“You sir, are a rotter of the highest order, and I will not hesitate to punch your lordly lights out!”

These were the angry words of Lord Hungwell, who was now standing in my doorway, having assaulted your noble narrator once already.

“Sir, I must ask your reasoning for this outrageously violent outburst upon my perfectly-sculpted nose!” I said, bringing a handkerchief up to the nose in question.

“You really need to ask?” spat Hungwell, his eyes bulging.

“I believe it is traditional when seeking an answer,” I replied drolly.

“Such insolence! Why, I am in good mind to knock your head right into your arse, Likely!”

“Please, Hungwell, my memories of the party are still rather hazy, to say the least. My mind is enveloped in such a thick fog of alcoholic uncertainty that I do not think I could even remember my own name, were I not so infamous that I did not recognise Lord Likely in the mirror. Please, furnish me with some further detail.”

Hungwell mulled over my words, then nodded slowly.

“Very well, Likely. I shall tell you, and then – Ha! Then! Then I shall knock your head so far down your arse you will be forced to defecate through your mouth!”

“That sounds delightful. Please, do go on.”

“Last night, I ventured to make love to my delightful wife, Lady Hungwell. I was in rather high spirits following the banquet, having drunk rather heavily to blot out any recollections of your abhorrent behaviour. So, with alcohol flowing through my veins, I set about derobing my wife. However, as I worked my way downwards, and removed her undergarments, I made a terrible discovery.”

“A penis?” I suggested. Hungwell shot me an angry stare.

“No, Likely. Not a penis. Instead, I found, to my horror…THIS!”

Hungwell held up something in his hand, and waved it furiously in the air. I recognised the article he was clutching in his mitt, and my face lit up.

“My moustache! You found it!” I exclaimed, joyously.

“Yes, I found it. Found it nestling in my good lady’s MIMSY!”

I paused.

“I had no idea cunnilingus could be quite so hazardous,” I said after a moment’s reflection.

“Egads, man! You are brazen indeed! You not only confess to the crime, but you seem completely unapologetic about it! Furthermore, according to Lady Hungwell, after you had your wicked way with her, you went on to claim that you were ‘far more hung well than Hungwell’, and dismissed me as a ‘tiny-cocked blaggard who’s penis pales into comparison with that of a gnat with a particularly minuscule todger.’ What say you to that now, Likely? “

“I assure you, Hungwell, it was most certainly the drink talking. Although I can only partly blame the drink for the screwing.”

Hungwell exploded with rage at this point, and made a mad dash for my person. Quick as a flash, I retrieved the ‘talking stick’ from within my coat, and bought it swiftly up to Hungwell’s chin, sending him reeling backwards and onto the floor, where he remained in a dazed and confused state. I stood over him for a moment, then crouched down.

“I believe this belongs to me,” I said, removing my moustache from his limp grasp.

By now, Botter had arrived upon the scene, and dutifully set about removing Lord Hungwell from my hallway, and loaded him back into the carriage he had arrived in. I, meanwhile, concerned myself with reattaching my moustache to its rightful place on my top lip.

“Botter,” I said, as my man-servant re-entered the house. “It seems I owe you an apology.”

“Yes, milord,” replied Botter, quietly.

“That being the case,” I continued, checking my glorious moustache in a nearby mirror. “Allow me to fetch my ‘apology stick’ and I shall apologise forthwith!”

“That won’t be necessary, milord. I have forgotten all about it already!”

“Very good, Botter. Now, grab a bottle of whisky, and then join me in the garden. It is time to celebrate the conclusion of another perplexing mystery!”

Botter scampered off to the kitchen, leaving me to admire my reflection.

“I shall not allow us to be seperated ever again, my dear,” I said, stroking my facial hair tenderly.

I fucking love my moustache.

– Lord Likely.

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“I swear, sir! I do not know anything about the whereabouts of your moustache! I really, truly, know nothing, milord,” Botter ranted, as I towered over him, giving him my very sternest of looks.

“Botter, Botter. Do calm down, and take a seat. Now, this is how this interview will proceed,” I said, holding up a small piece of wood in front of Botter’s face. “This stick that I have in my hand is the ‘talking stick’. When I am holding it, I alone may talk, and you shall listen. Do you understand?”

“Yes, milord,” said Botter.

“Clearly, you do not, as I have not yet passed you the stick, you insolent little shit.”

