script: I later learned that the reason the delivery never made it to The Pounded Clam was that en route to the tavern, the delivery driver was jumped by a werewolf and ruthlessly torn from limb to limb. But that story did not feature me, which is why I elected to run this much more terrifying tale instead.

Sleep tight, dear readers.

For the previous chapter, please click HITHER.

MORE DAYS passed as I continued my convalescence, nursing my poor mangled manhood back to health after it was so cruelly injured by a wicked, wicked whore a couple of weeks or so previously.

At one point, a doctor paid me a visit to check on my progress, but soon had to seek medical help himself, after he gazed upon my proud Lord Palmerston, and promptly passed out through the shock of having seen such a mighty organ. You would think a medical man would have seen it all, but then again I cannot deny that I am a most impressively endowed specimen.

My man-servant, Botter, continued to fuss and fret over me, like some kind of hideously malformed nurse-maid. Back and forth he went, bringing bowl after ruddy bowl of soup, explaining that it would help me ‘get my strength back’. I tested his theory by hurling the umpteenth bowl directly at his head, which smashed satisfyingly upon his wretched bonce. “It seems you are correct, Botter,” I chortled as my man-servant dashed off to tend to his facial burns.

When not hurling broth at my man-servant, I kept myself amused by continuing to trawl through the huge sacks of post regularly delivered to the house. I was eagerly anticipating a reply from Mr. Startleburst Phingerphuckk, whose wife had gone missing, a case I had agreed to take on even while confined to my sick-bed. That is how astonishing I am, dear reader.

There were all sorts of letters in the post that week, from Nigerian businessmen offering me hard cash in return for my banking details, to advertisements from apothecaries claiming they could make me ‘last longer in bed’. I snorted. I had already been in bed for a fortnight, the ignorant arse-pipes.

There were some far more interesting items of mail, however, such as this fascinating missive:

I’m writing to bring to your attention a matter of great importance. I do not wish to alarm his Lordship during his convalesce but I’ve come to believe that your country may need you.

Lady Ann of Euphrania

I made a note of the sender’s name and the return address. I would have to let this good lady enjoy my magnificent balls one day.

The next letter also raised my spirits somewhat:

You seem so familiar. Have we met before? Was that you on the beach in Kiribati? I was, I have to admit, a little beyond drunk at the time, so I can’t be sure.

Crystal, fellow adventurer.

I tore open another envelope.

It has come to my attention that you have been gravely wounded by a former employee of mine. I run a respectable business and do not tolerate such action.She went out on her own to get business for herself, because of that and your treatment she has been relived of her position.

PS: In my haste I forgot to tell you the name of my establishment, it is Russian Belles. We maybe prostitutes but we are ladies.

Next came an offer of aid:

News of your injury has spread quickly throughout London. Indeed, the very lack of your presence among the ladies of the night these past few days has lead some to wonder as to your early demise. If indeed your Lord Palmerston has been mangled by an irate member of the world’s oldest profession, I shall be happy to design a harness of sorts to at least make you more ambulatory during your convalescence with a minimum of pain. If there is a contagious element to your affliction, that likewise can be treated with a my patented formula injected by a very large needle, driven directly through to deal with the matter at its source. Such treatment is not for the faint of heart, of course.

Dr. Darien James Mason

And so I continued to rifle through the mail-bags, seeking more correspondence from Mr. Phingerphuckk, but there was seemingly nothing to be found. But then I found a rather bulky-looking envelope, which seemed to contain more than a letter inside. My curiosity piqued, I tore it open.

Out fell a lock of hair, and a rather menacing note:

A FriENd.

– Lord Likely.

To Be Continued!…

Write To Likely And Appear In The Next Chapter!

Yes, dear readers, you read that correctly! Compose a letter to his lordship, and if it passes muster he shall read it out in the next chapter of this exhilarating epistolary escapade, along with a hyper-link to a webbed-site of your choosing should you be successful, as those lucky people in this week’s chapter were! It can be whatever you like, declarations of love, sales-pitches, requests for his services or letters demanding his blood – just write, write, WRITE, DAMMIT!

Send your missives to [email protected], or leave them as a comment below! We look forward to hearing from you, chums!

A Brand New Astonishing Adventure!

