“That’s right, no cock. Not so much as a stump. All of it – gone.”

Sir Marcus Chuffington-Fapps flailed his arms wildly, as he regaled us with the story of his unfortunate encounter with Mrs. Dinklesuck and her blood-thirsty hussies.

We were enjoying a light supper at a local eatery, all of us eating the steak, having respectfully passed on the offer of sausages.

“Those harridans were devising an awful plot, Mr, Likely,”

“Lord,” I corrected.

“Excuse me. Those harridans were devising an awful plot, Mr. Lord.”

I rolled my eyes, but decided to let the error slide, this time. Chuffington-Fapps continued on.

“They had reasoned that the only thing women wanted from men was to feel the thrust of a gentleman’s penis in their quivering lady-holes. Thus, they went on to conclude that if they could somehow remove the penis, and have it as an entirely separate entity, they would be able to pleasure themselves and no longer require the male of the species.”

I spluttered on the glass of whisky I was supping from.

“Why, that is the most ludicrous thing I think I have ever had the misfortune to hear, and I frequently hear Botter talking.” I said.

“Thank you, my lord,” said Botter, trying unsuccessfully to scoop up his gravy using a fork.

“Indeed,” continued Chuffington-Fapps. “Absolute rot and rubbish. But these poor, deluded girls were certain that their plan would result in the country falling under female rule, with a woman Prime Minister at the helm.”

I splurted again.

“I shall be a monkey’s uncle before I willingly take orders from someone with less hair than I.”

“So, they severed your penis and intended to use it for their own onanistic purposes,” asked Spunkleford, taking far too much interest in the seedier side of this tale than I thought was necessary.

“Spot on, Spunkleford,” said Chuffington-Fapps. “They had severed mine, and those of at least a dozen other poor men, and were intending to distribute them through-out the land. Thank heavens you chaps arrived upon the scene, and put paid to their sorry scheme.”

“Well, we wouldn’t have gotten here if it wasn’t for your incredibly clever cryptic letter,” said Spunkleford, trying his best to sound like a proper detective.

“Letter, my dear Inspector?”

“Why, yes, Sir. You are, or are you not, the ‘Mark’ who wrote this missive?” Spunkleford said, handing the letter over for Chuffington-Fapps perusal.

“Hmm. No, Inspector, I’m afraid I am not. I was too busy having my cock hacked off to possibly have the presence of mind to compose a letter of any kind.”

“Oh,” said Spunkleford, visibly deflated.

“Ah, well!” I said, essaying to cover my incorrect deductions. “Then that note probably was just from some psychopath intent on cutting me. At least we still stumbled upon an astonishing adventure!”

Spunkleford brightened.

“And,” I added, a glint in my eye, “All’s well that end’s well, no?”

We laughed and laughed, except Botter.

“I don’t get it,” he protested.

Inevitably, I hit him with a spoon.

– by Lord Likely. These nineteen entries were later serialised in the ‘London Journal of News Items and Limited Illustrations’, in the summer of 1859.

> Subscribe in a reader

Having roundly defeated Mrs. Dinklesuck and her killer prostitutes, my companions and I entered their house to ascertain exactly what terrible secrets lay within, and hopefully bring this whole awful affair to it’s conclusion.

A thorough search of the building proved fruitless. There seemed nothing remotely untoward about the house, save perhaps the offensively cheap furniture on display.

Inspector Spunkleford and I reconvened in the lounge, having both found nothing of any interest.

“Where’s Botter?” I inquired. “I swear, if he’s gone off to touch himself inappropriately again, I will thrash him to within an inch of his worthless life.”

Spunkleford opened his mouth to reply, when a blood-curdling scream interrupted him.

“Man alive!” I cried. “That was surely Botter himself! Only he could scream in such a womanly manner.”

“I think it came from the back garden, Likely!”

“Then we must make haste to the back garden, Inspector!” I said, and so we dashed off to see what all the commotion was about.

When we arrived at the garden, we saw nothing to pique our interest.

