It was a good half an hour or so before the police, led in earnest by Inspector Albert Spunkleford, finally arrived on the scene. Two of the officers immediately set about untying Romanov from the chair upon which we had imprisoned him, while Spunkleford hastened over to Botter, who was busily tending to my wounded arm.

“Good evening, gents,” he said cheerily, clearly pleased as punch to be doing some proper police work for a change.

“Spunkleford.” I replied, in a terse and rather curt manner, designed to remind Spunkleford that not only was he not in my good books at present, but he was not even a footnote in the glossary at the back of my good books.

“Um…uh…good…good work,” Spunkleford stammered, clearly sensing my growing resentment. “Really…really first class job.”

I narrowed my eyes. “You thought me to be a criminal, Spunkleford. ” I said calmly.

“Well…uh…you…we…I…I…” the detective blabbered.

I allowed the Inspector to work himself up into quite a lather, before my heart softened and my anger faded. Spunkleford was not a bad man by any means, just a bad judge of character. And a terrible dresser.

“Do not concern yourself any further, Spunkleford,” I said, brightly. “We shall not let a little thing like a misdirected accusation of murder come between us. Although, you should be grateful that I am currently rather too weak to set about your face with a heavy, blunt object, as much as I would like to.”

Spunkleford seemed relieved, and broke out in a grin.

“Good man!” he cried, slapping me heartily on the back, causing me to wince slightly. “We’re all on the same side, are we not? Now, fill me in on the detail of this most fascinating of cases, you old dog!”

I relayed the story of Romanov’s ludicrous scheme as we left the Russian embassy and headed to a parked carriage outside. Spunkleford was fascinated, a fact that he imparted by exclaiming, “Fascinating!” at the end of each and every ruddy sentence. As I concluded my report, Romanov himself was led out of the building by two burly policemen.

“You have not seen the last of me, Likely,” the Russian said. “I will make you pay for what you have done to me. I will get you, Likely. I will get you…to DEATH!”

These words may have been more chilling had they not been delivered in an incredibly comic falsetto, caused by the introduction of my lordly knee to Romanov’s testicles earlier. Instead, the threat was rendered undeniably humourous, and I laughed heartily. Romanov failed to see the funny side, and continued squeaking further threats as he was led off to an awaiting police wagon.

“All’s well that end’s well, eh Likely?” said Spunkleford.

“Quite, Inspector, quite…” I began, but then I noticed another of the accursed ‘Wanted’ posters on a wall nearby, and my face furrowed into a frown.

“Botter, if you could…” I said, motioning towards the offending article.

“Right away, milord,” Botter said. He struggled free from the grip of The Bear, who had become rather attached to my man-servant in the most literal of ways, and obligingly tore the poster off of the wall. He handed it to me, then grudgingly returned to the awaiting embrace of his new admirer.

“Ah, yes…about that poster…um, naturally we will be printing a full retraction in tomorrow’s newspaper…” Spunkleford said, growing more flustered as he observed my cloudy demeanour. I rolled the poster up into a neat, tight cylinder, then smiled at the Inspector.

“Spunkleford, my dear fellow,” I beamed. “Please, bend over. I wish to…lodge a complaint…”

– Lord Likely.

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While Botter was enjoying his romantic liaison with The Bear, I was busying myself by creeping into Ivan Romanov’s office, gun at the ready.

The office was large and spacious, with a large, dominating map of the world affixed to the wall. Upon closer inspection, I noticed that most of the globe had been coloured in red, with ‘Russia’s Glorious New Empire’ scrawled upon it. I sighed. Romanov really was off his bonce.

“Admiring my new world order, Likely?” came a voice from behind me. I spun round to see Romanov, pointing a gun at me. I cursed myself for letting him get the better of me, and lowered my weapon.

“It does not look like order to me, Romanov,” I said. “It looks like chaos.”

“Ha! The ignorant always fear change, Likely. I, on the other hand, fully embrace the new.”

“Then I hope you will fully embrace your new life as a one-testicled man,” I quipped, referring to the injury I had kindly bestowed upon the Russian earlier. Romanov scowled.

“SHUT UP! You babbling fool, Likely. That mouth of yours will get you into trouble, you know.”

“Believe me, I know,” I replied.

“I am going to delight in your demise, Lord Likely. And then, when I have finished you off, I shall go and punish that fool The Bear for letting you go. I can be very unforgiving on those in my employ who betray me, you know. Take Miss. Nipples, for instance. I sent her to kill you, she backed out and…well, you know the rest. A terrible shame.”