THIS TALE commences with your not-at-all-humble narrator incapacitated after sustaining a particularly nasty injury in the field of combat; to whit, I recently found myself in a heated argument with a tuppenny trollop over the matter of payment for what I considered to be her rather lacklustre services.

As one may baulk at paying the bill for a lukewarm and foul-tasting meal, or as one may refuse to hand over money for a knackered and useless old nag, so I had refused to remunerate this harlot for providing nothing more than rather pedestrian and unexciting intercourse. The prostitute had taken a certain umbrage with my decision, and so we found ourselves in a heated exchange (which, ironically, was far more passionate than the love-making which had preceded it) before the whore chose to end the impasse by firmly grabbing my tumescent tally-whacker and twisting it with such force that I now fear that any children I sire in the future shall undoubtedly be born with a terrible limp.

And so you find my glorious self cooped up in bed in the Likely Estate, unable to partake in any of my usual pleasures due to the sheer, agonising pain emanating from my poor, paralysed Lord Palmerston. A terrible state of affairs, I am sure you will agree. More terrible still when you consider the fact that this left me in the company of my complete arse-pipe of a man-servant, Botter, who was fussing over me as if I were an injured sparrow or something, and tried raising my spirits by regaling me with God-awful stories about his youth in the East-End, accompanied by soul-crushing renditions of his favourite Cockney sing-alongs. I would have twatted the bounder and told him to eff off, were it not for the fact that any sudden movement caused a searing shockwave of pain to ripple through my body from my marmalised manhood.

When not having to endure Botter’s woeful working-class whimsy, I made an effort to pass the time by reading through some of my correspondence. Being an Astonishing Adventurer and Gentle-Man of Action, I receive quite literal barrow-fulls of fan-mail and letters, much to the continued annoyance of my whining, moaning old cock-smear of a post-man. Usually, I would be much too busy getting drunk or fornicating to pay the mail much heed, but in my current state I finally had the time to attend to these bulging sacks of mine.

‘Twas a mixed and varied collection of correspondence, it has to be said. There were hundreds of requests for marriage from many a love-struck spinster, nude photographs of nubile young ladies (which caused a twitch in my loins that bought about more searing pain, so I had to discard those letters rather quickly), the occasional blood-soaked missive from deranged criminals threatening to cause me harm and venomous letters from enraged husbands and boyfriends, threatening to send deranged criminals my way to cause me harm for my having laid with their significant others. Some people really are much too uptight, I mused.

Then there were countless tedious pamphlets and leaflets trying to sell me some completely unnecessary service or product or other, such as this startlingly misdirected sales-pitch:

Sir,

Do YOU wish to last LONGER in BED? Does you LADY demand more SATISFACTION in the boudoir than you are able to provide due to an EMBARRASSING INADEQUACY in your GENITAL AREA? Is your FLACCID and LIMP penis the cause of much SCORN and DERISION? Are you not REALLY a MAN?

Well, FEAR NOT, for with DOCTOR COCKFOSTER’S patented PENILE ERECTION KIT, you will now be able to remain fully engorged for longer, and thus able to satisfy your special lady again and again and again, without WORRY!

Thanks to our innovative system of PULLEYS, LEVERS and STEEL GIRDERS, your much-maligned member can remain PROUD and UPSTANDING for hours upon end, finally putting an end to your end’s abrupt endings.

Do not DELAY! Send a cheque for ONE HUNDRED guineas to: Doctor Cockfoster, Cockfoster’s Cock Fosters, Cockfoster House, Cockfoster Forest, Cockfosterham. Do it TODAY, lest you forever more remain a PATHETIC, ENFEEBLED MOCKERY OF MASCULINITY!

– Dr. Cockfoster.

I sighed and shook my head sadly. Truly, this Doctor Cockfoster had failed to do adequate market research before sending out this clap-trap; I have no problem remaining firm and terrifically turgid…although I had to concede that in my current condition, my poor pump-pistol could barely even support a semi-semi. I sighed again, scrunched up the letter and hurled it aside. That particular pamphlet had served only to depress me further, confound it.