“Well, where is the little bastard?” I asked.

“Look, Likely! The door of that little out-house is ajar!”

We ran over to the smaller building, and opened the door. Botter fell at our feet, out cold. Spunkleford knelt down to inspect the comatose man-servant.

“I fear he has gone into a faint, your lordship.” Spunkleford informed me.

“Hmm. What would cause poor Botter to pass out like that, I wonder?” I said, cautiously edging into the out-house.

The room was dark, and damp. I fumbled in my coat-pockets, until I laid my hand upon a box of matches. I drew one out, and lit it, throwing some light on the situation.

There, on the ground beside me, was a bucket filled with ice. I peered closer, then reeled back in horror. Spunkleford appeared at my shoulder.

“What is it, Likely?” he asked.

I pointed, while covering my mouth and nose with a handkerchief.

“Holy fuck,” gasped Spunkleford.

Inside the bucket, encased in the ice, were dozens of perfectly preserved penises.

I was about to compose myself, and make a witty, off-the-cuff remark, when another voice intruded upon our discourse.

“Unfortunately, that bigger one, at the back there, is mine,” said the voice.

Spunkleford and I reeled round, to face a middle-aged man wearing a suit that had seen far better days.

“Good day, gentleman,” he intoned. “Allow me to introduce myself. I am Sir Marcus Chuffington-Fapps, and I have no cock.”

> Subscribe in a reader

In some of my wildest dreams, I have fantasised about having a legion of prostitutes descend upon me, ready and willing to perform any sexual act my filthy mind could conjure.

What reality presented to me instead, however, was a legion of prostitutes descending upon me, bearing an assortment of weapons, ready and willing to slay me in whatever fashion their cold, dark hearts could conceive.

Mrs. Dinklesuck cackled loudly as her sex-crazed soldiers bore down upon us. Inspector Spunkleford and I fired our pistols frantically, from our meagre vantage point behind the small, stone wishing-well, while Botter looked on, boggle-eyed.

“BOTTER!” I snapped. “Grab your weapon and start shooting!”

“My thoughts exactly, your lordship,” Botter said, rubbing his groin.

I sighed.

“Likely!” cried Spunkleford, as he fired a bullet straight into a whore’s leg. “We can’t hold these ladies off on our own! We need to do something, with immediate effect!”

“I couldn’t agree more,” I said, as a knife flew past my ear and fixed itself firmly into the ground behind me. “Botter?”

“Uh…yes, your lordship?”

“For God’s sake man, put your penis away and focus.”

“Sorry.”

“Now, Botter, are you prepared to lay down your life for your lord and master?”

“To be honest, my lord, I would rather not, if it’s all the same to you.”

I put a reassuring hand on Botter’s shoulder.

“Dear, loyal, kind-hearted Botter,” I said softly. “You are a good man, and you know I would not put you in needless jeopardy. I just felt I should ask.”

“Thank you, my lord.”

I smiled, then shoved him into the open, and into the line of fire.

“There’s a good man, Botter. Draw their fire!”

Botter screamed, and began running as fast as he could to the opposite end of the garden, bullets zinging past him as he did so. Satisfied that the prostitutes were suitably distracted, I broke cover and headed nearer to the house, with a view to bringing down the wretched crone who was master-minding the attack.

I resumed cover behind a nude statue of Adonis, standing by the side of the house. I checked my fire-arm, then quickly stood out from behind the stone Greek, ready to blast Mrs. Dinklesuck away.

Instead, I found myself nose-to-barrel with a rifle, firmly gripped in the hands of the aforementioned Mrs. Dinklesuck.

“Balls,” I muttered, meekly dropping my gun to the floor.

“I’m afraid yours are now mine,” chuckled Mrs. Dinklesuck.

She gave me a sickeningly crooked grin, then pulled the trigger.

There was a click, then nothing.

Sensing my chance, I turned quickly, and with an almighty tug, I pulled off Adonis. That is to say, I removed the statue’s stone phallus.

