The Astonishing Adventures of Lord Likely

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2009-02-23T22:58:00.003Z

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Lord Likely Bangs

2009-02-21T16:11:00.004Z

From the Diaries of Inspector Albert Spunkleford of Scotland Yard.

February the Twentieth, Eighteen Fifty-Eight.

7:05am

After the exciting development of the exciting development of a series of photographic images which seemed to depict Lord Likely very much alive and not-dead, I decided to prepare a series of missing persons posters making use of these invaluable pictures.

But first, there was the small but terribly important matter of some breakfast - jam and muffins.

I breezed into the kitchen and greeted Mrs. Spunkleford with a quick peck on the cheek before sitting down at the table to eat.

Or at least that was the plan.

"You shall have to excuse me, my darling," Mrs. Spunkleford said as she placed a plate of distinctly unjammed muffins before me. "But I have run out of jam again..."

"Again!?!?" I spluttered. "Good heavens, woman! How is this possible? What sort of kitchen are you running here?"

"I'm sorry, my love...I shall run down to the shops this very instance and buy some more," she continued.

"I should bally well hope so," I barked, standing up from the table. "I am going off to the Yard now, and when I return I fully expect to see a jam-packed pantry. Quite literally packed with jam, you understand!"

With that I swept up my hat and coat, and marched out of the house.

10:22am.

My stomach was growling with jam-less discontent as I set about putting up some of the missing persons posters up around town later that morning. Nevertheless, being the absolute professional that I am, I continued with my work.

Here is a copy of one of the posters which I was putting on display:

"Oh, I've seen him about!" said a voice beside me as I affixed one such poster to the wall of a greengrocer's shop.

"Pardon me?" I exclaimed, turning around to face the speaker. He was a tall, thin man with a rather unkempt suit and unkempt hair to match.

"Yeah, I've seen him. At the zoo, last Tuesday," the man continued.

"Really? And what was he doing at the zoo?" I enquired.

"Not a lot. Sort of lying on his back, mostly."

That sounded typical of Likely, I thought.

"I heard that he mauled a zoo-keeper on Wednesday night, though. Poor fellah," the man added.

"I beg your pardon?"

"Yeah, the poor bloke was trying to feed him, and the creature swiped at him with one of his giant paws and then - "

"You blasted fool!" I cried. "I am not looking for the bear, man! I am looking for him," I explained, pointing out Likely in the photograph.

"Oh," the man said, peering at the poster closely. "Nah, can't help you there, mate. Ain't seen him at all."

I sighed and rolled my eyes in despair as the man sauntered off. This was going to be a very long day, I thought, at which point my stomach growled again. I would have to eat something, else the day was going to seem even longer.

10:41am.

I strode into a nearby bakery, where I promptly placed an order for some muffins coated with jam. The baker - a rather stout fellow with a pencil moustache - was only too happy to oblige. If only Mrs. Spunkleford was as efficient, I mused.

As the baker prepared my order, I decided I may as well continue my investigations while I waited, and so I unfurled one of the posters and began questioning the baker.

"Sorry to bother you, but have you seen him around at all?" I asked, proffering the poster towards the baker.

"Hmmm," the baker mused, stroking his chin thoughtfully. "Let me see...ah, yes! I do believe I have!"

"Oh? And where did you see him?"

"It would have been....let me think...ah, yes! It would have been at the zoo, last Wednesday. Mauled a zoo-keeper, don't you know?"

"Heavens above!" I wailed. "I am not referring to that blasted bear! I mean the man! Lord Likely! The one I have helpfully high-lighted in a great big red circle!"

"Ah, right," the baker said, turning his attention to the picture of his lordship. "Oh! Well, what do you know? I have seen this gentle-man!"

"Really?" I said, cautiously. "That man there? The one with the moustache and the hat? The one who is most definitely not a bear?"

"Yes! Yes! He came in....let me see...yes! He came in last Monday, just as I was closing up. Said he needed some jam rather urgently, which I thought was a bit odd. I mean, how many jam-based emergencies can there be, you know?"

"Well, actually I..." my words trailed off as sudden realisation realised itself to me, all of a sudden.

"Here's your muffins, sir," the baker interjected.

"BASTARD!" I roared.

"What? Too much jam, is it?"

But I did not reply, for I was heading out of the shop and straight to Scotland Yard.

11:24am.

I breezed through the doors of Scotland Yard at quite a pace, almost knocking several officers over in my wake.

"I say, Spunkleford, what is the meaning of all this breezing?" demanded Chief Inspector Wiltwick as I marched up to him.

"Do we still have the sample of that blood we found at the Likely Estate?" I asked.

"Why, yes, but we are not expecting any results back for at least three months yet..." Wiltwick began.

"I think I can give a fairly definite analysis right now!" I proclaimed, as I headed to the forensics laboratory.

"Now, listen here, Spunkleford..." Wiltwick bleated as he followed me, but I chose not to listen there, and instead I strode into the laboratory and began rifling through the various items stored within, until I came upon that which I had sought - the so-called blood sample.

"Chief Inspector, not everything that glitters is gold," I said as I uncorked the test-tube. "And not everything that is red is blood."

"What on earth are you babbling about, Spunkleford?" Wiltwick snapped. "I think you need a jolly good rest...it would appear that this particular case might be causing you undue stress and...and...what the hell are you doing now?"

I was busily dipping my finger into the test-tube and extracting some of the red substance from within. Once I had accomplished this, I then put my finger straight into my mouth.

"Oh good God!" Wiltwick baulked. "I fear I may vomit..."

"No need, Chief Inspector, for it is just as I feared. This is not blood at all, but is, in fact, jam. Strawberry jam, no less."

"What? Are you sure?"

"Here, try it yourself," I offered, passing the test-tube to Wiltwick. He eyed me with suspicion, smelt the tube carefully, and then dipped his finger into it. He drew out some of the substance, sniffed it cautiously again, and then popped his finger into his mouth.

"Blow me!" the Chief Inspector exclaimed, rather crudely. "You are quite right, Spunkleford! It is strawberry jam! Well, huzzah! Does that mean Lord Likely is not dead after all, then?"

"Not yet, at any rate," I growled, and breezed back out of the building again.

12:54pm.

I arrived back at the Likely Estate an hour later, my very soul consumed with murderous rage. It was all so clear to me now. Likely had been having an illicit affair with my dear lady wife, (with and without condiments), and had deigned to cover up the entire depravity by faking his own death. Unfortunately for him, he had not reckoned with my great powers of deduction, which would quite possibly be the last mistake he would ever make, if I had my way.

Of course, I would not actually kill Lord Likely. That would be rather too rash. But by golly I was going to have some strong words with the bounder.

I was preparing some of these strong words in my head as I walked up the path to the Estate, when all of a sudden this happened:

There was an almighty explosion, which sent me tumbling backwards with tremendous force. As I struggled back to my feet, I saw the Likely Mansion engulfed in flames, debris scattering hither and thither.

Either Likely was going out of his way to deceive me, or he was now well and truly dead.

- by Inspector A.R. Spunkleford.

Caught On A Photographic Device

2009-02-17T17:31:00.002Z

From the journals of Inspector Albert Spunkleford, of Scotland Yard.

February the Sixteenth, Eighteen Fifty-Eight.

08:00am.

After days of searching every house, outhouse and whore-house, I am still no closer to finding the ever-elusive Lord Likely.

Maybe it is time I faced the awful truth - that Lord Likely, Aristocratic Adventurer and Gentle-Man of Action, is completely and utterly deceased.

I muse upon this over a delicious breakfast of jam and muffins, provided by my delightful wife, Mrs. Spunkleford. It is almost delicious enough to forgive her for her earlier indiscretion.

09:30am.

Arrive at Scotland Yard to some excited commotion. I am summoned to Chief Inspector Wiltwick's office, whereupon it is explained that a mysterious envelope containing a selection of equally mysterious photographic images was delivered to the Yard this morning, by persons unknown.

The contents of this mysterious package have caused a great deal of hubbub and hoo-ha at the station, for each of the picture-graphs enclosed seemed to show what appears to be Lord Likely in various guises.

I present the images below, along with my comments.

The circled figure in this picture does seem to be his lordship, getting his shoes shined by a street-urchin. However, after having recently put a vicious boot-black behind bars, would Likely really employ the services of these untrustworthy miscreants so quickly?

There had been fairly recent twitterings that Lord Likely recently got in a fight with a bear, or at least a man in a bear-skin coat. Could this be his lordship with the creature, now fully tamed and under his control?

While the attire is distinctly un-lordly, the proud smile, the luxurious moustache and the fact he has a lovely lady on each arm seem to suggest that this could quite possibly be his lordship in disguise.

I have no idea why Lord Likely would be parading through a park with an elephant. Unless he was drunk. Which, to be fair, he usually is.

I am still quite unsure what to make of all this, but it is the first positive lead I have had this week, and my spirits have been considerably buoyed by this breakthrough. Could it be Likely has slipped out of the public eye, to set up a new home for himself somewhere else? Did he fake his own death just to witness the great outpouring of grief first-hand? Has he become wed to an elephant?

I do not know the answers to these questions. But I do feel quietly confident that his lordship is not, in fact, deceased, and shall be walking among us all again very soon...

- by Inspector A.R Spunkleford.

Inspector Spunkleford Is On The Case

2009-02-15T20:09:00.011Z

From the journals of Inspector Albert Spunkleford, Scotland Yard.

February the Ninth, Eighteen Fifty-Eight

07:15am.

WAKE UP to terrible, shocking news - Mrs. Spunkleford had forgotten to purchase jam yesterday, so I have to forgo my usual breakfast of jam and muffins. Mrs. Spunkleford offers to fix me a breakfast of marmalade and muffins instead, but I refuse the offer, explaining that she cannot palm me off with marmalade.

Mrs. Spunkleford finds this terribly amusing for some reason, and breaks down in fits of laughter. I swear the woman is becoming demented.

08:00am.

Arrive at Scotland Yard dead on the hour, despite my lack of nourishment. However, before I have time to take my hat and coat off, I am informed by Chief Inspector Wiltwick that Lord Likely is dead.

At first I laugh, much to the Chief Inspector's surprise. I explain my outburst, saying that I find the very notion that Likely has just gone and died to be completely and utterly preposterous. Lord Likely, Aristocratic Adventurer and Gentle-Man of Action would not go quietly into the night, I continue, but would expire at the hands of some dashed cunning fellon, or possibly syphilis. I suggest that this is probably Likely's very bad idea of a joke or a jape, and that it shouldn't be taken seriously.

Chief Inspector Wiltwick disagrees with my assertion, and counters with a brief summary of the events thus far:

It appears that a young prostitute was visiting the Likely Estate last evening, for reasons unknown (although I am sure I could hazard a guess, and that guess disgusts me to my very breeches). When she arrived, she found Likely's mansion cloaked in darkness, which she considered to be rather odd as her arrival had been fully expected by his lordship.

Luckily, the girl had a gas-lantern with her, and so she pressed on, and found the front-door to be unlocked. This young strumpet then proceeded to enter the building in a North-Easterly direction, and called out to Likely in the hope that he might answer from somewhere within his darkened home.

He did not.

The girl cautiously entered the building, and found herself standing in some sort of slightly goopy, sticky liquid. She held her lantern to the ground, and saw that she was standing in a pool of what appeared to be blood. Furthermore, it quickly became apparent to her that one of Lord Likely's top-hats was sat in the substance which was apparently blood, apparently.

The harlot, naturally unnerved by such a sight, screamed and took to her heels, turning up at Scotland Yard in the early hours of this morning, looking rather bedraggled after her considerable journey from the Likely Estate to the Yard. She was currently being looked after by a great many concerned police-officers.

Upon hearing the account of the night's events, I had to sit down, so rapidly was my head spinning. Could it really be? Was Lord Likely really dead? And if so, by who's hand? And if it was not a hand, which appendage was it? And where in the name of Dickens' beard was the body? Truly, this was a mystery of extraordinary magnitude, equal to the mystery of the Pyramids, the mystery of the Loch Ness Monster or even the mystery of the female orgasm...

10:15am.

Arrive at the Likely Estate. The place is already swarming with police-officers. I cannot tell if they are here out of an overriding sense of duty, or to say they were there on the day that Lord Likely died.

I take a while to conduct a thorough search of the premises, being sure to check everywhere - including all eighteen bedrooms, the Pornographic Library and even the Love Dungeon. My search turns up nothing, not even his lordship's long-suffering man-servant, Botter. Have they both been killed, I wonder to myself. It seems unlikely...or rather, un-Likely.

My search of the Estate thus completed, I find myself no closer to a satisfying resolution. It is at times like this - when police-work draws a blank and we find ourselves utterly stumped - that we'd usually turn to Lord Likely to help us out. Of course, this time I cannot make use of his lordship's excellent deductive skills, so I head back into London to discuss the case with the second-greatest detective - Mr. Sherlock Holmes.

12:42pm.

Visit Mr. Holmes at his home in 221b Baker Street. Very nice place, well-decorated. The housekeeper, a Mrs. Hudson, is quick to offer me refreshments. I ask if she has any jam and muffins, but she tells me she only has jam and crumpets. I send her away almost immediately.

I run the details of the case past Mr. Sherlock Holmes, making sure not to leave any detail out, no matter how insignificant it may seem. The great man sits silently in his chair, his eyes closed, his thin lips puffing on his pipe. Clearly, he is lost in deep thought. His friend, Dr. Watson, sits beside him, eager anticipation marked upon his face as clearly as if someone had painted the words 'eager anticipation' upon his countenance with a particularly large brush.

Suddenly, Holmes leaps to his feet, his angular frame suddenly animated with life.

"I have it!" he exclaims.

"What?" say I.

"Cramp. I have a terrible cramp. That chair really is frightfully uncomfortable, you know."

"Oh," I say, slightly crestfallen. "And what of my mystery?..."

"Ah, that," Holmes says, taking the pipe from his mouth. "I am afraid I do not have a fucking clue."

I sink in my chair, despondent, as Mr. Holmes exits the room. Watson leans over to me and apologises, explaining that Holmes is having 'a bit of an off-day.'

Fat lot of good that is to me. I make my excuses and leave.