However, the next missive raised my spirits somewhat:

Dear Lord Likely,

I write to you in the hope that you may be able to come to my aid, as I am at my wit’s end and know not what other course of action to take. Having heard of your considerable skills and talents in the field of deduction and crime-solving, I believe that only you can possibly help me at all.

I smiled. Appealing directly to my ego is a sure-fire way of grabbing my attention. I read on.

This being the case, I ask for your assistance in tracking down my darling wife, Daphne Phingerphuckk, who has now been missing for some three days, and I fear that she may have been abducted by undesirables…such awful thoughts whirl through my mind when I consider what atrocity could have befallen her that I am quite unable to sleep, and grow increasingly sick with worry.

If anyone can trace her and bring her back safely to me, it is you, your lordship. Please do say that you shall assist me, I shall ensure that you are handsomely reimbursed.

Sincerely and fretfully yours,

Mr. Startleburst Phingerphuckk.

I lowered the letter and pondered for a moment or two, and then snatched up my note-book and pen, and scribbled out my reply.

Dear Mr. Phingerphuckk,

Your recent call for help has touched my noble heart, and my bulging wallet. I would, of course, be delighted to aid you in the relocation of your dear wife Daphne, for to do anything less would be criminal.

However, I must inform you that a minor inconvenience has befallen me of late (I shall not go into detail, but should you ever be in London Town and chance upon a sordid strumpet named Sandy Straddleton, I advise you to steer clear and instead thrust your todger into a half-eaten melon, for it shall have much the same effect as plunging it into her fetid, disease-ridden mimsy).

But while I now remain bed-bound as a result of my misfortune, I see it as no obstacle to investigating the mystery you present before me. Indeed, the idea of solving such a riddle from the comfort of my bed-chamber offers me something of a thrill and a challenge, to which I obligingly rise.

In short, yes, Mr. Phingerphuckk – I shall TAKE THE CASE!

– Lord Likely.

…To Be Continued!

Write To Likely And Appear In The Next Chapter!

Yes, dear readers, you read that correctly! Compose a letter to his lordship, and if it passes muster he shall read it out in the next chapter of this exhilarating epistolary escapade, along with a hyper-link to a webbed-site of your choosing should you be successful! It can be whatever you like, declarations of love, sales-pitches, requests for his services or letters demanding his blood – just write, write, WRITE, DAMMIT!

Send your missives to [email protected], or leave them as a comment below, or contact his lordship via such social-media spots as Face-Book or the Twittering Device.

We look forward to hearing from you, chums!

]]> http://www.lordlikely.com/archives/adventures/the-likely-letters/the-likely-letters-part-one/feed 5 http://www.lordlikely.com/archives/adventures/the-strange-case-of-the-sinister-snowman/the-strange-case-of-the-sinister-snowman-part-two http://www.lordlikely.com/archives/adventures/the-strange-case-of-the-sinister-snowman/the-strange-case-of-the-sinister-snowman-part-two#comments Sun, 02 Jan 2011 19:29:19 +0000 http://www.lordlikely.com/?p=1521

AND SO with a murderous snowman on the loose, there was only one thing to do. We waited.

After a couple of days of waiting, the snow had thawed substantially, leaving some of the snowmen in the street looking as flaccid as an old man’s todger – all except for one, which stood as firm and as proudly as…well, MY todger.

Using my exceptional deductive powers, I ascertained that the non-melted snowman MUST be an imposter, and after threatening to knock its head off with a shovel, my suspicions were confirmed, as a rather weedy-looking fellow emerged from within his snowy disguise.

It turned out that this chap – Mr. Arthur Funtwhistle – had murdered poor Mr. Ambrose Clutchpenny after becoming consumed with jealousy over the far superior Christmas decorations adorning the front of Clutchpenny’s house. Funtwhistle, it seemed, lacked some of the seasonal goodwill towards his fellow man.

Needless to say, Funtwhistle was arrested, trialled, found completely and utterly guilty and then on Boxing Day he received the belated Christmas gift of a rather tight-fitting rope tie; to whit, he was hung by the neck until dead.

HUZZAH!

Now, I know what some of you are thinking – ‘well, Likely, after three weeks of waiting that seemed to be a most hasty conclusion to this Astonishing Adventure!’ To which I would remind you all that since I began transcribing this tale, both Christmas AND New Year celebrations have come and gone, leaving me with a hangover so enormous, I fear I may never again be able to see straight.