Clutching the concrete cock-piece, I whipped around to face Mrs. Dinklesuck, who was still trying to get her gun to work.

“Excuse me,” I said, ensuring I had her full attention. “Would you care to suck on THIS!”

I hurled the ornamental organ with absolute force and precision at Mrs. Dinklesuck, who shrieked in horror. A split-second later, she fell to the floor with a large, stone penis embedded in her face. Exhausted, I stood up, and straightened my hat and tie.

“Dick-head,” I said to the recently-deceased Mrs. Dinklesuck, amusing myself with my own quick-fire quip.

The death-scream of their mistress had somewhat subdued the rest of the prostitutes, who recognised that the jig was up, and that they were defeated. Spunkleford rounded them up, and set about taking names and details. Botter, meanwhile, remained cowering behind a small wheel-barrow at the other end of the garden, weeping softly.

All in all, I had a good day…but there was still a mystery to be solved.

> Subscribe in a reader

We returned to Mrs. Dinklesuck’s house-come-brothel promptly, eager to make our acquaintance of this Mark fellow, and bring to a conclusion this baffling mystery.

Inspector Spunkleford knocked briskly upon the door, which was then opened by the senior slut herself.

“Oh!”, she exclaimed, genuinely surprised to see us again. “It’s you gentleman. What a…pleasant surprise, I must say. So, what can I do for you fine gents? Blowjob? Handjob? Titwank…I’m sure I can accommodate you in any way you desire.”

She rolled her tongue suggestively across her wizened, old lips. I retched slightly.

“Uh, no thank you, m’am. We just have a couple more questions, if you don’t mind.” said Spunkleford, clearly revolted as well.

“Oh, no problem, Inspector. How can I help?”

“We have reason to believe there is a gentleman who is something of a regular client of yours. A fellow named Mark. We’d like to…”

“MARK?” snapped Mrs. Dinklesuck, her demeanour changing in a flash. “What do you know about Mark?”

“You know of this man, then?” I interjected.

“Maybe…maybe not…I…uh, I’ll just check my records….if you’ll excuse me, sirs.”

I nodded, and the old lady disappeared back into the house.

“That was a strange reaction,” said Spunkleford.

“Indeed,” I concurred. “I feel we may well be onto something, here.”

“I would have quite liked a handjob,” Botter piped up. We looked at him, disgusted.

Mrs. Dinklesuck returned, carrying a large ledger in her hand.

“Hmmm….now let me see…Mark…Mark…Mark…MARK THIS, MOTHER FUCKERS!”

With remarkable speed for one so old, Mrs. Dinklesuck drew a pistol from within the ledger and fired it at us. I leapt aside, throwing Botter to the ground with me. Spunkleford, meanwhile, drew his own pistol and returned fire. Mrs. Dinklesuck ducked back behind the door.

“What the fuck was that?” yelled Spunkleford.

“That was…unusual,” I said, drawing my own pistol from it’s holster.

“You are not joking,” Spunkleford agreed, slotting some more bullets into his gun’s chamber.

“YOU SHOULDN’T HAVE COME BACK, COPPERS!” yelled Mrs. Dinklesuck, interrupting our dialogue. “YOU NO-GOOD, SNOOPING BASTARDS!”

She stepped out from behind the door-frame, and fired a couple more shots in our direction. We scampered, and took refuge behind an ornamental wishing-well in the garden.

“I wish she would stop firing,” I said, tossing a ha’penny into the well, injecting some much-needed humour into proceedings. We chuckled quietly.

Suddenly, another bullet whistled past my ear, as Mrs. Dinklesuck completely failed to adhere to my wishes. Then, she began yelling again.

“PROSTITUTES!” she screamed. “ASSEMBLE!”

We peered over the wishing-well, to see at least ten other women, armed with everything from big knives to automatic flame-throwing devices, appear at the various doors and windows of the house.