14:09pm.

Return back to the Yard, thoroughly disheartened. I run a few questions past the young prostitute, but she has nothing further to add. No doubt at this point, Lord Likely would have had his wicked way with the slatternly lass, but I merely give her some money for a cab, and send her on her way.

16:52pm.

Having read and reread the case notes over and over, I decide to return home. I am thoroughly exhausted and terribly distressed - as much of a bugger as Likely was, he was a thoroughly good detective, a terribly fine swordsman and - dare I say it - a jolly good friend. I am beginning to miss the old blaggard.

Get in the house, only to discover that Mrs. Spunkleford still has not bought any jam. I collapse into my armchair. No Likely, no leads, no jam...truly, this was proving to be the most trying of days.

Blast it, Likely! Where the devil are you, you wretched cove?

- by Inspector A.R. Spunkleford.

And Now An Appeal On Behalf of Scotland Yard.

Have YOU Seen This Gentle-Man?

Lord Likely, Aristocratic Adventurer and Gentle-Man of Action, is missing, presumed deaded. He is an impeccably dressed fellow of good stock, with a well-built frame and a handsome moustache. If anyone should see his lordship, or has any information regarding his possible whereabouts, please contact Scotland Yard IMMEDIATELY.

You can also leave a comment below, or send an electrical mail to lordlikely@gmail.com

Thank you in advance for any help you may provide in helping us to solve this terrible mystery.

Lord Likely is Dead

2009-02-09T01:38:00.002Z

Wherein Mrs. Bapps Is Given The Boot

2009-02-02T18:40:00.004Z

Previously in The Astonishing Adventures of Lord Likely: this happened.

November, 1857.

"WELL, sir, what will you have become of me?" snarled Mrs. Bapps, as Botter carefully trained his rolling-pin on her. "Am I to be arrested, and hung for my crimes? Or will you just kill me now? What? What will you do?"

"I was thinking of a rather more...interesting punishment than that, m'dear," said I, struggling - fruitlessly - to escape the bonds which bound me to the conveyor belt. "I thought, for instance, that I might start off by putting you in shackles..."

"Oh God," sighed Inspector Spunkleford, still shackled beside me.

"Then I propose to give you a damned good spanking, and then once that is done I shall..."

"Blast it, Likely!" cried Spunkleford, unable to contain his despair. "The woman is an evil, twisted lunatic!"

"Well, no-body's perfect, Spunkleford. Furthermore, she does have a fantastically cracking pair of knockers on her."

"I cannot do it, Likely!" bellowed Spunkleford. "I cannot lie here and watch you side-step the law just so you can get in a bit of....rumpy-pumpy!"

"I do not see that you have much choice, dear Inspector," I smiled. "Botter, come, untie me at once!"

"Yes milord," Botter nodded, but no sooner had he turned away from Mrs. Bapps then did she leap upon him, and knock him to the floor.

"Egads, Botter!" I exclaimed. "Never turn your back on a woman, you fool! They are the most cunning and devilish of all God's creatures!"

"Sorry, milord," Botter apologised, in between several blows to the head from the crazed Mrs. Bapps. "My mistake!"

"Your mistake indeed," I sighed, as Mrs. Bapps knocked Botter out cold with a triumphant scream. Then she swept her bread-knife up off the floor, and waved it menacingly in my direction.

"Damn, blast and sod it all to buggery, Likely!" Spunkleford blustered. "I knew your penis would wind up getting us killed one of these days."

I did not reply, despite having a ready supply of stupendously witty quips at my disposal. I had to begrudgingly admit that Spunkleford may have been right, a suspicion which I had the terrible feeling was going to be affirmed any moment, as Mrs. Bapps advanced upon me with her weapon.

"Now...what were you saying, sir?" she grinned, brandishing the blade perilously close to my immaculately groomed moustache. "Something about a punishment, wasn't it?"

"You heard correctly, my dear," I replied calmly. "At least you still have one of your senses left..."

"Oh, quite the joker, aren't we?" Mrs. Bapps said, as she clambered atop me, and straddled my body. "Let us see how long you can keep it up, sir."

"I have never had any problems in that department, I assure you," I quipped.

"I am going to have one last ride, sir," Mrs. Bapps whispered, while she set about unfastening my trousers. "I will take you to Heaven...before I plunge you into HELL!" she cackled, swishing the knife about in front of me.

"It is just as well I am not a religious man," I muttered, as Mrs. Bapps liberated my Lord Palmerston from my under-pants. "Still, there are worse ways to go, I suppose..."

However, just as things were about to get interesting, a boot suddenly appeared out of nowhere, striking Mrs. Bapps firmly in the temple. She let out a faint moan, then slid off me and landed in a crumpled heap on the ground below. I looked up to see who had dared to interrupt my near-death nookie, and saw that wretched bootblack, Mr. Swishbuckle, standing in the doorway, his face pale with shock.

"Daphne!" he cried, taking the steps two at a time. "My dear Daphne!"

"Daphne?" I repeated. "Who the ruddy hell is Daphne?"

"Oh, Daphne," gasped Mr. Swishbuckle, picking up the boot he had just hurled, and cradling it gently in his arms . "I am so sorry my sweet, sweet Daphne. I never meant to hurt you...can you ever forgive me?"

"Of course she cannot forgive you, you blithering fool!" I spluttered.

"Because I have betrayed her so?" sobbed Mr. Swishbuckle.

"No, because she is a FUCKING BOOT, you shoe-shagging shit-crust!"

"You don't know Daphne like I know Daphne," Mr. Swishbuckle cooed. "She is very forgiving, and will come to forgive me in time, I am sure. And the make up sex will be phenomenal."

I felt utterly revulsed by the depraved wretch before me, but not quite as revulsed as I felt upon seeing Botter stagger back to his feet again, rubbing the back of his head gingerly.

"Wha...what happened?" the miserable cove asked blearily.

"Nothing that will compare with what WILL happen should you insist in dily-dallying any further...now ruddy untie me, you twatting great spunk-bubble!"

*****

EPILOGUE

WELL, this has certainly proven to be one of my stranger cases, and that is rather saying something, seeing as how I've encountered murderous prostitutes, undead gentle-men, lesbian pirates and randy monsters in my time. But a shoe-humping bootblack and a baker who puts feet into cakes must surely rank up there with such astonishing adventures.

In the end, after Botter finally untied Spunkleford and I, the fellons were arrested and put on trial. Both were found guilty on several charges, ranging from petty theft to indecent assault upon non-consenting footwear. Naturally, both were duly sent to prison.

Mrs. Bapps managed to fit in quite well with her fellow inmates, and found herself quite popular on account of her ability to bake files into cakes. Mr. Swishbuckle, however, could not bear to be apart from his shoe wives, and was discovered dead in his cell, having (rather ironically) hung himself with his own bootlaces. He left a note saying he had entered into a suicide pact with his 'dear Kenneth', which I presume was the name he had bestowed upon the boot from whence the laces came.

As for Mr. Swishbuckle's apprentice, he was found innocent of any great crime, but for aiding and abetting a known fellon he was made to spend many days cleaning out the hundred of pairs of shoes Mr. Swishbuckle had defiled.

Mr. Poots still has no feet, but has been thrilled to discover the great savings he has made on purchasing shoes and boot-polish.

I am still utterly fabulous.

The End.

- Lord Likely.

One More Question...

Just How Incredible Was This Incredible Inter-Active Adventure? ( surveys)

His lordship thanks each and every one of you who have voted and/or commented on each chapter of this Incredible Inter-Active Adventure. He only wishes he could inter-act with you all a lot more personally. Many thanks indeed!

*****

ATTENTION! His Lordship's newest enterprise, Lord Likely's Emporium of Excellent Things, is still open for business! So why not treat your torsos to a terrific t-shaped shirt, or purchase fine beverage holders or pin-badges bearing his lordship's rugged features? Double-quick, now!

THE LIKELY EMPIRE! Do not forget, dear readers, you can also join his lordship on Twitter, where he writes almost daily, penning anything from terrible puns to complete, miniature adventures for your enjoyment! Befriend him now at http://twitter.com/lordlikely

OR! Make his lordship's acquaintance on Facebook, or join his marvellous Facebook group - The Fantatical Followers of Lord Likely! Truly, you need never be without his lordship ever again!

Next Time In The Astonishing Adventures of Lord Likely: Something different...

One in the Oven

2009-01-27T20:41:00.006Z

Previously in The Astonishing Adventures of Lord Likely: Having been hot on the trail of a villainous bootblack who was severing the feet of his customers, Lord Likely quickly discovered that the bootblack was merely a pawn in another diabolical scheme - Mrs. Bapps the baker had hired the fellow to remove the feet so that she might use them in her baked goods. Upon confronting Mrs. Bapps, however, his lordship was swiftly duped by a cake shaped like breasts, which was laced with sleeping pills, rendering his lordship completely and utterly unconscious...

November, 1857.

I AWOKE with a start, which was just as well, for had I awoken with a finish, I would undoubtedly have been dead.

I woke to find myself in a large, dank cellar - hardly an auspicious location for one as noble as I. Furthermore, I was strapped to a conveyor belt which seemed to be slowly conveying me towards a large, open, bake oven at the other end of the room. I turned my head to find that Inspector Spunkleford was similarly restrained beside me, and was completely out cold.

"Good heavens!" I cried. "She didn't dupe you too, did she, Spunkleford? My word, what a cunning harlot she must be, to outwit a police inspector in her very own - "

"Sorry?" said Spunkleford, stirring from his slumber. "What's going on? I must have nodded off back there...probably wore myself out with all that vomiting, you know. Where on earth am I?"

I sighed and nodded my head sadly. It really was a wonder that London was not completely overrun with criminals, with imbecilic inspectors like Spunkleford on the force.

"Well, Spunkleford, in answer to your question: it rather looks like we are being ferried into a large oven, wherein I assume we are to be baked in our own jackets."

"Egads!" exclaimed Spunkleford. "I...I cannot move, Likely!"

"No. Irritating, isn't it?"

"So...so what are we going to do, Likely? Come on, man! You've been in tighter spots than this!"

"I dare say I have...there were those delightful young twins from the village, for example..." I replied, my eyes glazing over as I recalled the most arousing memory.

"That...that is not what I meant, and you know it!" Spunkleford wailed, panic filling his portly form. "You must have an escape plan, eh? An...an astonishing escape plan?"

"I am afraid not, Spunkleford. I really cannot see a way out of this one, old boy..."

Spunkleford gulped. "Then...then we're done for?"

"We shall be well-done, at any rate," I deadpanned.

Just as I was enjoying my own spectacular wit, the door to the cellar creaked open and Mrs. Bapps herself entered.

"Alright, gents?" she said in a deceptively cheery tone, belying her evil intentions.

"I have been rather better, to be honest," I answered.

"I am sorry to hear that," she grinned as she descended the steps into the cellar. "Still, it will all be over soon, sir, and then you will find a new lease of life as a delicious treat for my customers! Won't that be marvellous?"

"Not really. In fact, I think I'd rather be...well, not cooked, to be quite frank."

"Nonsense, sir! I am going to make you into quite a special dish indeed! I am going to call it 'The Upper Crust'...isn't that clever, sir? I came up with that name all by myself, you know. And I know you will be simply delicious! I have, after all...tasted you already..." she smiled, running her tongue suggestively around her luscious lips. I felt my todger twitch with excitement. She may have been a twisted fiend, but she was a ruddy gorgeous twisted fiend.

"What about me?" blurted Spunkleford. "What will become of me?"

"You," sniffed Mrs. Bapps, "will become some lardy cake."

I chuckled. "That is actually rather witty, you know..." I began, but thought better of continuing my praise upon catching sight of Spunkleford's furious gaze. "Ahem...anyway...you are quite clearly insane, woman! You shall not get away with this!" I bellowed, whilst secretly thinking that she actually probably would.

It was then that I noticed we had stopped moving. For whatever reason, the conveyor belt was no longer conveying.

Mrs. Bapps noticed this as well, and looked around in an utterly bewildered fashion, until her eyes rested on a large lever next to the oven, besides which stood...my man-servant, Botter. Never before had I been so pleased to see his wretched, stinking form.

"Sorry I was late, milord," Botter apologised.

"Better late than never, Botter! Although I may have to..."

"Dock my wages?"

"You know me so well, Botter." I grinned. "Oh, and Botter?"

"Yes, milord?"

"If I were you I would duck, for it seems there is a rather mad baker headed towards you with a staggeringly large bread-knife."

"Righto, milord," Botter replied, and swiftly ducked just as Mrs. Bapps swung at his head with the bread-knife. Botter rolled across the floor and scooped up a rolling pin from nearby, then jumped to his feet and turned just in time to block another attack from Mrs. Bapps.

What followed was a rather surreal duel betwixt man-servant and baker; one armed with a bread-knife, the other wielding a rolling-pin. Botter proved surprisingly nimble and elegant, which was remarkable considering the number of broken bones he has had to endure over the years.

Mrs. Bapps slashed and hacked at my man-servant with frenzied aplomb, but Botter coolly deflected each blow with his rolling-pin. It was almost enough to make me feel proud of the chap, if he was not so terribly repugnant and smelt of urine all the time.

After about five minutes of this action, Botter finally knocked the knife from Mrs. Bapps hand, and had her pressed up against the wall, his rolling-pin pushed firmly against her throat.

"Bravo, Botter!" roared Spunkleford, very much relieved.

"Huzzah!" I cheered. "Just what we kneaded, Botter! Haha! Kneaded! Come on, Mrs. Bapps, you must appreciate that baking-based pun, surely?"

Mrs. Bapps could only manage a gargled moan in return.

"What shall I do with her, milord?" Botter asked, keeping his captive firmly in place.

That was an uncommonly good question from my typically moronic man-servant. What should be done with Mrs. Bapps?

- Lord Likely.

What Should Be Done With Mrs. Bapps?

Now His Lordship Is In Your Hands!

Well, dear readers, now YOU must help to shape this most astonishing of adventures! Simply select one of the options above, and then click 'vote' to cast your...well, vote. After the poll has closed, the most popular choice will be the one pursued in the very next chapter of Lord Likely's Incredible Inter-Active Adventure! Exciting, yes? YES.

