~ Lord Likely and the Bloody Nuisances: Part Eight ~

For the previous chapter, do please click here.

AND SO after a rather prolonged carriage journey from Scotland Yard (which seemed to take a good week and a half, though I am sure it was only a matter of minutes) we finally arrived outside St. Christopher’s church, wherein I was due to be married to Ms. Helena Handbaskett, my blood-sucking bride-to-be.  With all the grace and poise one would expect of a gentleman of my considerable breeding, I tumbled out of the carriage and landed in a rather undignified heap on the road, clutching a now-empty bottle of whisky. To say that I was not particularly relishing the prospect of getting wed would be an understatement so enormous that it would easily warrant its own flag and system of government.

“Good heavens, Likely!” exclaimed Inspector Spunkleford as he picked me up. “Look at the state of you! Did you drink all of this in the carriage-ride down here?” he asked accusingly, prising the bottle from my hands.

“Yesh…yesh I did,” I slurred. “That, and five other bottles as well.”

“My word, Likely! It is a wonder you are still alive! I can only imagine that your blood must be at least ninety-nine percent proof by now…” Spunkleford fussed as he helped me up to my feet.

“Unhand me, sir!” I bellowed, shrugging Spunkleford off of me, which then left me dangerously unsupported, and thus I quickly found myself becoming closely acquainted with the road once more.

“What ails you, Likely?” Spunkleford asked as he helped me up again. “You do not need to be a master detective to notice that something is clearly playing upon your mind.”

“‘Tis just as well in your case,” I mumbled, swaying gently on the spot. “‘Tis this confounded wedding, Spunkleford! Wedding! Do you have any idea what that word does to me? It pierces my soul like a ruddy great knife piercing…” I faltered momentarily. “Piercing my…soul.”

“Oh, Likely!” sighed Spunkleford. “Calm yourself down! You aren’t really to be wed to-day, don’t forget! This is all just a ruse to help us get close to this evil devil woman, so that Mr. Hellsinger here may slay her and rid the world of her dark influence.”

“But…but you do not know this fiend!” I exclaimed. “She managed to convince me to marry her in the first instance…what if she pulls off the same trick again, and I find myself waking up as her husband? She is curiously persuasive, almost hypnotic…”

“That’d be the hypnosis,” Hellsinger interjected, loading the inside pockets of his jacket with various vampire-slaying accoutrements. “She does that, y’know. Just don’t look her in the eyes, y’lordship. Divert your gaze, an’ you’ll be just fine! Besides which, when the vicar gives the whole ‘anyone know why these two should not be wed’ bit, we’ll make sure to make our objections known!” Hellsinger beamed, slapping me heartily on the arm. “Now come on, ya big lummox, let’s go do this thang!”

“‘Thang?’” I repeated as I watched Hellsinger dash up the path to the church. “You know, Spunkleford, sometimes I cannot tell who is the most blood-thirsty: the vampires, or Mr. Hellsinger with his infernal insistence on massacring the Queen’s English.”

*****

THE church was a tall, stone building with stained glass windows and…well, it looked rather like a church, to be frank. I shall not insult your collective intelligence by describing what a ruddy church looks like, they all seem to be much the same. So just imagine a church, and there you have it – that is where we were.

As we entered the building I could not help but notice that the congregation was weighted firmly in the bride’s favour; row upon row of pale-skinned, shallow-eyed faces turned to face us as we strode in, all of whom were undoubtedly despicable vampires. Either that, or the nearby university was missing an entire class of students.

On my side of the church sat Botter, all on his own, looking increasingly uncomfortable in the presence of so many demons. As soon as he noticed our arrival, he started waving wildly at us, and beckoned us over frantically.

“Thank goodness you did that, Botter,” I said sarcastically, as I took my seat beside him. “Otherwise we might not have known where to sit.”

“My pleasure, m’lord,” Botter replied, slightly too pleased with himself. “Milord,” he continued, leaning in to converse with me in rather more subdued tones. “Can I be the best man?”

“Botter,” I sighed. “You are barely a man, let alone the best man, so my answer to that would have to be a resoundingly conclusive ‘not if you were the last bastard on the planet’.”

“Oh.” Botter fell silent. “Best Man-Servant?” he added, hopefully.