“NOW, GENTS…WE’RE GONNA FUCK YOU. FUCK YOU RIGHT UP!” shouted Mrs. Dinklesuck, arming her pistol.

“What a cunt,” I sighed.

Then all merry Hell broke loose.

> Subscribe in a reader

“Botter, Inspector…pay close attention now. I believe I have found another piece of the puzzle,” I said, beckoning to my companions.

We were sat in a small tea-shop in London Town, the day after our unfortunate punch-up in the Lamb and Fist. I held in one hand a cup of Earl Grey, and in the other the accursed letter that had bought us all the way to the capital.

“Now, gentleman, and Botter, take another look at this. What strikes you about it, upon first glance?”

“Beats me, guv. Looks like an ordinary cup of tea, to me.”

I rolled my eyes to express my deep, inner despair.

“Not the tea, Botter, you useless twat. I am referring to the letter, here.”

I slammed the letter down on the table. The two men leaned across and studied the note carefully.

“Well,” said Inspector Spunkleford, rubbing his temples, “The writer incorrectly addresses you as ‘Sir’, as opposed to ‘Lordship’, or such.”

“EXACTLY!” I said, thumping the table so hard that it caused my tea to spill over the cup’s brim. “At first, I thought that it was just a careless error on the part of the letter-writer, the sort of idiotic, foolish mistake so prevalent among the proliteriate. However, the letter’s envelope bore the absolutely correct from of address, correctly spelt and lettered with a care not usually taken by demented, blood-thirsty killers. Thus I realised that the word ‘sir’ had been very purposefully deployed, to attract my curiosity and to force me to acknowledge the fact that this letter is actually written in a complex, cryptic code.”

“Fuck me,” said Spunkleford. “Please, do continue.”

“I shall. Along with ‘sir’, the other word that immediately grabbed my attention was the word ‘cut’. The writer chose not to use more aggressive verbs, such as ‘stab’, ‘kill’ or ‘murder’, which I find fascinating.”

I paused to sip my drink, allowing my compatriots a brief moment to catch up with the superior speed of my brilliant brain.

“Having had my attention drawn to this word, I then decided to consider it’s various synonyms, such as ‘gash,’ ‘dissection’ and so on and so forth, in the hope that this might yield further clues. One word did seem to warrant further, fastidious contemplation – ‘mark’. Not only is mark a word used to describe a cut, but it is also a man’s name. Therefore, I believe that our mystery letter-writer was called Mark.”

Spunkleford gasped. “Holy shit,” he exclaimed. “That’s astonishing.”

“It gets better, my dear Inspector,” I smiled. “For I also contemplated the letter’s rather abrupt closing statements, ‘Sincerely, Anonymous’. Two separate words, but words which also can be joined together to provide us with a further clue. Who would wish to be ‘sincerely anonymous’? Who would desire such complete and utter honest anonymity?”

Botter and Spunkleford exchanged puzzled glances, then both looked down and pretended to be in deep concentration.

“Well?” I asked, drumming my fingers upon the table-top. “No? Do neither of you have the faintest idea? That is disappointing. Well then, I ask you to also consider the return address, which we visited but three days ago…”

“Fuck a duck,” exclaimed Spunkleford, the penny finally dropping into the cavernous void inside his skull. “The whore-house run by that sweet old lady…then that means the writer of the letter didn’t live there, but…”

“…But frequented the premises as a client.” I said, not wanting to allow Spunkleford to take any credit for my spectacular deductions. “Who could possibly desire to keep their identity shrouded in mystery, than a well-to-do gentleman who makes use of prostitutes?”

“Um…Father Christmas?” ventured Botter, desperately trying to appear intelligent but failing in a spectacular fashion.

“No, Botter, you stupid little prick.” I snapped, bashing Botter on the head with my tea-spoon. “That question was rhetorical and did not require an answer.”

I scowled at my slow-witted servant, then resumed my discussion with Inspector Spunkleford.

“So, you see, Inspector, we are seeking to make contact with a distinguished gentleman named Mark, who was one of Mrs. Dinklesuck’s customers.”