Furthermore, if you leave a comment outlining your choice (and the reasons therefore), then one specially-selected commentator will be selected to receive a FREE link to their website or blog in the next thrilling chapter! Woooooh!

Last Week's Worthy Winner: Dear Olga, The Travelling Bra - surely the inspiration behind (or should that be in front) the boob-shaped cake. Lord bless you, m'dear!

ATTENTION! His Lordship's newest enterprise, Lord Likely's Emporium of Excellent Things, is still open for business! So why not treat your torsos to a terrific t-shaped shirt, or purchase fine beverage holders or pin-badges bearing his lordship's rugged features? Double-quick, now!

THE LIKELY EMPIRE! Do not forget, dear readers, you can also join his lordship on Twitter, where he writes almost daily, penning anything from terrible puns to complete, miniature adventures for your enjoyment! Befriend him now at http://twitter.com/lordlikely

OR! Make his lordship's acquaintance on Facebook, or join his marvellous Facebook group - The Fantatical Followers of Lord Likely! Truly, you need never be without his lordship ever again!

A Terribly Important Announcement

2009-01-23T16:29:00.005Z

January, 1858.

Keep http://www.zazzle.co.uk/likely_industries* bookmarked, as more doubtlessly wonderful items shall be added to our range shortly!

Lord Likely's Incredible Inter-Active Adventure shall return next week. In the meantime, do not forget to cast your CRUCIAL vote, and help to decide his lordship's fate!

Lord Likely and the Cake of Doom

2009-01-19T14:38:00.005Z

Previously in The Astonishing Adventures of Lord Likely: His lordship, hot on the trail of a villainous bootblack who had been severing the feet of his customers, tracked down the cad in question and, through an ingenious use of origami, forced the bounder to confess to his crimes. However, the bootblack then surprised Likely by revealing that he had not been acting alone, and was in fact working for Mrs. Bapps the baker, who was using the feet as a special ingredient in her baked goods. Is the bootblack telling the truth? Is Mrs. Bapps really so twisted? And where the ruddy hell is Botter?

Read on, dear readers...

November 1857

"YOU had better not be lying to me, Swishbuckle," I growled, training the blade of my origami cutlass at the bootblack's neck. "Or next time, I shall bring a real cutlass and slice off your balls, and force feed them down your awful throat."

"I ain't lying, sir! Honest! Mrs. Bapps is deranged, sir! She's a sick and twisted individual!"

"Hmmm," I said, lowering my paper sword. "So what is in this for you, Swishbuckle? Why are you working for Mrs. Bapps?"

Mr. Swishbuckle lowered his head meekly. "She...she lets me keep the shoes, sir."

"What?"

"I...I love shoes, sir. I mean...I really love shoes, if you get my meaning..."

I paused a moment to try and get Mr. Swishbuckle's meaning, and then got it, and instantly regretted getting it.

"Are you trying to tell me that you are a shoe-fucker, Swishbuckle?"

Mr. Swishbuckle nodded slowly. "Aye, sir. I...I cannot help myself, sir. That is why I became a bootblack. I just love shoes. I love the smell of the leather, the feel of their tongues against my skin..."

"Good God, man!" I exclaimed. "And you claim Mrs. Bapps is the sick and twisted one? Talking of which, I had better go and pay Mrs. Bapps a visit, I feel. I shall deal with you later, Swishbuckle....Swishbuckle?"

I looked down to see Mr. Swishbuckle gently licking the top of my boot, his hands straying perilously close to his groin.

"Argh! Shoo, shoo!" I cried.

"That's it, sir!" the bastard bootblack panted. "Keep talking dirty!"

"Gah! Get away, your depraved hound!" I yelled, kicking Mr. Swishbuckle square in the mouth, dislodging a couple of teeth in the process. The swine thus subdued, I made a hasty exit.

There are some truly disgusting perverts out there, you know.

*****

I STRODE into Mrs. Bapps' bakery once more, my heroic return rather diminished somewhat by the cheery tring of the shop's bell. Mrs. Bapps looked up and flashed a rather saucy smile at me, which almost made me want to bend her over the counter and roger her senseless. But, somehow, my sense of justice prevailed.

"Mrs. Bapps! The game is up, you sexy fiend!"

"Game? What game?" asked another voice. I turned around to find Inspector Spunkleford innocently chomping on a sandwich, containing a mystery meat which I could only assume to be the flesh from some poor swine's feet.

"Inspector, this woman is a lunatic, and has been using the hacked-off feet of the bootblack's victims in her baked goods!"

"Really?" said Spunkleford, taking another bite from his sandwich.

"Really," I repeated.

"Good heavens!" Spunkleford gasped, still chewing upon his food. I watched patiently as my grizzly news was processed by Spunkleford's rather sluggish brain. His eyes widened in horror. "Then that means..."

I nodded. Spunkleford grimaced, then spun around and proceeded to be violently sick all over a nearby table. I left Spunkleford to empty the contents of his stomach in peace, while I went to apprehend Mrs. Bapps.

"As for you, m'dear," I said, as Mrs. Bapps continued about her work. "I am afraid you shall have to accompany me to the police-station..."

"And what if I refuse?" purred Mrs. Bapps.

"Then I shall have to take you by force!"

"I rather like the sound of that," whispered Mrs. Bapps.

"Fine!" I snapped striding back over to Spunkleford who had, by now, managed to regain his composure. "Spunkleford, your handcuffs, if I may."

Spunkleford nodded and groggily handed me the handcuffs. I muttered a 'thank you' and marched back over to Mrs. Bapps.

"That's it, Likely! Handcuff that harlot at once!" Spunkleford cheered as he watched me go about my duty. "Yes, yes, chain her to the stove - capital idea! Oh yes, you had better frisk her as well, check she has no weapons about her person, eh? Good show! Yes...yes...I must say, you are doing a rather thorough job there, Likely....Good God, man! I don't think she will be hiding any weapons up there! My word! Now what are you doing? Is that your pistol you have taken out of your trousers, there? Wait a moment! That is not a pistol at all! Why, that's your...goddammit, Likely! Stop that! Don't put it in there! Stop it! Stop it at once!"

Naturally, I ignored Spunkleford's demands and continued thrusting wildly at Mrs. Bapps' hindquarters, until I came to an explosive climax which nearly wrenched the very stove from the wall. Thus relieved, I was able to think with a slightly clearer mind, and could refocus on the case in hand.

"Right then, my dear, while you are manacled to the stove in such a fashion, I think you might be able to answer some questions pertaining to the...great big knockers!"

"Sorry?"

"This cake!" I continued, pointing out a cake which was cooling on a tray on the counter beside me. "It looks exactly like a pair of breasts!"

"Oh, yes," said Mrs. Bapps. "I made it for you, your lordship. Thought you might like it! Go on, have a taste! I promise there are no feet in that particular cake."

"Hmmm...I shall just have a nipple," I answered, breaking off a piece and putting it in my mouth. "Mmmm. yes, very delicious indeeed, I must say. Now, where was I? Ah, yes, your crrrrime. Crime. Oh my, I do feel peculiar..." I said, as my vision began to blur.

"Oh, silly me," Mrs. Bapps smiled. "I forgot to tell you! While there are indeed no feet in that cake, there were rather a lot of sleeping pills baked into it. How stupid of me! It must have slipped my mind, sir..."

"You whorrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrr-" I began, before I completely blacked out, and crashed to the floor.

- Lord Likely.

What Should Lord Likely Do Now?

Now His Lordship Is In Your Hands!

The Mystery Unfolds

2009-01-10T20:26:00.008Z

November 1857.

"RIGHT then, Squire," said the brutish oaf in front of me, waving his hacksaw menacingly in my face. "You're going to sit still and let me relieve you of your feet."

I closed my newspaper and sighed. As much as I loved adventuring in my naturally astonishing manner, sometimes I did rather wish I could go about my business without stumbling into some fresh, new caper. All I wanted right now was to have my shoes cleaned to my very exacting standards, yet somehow I was now facing a maniac with a saw who wished to separate me from my fantastically fabulous feet.

"I am afraid that simply will not happen," I eventually replied. "I have grown rather attached to my feet. In fact, you might say that they have become a part of me."

The man grunted. "I don't needs your permission, sir. I think you'll find you're in no position to argue, on account of the fact that I'm the one with the hack-saw, see? You, on the other hand, have nothing. Seems I have the upper hand."

"And I have the lower foot, which I plan to keep. Plus, I have this!" I cried, brandishing my newspaper proudly.

"Pffft. Whacha going to do, read me to death?"

"No, you giant anus. BEHOLD!" I exclaimed, leaping up so that I was standing on my chair. Then I took the newspaper and began to quickly fold it, my hands a blur of paper and news-print.

It should be noted at this point that I am something of an expert in the Japanese art of paper-folding - or origami, as it is known. I meant to mention this a while ago, but it had somehow slipped my mind. Possibly due to booze.

Anyway, I had gone to visit Japan in my younger days, in an attempt to discover myself. Once there, however, I managed to locate myself fairly promptly. It transpired that I was precisely where I had left myself - in my clothes. That riddle resolved, I then decided to explore the country anyway, seeing as how I had paid to travel there and all.

It was whilst travelling that I met Master Ai-Phor, a wise and learned old man who was a teacher in the art of origami. Naturally, he sensed something special in me, and so begun my careful tutelage under Master Ai-Phor's watchful eye, and his other slightly-less watchful eye.

I started with the basics - folding a piece of paper in half, then in four - but I was clearly a gifted student, for in no time at all I was able to create far more complex paper sculptures, from swans and doves; to intricate, finely-detailed models of Buckingham Palace, including an anatomically-correct figure of Her Majesty, the Queen.

Despite my undeniable flair with paper, I was eventually banished from Master Ai-Phor's school. I had gotten completely and utterly rat-arsed on some Saki, which - along with a particularly heavy meal I had eaten that night - conspired to give me a severe case of the shits. I headed straight for the lavatory, but after having expelled the contents of my colon, I realised that there was no toilet paper to be found. Luckily, using my incredible paper-manipulation skills, I managed to locate a couple of old scrolls which I swiftly transformed into paper with which to wipe my poop-splattered posterior. Master Ai-Phor was far from impressed with my incredible initiative, revealing that the old scrolls were, in fact, hundreds of centuries old and had been passed down from generation to generation of his family. He was not terribly pleased to find them now smeared with effluence, no matter how noble and prestigious it may have been

Anyhow, despite being unceremoniously expelled from Master Ai-Phor's school, I had not forgotten those paper-folding skills, and thus I was able to quickly turn my copy of The London Illustrated Picture-Post News into an thoroughly convincing cutlass.

"Stand back, you blaggard!" I roared, waving my makeshift weapon in the bounder's face.

"'S very impressive," the fellow noted, entirely correctly. "But that ain't gonna stop me!"

The cad advanced upon me, and so I had no choice but to slice at him with my creased-sheet cutlass. The swine staggered back in shock, clutching his arm.

"Ya...ya bloody cut me!" he whimpered.

"Oh, don't be such a ponce," I retorted. "'Tis just a paper-cut, I'll warrant."

"Some paper-cut!" the man replied, moving his hand so that I could see the wound. Surely enough, there was now quite a deep gash in his limb. Good lord, I thought. I am even better at this origami lark than I had first thought.

"Well...quite. Now, unless you want more of the same, you skank-infected carbuncle, I suggest you cooperate with me fully, understand?"

"U-understood!" the man whined.

"Good. Now who are you? What is your name?"

"Isn't...isn't that just the same question twice?" the man replied.

"Ah-hem!" I coughed, holding my slightly crumpled cutlass.

"Alright, alright!" the fellow bleated. "My name is William Swishbuckle. I'm...I'm a bootblack by trade, sir. And this," he gestured to the small boy by his side. "This is me apprentice, Jack."

"I see, I see. And what, prey tell, are the two of you doing stalking the streets of London, stealing people's feet, hmmm?"

"I...I...I..."

"Out with it, man!" I yelled, thrusting my cutlass at the wretch's neck, letting the point come to a rest by his throat.

"She made me do it! She made me do it!" the pathetic creature wailed.

"She? She? She who, exactly?"

"That baking lady, sir. Mrs. Bapps. She made me do it!"

"Mrs. Bapps?" I repeated, recalling the comely lass and her heaving bosom, which instantly gave me a ferocious hard-on. "But why? What has she got to do with this sorry affair?"

"She's demented, sir," the bootblack whimpered. "She demanded we get her human feet for her bakin'...said they was a 'special ingredient.'"

I felt my stomach churn at the very notion. Could it be possible? Was Mrs. Bapps really a foot-baking fellon? Or was Mr. Swishbuckle telling lies? I would have to probe deeper...

- Lord Likely.

How Should Likely Further His Investigations?

Now His Lordship Is In Your Hands!

Shocking Shoe-Shine Shenanigans

2009-01-05T21:37:00.006Z

Previously in Lord Likely's Incredible Inter-Active Adventure:

Having been summoned to investigate a startlingly dull case involving the theft of a gentleman's shoes by a tiny, cockney bootblack, Lord Likely quickly gets to work by visiting a nearby bakery and having a raunchy, pudding-based threesome with the owner, Mrs. Bapps, and one of her customers - much to Inspector Spunkleford's chagrin.

After having had some delicious crumpet, Likely decides to finally make his way to the crime scene, where he finds the victim - a Mr. Poots - not only deprived of his footwear, but also of any feet upon which to wear any footwear. Clearly intrigued by such an unusual turn of events, his lordship is almost ready to take the case, until his demands to be paid in whores and whisky are denied by Spunkleford.

In a rage, Likely storms off, only to wind up stepping into a large pile of horse dung, enraging the aristocratic adventurer further. Having taken his anger out on the horse's owner, Likely proceeds to look for somewhere to clean his shoes...and then inadvertently runs into a tiny, cockney bootblack who offers to shine his lordship's shoes...

Will Likely take the lad up on his offer, or will he tell him to sod off? Is our hero to be the next victim of the grubby, foot-stealing urchin? And will his lordship ever get a chance to go back to Mrs. Bapps' bakery for a nice, juicy tart?