Hopefully, however, I shall be as right as rain before too long, and ready to THRILL, DELIGHT and AROUSE you all with more corking adventures over the course of this coming year!

In the meantime – HAPPY NEW YEAR, chums! Have a drink on me (literally, if you are a rather attractive female who wishes to lap gin from my taut and muscular torso).

Toodle-pip!

– Lord Likely.

IT WAS mid-December, and London had been left under a thick blanket of snow, as if the lord God above had looked down ‘pon the glorious British Empire, and had decided it looked so damnably attractive that he had whipped out His tremendous tallywhacker and sprayed the land with His holy horn-paste.

Truly ’twas a sight to behold, as I pointed out to my miserable man-servant, Botter, as we trudged our way through the snow to meet Inspector Spunkleford, who had summoned us to meet him on a matter of some urgency. Botter, however, seemed less than impressed with my poetic observation about the current climate.

“‘S too cold, that’s what it is, milord. Too blinkin’ cold!” he muttered.

“Cold? For heaven’s sake, Botter, do grow a scrotum!”

“‘S alright for you, milord, you had a nice, warm bed for the night. I ‘ad to sleep in a bleedin’ hen-house.” Botter continued, shoving his hands under his armpits to warm them.

“Now, Botter, we have been through this,” I countered. “I cannot very well have my prize-winning hens out in the cold. Nobody enjoys a frozen egg, least of all me. That is why I decided to let them have the use of your quarters.”

“B-but it’s inhumane, milord!” Botter cried.

“Nonsense, they were extremely comfortable indeed. I think I even saw one making use of the bidet, at one point.”

“Not your stupid hens, milord! Me! It’s inhumane to leave me to freeze to death in some rickety old hen-house!” Botter wailed.

“Botter, if you keep up this incessant moaning I simply shall not unlock the hen-house in the morning, and leave you in there forever!”

We continued to crunch our way through the snow as Botter fell into a mopey silence, which rather suited me fine, as I really did not want to listen to any more of his wearisome wafflings anyway.

We turned into a small street and seemed to find ourselves instantly transported to some kind of astonishing winter wonderland. The gardens and houses all along the street were decorated in the most eye-popping manner possible, with various Christmas lights dotted throughout, tinsel hanging from every branch of every available tree and plant, and large, ornate carvings depicting Father Christmas or angels or reindeer looming out from all sides. It was rather like someone had eaten an entire box of Christmas cards, and then vomited the contents out onto the street.

“Well, this is the right place,” I sighed, noting the road-sign nearby. “Fezziwig Lane. I really hope Spunkleford hasn’t called us half-way across the city just to show us his baubles. Come on, Botter.”

We ventured on up the road until we came to a house which was swarming with police-men, bustling back and forth and looking generally perplexed. In among the blue tide I spotted Spunkleford, who was closely consulting a note-book while chewing upon the end of a pencil in a most contemplative manner.

“Good day, Inspector,” I said, slapping Spunkleford so heartily on the back that he almost wound up excreting graphite. “What is all this hubbub about, then?”

“Oh, Likely, old boy!” Spunkleford exclaimed, clearly pleased to see me (as people usually are). “I have got a queer old case here, I don’t mind saying. Very queer indeed!”

“Hmmm,” I pondered, looking about to find a dark patch of crimson seeping through the snow on the ground. “Well, I assume either someone has been rather careless with the cranberry sauce, or there has been a murder here, yes?”

“Yes indeed, Likely. But if only it were that simple! The victim was the home-owner, a Mr. Ambrose Clutchpenny, by all accounts a well-respected and well-liked member of the local community. He was discovered dead at the scene this morning by one of his neighbours, a Mrs. Penelope Twigglebottom. Poor thing, has been in shock ever since.”

“Maybe I should offer her a shoulder to cry on?” I offered. “Of course, when I say ‘shoulder’ I do of course mean ‘penis’. And when I say ‘cry’ I mean ‘sit.'”

Spunkleford carried on, brushing aside my carnal desires as was his wont.

“Now here is where things get…peculiar. We’ve had an eyewitness come forward who swears blind that he saw Mr. Clutchpenny being attacked by…someone. He’s even given us a full description…” Spunkleford explained, waving his notebook in my direction.