“Do shut your pie-funnel,” I hissed.

Suddenly, the main doors of the church flew open, and everyone turned to see Helena glide in, accompanied by an extremely old man whom I presumed to be her father. He looked older than the church itself, but in considerably less robust shape, and was clinging feebly to the bride’s train as they flew in.

Despite the fact that Helena was an evil succubus intent on slicing open my veins and feasting on my blood, I did have to conceed that she looked well considering her undead status, and was rather fetching in her wedding dress – although I had to baulk at her choice of colour. White? Who on earth did she think she was fooling, the enormous whore?

Helena descended gently to the ground in front of the altar, just as a wizened vicar popped up behind it, clutching a bible in his gnarled hands. He nodded to me to join them, and with a cursory glance to my companions, I made the dreaded walk to the altar.

“Excellent, we are all here!” the vicar smiled, revealing an all-too familiar set of fangs. “Now we can begin!”

And so the old coot waffled on about marriage and love and ‘a gift from God’, all of  which I paid little heed to (though I did perk up when he mentioned ‘the delight and tenderness of sexual union’.) Finally he got to the part that my companions and I had agreed upon as the moment when they would spring into action, and save me from a fate worse than death.

“First,” droned the man. “I am required to ask anyone present who knows a reason why these persons may not lawfully marry, to declare it now.”

I looked over to the trio sat on the pew beside me, only to find that Spunkleford had dozed off; Botter had become overly fascinated with a cushion, and Hellsinger was preoccupied with assembling some sort of garlic-based bomb. I rolled my eyes in dismay.

“No objections? Excellent!” croaked the vicar. “Then let us proceed!” He turned to face me. “Lord Likely, will you take Helena Handbaskett to be your wife? Will you love her, comfort her, honour and protect her, and, forsaking all others, be faithful to her as long as you both shall…live?” he concluded, letting the final word hang in the air like a thinly-veiled threat (which would also describe my would-be wife fairly well too, now I think about it).

I looked at Helena, who was staring at me very intently, those dark eyes tunneling and boring into my mind once more, trying to wrench my own thoughts and actions from my own control. I remembered Hellsinger’s words and fought desperately to avert my eyes…if only I could turn away…

Happily, Helena had chosen to wear a distinctly low-cut wedding dress, which meant my eyes naturally fell upon her heaving bosom, which was rather hypnotic in it’s own way, but did not make me want to do anything that I would not ordinarily consider. My attention thus diverted, I was able to focus my thoughts clearly.

“Well?” snapped the vicar. “Do you?”

“I do…I do…NOT!” I yelled, and before I knew it Hellsinger had finally prepared himself fully, and was at my side, brandishing a spring-loaded stake-firing pistol at my bride-not-to-be.

“Here goes the bride,” he grinned.

And then all bloody hell broke loose.

- Lord Likely.

Next time in The Astonishing Adventures of Lord Likely: No Wedding And A Great Many Funerals!

- Lord Likely.

Prepare for the big day by reading the previous, thrilling chapters of Lord Likely and the Bloody Nuisances!

~ Lord Likely and the Bloody Nuisance: Part Seven ~

For the previous chapter, do please click here.

“LOOKS LIKE I got here just in the nick of time, gentlemen,” Evan Hellsinger said, kicking aside the charred, molten remains of the late Doctor Whelkbladder. “Had I been a second late, this guy woulda been ripping your faces off and chowing down on your eyeballs.”

“Really,” I sighed, finding myself less-than-impressed by this brash, American ‘vampire slayer.’ “I think you will find we had the matter well in hand, sir.”

“Really?” smirked Hellsinger. “‘Cos it looked like you two were crappin’ your pants from where I was standin’.”

“How dare you sir!” I replied, my face reddening with rage.

“I must say, he really is rather spot-on. I am afraid I may well have soiled myself,” Inspector Spunkleford lamented, thus deftly puncturing any last vestige of dignity we may have had in the American’s eyes.

“Anyway, which one of you two is Lightly? Lord Lightly?” drawled our brash acquaintance.

“It’s Likely,” I replied through teeth so tightly gritted, I feared they may crack and splinter apart at any moment.