Some of these questions may well be answered in the next thrilling chapter of 'The Bastard Bootblack of Bilgecranny Lane' - which commences....now.

*****

"SHINE your shoes, guv?" the filthy child repeated.

I eyed the boy with some suspicion and both my eyeballs, and despite his repellent appearance and complete lack of personal hygiene, I decided to take the wretch up on his offer. After all, it did not do for a man of my standing to be currently standing in shoes caked with horse dung.

"What a stupid question, boy!" I snapped. "Of course I want my ruddy shoes shined! Look at all this shit!" I said, raising my foot up so that the child could get a better view of my sullied sole.

"Shine your shoes, guv!" the boy exclaimed, and beckoned me to follow him. I hesitated briefly, then squelched after him.

We finally came to a stop in a rather dingy alley-way, with a single chair propped up against the wall, a small box of brushes and polish ensconced beneath. The ragamuffin gestured me to take a seat, but I decided to leave the seat precisely where it was, and chose to simply sit upon it instead.

"Right then, my lad," I said, unfurling my copy of The London Illustrated Picture-Post News from my coat pocket. "You had better do a good job! I want these shoes to be so shiny that I can see my face in them, else you will see them in your face!"

The boy quickly and silently got to work, while I took time to peruse my news-paper. As my eyes flitted across the various articles, I suddenly chanced upon a piece about Mr. Poots and his recent mugging, which saw him deprived of both his shoes and his feet. Poor, portly Mr. Poots, I thought. Fancy being robbed by a small child...

I froze. Small child?

I lowered my newspaper, to find myself staring into the eyes of a rather burly, dark-haired man, who was grinning wildly, clutching a hacksaw in his dirty, giant fist. The bootblack, meanwhile, continued his work, seemingly unaware or uninterested in my sudden plight.

Clearly, the time for shoe-shining had passed. Now, 'twas the time for some ruddy action.

- Lord Likely.

What Action Should Lord Likely Action?

What Action Should Lord Likely Action? ( polls)

Now His Lordship Is In Your Hands!

Well, dear readers, now YOU must help to shape this most astonishing of adventures! Simply select one of the options above, and then click 'vote' to cast your...well, vote. After the poll has closed, the most popular choice will be the one pursued in the very next chapter of Lord Likely's Incredible Inter-Active Adventure! Exciting, yes? YES.

Furthermore, if you leave a comment outlining your choice (and the reasons therefore), then one specially-selected commentator will be selected to receive a FREE link to their website or blog in the next thrilling chapter! Woooooh!

Last Week's Worthy Winner: Mr. Brent Diggs, of The Ominous Comma, just because I am delighted to see him returned! Huzzah and hurrah, good sir!

Birthday Announcements! I would just like to wish dear Maud Dreadfu l a slightly belated, but no less heartfelt, happy birthday! And further birthday well-wishes must go to the delightful Sarah, who uncannily shares her birthdate with the aforementioned Maud. Hope you had a simply marvellous time, my dears, and got everything you wanted! Alas, I could not pop my present in the post, as it is still attached to my body. Still, 'tis the thought that counts, eh?

Pathetic Cry For Attention Corner: Mr. Diesel - he of humor-blogs.com fame - has written to me pleading with me to use my vast influence and considerable power to help gather voters to push his 'Mattress Police' web-log to victory in the Web-Log Awards. Being the benevolent soul that I am, I have assented to his pleas, and urge you to all go hither and vote for Mattress Police henceforth!

There. Hopefully, in return, Mr. Diesel may see fit to elevate my web-log to its rightful position at the number one spot in the humor-blogs rankings. Or at least procure several hussies for my enjoyment.

Toodle-pip!

Reaching A Resolution

2008-12-31T20:30:00.005Z

December the Thirty-First, 1857.

AS 1857 slouches off into the distance like an elderly old man who has just soiled his undergarments, it is time to welcome in the far more sprightly (and far less urine-stained) new year. Huzzah!

As well as heralding a night of unbridled drinking and revelry, the coming of a new year is also the time when people decide to draw up their new year's resolutions, with which they hope to better themselves in the upcoming twelve months. Normally, I hold no truck with such ridiculous rituals, but having consumed one whisky too many, I decided that I would try and make a list of resolutions for myself. However, I quickly realised that I had set myself something of an impossible task. How exactly does one improve upon perfection?

In the end, this was all I could muster:

Ah, well. At least this is one resolution I shall have no trouble in keeping.

Happy New Year, friends!

- Lord Likely.

Next Time in The Astonishing Adventures of Lord Likely: Likely resumes his Incredible Inter-Active Adventure! Hooray!

The Likely Before Christmas

2008-12-24T21:40:00.014Z

The following verse was composed by a young, brothel-owning woman, by the name of Ms. Elizabeth Stuffings, who had the pleasure of meeting my lordly self this Christmas Eve. The experience was so incredibly erotic and astonishing, that Ms. Stuffings was compelled to write about it almost immediately. Do please enjoy.

'Twas the night before Christmas, when all through the house
Not a creature was stirring, not even a mouse.
When all of a sudden through the chimney did fall,
A figure who cried, 'Ow! I've twisted a ball!'

By the sudden torrent of curses so blue,
I knew 'twas not St. Nicolas sat in my flue.
Then, in the moonlight I glimpsed ever so slightly,
The handsome face of the Lord they call Likely.

"'Tis you!" I whispered as I pulled on my nightie,
"I've heard talk of you and your organ so mighty!
But prey, good sir, may I ask before you leave,
What brings you to my whore-house on this Christmas Eve?"

He said, "I came here because I feel for your plight,
Forced upon gentlemen, night after night.
I wish to donate, a gesture of charity,
By which I mean cock," he added for clarity.

At the sound of that word, the doors flew open wide,
And dozens of ladies came pouring inside.
They wanted his lordship to give generously,
And he wanted to oblige immediately.

In a flash all disrobed and stood naked and bare,
'Twas freezingly cold but no-one seemed to care.
All eyes fell on Likely, nude as the day he was born,
And in particular his magnificent horn.

"Come Donna! Come, Debbie! Come, Karen and Kerry!
On, Sarah! On, Sandra! On Tina and Terri!
On the top of the table! Up by the wall!
Now hump away! Hump away! Hump away all!"

The girls all swarmed forwards like big-titted bees,
Some draped themselves on him, some fell to their knees,
Before long there was thrusting and grinding galore,
Not an inch was wasted by one single whore.

His eyes how they twinkled! His ball-sack how merry!
His cheeks were like roses, his nose like a cherry!
His droll little mouth was drawn up like a bow,
And his penis gushed forth with marvellous man-snow.

As their bodies writhed in sexual ecstasy
His lordship looked up and then beckoned to me.
"Come, my dear," he said. "'Tis the season of giving,
Now drop your knickers and start bally well living!"

I spoke not a word, but went straight to my work,
He pulled off my stockings, and turned with a jerk.
Then, laying his finger aside of his nose,
He took up his rod, and up my chimney he rose!

He pumped me quite roughly but I did not mind,
A better Christmas present one could not hope to find,
Then I heard him exclaim, with orgasmic delight,
"Happy Christmas all, and to all a ruddy good-night!"

- Lord Likely.

Next Time in The Astonishing Adventures of Lord Likely: Lord Likely's Incredible Inter-Active Adventure Resumes, Wherein His Lordship Is On The Trail Of A Villainous Bootblack!

The previous chapter may be read here, where you may also still cast your vote determining his lordship's next course of action!

Many thanks to dear Olga, The Traveling Bra, for my marvellous festive portrait. Truly, I look most seasonal indeed - and as incredibly handsome as ever, of course. Huzzah and hurrah!

Merry Christmas and a Happy New Year To You All!

In Which His Lordship Puts His Foot In It

2008-12-15T11:04:00.000Z

November, 1857.

"I SHALL indeed take the case!" I bellowed enthusiastically. "Provided I am sufficiently remunerated for my services, of course."

"Absolutely, Likely. We shall pay you your usual fee, of that there is no question!" replied Inspector Spunkleford.

"Hmmm...no, dear inspector. Not this time. I think this time I should like to be paid rather differently."

"Oh?" Spunkleford said, dread visibly filling his eyes.

"This time, I should like to be paid in whisky and whores!" I beamed. "Not necessarily in that order, either."

Spunkleford let out a heavy sigh. "No, Likely. Absolutely not! You know damn well that Scotland Yard cannot pay you in such a manner. Absolutely not."

"Oh, come now, inspector! You can just file them under expenses, or something! No-one shall be any the wiser!"

"I shall know," Spunkleford said.

"Um...sorry to interrupt," said Mr. Poots softly. "I was just wondering if there is any chance that I may be taken to the hospital? I have had my feet severed off, after all, and I rather fear that I am rapidly losing blood..."

"Shut your face, man!" I snapped. "Can you not see we are talking here?"

"Awfully sorry. Yes, of course. My sincerest apologies," Mr. Poots blurted, and went back to nursing his bloodied stumps.

"So, you refuse to budge at all on this issue, hmm?" I continued.

"I am afraid so, Likely. I have been more than accommodating to you in the past, but this is really too much." Spunkleford answered, his eyes lowered.

"And after all I have done for you and your wretched force?"

"I...I am frightfully sorry, Likely."

"Well then, inspector, you may take your case and insert it forcibly into your own cock-hole, for all I care!" I sniffed.

"Oh, come on Likely, don't be like that..."

"Good day to you, sir!" I curtly replied, turning sharply on my heels. "Come on Botter, we are leaving!" I added, patting my thigh thrice to summon my man-servant, much like one may summon a filthy, mongrel dog (which, to all intents and purposes, is precisely what Botter is).

With that we left the crime-scene, Spunkleford's protests fading into the distance.

*****

"THE ruddy nerve of the man!" I growled as Botter and I headed to the High Street to secure ourselves a cab home. "How many times have I saved his sorry behind, eh?"

"I know," Botter sympathised.

"No, really. How many times have I saved Spunkleford's sorry behind, Botter? I wish to have an exact figure! I plan to write a very stiff letter to his superiors about his conduct!"

"A stiff letter, milord?" Botter echoed. "Are you going to write it on cardboard, milord?"

"Oh do shut up," I sighed, stepping out into the road. "Oh, shit."

"What is it, milord?"

"Shit!" I cried, pointing to a large pile of horse-dung into which I had just inadvertently put my lordly foot. "A great big, pile of shit!"

"Oh dear," Botter said, rather pointlessly.

"Well that is just cocking fabulous," I wailed, surveying my shit-covered shoe. "Not only have I been denied whisky and whores, but now this happens. Bugger it all!"

It was then that I noticed a hansom cab parked a few feet away from the offending crap-pile, the driver sat atop it, casually smoking a cigarette. Using my exemplary deductive skills, I reasoned that the horse pulling said cab must be the culprit responsible for my current woes.

"You there, cabbie!" I yelled, hobbling up to the cab. "Is that yours?"

The cabbie turned round to follow my accusatory finger, which was pointing at the foot-menacing feces behind him.

"Nah, mate," the cabbie replied, drawing upon his cigarette. "It's me horse's."

My shoulders sagged upon being confronted with such astonishing stupidity.

"I didn't mean...I mean...oh, never mind!" I whined. "Your horse's equine effluence has caused my foot to become smeared in shinola, and I want to know what you propose to do about it!"

"Nothin'," came the casual reply.

"Nothing?"

"Nothin'."

"Listen, you cretinous prole, I demand that your horse faces the sternest punishment for his terrible crime!" I cried.

"What do you want me to do? Hang me horse by his neck 'til he be dead, jus' 'cos you weren't lookin' where you were puttin' your plates of meat? Yer 'aving a laugh, aincha?" the cabbie retorted, in a language which I was not entirely certain was anything even approaching English.

"Listen, my good man - and I use both the terms 'good', and 'man' extremely loosely here - I suggest you do something about this sorry situation, before I force you to come down here and reinsert the creature's crapulence back up it's anus with your own, bare hands!"

"Ah, piss off," cussed the cabbie.

"I beg your pardon?"

*****

WE left the cabbie with his head firmly lodged up the backside of his precious horse. Despite the fact I still had a shit-encrusted foot, my mood had lightened somewhat after such a random act of vengeful violence.

"I think that cab-driver shall be keeping a much closer eye on his animal's droppings in the future, eh Botter?" I joked.

"Very good, milord."

"Anyway, enough merriment. I am going to see if I can't find something to wash off this excrement...you wait here, Botter."

"Very good, milord."

"Very good," I repeated, and set off.

I must have wandered about the wretched streets for ages in search of a tap or a trough or even a ruddy puddle in which to clean my shoe, but to no avail. I could hardly be surprised though, the filthy state of the capital's commoners should have been a clear indicator that they are not very well acquainted with water.

I was about to give up my search when I suddenly heard a small voice behind me chirp up.

"Shine yer shoes, guv?"

I looked behind me to see a small, rag-wearing boy stood there, boot polish all over his face and clothes, a single brush clasped firmly in one his grubby paws.

"Shine yer shoes, guv?" he repeated.

- Lord Likely.

Shine Yer Shoes, Guv?

Now His Lordship Is In Your Hands!

A Large Extension!

AS Christmas-Time fast approaches, like a tinsel-covered steam-engine, the poll for this current chapter of Lord Likely's Incredible Inter-Active Adventure shall remain open until well after Christmas Day, while his lordship partakes of some festivities and pulls a cracker or two. So you shall all have plenty of time to cast your vote whilst scrubbing your sprouts and polishing your baubles.

Furthermore, there shall be a bonus, festive edition of The Astonishing Adventures of Lord Likely at the end of the week! Truly, 'tis the season to be jolly!

Toodle-pip!

The Cream of the Crop

2008-12-08T11:42:00.001Z

November, 1857.

"LIE back and close your eyes, and I shall deliver a creamy surprise!" I said, as I unsheathed my raging Lord Palmerston, which was, by now, stiffer than a corpse lying in a lake on a freezing cold winter's day.

"Mmmm," Mrs. Bapps replied, licking her lips. "Sounds delicious!"

"Jolly good!" I said, and then I began to furiously pound my mighty organ, faster and faster until I reached the desired conclusion, whereupon I expelled great ribbons of my magnificent man-milk all over the busty bakers' beautiful face.