“But, my lord, you asked – “

“I am still holding the stick, Botter….”

“B-but I…I…”

“Botter, do not force me to use this…” I said, producing a far bigger stick from within my coat.

“Wh-what’s that, milord?”

“It is the ‘failure to understand the talking stick’ stick, Botter,” I explained.

“And how does that work?”

“Allow me to demonstrate,” I said, then clobbered the unfortunate urchin around the head with the bigger stick. He yelped in pain. “Every time you fail to adhere to the rules of the ‘talking stick’, you shall receive a thrashing from the ‘failure to understand the talking stick’ stick. It is as simple as that.”

“Fuck, that hurt,” mumbled Botter, for which he received a further blow to the head. He cried out loudly, which forced me to lash at him again, only for him to repeat his earlier outburst, thus earning himself an additional beating. This farcical cycle carried on for a further ten minutes, before Botter finally seemed to grasp the principals behind the respective sticks, and shut up.

“Good,” I said, as peace descended upon the room. “We are finally getting somewhere. Now, why did you not alert me to the absence of my beautiful moustache earlier, Botter?”

Botter eyed me cautiously, and remained silent.

“Marvelous! You have finally learnt something in your miserable life. Here, you may have the ‘talking stick’,” I said, handing Botter the twig.

“Thank you, milord. In answer to your question, I did not mention your lack of moustache as I thought you might react badly, and blame it on me, and then possibly beat me.”

“And what would ever give you that idea?” I asked.

“Um…milord…you…you are not holding the ‘talking stick’…”

I sighed, and produced a third, larger stick, which I then whipped across Botter’s stinking head.

“OW!” he exclaimed. “Wh-what was that?”

“This?” I replied, wiping the third stick clean of Botter’s greasy residue. “This is just a general ‘beating Botter’ stick, that I use whenever it takes my fancy. Bear that in mind.”

“Right, sir.” Botter replied in a dull tone, as he rubbed the back of his head.

“Good. Now, when did you last see my fantastic facial fuzz, Botter?”

Botter’s brow furrowed into a deep frown, as he tried to recall his memories from deep within the fetid recesses of his mind. I sighed, and started pacing up and down on the carpet, pausing occasionally to glance at my watch, or menacingly wave a stick in front of my hapless servant’s face. It seemed as if several ice ages had passed before Botter finally opened his wretched mouth. But then he was rudely interrupted by the chime of the front door bell.

“Shitting arse-cracks! Who the Hell could that be?” I snarled, snatching the ‘talking stick’ from Botter’s grubby hands. “You wait here, and try and hold on to that thought. I will return forthwith.”

I hastened down the hallway, unlocked the front door and swung it open.

“What in the name of cockery do you want?” I snapped, growing increasingly irritated by this whole affair.

The reply came in the form of a swift punch to my lordly face.

– Lord Likely

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My hangover from the party did not begin to lift until well into the afternoon, when my body decided to clear itself of all remaining toxins by forcing them out through my mouth shortly after lunch.

As Botter departed to wash out the chunks of my stately sick now entangled in his hair, I myself decided to adjourn to my own private bathroom to clean myself up.

I washed my face, and then dried myself off, when I suddenly caught my reflection in the mirror. It was the first time I had seen myself since the party, and I was astounded at just how tired and worn I looked. My non-stop adventuring and drinking was certainly taking its toll on my otherwise beautiful visage.

Then, I noticed something that made me quite literally say the word ‘fuck’ very loudly indeed.

My moustache was missing.

Where once my top lip had proudly borne an enviable bounty of bushy bristles, there was now nothing, not so much as a single, solitary hair.

My brilliant mind clicked into action, frantically trying to recall how and when such a tragedy could have occurred. I was almost a hundred per cent certain that I had my moustache firmly attached to my face when I arrived at the banquet last night, and I certainly remembered it still being present when I had accidentally drunk my own urine. Therefore, I deduced, it had vanished somewhen between that particular incident, and my awakening in the morning.

But when exactly? And how? And who had taken my wondrous moustache from me, and why? I decided that only one man could begin to answer my questions, (and I use the word ‘man’ here in its very loosest sense), my useless spunk-bucket of a servant, Botter.

I returned back downstairs to question that useless cretin, making sure to first equip myself with a notepad and a pen, and a ruddy big stick.

– Lord Likely.

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