“Bastard,” I cried, recalling the lovely Miss. Nipples’ tragic demise. “You sir, are a cock-knocker of the highest order.”

“Hmmm. Well, enough of this pleasant chit-chat. I am a busy man, Likely. Places to go, people to kill, Empires to build. I am sure you understand. It is time for you to die, I’m afraid…”

Romanov put his gun to my forehead. My mind raced through all the possible escape routes, which amounted to precisely none. Then, suddenly, Romanov was lifted aloft before me, and held in a vice-like grip that I was all too familiar with.

It was The Bear.

“WHAT ARE YOU DOING? PUT ME DOWN THIS INSTANCE, YOU IDIOT!” screamed Romanov, his legs flailing helplessly in mid-air.

“I am afraid your accomplice here has fallen madly in love with my man-servant,” I explained. “I know, I fail to see the attraction myself. Still, the upshot of all this is that The Bear now seems to be willing to follow Botter’s orders rather than your own. It is a peculiar thing, is love.”

Romanov wriggled frantically, and hurled a string of Russian obscenities at his humongous henchman, but to no avail.

“Evenin’, milord,” chirped Botter as he entered the room. “Sorry about the delay. I was just packing my arse in ice.”

“Botter, I could kiss you if you were not quite so ghastly and riddled with pox. Now, excuse me for one moment, I just have to do something…”

I walked up to Romaonv, and flashed him a broad grin.

“Augh-are you going to kuh-kill me then, Likely?” Romanov gasped.

“Oh, no. I shall let the relevant authorities deal with you. But I shall certainly do my best to prevent you from breeding, and foisting another Romanov upon the world. With all your talk of Empire building, I think it is only for the best.” I said. “Never let it be said that I leave a job half-finished.” And then, in one swift motion, I kneed the Russian right in the balls.

Romanov howled in pain, spat out a string of curses, then passed out. I dusted down my knee with a handkerchief, then returned to my servant.

“Botter,” I said. “Our work here is done. Would you be so kind as to secure Romanov to a chair or something? Then, get hold of Inspector Spunkleford and tell him we have captured the real killer of Miss. Eileen Nipples. “

“Righto, milord,” said Botter.

“Jolly good. But first, could you administer some first aid upon me? I seem to have lost rather a lot of blood, and would rather keep the remainder inside my body. There’s a good chap.”

Botter nodded, and toddled off to get some medical supplies. I watched him depart, then collapsed into a nearby chair.

– Lord Likely.

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Ivan Romanov watched with obvious delight as The Bear increased the force of his grip around my chest, causing me to turn a most unfitting shade of blue.

“Oh dear, Likely,” Romanov sneered. “You do not look well. Not well at all.”

“Guh-guh-go to Hell,” I gasped.

“Oh! Well, that is the pleasantries over and done with. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have to just adjourn to my office for a moment, to collect some of my personal effects. Don’t go anywhere!” he said, laughing as he exited out of a side door. I waited until I was sure he had left, then decided to converse with my ogre-like tormentor.

“Luh-listen, Mr. Bear,” I said, attempting to reason with my captor. “You…you don’t huh-have to do this, yuh-you know. I can easily pay you duh-duh-double whatever Romanov is puh-paying you….”

There was no reaction.

“ Пожалуйста оставьте его светлость в покое, г. Бера,” came a voice at my feet. I looked down to see Botter, crawling along the floor, sporting a rather bloody leg, attempting to converse with the brutish Mr. Bear. Never before had I been so pleased to clasp my eyes upon the grubby form of my man-servant. “Мы можем предложить Вам что – нибудь, что Ð’Ñ‹ желаете,” Botter continued, tugging at The Bear’s trousers.

Miraculously, Botter’s words seemed to have an immediate effect. I suddenly felt the grip around my chest loosen, and I fell to the ground, gasping and coughing as fresh air filled my lungs.

The Bear, meanwhile, bent down and scooped Botter up, cradling him in his arms, as one may cradle a small child. Although Botter was no small child, no matter how often he soiled himself.

“Я хочу Вас, маленького человека,” The Bear said, stroking Botter’s hair.

“Oh,” was all Botter could reply.

“Wuh-what is going on, Botter?” I asked, as I hurridly loosened my neck-tie.