“And?”

“Well, apparently the assailant was white, about five-foot four, dressed in a top hat and scarf…” Spunkleford glanced up at me, then back down at his notebook. “Ahem. He had a long, carrot-shaped nose, and eyes…eyes as black as coal…”

I raised an eyebrow. “Unless I’m very much mistaken, Spunkleford, what you have just described to me there is a snowman.”

Spunkleford nodded. “I know. And naturally I would not normally take such a thing seriously, if it were not for the fact…well, there was a break-in down at the docks last night as well. And a witness there gave my officers a description of one of the culprits…”

“…And that too was a snowman?”

Spunkleford nodded again. “He even gave the details to a sketch-artist, and…well, look.” Spunkleford held up a piece of paper on which was drawn a (rather well rendered) picture of a snowman.

“This…” I said slowly, “…is indeed peculiar.”

– Lord Likely.

To Be Furthered!

NEW! You can now receive The Astonishing Adventures of Lord Likely straight to your Kindle book-reading device! SUBSCRIBE TO-DAY, and ne’er miss an astonishing chapter again!

IF YOU have been thrilling to my recent audio adventure, ‘The Filching Fog of Finsbury Park’, chances are you would have also been aroused to the point of explosion by the loin-stirringly fantastic theme-music accompanying said adventure.

That being the case, I thought I’d offer my dear readers and listeners the chance to enjoy my Likely anthem without all that (admittedly wondrous) talking all over it, in it’s purest, unedited form!

And so, do enjoy Mr. Andi Woodford’s GLORIOUS composition, below!

Or download it via the iTunes shop, so you can keep it on your personal music-playing device of choice, and have it playing where’er you go, so you can imagine being as incredible as I am:

And if you have not yet heard the audio adventure at all, follow these links to listen to it RIGHT AWAY!

The Filching Fog of Finsbury Park

Part One: Wherein Mr. Javier Spoons is MUGGED by FOG.

Part Two: Wherein Lord Likely has an excellent plan.

Part Three: Wherein the mystery is solved!

FINALLY, many thanks to all of you who have said such very kind things about the above production – it seems the tale has been much well-received, and therefore another audio masterpiece may well be forthcoming! In the mean-time, do feel free to share this with your chums on the Book of Faces or the Twittering Device – all should have the honour of listening to this CLASSIC TALE!

Toodle-pip!

– Lord Likely.

Listen to the previous episodes, hither: Part One | Part Two

PREPARE yourselves, dear readers and listeners, for to-day sees the THRILLING conclusion to my ASTONISHING audio adventure! Ne’er before has a release been so eagerly anticipated, aside from when in the final throes of sexual congress, of course.

Anyway – let us dilly-dally no more! To listen to the fantastic finale of this fog-based fable, simply utilise the listening device presented to you now:

OR! Alternatively, the production is available to download for approximately no shillings at the Apple iTunes shop, hither:

HUZZAH! I do so hope you have enjoyed this amazing aural adventure, chums – be sure to let me know, and perhaps there shall be more in the near future…

The Filching Fog of Finsbury Park written by Mr. A. D. Fanton esquire, with humorous additions by the cast.

Vocal stylings provided by Mr. Fanton, Mr Andrew Weston, Mr. Thomas Butler and Mr Andi Woodford.

Music and Sound Effects provided by Mr. Andi Woodford.

Produced by Lord Likely, and a fair few lashings from some reeds.

– Lord Likely.

To hear the previous part, do please click HITHER!

AND SO, with London’s fog having seemingly turned against the city’s inhabitants, it is left to me – Lord Likely, Aristocratic Adventurer and Gentle-Man of Action –  to once again step in and save the day!

To THRILL to this latest instalment of my Astonishing Audio Adventure, do please utilise the device below:

Alternatively, you may download the production at the Apple iTunes store, whatever the cock all that means:

UPDATE! The conclusion to this action-packed adventure is now available to hear HITHER! Huzzah!

The Filching Fog of Finsbury Park written by Mr. A. D. Fanton esquire, with humorous additions by the cast.