“Yeah?” answered Hellsinger. “It’s likely to be who, exactly?”

“LIKELY,” I repeated. “Lord LIKELY!”

“Ha! What a funny name! What’s your first name – Not Very? Haha! Not-Very Likely-To-Know-How-To-Defeat-Vampires?”

“Now listen here, you puffed-up, preening, prancing, poncey piss-pot, I – ”

“Hey, calm down, ya lordship! I’m jus’ kiddin’ with ya! Geez, you’re so tightly clenched it’s a wonder you can take a shit in the mornin’.”

“Why you…” I began, and then, deciding that words would be incredibly insufficient with which to express my great displeasure, I punched Hellsinger right in his perfectly-toothed mouth. Hellsinger recoiled, pausing to momentarily wipe a drop of blood from his broken lip, before charging back at me. And thus we found ourselves locked in a spectacularly vicious bout of fisticuffs, exchanging punches with all the frenzied fervour of two schoolboys swapping lewd pictographs in the playground.

“Stop, stop this at once!” barked Spunkleford, as Hellsinger and I crashed to the floor, blood streaming from both of our faces. “This is a police-station, gentlemen – we shall have no violence here!”

Hellsinger and I duly separated, cautiously eyeing one another in case the other should make a further attempt at violence.

“I gotta admit…you fight pretty good,” Hellsinger said, trying to stem the flow of blood gushing from his broken nose.

“You fight pretty well,” I corrected.

“Why thanks,” Hellsinger replied, my attempt at grammatical enlightenment soaring straight over his square head. “But listen, let’s get down to business, alright? I’ve been tracking these goddamn vampires across the goddamn globe, from Pennsylvania to Transylvania, and lots of other places in between that don’t fit with the ‘vania’ rhyme scheme. Anyway,” Hellsinger continued, lighting a big, fat cigar. “They came to London, England a few weeks ago, and suddenly – POOF!”

I paused at this unusual outburst. “You met a homosexual?”

“No, ‘poof!’ They vanished. Lost sight of ‘em…darned if I know where they went. So I’m snooping round the city – lovely place, by the way, so quaint! Everything’s so much smaller over here!”

“Not everything,” I interjected with a wry smile.

“So, yeah…I’m snooping around, trying to find these damn vamps, when I get wind that some fellah called Lord Likely is on the case too, hear talk that he’s gonna bring down the big bad guy…”

“Which I did,” I bristled, recalling my encounter with the now thoroughly re-dead Mr. Stryx.

“Uh-uh,” the American replied, shaking his head. “No you didn’t.”

“He was a pile of smouldering bones by the time I finished with him, sir – I’d say that was pretty ruddy dead, wouldn’t you?”

“Oh, you killed A vampire, no doubtin’ that sir. But you didn’t kill the head vamp. You see this guy?” Hellsinger indicated to Whelkbladder’s remains. “He wouldn’t have been tryin’ to snack on your Limey throats if you’d killed the head honcho. Once you defeat the boss, the curse is lifted, y’see? Nope, the main blood-sucker is still out there, y’lordship.”

“Bollocks,” I sighed. “That’s a bloody pain in the neck.”

“Ha! Frightfully witty, Likely!” snorted Spunkleford.

“Shut up,” I snapped. “So, Mr. Hellsinger, where might you suggest we go to find this fiend? Are we to track him to his imposing, Gothic castle in eastern Europe?”

“Who says it’s a he?” Hellsinger asked, drawing on his cigar.

“By Jove!” I exclaimed, grasping Spunkleford’s arm. “It could be Mrs. Spunkleford! She’s trying to bleed you dry with these divorce proceedings!”

“I…I think I’d have remembered if Agnes was prone to turning into a bat and flying off in the middle of the night to feast on people’s blood, Likely.”

“Never trust a woman, Spunkleford,” I warned.

“Relax, it ain’t this Spunkyflood woman. No, the dame we’re after goes by many names, but not that one. Sometimes she’s called Raven, sometimes Lilith, sometimes Helena, sometimes Mrs. Drinksblood…not very subtle, that one…”

“HELENA!” I cried. “Heavens, I almost forgot! I am to be married shortly!”

“Shortly?” exclaimed Spunkleford. “But ’tis nearly evening!”