“I told Mr. The Bear that we could offer him anything in return for your freedom, my lord,” Botter answered, looking decidedly flustered. “He said he wanted…me.”

“Ha!” I exclaimed, as I struggled back onto my feet. “Well, he certainly does seem rather fond of you. I suppose someone must be.”

“Please, milord, if you would be so kind…”

“Nonsense, Botter! Would you really rather your beloved lord and master was crushed to a distinctly unattractive pulp, rather than submit your backside to a love-fuelled pumping from this…charming and delightful fellow?”

“No, my lord.”

“Good show, Botter! Take one for the team!”

“Very good, milord.”

“I shall consider giving you a raise for your selfless act of sacrifice, Botter. Now, you two lovebirds enjoy yourselves. I am going after that ruddy arsehole Romanov. I have…unfinished business to attend to,” I said, retrieving my pistol from the ground where it had fallen in the struggle. “To whit, I fully intend to put another bullet through his other fucking bollock.”

I cocked the weapon, and strode purposefully towards the door. Behind me, I heard Botter cry out as The Bear inserted one of his large, fat fingers somewhere distinctly unhygenic.

– Lord Likely.

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Following the gun shot, I slumped back onto the couch, dazed. It took a moment for my senses to catch up with recent events, but when they finally did they confirmed that I had, indeed, just been shot in the arm. I put my hand upon my stricken limb, seeking a second opinion, and felt blood seep from the freshly-made wound. I grimaced.

As I lay bleeding, I watched helplessly as Botter charged at Ivan Romanov, and then saw him recoil as Romanov fired off another shot at the poor man. Fearing that I might have to go back through the rigamarole of finding a replacement servant, I decided to try and haul myself back up and attempt to remedy this situation.

“See, Likely?” Romanov sneered as he slowly slotted some fresh bullets into his gun’s chamber. “Already your nation is falling under Russian might. Do not fight it. It is inevitable and unstoppable.”

“Rrrrromanov,” I gasped, slurring my words as unconsciousness threatened to engulf me. “I am afraid I do not take too kindly to being shot at. It is simply something I just will not abide.”

“Please, Likely. Look at the state of you. You can barely stand. Just be a good chap and hurry up and die, will you?”

I put my hand up to my chin, and began stroking my increasingly tattered fake beard. “Not bloody likely,” I said, then withdrew a tiny pistol from within the phoney facial hair.

Romanov eyed the miniature gun with clear derision. “Well, that is disappointing, to say the least. I am finding it harder to see exactly what the late Miss Nipples ever saw in you, Likely.”

“I…I can assure you, Romaonv, that contrary to popular belief, the size of one’s weapon is in no way related to the size of one’s penis. Besides which, it is not the size that counts, but what you do with your weapon, that counts.”

“And what exactly do you propose to do with your weapon, Likely?” snorted Romanov.

“This.” I replied blandly, as I took aim and shot the Russian rapscallion right in the groin. Instantly, Romanov doubled over in pain and yelled in agony. I smirked feebly. “Despite my current state, I believe I could easily blast the right testicle too, without any problem,” I said, raising my arm once more.

Romanov looked up at me, then shouted something in Russian. Suddenly, I felt a tight, vice-like grip around my chest, as someone or something grabbed me from behind.

“Oh, you stupid fuck, Likely,” Romanov wheezed, clutching his privates. “You did not suppose for one minute that I would be working alone, did you? May I introduce my partner in crime. He is called The Bear, on account of his great strength and extraordinarily hairy back.”

“He sounds puh-positively delightful,” I gasped, trying to maintain a shred of dignity as the grip tightened around my chest. “Buh-but I usually ask to be wined and dined buh-before I allow anyone to take me from behind.”

Romanov straightened up, wincing at the pain in his nether-region as he did so. He glared at me, then nodded to my unseen assailant. Immediately, I felt the force around my torso increase, as if The Bear was trying to squeeze my very skeleton out of my anus.

“Huh…he certainly has…developed…a…crush on me,” I managed to quip as the air rushed from my lungs.

“I…I have heard enough of your terrible one-liners, Likely,” Romanov snapped. “I am afraid I simply must bid you farewell.”

“Yuh…you are a cuh-cuh-cunt,” I mumbled, as the world began to swim violently before my eyes. Romanov smiled a twisted, evil smile, then addressed his brutish co-conspirator once more.

“You may kill him now,” Romanov ordered. “Kill him…TO DEATH.”

I groaned. Things were not developing exactly as I had hoped.