Vocal stylings provided by Mr. Fanton, Mr Andrew Weston, Mr. Thomas Butler and Mr Andi Woodford.

Music and Sound Effects provided by Mr. Andi Woodford.

Produced by Lord Likely, and a fair few lashings from some reeds.

– Lord Likely.

LADIES AND GENTLEMEN, pin back your ears, and loosen your under-garments, for I have a particularly wondrous treat for you to-day!

For your extreme and unequivocal listening pleasure, I give to you the FIRST PART of an ALL-NEW and ALL-THRILLING audio adventure! HUZZAH!

And so, if you are sitting comfortably, let us commence the terrific tale without any further ado! Prepare thyselves for  ‘The Filching Fog of Finsbury Park’….

Alternatively, you may also listen to the audio play via Mr. Jobs’ Apple iTunes store, hither:

The Filching Fog of Finsbury Park written by Mr. A. D. Fanton esquire, with humorous additions by the cast.

Vocal stylings provided by Mr. Fanton, Mr Andrew Weston, Mr. Thomas Butler and Mr Andi Woodford.

Music and Sound Effects provided by Mr. Andi Woodford.

Produced by Lord Likely, and a fair few beatings from a cricket bat.

UPDATE! Part two is now ‘pon us! Click HITHER to enjoy!

– Lord Likely.

Illustration by the supremely talented Mr. Stuart Linfield.

For the previous chapter, please click HITHER.

T he zombified Miss Havisham dragged herself uneasily to her feet, and slowly advanced upon me. There was something about her that led me to believe that she dearly wanted to open up my cranium and feast hungrily ‘pon the brain-matter within – perhaps it was the fact she was moaning ‘BRAAAAAIIIINS!’ and flailing wildly at my head that made me think so.

“What is going on?” I cried, as I fended off the horrifying haridan with my walking-cane. “Why am I under attack from a fictional creation?”

“It’s some kinda infection, or something,” Hellsinger replied as he draw out and checked a gun from the recesses of his coat. “Musta started with Dickens – when he bit someone, that person mutated into one of his characters, and when they bit someone else, so it went on, and on. I guess there must be some dark magic behind all this. Mind your head, Likely!”

I promptly moved to the side, and watched as Hellsinger took aim and fired a bullet straight through Havisham’s head. The creature groaned and slumped to the ground, dead. Or at least, more dead.

“You killed my strumpet, you swine!” I remarked.

“She was dead the moment she was bitten, I’m afraid,” Hellsinger mused sadly. “There was nothing left of her after that.”

“There’s even less of her left now,” I observed.

“Um, milord,” Botter interrupted. ” It looks like we’ve got company.”

I looked behind me to see a large group of the undead stumbling out of the door to the publishers, slowly making their way to us.

“I see,” I said straightening my tie, and grasping my cane with both hands. “In that case…BRING IT FORTHWITH.”

Hellsinger beamed, and drew out a large axe from a holster on his back. “This is gonna be FUUUUUN,” he cackled.

With that, we ran up to the gaggle of ghouls, and set about dispatching them as quickly as we could. Hellsinger roared with joy as he chopped his way through the crowd, heads and limbs flying each and every way, while Botter deployed the tried and trusted method of shooting the zombies through their fiendish heads.

I, meanwhile, took to driving my cane with great force through the skull of a zombified Martin Chuzzlewit, before spinning around and deftly smashing in the face of a rather surprised, beastly Fagin. As I paused to wipe the blood from my cane with a handkerchief, a disgusting undead Tiny Tim hobbled up to me, using some poor chaps’ severed leg as a crutch.

“GOOODDDD BLESSS USSSS, EV’RRRRY ONNNNNE!” he groaned.

I calmly folded up my handkerchief and replaced it in my pocket, before taking my cane and, using it much like a golf club, I twatted the wretch, sending him spinning through the air, until he came to a rest impaled on the railings surrounding the courtyard.

“I’m an atheist, you insolent little bastard.” I quipped.

“That’s the last of ’em,” said Hellsinger, walking up beside me, clutching what appeared to be the severed head of Nicholas Nickleby. I turned to survey the blood-soaked carnage behind me, Botter doing his best to pick his way towards us without slipping up on any entrails or guts.