It was as I was continuing my ejaculations that the feeble tinkle of the shop's bell heralded the arrival of a customer. It appeared that in her haste to engage in the act of intercourse, Mrs. Bapps had forgotten to put the 'closed' sign up on the shop's door, and thus there was now a rather bewildered (and rather pretty) young lady standing in the doorway, watching the incredibly erotic scene atop the counter unfold before her very eyes, with considerable disbelief.

"Um...are...are you open?" the filly asked, finally.

"Only if you are, my dear!" I replied, as Mrs. Bapps hungrily licked my noble nob-end clean.

*****

I bade farewell to Mrs. Bapps and her delightful customer some two hours later, having made sure to attend to both females before I left. Exhausted, but completely content, I decided to finally make my way to the crime-scene on Bilgecranny Lane, where Inspector Spunkleford and my man-servant, Botter, were waiting.

"Ah, Likely. So glad you could finally join us!" Spunkleford said, his words draped in sarcasm.

"I would apologise for keeping you, Spunkleford, but I do not imagine that you have anything else to be doing." I retorted.

"Hmph," Spunkleford snorted, clearly outwitted again. "Well, you are here now, I 'spose. Likely, this is Mr. Poots, he is the poor victim of this terrible shoe-theft."

"Good day," said Mr. Poots, a rather portly, red-faced fellow with grey hair, who was sitting in a boot-black's chair. I tipped my hat in return.

"This is Lord Likely, Mr. Poots. He helps us with our investigations, from time to time," explained Spunkleford. "Maybe you would care to tell his lordship how you came to be denied one hundred per-cent of your shoes, sir?"

"Of course!" Mr. Poots replied. "Well, I was walking down this very lane late last night, when all of a sudden I was confronted by this awful fellow who persisted in asking if I would like my shoes shined. I declined many times over, but the rogue persisted, until finally he became rather aggressive and set about me, knocking me quite unconscious. When I came too, I was sat here, considerably lighter in the footwear department."

"I see," I said. "And can you recall any features of this cad? His height? His hair-colour? His attire?"

"Now let me see," Mr. Poots mused. "He must have been about four foot nine, and..."

"Wait one bastard moment," I interjected. "Four foot nine? Was this chap a midget or something?"

"Oh! No, no. He was a child, you see. About nine or ten years old, I'd say."

"What?" I bellowed. "You mean to say you were robbed by a perishing school-boy?"

"I...well...I...yes. Yes." Mr. Poots blustered.

"Good heavens, man! What is wrong with you? Did you not think to box this lad about the ears and send him packing? I mean, honestly! 'Twas just a child!"

"I...I'm not as young as I used to be," whined Mr. Poots, looking rather ashamed.

"No, indeed not. Had you been considerably younger - say six or seven - I may well understand your predicament. I just - " I stopped in my tracks, as I suddenly noticed something about Mr. Poots which disturbed me. "Tell me, Poots, did this over-powering ruffian take anything else, at all?"

"No, no," nodded Mr. Poots. Then he paused. "Well, apart from my feet, of course."

"Ah, so you had noticed!" I excalimed, as I observed the two bloody stumps where Poots' feet had once been.

"Yes. Rather a nuisance, I must say."

"Hmm, suddenly this case has become interesting!" I beamed.

"So you'll help us?" Spunkleford implored.

I stroked my chin thoughtfully, and took a deep breath.

- Lord Likely.

Shall Lord Likely Help to Crack the Case?

Now His Lordship Is In Your Hands!

Wherein His Lordship Has His Cake And Proceeds To Eat It

2008-12-02T18:09:00.003Z

November, 1857

"Well then, sir," purred the beautiful, buxom baker Mrs. Bapps as she leant forward, giving me another glorious glimpse of her heaving bosom. "Do you see anything you would like?"

"Rather!" I beamed.

"Yes?" she continued, scooping up some cream from off of the top of a nearby cake with her finger, and then licking it suggestively as she eyed me hungrily, almost as if I were one of the many creamy desserts lining her shop's shelves .

"Yes! I think I should like...a cake!" I said, finally.

Mrs. Bapps' expression changed to one of sheer disappointment. "Pardon me, sir?"

"I would like a cake, m'dear! All this adventuring gives one a frightful appetite, you know! Thus, I would rather like a delicious cake!"

"Are...are you sure, sir?"

"Definitely and absolutely!" I confirmed. "I demand delicious cake this instance!" I boomed, banging my fist upon the counter-top for added emphasis.

"Certainly sir, certainly!" Mrs. Bapps exclaimed. "I must say, you are very forceful, sir!"

"I simply know what I want, and demand that I get it!" I answered casually.

"Oh, you're going to get it, sir!" gasped Mrs. Bapps, and then before I knew what was happening, she was up on the counter and forcing her mouth upon mine.

"This is all well and good," I said, between long, passionate kisses. "But this does not get me a delicious cake now, does it?"

Needless to say, my protest went unheard, and it was not long before I too found myself up on the counter, with Mrs. Bapps sitting astride me, her tongue rammed so far down my throat I thought she might be attempting to lick my anus clean at the same time.

"Damnation, Likely! Control yourself!" Inspector Spunkleford spluttered indignantly, spraying crumbs from his own delicious cake all over the place.

"I did not even do anything this time, you ruddy fool!" I responded, as Mrs. Bapps tore open my shirt. "I am afraid it is one of the perils of being so ridiculously handsome and so completely desirable!"

"Hmph!" snorted the inspector. "Well, we are going, aren't we Botter?"

"Are we?" my bewildered man-servant replied, no doubt hoping to catch a brief glimpse of Mrs. Bapps' silken thighs or peachy buttocks.

"Yes! Yes we are! Right this very instant!" And with that - having first ensured that he had finished his cake - the inspector stormed off, dragging Botter behind him, which left me with no other alternative but to focus all my attentions on the delightful dough-kneading damsel currently sat atop me.

I grabbed the totty by her hips and pulled her off me, and then I proceeded to clamber atop her, whereupon I set about the act of foreplay, being the highly considerate gentle-man I am.

"Good heavens, my dear, you are very wet indeed!" I observed.

"That's because you have your fingers in my sticky pudding!" Mrs. Bapps answered.

"I'll say I have!" I grinned.

"No, really, sir - you seem to have inadvertently thrust your hand into one of my sticky puddings!"

"What?" I asked, looking down to see my honourable hand was indeed currently resting inside one of the aforementioned puddings. "Oh! Oh I see," I said, somewhat sheepishly.

"Well, then, sir," the big-breasted beauty cooed as I extracted my hand from the baked confection. "What would you like to do to me next?"

- Lord Likely.

Now His Lordship Is In Your Hands!

Well, dear readers, now YOU must help to shape this most astonishing of adventures! Simply select one of the options above, and then click 'vote' to cast your...well, vote. After the poll has closed, the most popular choice will be the one pursued in the very next chapter of Lord Likely's Incredible Inter-Active Adventure! Exciting, yes? YES.

Furthermore, if you leave a comment outlining your choice (and the reasons therefore), then one specially-selected commentator will be selected to receive a FREE link to their website or blog in the next thrilling chapter! Woooooh!

Last Week's Worthy Winner: That scoundrel and cad, Reverend Qelqoth, now residing at his new virtual abode Pwn Greenland. Good work, you devil! Huzzah and hurrah!

So do not delay, dear readers...his lordship awaits your instruction! Make him do your bidding!

An Astonishing Announcement! Lord Likely is thoroughly pleased to have had his web-log approved by those esteemed (if drunk) fellows at the World Blog Council. Not only have these fine, upstanding gents approved of his lordship's journals, but they have also deemed them to be 'excellent', an opinion which his lordship shares totally and completely. Furthermore, the council have also bestowed this fine certificate upon this very web-log, which is not only very special indeed, but will also come in very handy in covering a rather curious stain on the ceiling of his lordship's drawing-room.

Many thanks indeed, sirs! I tip my hat and lower my trousers in your honour, even in light of your scandalous aspersions upon my noble lineage!

Fellow readers may peruse the full verdict hither, where they may also vote upon the fabulousness of my diaries, as you will all undoubtedly wish to do! It is your duty!

Bapps and Buns

2008-11-27T21:42:00.001Z

November, 1857.

AS I stood contemplating my next move, my ponderings were suddenly interrupted by the arrival of Inspector Albert Spunkleford of Scotland Yard, who bounded across the road toward me, huffing and puffing as he put his sizeable frame through such clearly untypical exertions.

"Ah! Likely!" he wheezed. "Jolly good to see you, old boy!"

"I imagine it would be," I replied.

"Thank you for responding to my telegram quite so promptly, Likely!" Spunkleford continued. "I dare say you are all fired up and ready for another rip-roaring adventure, eh?"

"Well actually, dear inspector, I was about to go and sample some delicious, hot buns over at that bakery over there," I said, pointing to the shop on the other side of the street.

"What? But why?" Spunkleford asked, then his face fell when he saw that I was pointing at Mrs. Bapps' Bakery. "Oh heavens, no, Likely! Can we not have one investigation wherein you do not wind up underneath some poor woman or other?"

"Of course, inspector!" I brightened. "This time I shall make certain that I am on top!"

With that I strode across the street, with Spunkleford grumbling on behind me.

*****

The shop's bell gave a rather pathetic little tring as I entered Mrs. Bapps' Bakery - hardly a fanfare befitting the entrance of one as utterly fabulous as I. Nevertheless, the bell seemed to do the trick, and no sooner had we entered the establishment then did Mrs. Bapps herself emerge from a back-room with a cheery, "Good day, gentlemen!"

I took a moment to behold the woman, and found her most pleasing to the eye, and indeed the other eye. She was a well-built, blonde lady, with lovely, smiling green eyes. She also looked rather dirty - not physically, you understand, although her face and apron were covered with flour as would be expected from one in her trade - but she had an air about her that suggested she certainly knew how to butter a gentleman's baguette, if you follow my meaning.

"So, how can I help you fine gentlemen?" Mrs. Bapps continued as she dried her hands on a towel. "Can I interest you in a nice hot bun, maybe?" she continued, as she turned around and bent over to open up the door of the oven behind her, revealing a rather shapely derrière in the process.

"Mmmm," I said approvingly. "Those buns certainly do look quite, quite appetising!"

"Rather! They smell delicious!" exclaimed Spunkleford, whose thoughts rarely strayed further south than his stomach.

"There you go then, gents!" chirped Mrs. Bapps, as she laid a tray of buns on the counter before her. "Fresh out of the oven!"

Botter and Spunkleford hungrily tucked in to the piping-hot food, while I refrained. I never eat on the job, you know.

"Are you not having any, sir?" Mrs. Bapps enquired.

"Not yet," I grinned.

"Oh?'

"You see, m'dear, I am afraid to say that I have precisely no interest in your baked goods. I think I should instead like to order something rather more...delectable."

Mrs. Bapps smiled and leant over the counter, which gave me a fantastic view of her considerable cleavage, the sort of cleavage one could lose one's wallet in, and then possibly one's hand as well.

"So, sir...what would you like, then?"

"Well..." I began.

- Lord Likely.

Vote Now!

Now His Lordship Is In Your Hands!

An Incredible Inter-Active Adventure

2008-11-23T01:04:00.002Z

November, 1857.

THE fog hung about the streets of London like an unwanted guest at a party, getting in everyone's way and generally souring the mood somewhat. Unlike an unwanted guest at a party, however, the fog was considerably harder to eject, being as it was a formless cloud of minute water droplets.

"Blasted fog!" snapped a rather irritated gentle-man as he fumbled his way through Nubstraddle Road and onto Bilgecranny Lane. "Bugger it, where the hell am I now?"

As the fellow peered through the fog around him in an attempt to gain his bearings, a small voice suddenly piped up behind him.

"Shine yer shoes, guv?"

The man turned around and strained his eyes through the murky darkness, until he picked out the small figure of a scruffily dressed urchin a few feet away.

"What, boy?" the man asked angrily.

"Shine yer shoes, guv?" the child repeated.

"What? Why on earth would I want my shoes shined at this time of night, in this sort of weather? I can barely see the road before me, let alone behold the cleanliness of my shoes, you blasted wretch!"

There was a pause, and then, rather innevitably, the question was repeated.

"Shine yer shoes, guv?"

"No, I said! No! Bugger off with you, lad!" cried the increasingly irate gent. "Confound it! I shall never find my way home at this rate..." the man continued, turning his back on the boy and moving off in the direction he had come. But, no sooner had he taken a few short steps, then he suddenly found himself confronted by the the boy once more, his pale, grey face raised up.

"Shine yer shoes, guv?"

*****

"READ ALL ABOUT IT! GENTLEMAN'S SHOES STOLEN! REEEAAAD ALL ABAAAHHHHT IT!"

That was the cacophonous racket which assaulted my delicate ears as I stepped out of my carriage and onto the filth-caked streets of London Town. Really, it was enough to make a man wish he could vomit into his own earholes.

I strode up to the newspaper vendor responsible for the noise, and snatched a copy of The London Illustrated Picture-Post News from his hand.

"Will you keep that bloody noise down, you disgusting oaf! I am feeling rather fragile to-day, on account of my terrible, terrible hang-over. It feels like a herd of wilderbeast are stampeding through my head, and then having sex with each other," I said.

"Well, excuse me sir, but people must hear the news!" the vendor replied.

"I am sure people are more than capable of reading the newspapers for themselves, without you screaming the headlines at them," I parried.

"Don't be too sure, sir," the cockney continued. "In this increasingly busy and industrious time we live in, people are finding themselves with less time to peruse the newspapers. While I do not disagree that print is still very much a valid medium for dispensing such information, I firmly believe that new delivery methods will be developed as we find ourselves with further constraints upon our time. You mark my words, sir, one day there shall be people like me in every street, 'ollering the news at people for their own convenience."

What a curiously eloquent and forward-thinking newspaper-vendor, I thought to myself. But while those were indeed my thoughts, what I actually said was: "Oh shut up, you fanny."

"Milord!" said my useless man-servant Botter, who had followed me out of the carriage and who had then picked up a copy of the newspaper for himself. "Isn't this the very mystery we've been called to investiage?"