– Lord Likely.

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Ivan Romanov circled Botter and I, keeping his pistol trained upon us as he did so.

“Lord Likely,” he snarled. “The aristocratic adventurer. The gentle-man of action. The Victorian vigilante.”

“It is nice to know I am as well known in Russia as I am here at home,” I said. “And I did not even have to spend one penny on advertising, to boot.”

“SILENCE!” screamed Romanov, hitting me in the face with his gun. “For once in your worthless life, shut up!“

“You make a persuasive argument,” I retorted, feeling blood trickling from my lip.

“This is one adventure you should have stayed away from, Likely,” Romanov continued, ignoring me. “But you could not resist, could you? You had to come and interfere.”

“If I am ever in the mind to interfere, I prefer to know with what or whom I am interfering,” I explained. “It is for that reason that I no longer visit Bangkok.”

Romanov laughed.

“You really do not have any idea as to what is occurring here, do you? Haha! Oh, that is priceless! You are still just stumbling around in the dark, aren’t you?”

“Maybe you would care to illuminate me, Romanov,” I said.

“Gladly!” Romanov exclaimed, clearly relishing his role as the villain of the piece. “Please, take a seat. Your man-servant, too.”

Botter and I moved to a small, leather couch in the centre of the room. Botter dusted the seat down for me, then offered to take my coat for me, which I thought was very considerate in these circumstances. Meanwhile, Romanov continued pacing up and down, like a caged animal. (Albeit a caged animal carrying a loaded fire-arm). He observed our display of well-mannered etiquette with visible disdain, which grew to outright displeasure as Botter suggested I might like a cushion with which to rest my back.

“WILL YOU JUST FUCKING SIT DOWN!” He screeched, waving his gun wildly at us. Then his tone lowered to a menacing growl. “You British, with your ludicrous charade of civility. Underneath all that well-to-do bull-crap, you are just swine. Filthy, stupid, ignorant swine.“

“I suppose a little light refreshment is out of the question, then?” I ventured. I was rewarded with another swift blow to the head. I winced. It really bloody hurt.

“You are rather out of your depth, Likely.” Romanov continued, wiping the barrel of his gun with a handkerchief. “You have stumbled into an international incident. You have fallen into something bigger than you or your over-sized ego. Bigger even than your ridiculously over-sized hat. You have blundered into a war, Likely. A war that will destroy your country and wipe it’s stinking Empire off of the face of the globe.”

“Well, I suppose every man must have a hobby,” I said. “Though I’d imagine stamp-collecting would be far more preferable, and less likely to result in widespread bloodshed.”

“Huh. Such arrogance, so typical of you and your countrymen. The same arrogance that your Prime Minister displayed in meddling with Russian affairs, and thereby setting in motion the Crimean War.”

“Excuse me,” I interjected. “Are we going to hear your grand scheme, or are you planning to kill us by boring us to death with an unnaturally prolonged discourse on politics?”

“SHUT UP!” Romanov yelled, his eyes burning with rage. He composed himself, then continued on. “The present tsar of my homeland may have conceded to you and your allies, and signed your wretched treaty to conclude that conflict, but I concede nothing. I am eager for revenge upon all those who opposed Russia, and those who have the blood of my countrymen upon their hands. I will get that vengeance, believe me.”

“By running away and hiding for a bit?” I asked. “Forgive me, but I am not yet trembling in my boots, Romanov.”

“Oh, but I have a plan so brilliant you will not be able comprehend it. You see, Likely, I planned to put your country in direct violation of that Peace treaty, by convincing everyone that I had been attacked and slain right here in this embassy, and thus on Russian territory.” He leaned closer to me, and flashed me a demonic grin. “My country would be compelled to react with force, and would be entirely justified in doing so. Your former allies would join us, and the evil Empire of Great Britain would be torn asunder. Then, once you were finished with, we would train our guns upon those who had aided you in the past, and destroy them as well. Carnage and death would envelop the land, and Russia would be left as the sole, reigning super-power of the ENTIRE WORLD!”

Romanov cackled manically, evidently convinced by the twisted genius of his own insane plans.

“He’s a bit odd, isn’t he, milord?” whispered Botter, as Romanov continued his rather overly-theatrical cacklings.