“Very good, gentlemen,” I nodded. “I think it’s best we had a word with this publisher fellow, hmm? If he is indeed behind all of this, then I shall leave him in a similar condition to one of his cherished paperbacks….WITH A BROKEN SPINE.”

*****

WE burst into the dimly-lit office of the publisher, weapons primed (Hellsinger having now opted for a lightweight crossbow instead of his heavy axe), only to find that our arrival had already been anticipated.

“Ah, Lord Likely,” cooed a figure at the other end of the room, gazing out of a window. “I’ve been expecting you.”

“Well, that shall certainly save us wasting time on introductions then,” I replied.

“Oh? But don’t you want to know who I am?” the figure asked.

“Not really. I don’t plan on getting very well acquainted with you, to be honest.”

“Ha. Such arrogance,” the man answered, turning to face us. He was a tall, lean fellow, with a thin, angular face, and an eye patch covering his right eye. His black hair was slicked back over his head, and the black motif was carried on by his clothing, clad as he was entirely in black, with a black frock coat and trousers. And, as if he already did not look preposterous enough, he had a crow perched on his left shoulder. “I am Arial Black,” the man grinned, nodding slightly.

“Hmmm,” I mumbled, disinterestedly. “I thought your name might be something ridiculous like that, judging by your appearance. I mean, I do understand you’re trying your best to look villainous..but the crow? That is rather overdoing it, I fear.”

“Crow? What crow?” said Black.

“The one on your shoulder, sir.”

“What? Agh!” cried Black, shooing the bird away. “Bah. They’re always flying in and doing that, damn things. I really should demand that the cleaning staff close the windows in the evening.”

“I see.”

“So, I assume you’re here to try and stop me and save the day, etcetera, etcetera.” Black smiled, walking around a large desk (black, naturally) and picking up a piece of paper off of it. “But I’m afraid there really is nothing you can do, it is all perfectly legal, you know.”

“Perfectly…LEGAL?” I spluttered.

“Oh yes…I believe you know my client, Mr. Chalres Dickens…” Black smiled, clicking his fingers. At the click, the undead Dickens appeared from behind a curtain, shuffling into the centre of the room.

“What the?…DICKENS?” I exclaimed.

“In the rotting flesh, your lordship. You see, back at the end of 1869, Mr. Dickens here signed a contract with us, to provide us with twelve instalment of his latest work, ‘The Mystery of Edwin Drood‘. Here is the contract, see?” Black held up the piece of paper, revealing it indeed to be a contract, signed by the author himself.

“Of course, Mr. Dickens failed to deliver on said agreement,” Black sniffed, “which is really bad form, you know.”

“He died!” Hellsinger interjected. “It wasn’t somethin’ he did on purpose!”

“Whatever the circumstances, Mr. Dickens did not uphold his end of the bargain, therein lies the point. I was left without the work I had been promised.”

“You poor bastard,” I said.

“However, I do not give up that easily,” Black continued. “When I sign an author, I expect them to deliver, your lordship – no matter what! And so I turned to the ancient practice of voodoo to help me out.”

“You do voodoo?”

“I do do voodoo, too true.”

“Who knew?”

“Anyhoo, I met up with a fellow who knew something about black magic and such like, and he informed me that it was quite possible to resurrect someone from the dead, and have them live again! Oh, imagine my delight, your lordship! I could bring Dickens back, and have him complete Edwin Drood at last! What a coup!”

“That’s one word for it,” I mused.

“Book sales always go through the roof after an author dies, you know. Have you ever noticed that? It’s a curious phenomenon. People like their celebrities, but much prefer them dead, it seems. Here I was then, primed to capitalise on this, with England’s greatest novelist of all time, and his great, unfinished masterpiece, no less! How could I not try it?”

“Is this rambling anecdote coming to an end anytime soon, Black?” I huffed. “Else I fear we shall all die of boredom.”

Black glared at me haughtily, but carried on. “And so I set about bringing Dickens back from the grave, using this very contract, a lock of his hair, and an ancient spell. Needless to say, it worked PERFECTLY…well, aside form one unfortunate incident where my associate got a bit mauled…”

“You are sick and twisted, Mr. Black,” I noted, quite correctly. “What about all the poor people who have died in the meantime, just to further line your pockets?”