“That was fucking shit-hot,” cheered the Inspector. “Bravo, Likely. I am impressed, and ever so slightly aroused.”

“Thank you, Inspector, but you should probably save that backed-up sexual tension for when we return to Mrs. Dinklesuck’s little brothel.”

“I don’t see how her little brother is involved in all this,” said Botter, as we rose from our table.

I hurled another tea-spoon at his head.

> Subscribe in a reader

My latest unsavoury encounter at the Lamb and Fist was not the first time I had entered into such a fracas, and I rather suspect it shall not be my last.

Being a Lord, with fair, unblemished skin; and being in possession of wealth and breeding far beyond the wildest imaginings of my fellow man, I am naturally a target for the working class’ envious outbursts.

Here now are some of the more vivid clashes I have endured in varying public houses throughout the land:

The Queen’s Flaps: This particular establishment was prone to holding a weekly quiz, with rather pathetic prizes on offer. These ranged from a free beverage of the winner’s choice, to a crudely-mounted, freshly-stuffed squirrel. Nevertheless, out of sheer boredom I partook of this game, and quickly found myself winning fairly decisively.

I was rather aggressively challenged by one of the other competitors, who claimed that as a well-educated member of the aristocracy, I was at a distinct advantage. I explained that had I suffered a severe cranial trauma, I would still be at a distinct advantage in comparison to everyone else present.

This sparked an almighty, frenzied punch-up, during which I sustained a broken nose and a flattened hat.

The Pig and Pig (latterly The Two Pigs): It was at this particular hovel that I managed to spark off a forty-eight hour long riot, merely by suggesting that another man’s suit was so awful, his tailor should be tried and hung for crimes against humanity.

Actually, now I come to muse upon it, the fact that I had also been caught fingering this man’s wife in the back-alley may have also contributed to his displeasure.

The Dirty Bitch: This bar was a well-known den of inequity and debauchery, hence how Botter and I came to pass through it’s doors. It was not long before one rather haggard-looking woman, with terribly disheveled hair, took it upon herself to offer her services to me at a “very reasonable rate”.

I politely declined, stating that there simply was not a plentiful enough supply of alcohol in the entire establishment to render me sufficiently bladdered so as to even contemplate approaching her awful vagina.

It was then revealed to me that she was only the land-lady, and was merely offering me a room for the night as I had been traveling all day.

She then also revealed the presence of her four, large sons, who proceeded to beat seven shades of shit from me, before kicking both Botter and I out into the street.

There really is nothing more delightful than a good night out on the town.

> Subscribe in a reader

Our investigations, having turned up nothing more than a tin of shortbread and a distinct sense of repulsion, had ground to a halt.

Deciding that we needed a moment to collect our thoughts, I decided we should immediately set forth to a nearby drinking establishment, and get ourselves shit-faced.

We chanced upon a local public-house called ‘The Lamb and Fist’, where we set about consuming as much alcohol as we could.

It was around the early evening, after I had imbibed one whisky too many, that I found myself in a conflagration with a rather burly fellow.

“Hey, you,” he said, jabbing at my chest with a large, grubby finger. “You spilled my pint.”

“I fear you are mistaken, my good man,” I retorted. “I spilt your pint. We are not on the colonies now, you know.”

The brute stood up and towered over me.

“Huh. Think you’re clever, do ya, you ponce?”

“I think nothing. I know I am clever, far cleverer than you, even in my current inebriated state.”

“I am gonna smash your smug face right in…”

“Botter!” I said, calling to my man-servant, realising that events were taking a rather worrying turn towards a potential bout of fisticuffs.

“You WHAT?” the thug snapped. “You calling me a poof now, an’ all?”

“BOTTER!” I repeated, loudly. Botter, however, had passed out in a pool of his own vomit, and would serve no use to anyone, other than as a door-stop or as a rather hideous paper-weight. I sighed.

“Right, that’s it mate. You’re gonna get a good kicking.”