“I fear he is one kopeck short of a ruble,” I replied. “And I think I may be able to play this to our advantage…”

I turned to face our adversary, and addressed him in a loud, steady voice. “You are a lunatic, Romanov, nothing more. A deranged mad-man consumed by an irrational hatred which has devoured your soul and your mind until all that is left is nothing more than pure, unreasoned rage.” I paused briefly. “Also, you are a massive tosser and a wanker of previously unimagined proportions.”

Within a second, Romanov raced over to me, and delivered another blow to my head with his pistol.

“FUUUUCK!” I yelled, in an ashamedly unmanly display of anguish.

“I will enjoy killing you, Lord Likely,” Romanov hissed, globules of spit flying from his lips. “I just hope you do not struggle as much as poor Miss Nipples did, when I ended her life.”

I was already extremely annoyed, because not only was my head incredibly sore from the repeated bashings dealt upon it, but I had then suffered the indignity of being splattered with a man’s foul spittle. The news that Romanov had been Miss Nipples’ killer was merely the final straw, and I jumped to my feet.

“You, sir, are an utter, utter, utter, utter, UTTER CAD.” I yelled.

A shot rang out, and I fell to the ground.

– Lord Likely.

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“There you go, your royal-ness,” the police-officer said, as we arrived safely at the Russian embassy. “I hope that everything is to your satisfaction, and you will leave my balls quite well alone.”

Botter opened his mouth to reel off some more Russian, but I had had quite my fill of his showing-off, so I elbowed him in the groin. He groaned in agony.

“Uh, what..what did he say, then?” inquired the policeman.

“He…uh, he said that you have done very goods, dah?” I replied, in my increasingly awful accent. “And that your testiculars are perfectlys safe. Now, please be leavinks us, before he changes his minds, dah?”

“Oh! Right. Of course,” blustered the constable. “I’ll…I’ll be on my way! Good-bye!”

And with that, the policeman turned on his heels, and dashed off into the night.

“And never speaks of this again, dah!” I yelled after him. Satisfied that the man was gone, I turned back to Botter.

“As for you, you grotty little swine, where on Earth did that Russian come from?”

“Uh, Russia, sir.”

I chose not to question Botter further, fearing I might haemorrage something in my brain. Instead, I chose to focus on our next problem.

“Now, how are we going to get in here, then, Botter?,” I said, searching the building for an open window or loose brickwork. “Any suggestions? You wouldn’t have happened to have attended lock-picking classes whilst you were learning Russian?”

“No, sir,” said Botter, examining the front door of the embassy.

“Then I fear we may well be up Shit Creek, without a paddle or even so much as a boat. We are right in that creek, Botter, and we are getting shit in our shoes.”

“It’s alright, sir!” Botter exclaimed behind me. I turned to see him standing proudly in the doorway of the embassy, door held wide open in his grubby mitt. “The door wasn’t even locked anyway!”

I straightened myself, brushed down my fake beard, and strode up to my man-servant, who was still beaming like an idiot.

“No-one likes a smart-alec, Botter,” I sneered as I walked into the building. “Although, I daresay no-one much likes you however smart you are.”

“Thank you, milord.”

“Hmmm.” I said, absently, as I took in my new surroundings. It was pitch black, so it did not take long. “This has been all too easy, has it not, Botter? We get all dressed up in our elaborate disguises, then we get escorted up here by a police-man only to then find the embassy conveniently unguarded and unlocked. It is almost as if we are walking straight into a trap…”

“Very well done, Mister Likely,” said another voice, as if it’s owner had been waiting a lifetime for such a perfectly-timed moment. “You are almost as intelligent as I had hoped.”

We slowly turned around, to face our new aquaintance. I immediately recognised the man before us, from his picture in the news-paper. Except of course, in the news-paper he wasn’t pointing a gun at us.

“Ivan Romanov,” I said. “Our runaway Russian!”

“дерьмо,” said Botter.

He was quite right, of course.

– Lord Likely.

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After our brief distractions, Botter and I continued onto the Russian embassy, making good on our legs and keeping a quick but steady pace. Soon we had made a significant advance in our journey, and found ourselves only a few streets away from our target destination.

“Botter,” I said to my man-servant, who was trying to adjust his fake beard. “We have made a significant advance in our journey, and find ourselves only a few steets away from our target destination.”

“Hurrah, milord!”

“Hurrah indeed, Botter. However, although we are nearing our journey’s end, do not lag or let your guard down. We are not quite out of the woods yet. Except in the literal sense, of course.”

No sooner had I spoken those words, when we suddenly found ourselves rounding a corner, and coming face-to-face with a police officer.