“Yes, well, Helena wanted us to get wed rather promptly. Said something about a lovely moon-lit ceremony, as I recall. Anyway, I’d best be off, chaps – I can’t be late for my own wedding!!”

I got up and strode out of the room, whistling as I went. Before long, however, I was back, something niggling away at the back of my mind.

“This Helena you mentioned, Hellsinger,” I said, as I walked back into the room. “She…she is the same Helena as the one I am to wed, isn’t she?”

Hellsinger nodded in agreement.

“So she is, in fact, a vampire, is she not?”

“Uh-huh.”

“And so…we are going to have to kill her.”

“Yup,” Hellsinger confirmed, pulling a large, wooden box out of his bag. He flipped open the lid, to reveal a veritable smorgasbord of vampire-slaying instruments. “Luckily, I came prepared,” Hellsinger winked.

“Bugger,” I said. “‘Tis a terrible shame. She had the most fantastic tits, you know.”

- Lord Likely.

Next Time in The Astonishing Adventures of Lord Likely: Wedding HELLS!

AN ANNOUNCEMENT! My scribe (Mr. A.D Fanton) and I would like to express our deepest gratitude to all of you who donated to our emergency appeal last week. Mr. Fanton ran into some financial difficulties, but thanks to our loyal and terribly generous readers, he was swiftly helped out of his predicament! HUZZAH! Special thanks must be given to dear MeiLin Miranda, Irk and Char of The Peacock King and the wonderful community at weblit.us – you are all truly marvellous souls, so thank you muchly!

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~ Lord Likely and the Bloody Nuisances: Part Six ~

For the previous chapter, do please click here.

“MARRIED?” spluttered Inspector Spunkleford, as I told him all about my plans to wed dear Helena Handbaskett, having raced down to Scotland Yard to share the news with the man.

“Yes, dear inspector! Helena and I are to be wed!” I beamed. “Is it not such wondrous news?”

“Well…” the inspector paused, and slowly stirred his tea. “I mean, it certainly is a cause for celebration, and I had always hoped to see you finally settle down, you know…but…well, I am rather surprised, Likely. I know you, you are not the sort of man to commit himself to a single woman. Or a married woman, come to think of it. You like to have your cake and then do unspeakable things with it! I just cannot quite see what makes this maid – whom you have only known for three or four days, do not forget! – so very special that you are willing to spend the rest of your days with her!”

“Helena? Oh, my – she is special, Spunkleford. Why, she’s…there’s…there’s the way…erm…” I stopped as I tried to recollect precisely why I was agreeing to marry this woman. Nothing was instantly springing to mind…I just knew I had to wed her. “Anyway!” I smiled, changing the subject hastily. “How are things going with you and Mrs. Spunkleford? Does she still wish to leave you?”

“I’m afraid so,” Spunkleford sighed. “Her people are talking to my people, and my people are trying to reason with her people, but her people are refusing to listen and are instead starting to shout rather loudly at my people…it’s all frightfully depressing, Likely. I shall spare you all the details!”

“Oh, good. It sounds awfully tedious,” I replied.

“Ah! But I am glad you are here, Likely…we’ve had a rather interesting development with this whole -” Spunkleford glanced furtively about him, and lowered his voice. “This whole vampire business!” he whispered.

“Oh?”

“Do you remember that doctor who came here and alerted us to that awful Strix fellow in the first place?”

“Oh, yes…Doctor Fishcock or something, wasn’t it?” I replied.

“Doctor Whelkbladder,” Spunkleford corrected, with a slight tone of exasperation in his voice which I did not care for much. “He…he has gone a bit peculiar,” Spunkleford continued.

“Ah! I had always thought there was a touch of the lavender about that fellow,” I exclaimed.

“No!” Spunkleford cried. “Not like that! He’s…well, he…” the Inspector hesitated momentarily, unsure of how to finish his sentence. “I think it shall probably be for the best if you just come down to the cell and see him.”

“Cell?” I asked, arching an eyebrow. Now this was getting interesting…

*****

“GRRRRRRRRRRAAARRRRGGGH! GRRRRRAAAARRRRGGHH! HSSSSSSSSS! HSSSSSSSS! GRRRRAAARRRRGGH! GRRRRRAAARRGGH!”…said Doctor Whelkbladder.