Botter held up the newspaper and pointed at the shoe-theft story about which the newspaper vendor had been yelling. While I desperately wanted to chide Botter for being woefully incorrect and inept, the bastard was actually completely spot-on. I had, just an hour previously, received an urgent communication from Inspector Spunkleford of Scotland Yard, asking me to help him investigate the theft of a gentleman's shoes. While I initially dismissed such a case as far beneath my considerable talents, a twenty pound fee and the promise of free whisky had soon won me over. As well as an overwhelming urge to see justice prevail, of course.

"Yes, I do believe it is, Botter," I concurred, reading the news article. "You little shit," I added, not wanting to miss an opportunity to ridicule Botter anyway.

"Well, shall we move on to Bilgecranny Lane, then milord?" Botter asked.

"I suppose so," I mumbled, surveying the area. I immediately noticed a small baker's shop on the other side of the road, which belonged to the tantalisingly-named Mrs. Bapps, and which made the incredibly erotic promise of 'hot buns' on a poster in the shop's window. Food would be good, I thought. And maybe some intercourse, too.

Further down the street, there was a public house called The Rutting Stag, which also appealed. There really is nothing like chasing away the ill-efects of an all-night drinking session than by drinking more alcohol the following morning. And maybe some intercourse, too.

Both these establishments sounded much more alluring than the prospect of hunting for some misplaced footwear, and I found myself rather torn between them.

Oh, what is a lord to do?

- Lord Likely.

Vote Now!

Now His Lordship Is In Your Hands!

Lord Likely's Ejaculate

2008-11-18T23:38:00.001Z

November 18th, 1857.

- Lord Likely.

Next Time in The Astonishing Adventures of Lord Likely!

Witness the awesome spectacle that was the previous Incredible Inter-Active Adventure, by venturing hither.

Incredible Illustrated Indiscretions: A Warning

2008-11-14T01:44:00.001Z

November 14th, 1857.

Good day, all!

Apologies for the tardiness in updating my fantastic journals this week, but after I completed my two-hundredth entry last week, I celebrated long and hard, and hard and long. Indeed, the hangover only vanished two hours ago, when I found myself naked in a field, getting my face licked by a dirty, old cow.

But that is quite enough about Baroness Mirkin.

Thus, as I am still in a rather hazy state and barely able to string two syllables together, I have decided to publish another of my Incredible Illustrated Indiscretions this week in place of an Astonishing Adventure. While the following strip cartoon may be light on words, I do believe you shall find it no lighter in sheer excellence, for everything I touch turns to gold!

Which should make my penis very valuable indeed.

Now: on with the merriment!

Toodle-pip!

- Lord Likely.

Next Time in The Astonishing Adventures of Lord Likely: Something wondrous, I do not doubt.

Hungry for more inter-net based fiction? Then may I suggest you peruse The Web Fiction Guide, Pages Unbound or The Blog Fiction Blog, all of which are thoroughly excellent, due in no small part to the fact that I am listed with them all. Huzzah!

The Likely Empire - Further Reading for Disturbed Minds.

Digital Sickbag | gaup | The Carrotty Kid

Two Hundred

2008-11-05T23:32:00.003Z

October 6th, 1857.

These past couple of days have born witness to an event so earth-shattering that I dare say the world will never be the same again. Truly, the incredible developments of this week will reverberate throughout history, and will be spoken of in awe for many, many generations to come.

For you see, dear readers, this week marks the two-hundredth entry in my incredible journals.

The ink had no sooner dried on my previous chapter when I realised that I had also just completed the one hundred and ninety-ninth account of my astonishing adventures, and that my two-hundredth addition was imminent. Needless to say, I was left exhilarated, thrilled and enormously aroused by this turn of events, and decided immediately to celebrate this most fabulous occasion in a manner worthy of its magnificence.

"Botter!" I exclaimed, tipping over my ink-pot with my fully engorged member. "I am about to mark my two-hundredth entry into my fabulous diaries!"

"Well done, milord," Botter replied.

"Yes, it was rather," I smiled. "Do you know what, Botter? I feel like celebrating!"

"Oh, must you?" Botter answered, the colour draining from his face.

"Yes! Yes I must! Two-hundred insertions is not to be overlooked, you know!" Suddenly a most wonderful and fantastic idea popped into my equally wonderful and fantastic head. "Egads! That's it, Botter!"

"What's what?"

"I shall celebrate my two-hundredth insertion by performing two hundred insertions tomorrow! And by 'insertions' I think you know what I mean..."

"Oh no, milord," Botter gasped.

"Oh YES! Botter, you must find me two hundred eminently pumpable women, post-haste! This is one celebration that will most certainly go off with a bang! Or two hundred."

"B-but where am I going to find two hundred women at such short notice?" my foul-smelling man-servant whined.

"If you book them, Botter, they shall come," I grinned. "And then, they shall come hard."

*****

I awoke the next morning to a cacophonous racket from outside the mansion. I flung back the bedcovers, slipped on a dressing gown to preserve my modesty (I always sleep nude, so that I am ready for action in a trice) and popped my top hat on my head. Then I opened up the windows of my bed-chamber, and stepped out onto the balcony.

This is what I saw.

Row upon row of women, all clamouring for my lordly love-shaft. A mass of mimsy as far as the eye could see, a veritable sea of snatch. 'Twas like I had died and gone to fanny heaven.

"I did it milord!" piped a feeble voice from below. There, standing beneath my window, was Botter, looking considerably the worse for wear. "It took me all night, but I did it milord!"

"Yes, yes," I snapped. "What do you want, a medal?"

"Yes?"

"Well tough titties, Botter! I do not believe they give out medals for being appalling. Now move out of the way, you wretched oik! I rather fear you are cramping my style."

Botter apologised and skulked away, leaving me alone with hundreds of nob-hungry females.

"LADIES, LADIES!" I yelled, in order that I might be heard over the row. As my voice boomed across the Likely Estate, the women ceased their nattering and turned to face me. With their attention fully focused on my fine form, I shed my dressing gown and bared my naked glory to the crowd.

"Now then...who's first?" I beamed.

I shall never forget what happened next, as long as there is still breath left in my beautiful body. As soon as the words left my lips, excitable screams filled the air, and the women surged forward as one, before turning upon one another as they attempted to fight their way to the front of the queue, and thus the tip of my shaft.

Dresses were torn, teeth were broken, legs were crushed and hats were trampled upon; it was a scene of complete and utter cock-fuelled chaos.

Naturally, I was overjoyed, although my joy soon turned to deep concern, as the fighting became more and more brutal, leaving me wondering if any of the women present would be left in a fit enough (or attractive enough) state to receive my thunderous thrustings. The grounds of my estate were beginning to resemble some sort of battlefield, albeit a battlefield with big, beautiful breasts.

"Jesus cocking Christ!" I yelled, as I watched one unfortunate woman's nose explode in a shower of scarlet as another lady smashed at it with her parasol. "This is going to be a ruddy bloodbath!"

Just as I was beginning to regret my course of action, I noticed a rather stunning, dark-haired figure battling her way towards me, staving off her rivals with the judicious use of her handbag, which seemed to be packing quite a wallop. As she neared me, I noticed that her dress had been torn in such a way that it left one of her fantastically fulsome and firm funbags exposed, which I recognised almost immediately.

"Dorothy?" I cried.

"It is I, my lord!" panted the delectable Dorothy Mount-Worthy.

"I thought as much!" I proclaimed. "I never forget a breast!"

I had already had the pleasure of ploughing Miss Mount-Worthy a couple of months previously, along with her good friend Maud Dreadful. The latter had proven to be anything but dreadful, and Miss Mount-Worthy was every bit as thrilling as her surname suggested. To see her again made my heart leap into my mouth, and I wasted no time in descending the staircase to my front door, to welcome the delightful filly as she finally staggered up the stairs to the entrance of my mansion.

Even with her clothes torn apart, her hair ruffled and with a few bruises upon her arm from her struggles, dear Dorothy still looked as gorgeous as she had done on that day back in August, and as her big, beautiful blue eyes beheld me, her full, kissable lips curled into a heart-warming smile. I knew right there and then that she was most certainly the woman for me.

At least for the next couple of hours.

I kissed her briefly in the doorway (which I do not mean in any euphemistic form whatsoever), and ushered her gently into the house, slamming the door hard behind me, and bolting it up for good measure, lest any of the sex-starved slatterns outside tried to break in.

"'Tis a pleasure to see you again, my dear," I said, as I drew the final lock fast. "Tell me, what brings you back up this way?"

"Well, my lord..." Dorothy began.

"Please, there is no need for such formality! We have, after all, exchanged bodily fluids and explored one another's genitals! You may call me by my first name, my love."

"Oh!" Dorothy exclaimed. "I...I am afraid I do not know your first name."

"Ah. Well, never mind. You may call me 'your lordship' instead, then."

"Well, your lordship, a rather strange little man came and told me about this event you were holding, and I thought that it sounded like far too much fun to pass up. And, seeing as how to-day is my birthday and all, I thought I would...treat myself..."

"It is your birthday? To-day? Good heavens! Then we must have a double celebration!" I cried, clapping my hands together excitedly. "Wait just one precious moment, my dearest...I believe I may well have a present for you..."

I disappeared briefly into one of my many bath-rooms, and reemerged moments later, clad in one of my finest dressing-gowns, made from the finest Chinese silk. I must have looked even more handsome than usual, for Dorothy let out a very audible gasp of delight.

"Happy birthday, my sweet!" I smiled, and then I slowly undid my gown and slid it off my shoulders, leaving me utterly nude once more, save for a large, red ribbon I had tied around my proud Lord Palmerston.

"Is...is that for me?" Dorothy whispered, pointing at my gift-wrapped glory-pole.

"It most certainly is," I grinned. "I should very much like to give it to you, my dear. Many times over, if possible."

Dorothy looked up at me with those pretty eyes, and smiled, and before I knew it she was upon me. Needless to say, we made mad, passionate, sweaty, sticky, glorious, thundering love two hundred times over the course of the next few days, in two hundred different positions.

Here, then, is to the next two-hundred entries!

Toodle-pip!

- Lord Likely.

Announcement! Lord Likely wishes to dedicate today's journal entry to all his loyal readers, subscribers, and commentators; all of whom he wishes he could thank personally and passionately. Furthermore, his lordship would also like to offer an additional dedication to his darling Kerry, who's birthday it is to-day, coincidentally! Please join his lordship in wishing her the happiest of days, as well as congratulating his lordship himself on his two-hundredth post. Hip hip! HUZZAH!

Next Time in The Astonishing Adventures of Lord Likely: A Brand New Illustrated Indiscretion!

Hungry for more inter-net based fiction? Then may I suggest you peruse The Web Fiction Guide, Pages Unbound or The Blog Fiction Blog, all of which are thoroughly excellent, due in no small part to the fact that I am listed with them all. Huzzah!

The Likely Empire - Further Reading for Disturbed Minds.

Digital Sickbag | gaup | The Carrotty Kid

Lord Likely vs Lord Loathsome

2008-11-02T17:34:00.001Z

September, 1857.

So there we were: Lord Loathsome, murderous villain and knob-end of the highest order, and myself - Lord Likely, Aristocratic Adventurer and all-round ruddy fantastic fellow indeed, facing off against one another in the bell-tower of my old school, St. Bumthrusty's.

Loathsome, being the utterly indefensible weasel that he is, had already gotten the first blow in, sending me flat on my back, leaving me now looking down the troublesome end of a pistol pointed at my handsome face by the cad himself.

Meanwhile, my dithering man-servant, Botter, had gotten himself kidnapped by Loathsome, and was currently manacled to the inside of the school's mighty bell, facing a gruesome pummeling from the bell's clapper when six o'clock came around, which was in less than four minutes' time.

Truly, things were looking distinctly shit-coloured for your noble narrator.

"Where shall I shoot first?" sneered Loathsome. "Shall I put a hole right through your face? I am sure the incredibly vain Lord Likely would not approve of that....no, wait! I have a better idea! Why don't I blast your precious cock-end right off? Let us see how popular you prove to be without a penis, eh?"

Luckily for me, Loathsome's inane prattling had bought me sufficient time to regain my breath, and so as he pointed his pistol at my proud Lord Palmerston, I swung a leg up and kicked the weapon from his hand, sending it ricocheting off of the school bell, before it disappeared down the hole below.

"Bastard!" hissed Loathsome.

"Lord Bastard, if it is all the same to you," I retorted as I clambered to my feet. "Now, shall we proceed? I am rather keen to kick your posterior into next week."

"Gladly," replied Loathsome, and then he charged at me.

Despite having been rather winded from Loathsome's earlier assault, I managed to deftly dodge the cad as he lunged at my good self, and delivered a most powerful punch to his face, which sent him crashing to the floor.

With Loathsome momentarily out for the count, I scooped my cane up off of the floor and headed behind the school's bell, where there was a rather large and rather complex clockwork mechanism, which I assumed operated the bell when the clock struck the hour. After deliberating whether or not my man-servant's miserable life was worth ruining a perfectly good cane for, I decided that seeking new help would be far more bother than seeking a new stick, and so thrust the cane inbetween some of the cogs operating the machinery. There was a low moaning sound as the cogs tried to continue turning despite the presence of my rigid rod, but happily, my cane held firm, and the entire mechanism ground to a juddering halt.

As I proudly surveyed my excellent handiwork, I was suddenly sent tumbling to the ground once more as that nefarious prick, Harold Loathsome, snuck up on me and swept my legs from beneath me. I was getting rapidly tired of being acquainted with the floor so regularly, and so kicked the swine in the knee, and then booted him in the chin. The cad fell to the floor like the sack of shit he so clearly was.

"You shall pay for your loathsome acts...Loathsome," I declared, rather inelegantly.

"Oh really? And who is the real villain here, Likely?" Loathsome coughed as he struggled back up from the ground. "Is it really me, just because I murdered a few people? Or is it you, for creating me by bullying and mocking me through all of my school years?"

"I would have to say it is you who is the real villain," I reasoned, quite reasonably. "Yes, yes. 'Tis definitely you, no question about it."