“I beg your pardon?” I said, trying to stall my imminent kicking in the vain hope that I might yet be rescued from the brutish oaf before me. “I didn’t quite catch that…”

“It ain’t complicated, little man. I’m gonna grab you, and kick your fuckin’ head in. Understand that? Not too cryptic for you, you CUNT?”

Suddenly, in amongst my alcoholic haze, a light turned on somewhere in my brain.

“Cocking hell! That’s it! Of course! I know how to solve the next piece of our little mystery!”

I turned to thank the lumbering menace for his help, but all I saw was a fist rocketing toward my beautiful face, and then I saw nothing.

> Subscribe in a reader

“Well, as much as I wasn’t expecting guests, I certainly wasn’t expecting to receive a fist to the face,” said the old lady, as Botter tended to her broken nose.

The blow to the veteran’s visage had knocked the poor woman out cold for the night, during which time we had searched her dwellings for any signs that she might be a murderous old hag.

Alas, all we found were numerous tins of shortbread, a selection of fine home-baked cakes and a large collection of beautifully-crafted sculptures of hens dressed as policemen.

Thus we concluded that this senior citizen was almost certainly not a potential killer.

Inspector Spunkleford entered the room, carrying a pot of tea.

“Apologies for my acquaintance’s rather brusque greeting, Mrs…”

“Dinklesuck,” the woman answered. “Rosemary Dinklesuck.”

“…Mrs. Dinklesuck. But if you would be so kind as to peruse this letter my esteemed friend took delivery of just the other day, you may see the cause for his sudden, violent outburst.”

Spunkleford handed Mrs. Dinklesuck the letter, which she took in her clawed hand. She read the missive, tutting loudly as she did so.

“That’s terrible, Inspector. And you say it was sent from this very address? What a terrible business!”

“Are you the only inhabitant of this house, Mrs. Dinklesuck?”, the Inspector continued.

“Why, yes. Ever since my husband died in an awful accident last year. He was pecked to death by a big owl, don’t you know?”

“Snowy?,” I ventured.

“No, no. It was quite sunny, as I recall.”

I sighed. Mrs. Dinklesuck, quite unaware of her own stupidity, turned back to the Inspector.

“I do have my fair share of visitors, though, Inspector. But I cannot imagine that any of them would be capable of such an act. Most of them can barely control their bladder, let alone a knife.”

Inspector Spunkleford made a note in his note-pad, then snapped it shut loudly, for dramatic effect.

“Well, Mrs. Dinklesuck, you have been most patient and extremely co-operative. I’m sure we’ve taken up enough of your precious time, so now we must bid you farewell,” he announced.

We took our leave of the old lady, pausing only to accept a tin of shortbread presented to us as we departed.

We bade farewell to Mrs. Rosemary Dinklesuck, then waited for the door to close firmly behind us before beginning our discussions in earnest.

“So, what do you think?” asked the Inspector.

“This shortbread is fucking lovely,” Botter interjected.

“I was referring more to our meeting with Mrs. Dinklesuck, rather than the quality of her shortbread,” Spunkleford patiently explained.

“Well,” I said, “It is certainly safe to conclude that she is not our suspect.”

Inspector Spunkleford nodded in furious agreement, so much so that I feared his head would come loose from his neck and tumble to the floor.

“However,” I continued, raising my voice to add emphasis to my deductions. “Mrs. Dinklesuck is definitely a prostitute.”

I felt shortbread crumbs spray the back of my neck, as Botter spluttered noisily. The Inspector merely eyed me with a quizzical expression.

“How do you come to suppose that, Likely?” he asked.

“I suppose nothing. All the evidence was there, Inspector. Mrs. Dinklesuck told us herself that she entertains many guests. I fear at her advanced years, she has very few living friends or relatives left on this Earth. So who were these guests? Is it too unreasonable to suggest they were her clients?”