“Hmmm,” I mused, as I observed the former medic as he frantically bashed against the front of his cell, a pale, thin and slightly clawed hand swiping at us feebly through the gaps between the metal bars. “That does seem like slightly unusual behaviour for one in the medical profession. Unles he is drunk. Is he drunk?”

“No…no, we had a few people complain that a doctor was wandering the streets at night, taking bites out of them,” Spunkleford nodded sadly as Whelkbladder continued to writhe about in his cell, like a thing possessed by a…thing. “So, we went out and searched for this fiend, and found old Whelkbladder here, gnawing on the neck of a green-grocer.”

“Well, at least he is eating healthily,” I pondered out loud.

“Poor devil…I mean, just look at those eyes…they’re pure white! ‘Tis…’tis like he is already dead…and look at those frightful fangs!”

As we watched the apparition with morbid curiosity, the spectre suddenly launched himself with full force at the door of his cell, making it buckle outwards in a rather ominous manner.

“That does not bode well,” I observed.

“Do not fret, Likely! These old cells are built to last, you know! It shall take more than – ” And then, Whelkbladder interjected by hurling himself once more at the iron bars, sending the door flying across the corridor. I would have been clobbered had I not had the presence of mind to run half-way back up the stairs and take refuge behind a pillar.

“Arse Crumpets!” I exclaimed, as I fished my pistol out of my pocket. “Get yourself out of there, Spunkleford!”

Spunkleford turned and ran, as another police officer stepped up to fire his gun at the oncoming demon. The bullets glanced off of the creature’s left arm, failing to slow him down by so much as one jot. Before he knew it, the poor officer was set upon by the former doctor, who sank his teeth into the young man’s neck. Spunkleford let off a couple of shots of his own, but they proved as inconsequential as those fired by the now thoroughly dead constable.

Whelkbladder had evidently had his fill of the officer’s blood, and discarded the body like one might discard an empty bottle of whisky, and tossed him casually over his shoulder with little or no effort at all. Whelkbladder then wiped his mouth on the back of his sleeve (frightfully bad manners, I noted) and turned his attention to Spunkleford, who was frantically trying to reload his gun. I realised there was no time to lose, and carefully aimed my pistol at the advancing doctor’s head, and fired.

I landed a perfect shot square between Whelkbladder’s eyes, which – while not incapacitating the monster – certainly knocked him for six, and he stumbled backwards and tumbled onto the ground. I vaulted over the bannister of the stairs, and landed neatly beside Spunkleford.

“Come on, man!” I hissed. “We have got to get out of here! That damned creature won’t be down for long!”

With almost clockwork timing, the late Whelkbladder rose back to his feet again as if he’d been hauled up by an invisible pulley-system, and recommenced his advance. Spunkleford and I opened fire again, but the bullets were passing through him like he was made out of evil, terrible water. Things were looking considerably bleak…

…until, all of a sudden, the door at the far end of the corridor burst in, and a tall, well-built man with flowing, blonde hair strode in. “Hey, asshole!” he cried, his accent and coarse language clearly denoting him as an American chap. “Bite this!” With that, the fellow raised a large blunderbuss up, and fired what appeared to be a big, wooden stake from his weapon. The object flew through the air, and came to a squelchy stop in Doctor Whelkbladder’s chest, covering us in blood and gloop in the process. I made a mental note to make this American cad pay for a new suit, but my attention was diverted by Whelkbladder howling out in pain. He staggered about momentarily, then collapsed to the floor, where he proceeded to melt and dissolve into a slimy puddle of goo.

“The doctor…is OUT,” the American quipped.

“And who in the name of Columbus’ cock-butter are you?” I demanded. The man smiled, and holstered his blunderbuss on his back.

“Evan Hellsinger,” he answered. “Vampire slayer.”

“Oh God,” I sighed.

- Lord Likely.

Next Time in Lord Likely and the Bloody Nuisances: Evan All-Mighty!

ATTENTION, PLEASE! AND HELP! ‘Next time’ may be some time off, as my USELESS and WRETCHED scribe, Mr. Fanton, has found himself in dire straits whereby he can barely feed his stupid self, let alone pay for an inter-net connection with which to update my wondrous, virtual journals.