"Well, then...I shall feel no remorse about sending you to your grave then," Loathsome exclaimed, and then he was suddenly brandishing a knife, which he tried to plunge into my chest. I put up an arm to block such a move, and then roared in pain as the blade entered my limb.

"You cocking piss-hole!" I yelled. "That really rather stung, you know."

With Loathsome's knife still protruding from my stricken arm, I grabbed the fiend by his lapels and then hurled him against a nearby window, which had been boarded up for reasons unknown. The wood splintered as Loathsome's body slammed against it, but before he could recover I was upon him again, grabbing him by his lank, greasy hair, and slamming his head into the remaining boards.

"This...is...for...ruining...a...perfectly...good...suit!" I cried, each word punctuating a fresh attempt to batter Loathsome's bonce against the wood. "And...this...is...for...ruining...a...perfectly...good...arm!" I continued.

Loathsome, somewhat bleary and bloodied by now, somehow managed to struggle free from my grasp, and then he took me by my injured arm and flung me against the window. The rest of the wood broke apart, and I was left half-hanging out of the glassless window behind. I felt a chilly, autumnal breeze across my face, and saw the considerable drop waiting below. However, I had no time to observe the view before I was pulled back in by my enraged nemesis, who spun me around to face him.

"This is it, Likely!" he cackled, an evil smirk upon his lips. "This is where we must part ways, I'm afraid. I would say it has been a pleasure to see you again, but frankly, it has not!"

I tried to think of a witty retort, but I was beginning to feel rather queasy and light-headed as my precious blood seeped from the wound in my arm.

"You wanker," was all I could manage, before Loathsome pushed me back out of the window. As I fell backwards, however, I grabbed Loathsome's wrist, which took the cove quite by surprise.

And then we fell together.

*****

I awoke with a start, and saw nothing but sky. Where was I? What was going on? Was I in Heaven?

I moved my head to the left, and saw Loathsome lying next to me, seemingly unconscious. Clearly I was not in Heaven, then. Was I in Hell? Curses, I thought. I knew all that masturbating would catch up with me one day.

I slowly sat up, wincing as pain shot through every muscle in my body. Once I was sat upright, I saw that I was not in Hell, either. I was sat outside St. Bumthrusty's, surrounded by a group of shocked onlookers. Clearly, I had not been out cold for long.

"What are you doing down there?" a voice cried from above. I gingerly looked up, to see Inspector Spunkleford looking down at me from the bell-tower window from which I had just plummeted.

"What are you doing up there?" I shouted in return.

"I came up to help you out!" Spunkleford yelled.

"Well, better late than never, I suppose." I replied.

"What?"

"Oh, never mind! I shall talk to you when you get back down here!"

"What?"

"I said..."

"Never mind, Likely!" Spunkleford echoed. "I shall talk to you when I get back down there!"

I rolled my eyes in disbelief at the detective's deplorable dimness, then all of a sudden I found Loathsome back upon me, his hands wrapped firmly around my throat.

"I"m not finished with you yet, Likely!" the wretch snarled, his grip tightening. "I shall not be finished until you are finished!"

"Fucking hell!" I gasped. "Why are you not ruddy well dead?"

"I shall not rest until I've completed my life's work, and ended the life of the Lords Likely!"

"Luh-Lords?" I wheezed.

"Why yes," Loathsome grinned, his grip as solid as steel. "After I have wiped you off this earth, I shall go after your father..."

"I...I think yuh-you'll find muh-my father's already duh-duh-dead, Loathsome!"

"Oh no, Likely. No, no no. He's very much alive, at least for the moment. I saw him in - "

Suddenly, there was a loud cracking sound, and Loathsome's eyes rolled upwards in their sockets, and then he slumped off of me, unconscious once more.

"Apologies for the delay there, Likely," said Spunkleford, standing in front of me, proudly brandishing his truncheon. "We took a wrong turn and wound up in the toilets."

"Spunkleford, you anus!" I coughed, as air filled my lungs. "That bloody cock-bag was about to tell me where my father is!"

"Oh," Spunkleford said, evidently crestfallen. "Um, sorry, old boy."

"Well, I suppose you did mean well," I said, as Spunkleford helped me to my feet. "I shall refrain from kicking you in the plums this once."

"Jolly good!" Spunkleford brightened. "By the way, did you ever find Botter?"

"Oh!" I exclaimed, as I remembered that my man-servant was still shackled to the inside of the school bell. But then I also recalled the amount of uneccessary worry he had caused me, and decided that leaving him where he was might serve as a clear reminder that he should not get kidnapped again. "Yes...yes I did, Inspector. He is fine, we can retrieve him...later. Much later."

"Oh, well, huzzah!" Spunkleford cheered. "Well then, I sppose we should get you to a hospital, eh?"

"Not right now, my dear inspector," I said. "Right now I think I would very much like to have a rather more intimate school reunion with that delightful young lady I met earlier..."

Spunkleford raised a quizzical eyebrow.

"By that I mean I plan to pump her roughly," I added for clarity.

Spunkleford shook his head in weary resignation, and I staggered off to get my noble end away.

- Lord Likely.

Next Time in The Astonishing Adventures of Lord Likely: Come one, come all, and celebrate the Likely Bicentennial!

humor-blogs.com is the real villain, of course.

Hungry for more inter-net based fiction? Then may I suggest you peruse The Web Fiction Guide, Pages Unbound or The Blog Fiction Blog, all of which are thoroughly excellent, due in no small part to the fact that I am listed with them all. Huzzah!

The Likely Empire - Further Reading for Disturbed Minds.

Digital Sickbag | gaup | The Carrotty Kid

The Most Loathsome Man on Earth

2008-10-29T14:08:00.001Z

September, 1857.

I could not believe that my arch-enemy, Harold Loathsome, had chosen to hold our final showdown in a bell-tower. It just seemed so very cliched. Honestly, I had expected more from him. Maybe it was time I found a better class of nemesis.

And so it was rather begrudgingly that I hauled myself up the winding stairs that led to the tower, cursing Loathsome's name as it quickly became apparent that there were far more flights of stairs than I had first imagined. Maybe that is how Loathsome intended to finish me - by wearing me out completely through such exertions, so that when I finally faced him he could cut me down without a struggle. That would be exactly the sort of twattish plan I would expect from the murderous cove.

As I continued my struggle against the stairs, another memory from my school-days bubbled forth from my brain. When I had attended St. Bumthrusty's School for Boys, there had been a long-running rumour that the school's bell-tower was haunted. Many people - staff and pupils alike - had claimed to have heard 'unearthly wailing and moaning' and some 'ominous banging' coming from the tower, with one teacher even claiming to have discovered some ectoplasmic residue in the room. The truth, however, was much less spectral and far more scrotal; the school's bell-tower had merely been my favourite spot in which to hide girls from the town, whereupon we would indulge in some covert coupling, hence the frequent moaning and banging. And needless to say, that was most certainly not ectoplasm found in the bell-tower...

I smirked inwardly at the recollection, and was further buoyed by the fact that I had finally reached top of the stairs, thus ending my terrible escalatory ordeal. I rested myself against the wall for a momentary respite, but did not get to relax much before I was interrupted.

"Well, you certainly took your time," said a rather snide, disembodied voice. Immediately I sprung to attention, my eyes straining through the murk of the bell chamber in an effort to locate the speaker. I soon picked out a top-hatted figure silhouetted against the early evening light which was snaking its way through the slats on the window of the room.

"Loathsome," I spat.

"Lord Loathsome, if you do not mind," the shadowy figure replied calmly. "Yes, I have a peerage now as well. I inherited it from an aristocratic friend of mine. Well, the dead have no use for such titles, you see..."

"You may call yourself whatever you wish, Loathsome," I sneered. "I shall still only refer to you as 'tosspot', if it is all the same to you."

There was silence from Loathsome, except for the sound of a match being struck as he lit himself a cigarette. I briefly caught a glimpse of one of his small, beady eyes in the match-light, before he lit his fag and discarded the match over his shoulder.

"Still the same old Likely," Loathsome finally said. "As arrogant and up his own arse as ever. It is high time someone bought you down a peg or two, Likely. And I shall only be too pleased to take on that responsibility."

I felt my muscles tighten as I readied myself for some kind of ruckus, but instead Loathsome slowly stepped forward into one of the few shafts of sunlight in the tower, finally revealing himself in all his foulness.

Loathsome still looked as loathsome as I remember him; he was a skinny and wiry fellow, wearing a long, dark-grey overcoat on top of a black suit, with a similarly dark top hat on his awful, greasy, straggly blonde-hair. He had a long, pointed nose, and his cruel, thin lips were contorted into some sort of wretched smile. The only change I could really observe was that he now sported an eye-patch across his left eye, leaving only one piggy eyeball free to glare at me.

In short, he rather resembled a bastard wrapped up in a cunt.

"I am glad you could make it, Likely," Loathsome grinned. "I rather feared you were going to be late. Why, it is already ten to six, you know..."

"Why don't you just stop wittering and make some sort of ruddy move, Loathsome?" I snapped, growing weary of his melodramatic performance.

"Oh no, Likely. No, no, no. I have been waiting for far too long to hurry this now," my enemy responded, drawing upon his cigarette and blowing a smoke-ring in my direction. "Twenty-five years I have waited. Twenty-five years since you publicly humiliated me in front of everyone at this very school. Twenty-five years since you got me expelled. Twenty-five years since you had me exiled to Africa, to spend two and a half decades toiling in the burning sun. Suffice to say, I fully intend to really, really enjoy this moment."

"To be fair, Loathsome, you deserved every bit of your punishment, You were, after all, a massive cock-end."

"Please, do keep the feeble insults coming, Likely. It shall make killing you all the more sweeter."

"You do not scare me, Loathsome. Not one bit. I have bested you many times before, and I dare say I shall do so again. You forget that I am vastly superior to you in every possible way."

"Oh, you think so?" chuckled Loathsome, his lips parting to reveal rows of horrid, yellowing teeth. "I do beg to differ, Likely. I mean, you have been rather slow to finally catch up with me, have you not? And I do not imagine that you have any inkling as to precisely how long I have been tracking you, and messing with your over-privileged life..."

I froze. The thought of Loathsome stalking me was terribly nauseating. Why could I not be stalked by someone decidedly more attractive, and considerably more be-titted?

"I thought that would get your attention, Likely," Loathsome jeered. "For you see, I have been following your progress quite closely...quite, quite closely indeed. And for such a long time, too! Right from the moment you opened a letter in which the writer threatened to cut you, early last year..."

My mind raced as I tried to recollect the moment in question, and then I remembered.

It was February, 1856, and I had received a mysterious missive from some lunatic threatening to cut me. The return address on the letter had led me to a house at Buckingham Place, where I had subsequently been drawn into an astonishing adventure involving murderous prostitutes and an evil old brothel-owner called Mrs. Dinklesuck. At first, I had assumed the letter had been a cryptic cry for help from one of her unfortunate clients, but this was later proven to be incorrect, leading me to dismiss the note entirely. Now, however, I could see its importance all too clearly. It had been written in the same hand as that used in the note which had been affixed to the first victim of Loathsome's murderous spree at St. Bumthrusty's.

"So it was you who penned that letter," I mused. "How extraordinarily dull."

"That was just the beginning, Likely! I had far more fun toying with you later that very day, when I took great pleasure in ramming your carriage off the road..."

"Egads!" I gasped. "I remember that! You made me spill some whisky, you utter shit-ball."

"Wait, Likely, because it gets rather more brilliant still. A few months later, as you boarded the HMS Bastard to sail to America, I sent an assassin after you, to rough you up a bit. You know, just for fun."

"Doctor Corkscrews!" I exclaimed, as I remembered my encounter with the murderous medic.

"Indeed, indeed. It is a terrible shame you offed him, Likely. He was under strict instructions not to kill you. I just thought his attack might keep you on your toes..." Loathsome stopped to draw upon his cigarette once more, before flicking the cigarette butt across the room. "And then - then! - I hatched a brilliant scheme to pilfer all the booze from the Likely Estate earlier this year. Oh, your face! It really was utterly, utterly priceless!..."

The news that Loathsome had a hand in many of my most notable adventures of the past couple of years set my head reeling, and I had to steady myself on the wall beside me. The fact that Loathsome has been manipulating me so made me feel rather sick, but above all it made me want to pound his putrid skull to dust.

"That just about does it, Loathsome," I hissed. "I think I have heard quite enough. Now, if you will be so kind as to put your fists up, I think we..."

"Wait a moment, old boy," Loathsome replied, rather too nonchalantly for my liking. "What time is it?"

"What in the name of shittery does the time have to do with anything?" I yelled.

"Oh, the time is very important, Likely. Very important indeed," Loathsome answered, strolling over to the enormous bell hanging from the roof of the tower. "For you see, at six o'clock, this bell here will chime the hour." Loathsome gently patted the side of the bell. "'Tis quite a size, isn't it? Apparently, this is the largest bell in the entire county, Likely."

"I think I am looking at a rather bigger bell-end right now, Loathsome."

"Very droll. Anyway, at six this bell will chime six times; and on each of those chimes the bell's huge clapper will strike the inside of the bell with quite considerable force. Imagine, Likely, if someone were unfortunate enough to wind up actually inside the bell when that happens...why, I would think they would be pulped to a mash fairly quickly, don't you?"

I slowly drew closer to the fiendish felon, knowing all too well that he was planning something awful.

"What have you done, Loathsome?" I demanded.

"Here," said Loathsome, striking another match. "Take a look inside, Likely."

I took the match from Loathsome's hand, and knelt down to look under the bell. And there, manacled to the actual inside of the bell, was Botter, considerably not-dead, but looking rather the worse for wear, his face badly bruised and his mouth gagged. Furthermore, he had been stripped down to his underwear, which I felt was not only completely unnecessary, but also incredibly revolting. Truly, Loathsome was a most twisted individual indeed.

I rose back up slowly, but before I could return to my full (glorious) height, Loathsome delivered a swift boot to my beautiful face, sending me sprawling flat on my back. Loathsome laughed maniacally as he withdrew a revolver from his overcoat, and pointed it at my head. Blearily, I retrieved my solid-gold pocket-watch from my waist-coat, and tried to focus on the tiny clock face.