“Balls!” I muttered, under my breath.

“Good evening, gents,” said the officer. “And what are you two doing out on the streets at so late an hour?”

I turned to Botter, who was frozen in fear. I feared he would prove to be no use in the discourse with the officer, so resigned myself to handling this unfortunate turn of events myself.

“Ah, good evenink, officer! How pleased we are to be findings a police-man! Dah, very pleased!”

I hoped the police-man was not very well travelled, and had not spotted that my Russian accent was decidedly rusty at best, absolutely useless at worst.

“Hmmm. You don’t sound like you’re from around here,” said the constable. “Are you lost?”

“Dah!” I exclaimed. “Dah, that is exactings what is happened here! We are looking to finds the Russian embassy! For we are beings Russian!”

“Oh, in a hurry, are you?” the police-man ventured.

“What? Ah, nyecht. You are misunderstandings me. We are Russian, not rushing. I can see your confusions, dah. Maybe it is being the fault of my terrible accent?”

“Ah, right. Russian. Well, gents, I’m afraid the embassy will have locked up for the night by now. I should leave it to the morning, if I were you.”

“Nyecht! This is not possibles! We are havings urgent business to conduct! Do you not be recognising this mans, here?” I shouted, indicating to the trembling form of Botter. “He is beink Russian royal family, dah!”

“Really?” said the police-man, narrowing his eyes.

“You bet your behinds he is, mate! He is the beink, now let me see here…dah! He is beink the third cousins, twice removed of the best friend of the neighbour of Tsar Alexander II!”

There was a pause as this new information sunk into the brain of the constable.

“That…that doesn’t sound very royal,” he said, eventually.

“What? That is an outrage! How dares you stand there, all fats in your stupid hat, and claim this man to beink unroyal! I should apologise right now, before I report this to the tsar himself and he will be being very pisseds off with youse, and no mistakings! He will probably have your ballses for this, dah!”

I was fully getting into my character now, and was becoming extremely animated and increasingly vocal. This act seemed to convince the officer, who looked extremely flustered in the face of my faked outrage.

“Uh…I…erm…I’m sorry, your highness,” he stammered. “Uh…please don’t take my balls. I like my balls! I’m so very, very sorry!”

Botter looked up at me, with confusion and terror fighting for supremacy in his eyeballs. I nodded and smiled at him, in an attempt to encourage him to speak. Botter swallowed, wiped the sweat from his filthy forehead, and opened his mouth.

“Я прощаю Вам за вашу ошибку. Пожалуйста, не волнуйтесь для безопасности ваших яичек,” he said.

“What did he say?” the constable hissed into my ear.

I did not answer, as I had been momentarily stunned into silence by Botter’s supreme mastery of the Russian language. That little scrote is remarkably versatile when he desires to be.

“Well? What did he say?” the officer repeated.

“Oh, yes. Um, that is to say, dah.” I blustered, still reeling from the shock of Botter being genuinely useful for a change. “He said…he saids you will be pardoneds if you escorts us to the embassy, so we do not get attacked by muggers or enemies of Russia.”

“Fine! I’ll do it! Just don’t let him get my balls!” whined the police-man. “Please, follow me gents!”

“Большое спасибо, Ð’Ñ‹ очень полезны,” said Botter, rather too smugly for my liking.

“Shut up, you,” I snapped.

And so we set off on the final leg of our journey, under police escort. It is quite peculiar how events unfold, sometimes.

– Lord Likely.

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Having calmed myself down after having been utterly consumed with rage upon seeing that awful ‘Wanted’ poster, my mind began to race ahead of me, plotting out the course of action for when Botter and I arrived at the Russian embassy.

I was strolling along, deep in rumination, when Botter suddenly alerted me to the presence of something affixed to a nearby street-light.

It was yet another ‘Wanted’ poster. Behold:

“Do you mind if I evacuate the area before you go ballistic, sir?” inquired Botter, nervously stepping away from me.

I did not reply, instead I simply stared straight ahead at the poster.

“Sir? Should I run for the hills? It’s just that I’d rather not be on the end on one of your wild, frenzied cane attacks, if it is all the same to you, milord.”

“Botter!” I said, springing into life. “Why on Earth should I do such a thing?”

“Do I need to draw your attention to the poster where some vandal has scribbled a penis coming out of your forehead, again sir?”