“In the war for more readers, there shall always be some tragic losses, I’m afraid,” Black ginned, placing the contract back on his desk.

“Right, I’ve heard enough from this freak,” Hellsinger snapped, drawing up his crossbow.

“Oh, I wouldn’t do that,” Black smiled, clicking his fingers. At the sound, Dickens snapped into action, lunging forward and grabbing Botter from my side. “One wrong move, and I shall have Mr. Dickens here make your friend here rather dead. He does anything I tell him, does Mr. Dickens. And he won’t harm a hair on my head, either. I’ve added a few clauses to his contract, just so nothing can stop me.”

Hellsinger looked at me. I looked at Botter, who was pleading me to save him, then I looked back to Hellsinger.

“Lower the bow, Hellsinger,” I said. “I don’t fancy having to get a new man-servant just yet.”

“Good, good,” chuckled Black. “You are finally seeing sense, your lordship.”

“Mmmm ,” I pondered. “I really think I am. I must say, I am awfully impressed by the whole scheme. Now you’ve talked me through it, I truly appreciate what a marvellous money-making scheme you have here. Top notch work, sir. Top notch!”

“I try my best,” Black bowed.

“You have excelled!” I cried, clapping my hands together. “I think this calls for a celebration. Won’t you join me for a cigar, Mr. Black?”

“Do you know, I don’t mind if I do, your lordship!”

“Excellent!” I beamed, producing a couple of fine cigars from my coat pocket, and offering one to Black. “You are to be commended for your sterling work, I feel!”

“I am so glad you see it that way,” Black said, lighting his cigar.

“I see it all,” I grinned, lighting my own cigar. Then, as quick as a flash, I dashed over to the desk, scooped up the contract, and put the lit cigar to it, and watched with satisfaction as the paper caught alight.

“What are you…Nooooooooo!” screamed Black, fear filling his eyes (and possibly his trousers too, I shouldn’t wonder). “Mr. Dickens, stop him!”

But Dickens did not respond, and released his grip on Botter as the contract went up in flames.

“Mr. Dickens,” I shouted. “You are hereby officially freed from your contract!”

“Muuuuuuuuuuuh!” Dickens groaned.

“You may now dispense with Mr. Black services as you see fit.”

With that, Dickens ambled over to the publisher, arms outstretched.

“Keep away from me, Mr. Dickens! You…you keep back now!” Black stammered, as he edged back from the undead author. “Ah, bugger it!”

Black made to flee, but Hellsinger was prepared, and taking up his crossbow he fired an arrow straight through the sleeve of Black’s coat, pinning him to the wall.

“Gotcha!” Hellsinger beamed.

“Keep back, you devil! Keep back, don’t come any nearer…” Black exclaimed, kicking pathetically in the vague direction of the oncoming Dickens. “Back, you bastard! Back! BACK! BAAAAAAAAAAAAARRRRRRGGGGGHHHH!”

There was a sickening squelching and crunching as Dickens fell upon Black, and feasted upon his former publisher. Black screamed and flailed uselessly, and then was silent, leaving Dickens to gnaw away happily at his brains.

“Good work, Likely,” Hellsinger beamed, slapping me rather too heartily on the back. “For a moment there I thought you really DID think Black was some sort of genius.”

“Well, to be honest, it wasn’t all that bad a plan. But Dickens? Eugh. Could never stand his work. All that whining about the working classes. Complete, stultifying drivel.”

The reanimated Dickens stood up, his mouth covered with Black’s blood. I could not say for sure, but it seemed like Mr. Dickens performed a small, grateful bow, before the last of the contract turned to ash, and he collapsed to the floor, at peace once more.

He might have bought me a drink though, the bastard. Typical author.

~ The End ~

– Lord Likely.

AS to-day is my birthday (be sure to celebrate wildly!), this cracking conclusion is only the first of a special, DOUBLE update to my esteemed journals! Be sure to return to enjoy the first part of my ALL-NEW audio adventure, ‘The Filching Fog of Finsbury Park’.…

IF YOU enjoyed ‘Our Mutual Fiend’ (and who COULD NOT do so?) please consider donating via the button below, and allow me to purchase a birthday beer or two. Hundred. MANY THANKS!