I continued. “And how did she come to afford such a large collection of porcelain hens, the likes of which are often seen being sold for fifteen guineas a piece, rather an expensive purchase for a retired lady, wouldn’t you say?”

Inspector Spunkleford nodded. “I think I would say that, using almost all of those words,” he said.

“Good show. Also, she still maintained long, painted nails, unseemly on such geriatric fingers but well-known for heightening sensations during the act of sexual congress. There is also the fact that she is recently widowed, and clearly still yearns to feel a throbbing penis in her crusty, old quim.”

“And finally,” I concluded, “She’s called Mrs. Dinklesuck, for Christ’s sake. In short, Inspector, and please excuse the vulgarity of my language at this juncture, Mrs. Dinklesuck is a filthy fucking whore.”

“By God, Likely!” the Inspector remarked, “That’s incredible!”

“I know it is, Inspector. Trust me, I am well acquainted with my own incredibility. But alas, as incredible as I undoubtedly am, we are no closer to revealing the identity of the mystery letter writer.”

“Ah, yes,” the Inspector replied. “Shit.”

> Subscribe in a reader

Finally feeling that I was back to something resembling full health, my companions and I decided to leave the squalour of Spunkleford’s flat and journey onto Buckingham Place, the address of my threatening letter-writer.

We took a hansom cab across the city, making a far-less eventful journey than our previous effort.

Although I did, at one point, run out of ice for my whisky.

We arrived at our destination and disembarked.

Number forty-three, Buckingham Place, certainly did not look like the abode of a murderous fiend intent on slaying my good self. It seemed to be a well-kept property, noticeably bereft of blood on the door, or severed heads on the railings.

However, appearances can be tremendously deceptive, as I can testify having frequented Thailand on several occasions. So, I drew my trusty fencing sword while Inspector Spunkleford armed himself with a pistol. Botter, meanwhile, contented himself by carrying a small, silver-plated teaspoon.

I was going to inquire as to how Botter proposed to stave off a lunatic mad-man with a piece of well-polished cutlery, but thought better of it, and instead refocused my attention on the matter in hand.

We tentatively approached the doorway, and then quickly composing myself, I knocked upon the door.

We heard shuffling come from within the house, then the unmistakable sound of locks being drawn back.

We braced ourselves for whatever unspeakable horror lay inside, save Botter, who had been distracted by his reflection on the spoon’s surface.

Then the door opened, slowly, before revealing to us…

…a small, elderly woman.

“Good evening, Gentlemen,” she said. “I wasn’t expecting guests, I must say. Would you care for a cup of tea, perhaps?”

The three of us exchanged confused glances, and then, deciding that it was far better to be safe than sorry and dead in a cupboard, I decided to punch the old lady to the ground.

> Subscribe in a reader

Over the course of the following twenty-four hours, my body slowly began to heal.

I’m no stranger to injuries and woundings, and while I lay bed-ridden, I recalled them from memory to pass the long, dull hours spent in Botter’s company.

Here are some of my more notable injuries sustained upon my noble form:

Scar to the Forehead: incurred after a slight mishap with a comb. Keeping one’s self so immaculately groomed is no easy task, let me assure you.

Fractured pinkie: I fractured my little finger during a fencing match back in my youth. I would like to say it was caused by some deft handiwork with my blade, but the tragic truth is I snagged my digit on the table-cloth as we took tea during a brief recess.

Grazed back: caused by Botter using fat too coarse a loofah on my back as he bathed me. Suffice to say, I beat the living shit out of him for that awful faux-pas.

Twisted ankle: Sustained in a terrible hat-based accident.

Hurt pride: I managed to cause my pride great damage when I accidently found myself vomiting into the hat of a visiting dignitary from Persia. That was the last time I ever ate testicles, although alas, not the last time I put one in my mouth.

Pain in the Arse: Or ‘Botter’, as I like to call him.

Apart from aching all over, I was unsure what injuries I had actually incurred in this latest misadventure.

Although I was pretty sure I had bruised a bollock.

> Subscribe in a reader