"I would say your time was running out, Likely," Loathsome chuckled.

The blurring of my vision subsided, allowing me to read the time on my pocket-watch. Annoyingly, it seemed Loathsome was rather correct.

It was four minutes to six.

I had less than four minutes to save my own life, and to save Botter's.

In that exact order.

- Lord Likely

Next Time in The Astonishing Adventures of Lord Likely: Time runs out as 'A Lesson in Murder' reaches its nail-biting, pant-soiling conclusion!

humor-blogs.com is in no way loathsome.

Hungry for more inter-net based fiction? Then may I suggest you peruse The Web Fiction Guide, Pages Unbound or The Blog Fiction Blog, all of which are thoroughly excellent, due in no small part to the fact that I am listed with them all. Huzzah!

The Likely Empire - Further Reading for Disturbed Minds.

Digital Sickbag | gaup | The Carrotty Kid

In Which Lord Likely Makes A Fist Of It

2008-10-24T20:51:00.001Z

September, 1857.

"What in the name of all that is sacred and holy do you think you are doing?" bellowed Professor Ventricle, after I had punched him squarely in the face, strongly suspecting that he was none other than my arch-nemesis, Harold Loathsome, in some sort of shoddy disguise.

"Give it up, Loathsome! Your terrible charade is over!" I cried triumphantly.

"You have gone stark, raving bonkers, Likely! How on earth could I possibly be that Loathsome fellow? I'm considerably taller and older, for starters. And look!" protested Ventricle, tugging firmly on his long, grey beard. "It is all my own hair! Are you quite satisfied now?"

I grudgingly conceded that I was indeed satisfied that he was not Loathsome after all. It seemed that my usually faultless deductive powers were somewhat failing me, with this episode following on so closely from my earlier misapprehension about the caretaker being Loathsome.

"I say," said Mr. Bertrum Gumbumble, my old head-master. "Is this how you conduct all your investigations, Likely? By punching people in the face until you find the felon? For if it is, then I rather feel you had better leave before you incapacitate all my staff..."

"Yes, I suppose you would be happy to get me out of the way, wouldn't you?" I mused. "Having me completely and utterly out of your hair would suit you rather well, would it not...HAROLD LOATHSOME?"

With that, I delivered a fine upper cut to Gumbumble's chin, which sent the old fool tumbling backwards onto the ground.

"Egads!" cried Inspector Spunkleford, who was watching the events unfolding before him with a mixture of shock, horror and outright disgust. Meanwhile, I had set about Gumbubmle, and was trying in vain to prove that his balding pate was nothing more than a skin-coloured skullcap, worn to disguise his true identity.

"Bugger," I said, as I was once again proven to be incorrect in my assumptions.

"Get off me, you blithering idiot!" spat Gumbumble.

"Hmm," I pondered, as I disentangled myself from the exasperated educator. "I was certain you were Loathsome...damnation, what the devil is wrong with me today? Maybe I am over-thinking this whole dilemma...maybe the answer is staring me right in the face." At which point my eyes fell upon the glorious cleavage of a delectable female standing among the crowd of onlookers who had assembled at the crime-scene like vultures assembling at...well, a crime-scene.

I knew precisely what had to be done.

"You!" I said pointing to the pretty creature, a curvaceous brunette who filled her dress in a most pleasing manner indeed. "You aren't Harold Loathsome, are you?"

"N-no sir," the woman said nervously.

"Well, if you do not mind, I should just like to make certain of the fact," I said, taking her hand in mine and drawing her out from the crowd.

"Certainly, my lord," the cock-worthy creature replied. "Do whatever you have to in order to clear my name!"

"I appreciate your compliance in this matter, m'dear," I smiled, and then I quickly put my hands upon her breasts, to verify their authenticity. "Well, yes. These certainly do feel genuine...do you mind awfully if I just?..."

"No, no! Not at all!" answered the girl, rather excitably.

"Marvellous!" I cheered, and then I swiftly set about freeing the lady's filthy fun-bags. Happily, they were most assuredly real, and were a pleasingly firm and fulsome pair, to boot.

"Happy, my lord?" asked the woman, a coquettish smile forming upon her lips.

"Extremely," I beamed. "But I must just check one last thing..."

"Of course," the minx smiled back, lifting up her dress.

I tipped my hat in thanks, and then knelt down to examine the lady's lady-parts. I was gladdened to find myself looking at a beautiful bush underneath that dress, and not the horrid flaccid flesh-stick of my arch-enemy.

"Well, this certainly looks real," I said. "I wonder, however, does it taste real?..."

"Really, Likely!" Spunkleford objected. "I think that is quite enough!"

"Yes, you would, wouldn't you...HAROLD LOATHSOME?" I yelled, before leaping up and flooring the fellow in an inevitably spectacular fashion.

"Jesus Christ, Likely!" Spunkleford yelped, as he reeled back. "What the bloody hell do you think you are doing? This is getting ruddy ridiculous! You can't seriously suspect me, you fool!"

"No, I do not suspect you at all, Spunkleford," I responded. "I just wanted to clout you for disturbing me in the course of my... cross-examination."

"You bugger, Likely," Spunkleford cursed as he tended to his bloodied nose.

"I apologise, Spunkleford. It is just that I am rather on edge...I am not used to being wrong, and yet I have been wrong on no less than three separate occasions now. Furthermore, I am still not absolutely certain that this poor, dead fellow lying before us is not my man-servant, Botter. The only certainty I do have right now is that I would very much like to give this delectable strumpet a jolly good shafting," I added, indicating to the pretty thing I had just given a good going-over.

"Well, quite," said Spunkleford. "So we are right back to square one, then. We still have absolutely no clue as to where Loathsome may be"

"Indeed," I answered, stroking my magnificent moustache in deep contemplation. "Damnation, I know he is here somewhere, gloating..."

"Probably, old boy," Spunkleford agreed, holding his head back to curb the bleeding from his nose.

"I dare say that the cad is probably watching me right now, laughing at me...mocking me...."

"Oh! Wait a moment! Isn't that him up there?" Spunkleford exclaimed, pointing up to the school's bell-tower. I followed the direction of his finger, and saw a thin figure clad in a black suit standing atop the building.

"Oh yes. So it is. Well, that was considerably easier than I had imagined," I remarked.

And with that, I set off to go and pummel the bastard.

- Lord Likely.

Next Time in The Astonishing Adventures of Lord Likely: Likely vs Loathsome!

humor-blogs.com sports a rather fetching pair of fake breasts at all times.

Hungry for more inter-net based fiction? Then may I suggest you peruse The Web Fiction Guide, Pages Unbound or The Blog Fiction Blog, all of which are thoroughly excellent, due in no small part to the fact that I am listed with them all. Huzzah!

The Likely Empire - Further Reading for Disturbed Minds.

Digital Sickbag | gaup | The Carrotty Kid

Wretch in Peace?

2008-10-18T22:33:00.002Z

September, 1857.

Getting a new man-servant is an awful ball-ache, you know. And I should know, for I have had over twenty different servants in my lifetime, of varying degrees of uselessness.

When my father, Lord Eustace Likely, disappeared from the Likely Estate, ne'er to return (and now presumed deceased), I was left in the care of the family butler, Philtrum. However, this arrangement did not last long, for at the age of one hundred and twenty-three years old, the useless bastard decided to go and die on me, throwing me into the most inconvenient predicament of having to go out and hire new help.

Luckily, I found a new lackey at a servant market in Dudsbury, who was on sale for the incredibly low price of one shilling. However, it did not take me long to discover why this particular valet was going for such a remarkably discounted amount - it transpired he was blind, deaf, mute and had wooden hands. Naturally, I was all set to return the defective domestic and give the vendor responsible for selling him to me a damned good drubbing, but before I could, my new man-servant unwittingly mistook the stove for the wash-basin, and went up in flames shortly thereafter. Clearly, one should always check the goods thoroughly before purchase.

My next effort led me to hire a man who seemed to be actually competent in his work, and was incredibly fastidious in his duties, especially when cleaning my various trophies, gold-plated trinkets and diamond-encrusted sex-aids. However, it quickly became apparent that this high level of meticulousness was not born out of a desire to see my valuables shined to the brightest of sheens, but rather out of a desire to steal the goods from under my very handsome nose. Needless to say, when I caught wind of his duplicitous scheme, I made sure he could not grab my assets (as t'were) by physically breaking his hands. No-one man-handles my treasure and gets away with it, dear readers.

Having been let down by quite so many man-servants, I next elected to hire a maid. Naturally, I hired the most attractive maid I could find; a beautiful, comely wench with 'come to bed' eyes and 'fuck my mouth' lips. After watching her frantically scrubbing the gussets of my trousers for a while, I could no longer control the wild animal inside me, and quickly set about pumping her for hours and hours every day. It soon became obvious that I was servicing her far more than she was servicing me, and when the mansion began to fall into a filthy, grubby state through my maid's neglect, I thought it might be time she was fired. When we both found ourselves stricken with cholera, I knew it was definitely time to fire her; and thus I had to (rather reluctantly) let her go.

On top of these few poor shows, I've also had to put up with illiterate proles, woefully inept workhouse children, wretched foreigners who did not understand one word of the Queen's English, infuriatingly smug butlers and - worst of all - a Liverpudlian man. I mean, well, really.

With such an unsuccessful record for hiring quality help, you can sympathise with my current plight, where I believed my current man-servant - Botter - to have been slain by my arch-enemy Harold Loathsome. I had just witnessed Botter's body pass by a window at St. Bumthrusty's in a worryingly vertical direction, as if he had been thrown out of a higher window to meet his doom on the harsh ground below. While I held no great affection for my simple servant, he had proven to be the least useless menial I had ever hired, which may not say a lot for the foolish oaf, but it did mean finding an equally adequate replacement would be a most challenging task indeed, and a task I was not entirely sure I could be bothered with any time soon.

It was with this dreadful burden hanging over my noble head that I headed outside to go and identify the corpse, accompanied by Inspector Spunkleford, my old head-master Betrum Gumbumble, my former biology teacher Professor Ventricle and a couple of my past classmates.

"Alright, alright," said Inspector Spunkleford as he cut through the small crowd of morbid onlookers who had surrounded the body. "Move along, please! Move along! There is nothing to see here!"

"What about that dead body?" replied one of the gawpers.

"Oh! Yes, that is rather interesting, I suppose," Spunkleford reasoned. "Why, look at that! Can you see how this poor chap's brains have sprayed out the top of his head in a perfect arc, like some sort of ghoulish rainbow? Remarkable! Likely, take a look at this!"

I strolled up beside the Inspector, and beheld the macabre scene. The victim was sprawled on the ground, face down, his limbs twisted in various unnatural directions. As for whether this was indeed my man-servant, I could not be certain without turning the body over, but the attire sported by the man certainly seemed to match that traditionally worn by Botter; a small, bedraggled waist-coat, ill-fitting trousers and those filthy, scuffed shoes. And there, lying a few feet away from the stinking carcass was the all-too familiar bowler hat. But there was something else bothering me about this terrible tableau...

"I have come to the conclusion," I boomed, after a moment's pause, "that this unfortunate fellow was murdered before being hurled out of the window."

"Good heavens!" exclaimed Spunkleford. "How on earth can you tell, Likely?"

"I believe you may have overlooked a vital clue, my dear inspector," I explained, crouching down beside the cadaver. "Namely, these three knives sticking out of the victim's back."

There was a collective gasp from the crowd.

"Remarkable!" Spunkleford enthused. "Truly remarkable!"

"Well spotted old bean," said Professor Ventricle, leaning in to observe the crime scene. "Why do you suppose someone would want to murder your man-servant?"

"That is if this poor bounder is indeed my shambolic scrotum of a man-servant..." I said, turning the body over with my foot. Alas, it seemed that confirming the identity of the departed from the face would be an impossible task, as the countenance had been splattered beyond all recognition from the impact of the fall. Unless someone had beaten the face to a pulp beforehand...

"Well, it certainly looks like him!" said Ventricle. "No doubt about it, that's the chap I saw talking to the new janitor earlier. I never forget a face, you know! I can still remember him clearly, asking the janitor for directions to the bath-room, saying that he wished to take a quick shower..."

"Hmmm?" I replied, my mind racing as I tried to put together the various different pieces of this particular puzzle. One thing that had just struck me was that Botter seemed taller now. I might have expected him to become considerably wider after a fall from such a height...but actually, physically taller?

And how had Ventricle's tip-off about the janitor proven to be so wrong?

And how...

"Wait a minute!" I suddenly cried, grabbing Ventricle by his lapels. "What did you say?"

"I...I just said that this fellow was asking for directions to the bath-room....he...he wanted to take a shower, by all accounts."

I smiled broadly, to Ventricle's bemusement. Then, I began to chuckle quietly, before I burst into full, roaring laughter. Ventricle returned a confused titter, fear rising in his eyes. I grinned once more, and then gently released Ventricle from my grasp. I turned my back on the professor, then in an instant I swung back around, delivering a terrific blow to the bewildered biologist's face.

Another chorus of gasps erupted from the crowd.

"Likely! What on earth?..." began Spunkleford.

"Botter? Take a shower? Ha!" I shouted, as I stood over the floored fellon. "The very notion is absurd to the extreme! I am afraid you have made a terrible mistake, Ventricle..." I leant closer to the professor's face. "...Or should that be Loathsome?"

There was yet another simultaneous gasp from the onlookers.

"I'm buggered if I know what's going on," mused Spunkleford, befuddled to the very end.

- Lord Likely.

Next Time in The Astonishing Adventures of Lord Likely: What the buggeration is going on?

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Announcement: His lordship wishes to apologies for the lack of updates this week. This can be solely attributed to the continued rubbishness of his official scribe, Mr. A.D. Fanton, despite his protests that he is working on something 'really incredible' behind the scenes. Such talk is clearly complete and utter cock. As recompense, we have thus made today's entry 25% longer, and 176% more thrilling!

Hungry for more inter-net based fiction? Then may I suggest you peruse The Web Fiction Guide, Pages Unbound or The Blog Fiction Blog, all of which are thoroughly excellent, due in no small part to the fact that I am listed with them all. Huzzah!

The Likely Empire - Further Reading for Disturbed Minds.

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