“Tish, fipsy, pashaw and bollocks,” I snorted. “This does not bother me half as much as the original monstrosity. No, Botter, this is perfectly acceptable. In fact, I am rather impressed that some hoodlum chose to stay out in the cold, probably at night so as to avoid detection by the police, just to deface me. That sort of commitment is only to be applauded, Botter.”

“Are…are you sure you are alright, sir? You aren’t having one of your turns, are you?”

“Indeed not, Botter! Why, just consider the creativity on display here. The two cocks on my head are ingeniously placed, the fabulously diverse selection of swear-words deployed is astounding, there is an astonishing level of accuracy in both the grammar and the spelling, and well, I truly cannot argue with the statement that I, and I quote, ‘love cock.’ I do love cock, Botter, as you know all too well. No, it is near faultless in its ingenuity and bravado. The one issue I would take umbrage with is as to why the artist has felt the need to scrawl a moustache upon my face, when I already have one. Apart from that, superlative! If only the police were as equally creative.”

Botter stared at me, a quizzical look etched across his disgusting face.

“Come on, Botter!” I chirped, as I continued my preambulation. “We cannot afford to dilly-dally!”

Botter shrugged his shoulders, then followed after me.

– Lord Likely

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Botter and I, still sporting our crafty disguises, departed the Tackle-Tuck shop and headed back out into the spookily quiet streets of London Town at night-time.

“What’s my name, then, milord?” Botters asked, apropos of nothing at all.

“What?” I hissed, trying to keep a low profile.

“Well, I can’t just be ‘a Russian’, can I sir? I’ve got to have a name, and an identity, haven’t I?”

I rolled my eyes and turned to face my stupifying servant.

“Fine, Botter, fine. Tell me, did you have any suggestions for your new nom de plume?”

“Well, I dunno about that, sir, but I’ve got some ideas for my new name. I was thinking, Ivor is quite a common name in Russia, is it not? So how about either ‘Ivor Biggun’, or ‘Ivor Hugecock’. Get it? Pretty funny, eh, milord?”

“How would you like to be called Ivor Great-Big-Sword-In-My-Throat-Argh-Argh-I’m-Dying-Oh-The-Agony-Help-Me-Please?”

“That doesn’t have such a good ring to it, sir.”

“By the great bearded arse-crack of Zeus,” I said, suddenly noticing something behind Botter.

“You are not even trying, now sir.” Said Botter, oblivious as usual.

“Shut up, Botter. Shut up and look at this!” I pointed behind my man-servant, to a poster that had been affixed to the wall. This is what I saw:

“Oh,” said Botter. “Oh dear.”

“Oh dear is absolutely correct, Botter,” I said. “This is awful. Terrible, even. Awful and terrible.”

“Yes, milord. It seems the police are quite determined to ensure your capture, doesn’t it?”

“Hmmm?” I said, quite distractedly. “Oh, I’m not worried about that little annoyance, Botter. I’m more enraged about the fact they have clearly mis-spelt my name! Look at that! Anyone with half a brain knows it is spelt ‘k-e’, not ‘e-k’. Honestly, what kind of witless baboons do they have working on these things?”

“Ah, right,” said Botter.

“And furthermore,” I added, my indignation growing stronger by the second. “What kind of a mockery of a reward is ten guineas, for the capture of one as important and generally fantastic as I? It is a fucking pittance, and a damned cocking insult, is what it is!”

I furiously tore down the poster and held it aloft.

“I am in a good mind to take this shambles of a poster down to Scotland Yard and lodge a complaint. And then lodge this,” I said, waving the poster wildly in the air, “this shitty piece of shitting shit up the shitty back-side of the stupid bastard who wrote it, up there with the rest of the shit so that there becomes an overwhleming excess of shit in his shitty colon and the shit is forced up through his shitting mouth and he chokes to death on his own shitting shitty shit!”

“That…that’s a lot of shit,” observed Botter.

“Damn right that’s a lot of shit,” I shouted. “In fact, I think I shall go straight up to Scotland Yard now to carry out my shitty scheme!”

I began marching off, but Botter put a hand on my shoulder, and pulled me back.

“Uh, milord, while I obviously sympathise with your misgivings, don’t you think it’d be wiser to head away from the police, rather than head directly to them, what with you being a wanted criminal and all?”

I paused, and gave consideration to Botter’s unusually sensible words.

“My dear Botter,” I said, my rage subsiding. “Where would I be without you? You are quite correct, of course. We must proceed as planned, and not get distracted along the way. Besides, there will be plenty of time for me to pursue my shit-based vendetta later on. Come! Let us continue on.”

“Very good, milord,” said Botter.

“Oh, and Botter?”

“Yes, sir?”

“Touch me again without my permission, and I shall tear your fucking hands off. Do I make myself clear?”

“As crystal, my lord.”

“Jolly good, Botter.” I said. And with that, I tossed the crumpled remains of the offending poster over my shoulder, and we made our way onto the Russian Embassy.

All in all, it was a rather shitty day.

– Lord Likely.

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I emerged from Tackle-Tuck’s back room some two hours later, having had an extremely pleasurable fitting session with Mrs. Tackle-Tuck. Of course, by ‘fitting session’, I mean to say I fitted my penis into her vagina. To whit: we had sex.

It was not all recreation, however, and Mrs. Tackle-Tuck also did a considerably remarkable job in setting me up with a fine disguise. I was dressed in a lavish fur coat, with a matching hat, and also now sported a highly-convincing fake beard. So complete was the deception, I doubt even my own mother would have recognised me.

Having said that, I would not have recognised her either.

I admired myself in the mirror, stroking the fine fur I was now sporting.

“A sterling job, Mrs. Tackle-Tuck,” I said. “Tell me, is this bear fur I am wearing?”

“No, I believe it is labrador,” came the reply.

“Wonderful!” I exclaimed.

Just then Botter appeared from another fitting-room, with Mr. Tackle-Tuck shaking his head.

“Likely! Your man here is a tricky customer indeed,” Tackle-Tuck explained, as Botter wandered into the room. “I tried my best, but he does reek so badly, I nearly threw up in my own mouth. Sorry.”

Botter was dressed in a suit, at least I believe it must have once been a suit, but on Botter it looked terribly out of place, like it desperately wanted to be somewhere else, and seemed to be in the process of trying to escape. His hair had made a valiant attempt at sporting a style, but half of it appeared to be rebelling and stood up at right angles to Botter’s hideous head.

And then there was the fake beard, which in itself looked like it had been vomited up by a stray cat.

“You…look…well, cocking awful, Botter. Even more so than usual, which is a great deal indeed.” I said.

“Sorry, sir, I do not believe we’ve met,” said Botter, failing to recognise me.

“Oh, Botter! It is I, your master and idol, Lord Likely, you ridiculous fanny.”

“Oh, my apologies milord. I did not recognise you.”

“Well, that is good to hear, I suppose, as it bodes well for our plan. Provided you do not give the game away, looking as stupid as you do. The beard alone is especially noteworthy in it’s awfulness.”

“Ah, well, you see milord, Mr. Tackle-Tuck said he’d have to have lost all his senses before touching my face, so I had to improvise,” Botter said, looking rather overly-pleased with himself. “I fashioned this fake beard out of my own pubic hair.”

I baulked.

“Botter, that is positively revolting. I would strike you, but I fear that any physical contact with you at this stage would leave me disease-ridden, or paralysed.”

“Thank you, sir.”

“Well, at least I look like a genuine Russian, even if you do not. I can always pass you off as my loyal hound, if worse comes to worse.”

“You plan to infiltrate the Russian embassy, then, Likely?” Tackle-Tuck inquired.

“Indeed we do. I feel that we may pick up some vital clues as to the whereabouts of our estranged Russian ambassador there, and hopefully locate him and sort out this whole sorry affair. With any luck, we shall be home by supper, at which point I am seriously contemplating having Botter deloused and neutered.”

“Bravo, Likely. Well, we wish you all the luck in the world! Isn’t that right, m’dear?” Tackle-Tuck said, turning to his wife.

“I shall certainly be thinking about you,” said Mrs. Tackle-Tuck, running her hand gently up and down the front of her dress.

“Good show!” Exclaimed Tackle-Tuck.

“Well, we must away,” I said, trying to suppress the urge to ravish Mrs. Tackle-Tuck again, there and then in the drawing-room. “We have much to do!”

“Farewell, then Likely! And remember, you are always welcome in my humble abode!”

“Thank you, Tackle-Tuck. It is much appreciated. Farewell, old friend!”

I turned and made for the door.

“Come, Botter,” I said, slapping my thigh. “Come to master!”

Botter bounded towards me, and we departed the Tackle-Tuck’s house, and into the dark and mysterious night.

– Lord Likely.

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