This being the case, the dear Ms. Meilin Miranda and some of the wonderful weblit.us community have very kindly started raising funds for my soft-headed scribe, and have created this fine-looking web-widget with which to do so. Click below to see it, and donate away!

CLICK HERE TO DONATE!

Of course, Mr. Fanton is a complete ARSE, but if anyone should wish to be kind enough and donate a few shillings, we would certainly appreciate it moistly.

ALTERNATIVELY, Mr. Fanton has also designed a few charming t-shaped shirts, two of which feature my lordly self – and, furthermore, I am STARK-NAKED on one particular shirt!

These items may be purchased through the virtual shop at Redbubble. So why not buy one of those, and help the cove out that way?

Apologies for the begging, but ’tis sadly needed at the moment. Many thanks, chums…we cannot do this without you all!

BEING A RICH and ridiculously wealthy member of the aristocracy, I myself ne’er need worry about money again, or if I do it is merely to worry about where I shall keep it all, or whether or not a vagrant will try and thieve it from me. Otherwise, my financial concerns are next to non-existent.

The same, however, cannot be said for my wretched scribe Mr. A.D Fanton, who is currently so overladen with financial concerns that I fear his weak shoulders shall snap clean off.

Having been made unemployed about six weeks ago (through no fault of his own, staggeringly enough), my scribe has been enduring great difficulty in not only securing further employment (well, he IS wretched, after all), but also in securing so much as one, single penny from Her Majesty’s government with which to feed and house himself while searching for suitable work.

The bilge-headed bureaucratic bastards have delayed his progress at ev’ry turn, through woeful ignorance or downright incompetence (such as losing a form my wordsmith filled out right in front of their accursed eyes). Suffice to say, this has left Mr. Fanton in some decidedly dire straits, ever-hungry and nervously eyeing up the front door for fear of bailiffs smashing through it and taking his worldly possessions (one hat, and a cup), before hurling him out into the street like the rubbish he is. And so, uncertainty and woe are now his only bedfellows – not that he has e’er attracted anyone else into his filthy, grime-encrusted pit.

Anyway: the upshot of it all is that Mr. Fanton has come to realise that the only good thing in his miserable existence is this very web-site you now read, which he works upon with all the dogged determination of a determined dog, bringing thrilling adventure and exhilarating mysteries to your eyeballs every week.

This he does for the princely sum of no pence, save the odd contribution from generous donators (of whom we are truly grateful). However, in hard times such as these, Mr. Fanton is forced to – once again – come top-hat-in-hand, and beg for your generosity, for without it he simply cannot progress. Largely because his inter-net connection shall probably be shut off at any moment, but I digress.

So, how may you be of assistance?

1. Donate! If Mr. Fanton’s daubings and scribblings have at all amused you (which they jolly well should do, seeing as how they’re sourced from my EXCELLENT diaries), then mayhaps you shall consider throwing a shilling or two into the topper. Or perhaps a shilling per smile, one pound per chuckle, ten guineas for a belly-laugh, and a sack of gold for each instance of overwhelming, trouser-soiling merriment.

You may donate via the PayChum button coming up…any…moment..NOW.

Anything you can spare shall be gratefully and eagerly appreciated, friends. Ideally, we’d like to ensure Mr. Fanton can stay in his actual home, and possibly eat as well, a rare luxury indeed! (Which, as frivolous as it sounds, is actually depressingly true). We both are continually astonished by how our loyal readers lend their incredible when crisis looms it’s ugly, wart-spotted face, and such generosity is never taken for granted.

As such, all those kind of enough to toss a coin shall be invited to gain entrance to my magnificent Member’s Lounge, wherein you shall find exclusive, hitherto unseen, Likely treasures, as well as upcoming give-aways and other INCREDIBLE wonders! If you cannot spare any cash (I know the economic climate is ‘a bit buggery’, as economists term it), then do not fear, I shall think no less of you!

2. Hire-A-Fanton! As well as spreading the word (through the Twittering device or whatnot), perhaps you might know of someone who is looking to hire a cartoonist or writer, or perhaps you yourself require such services? Mr. Fanton can do both (just about), and is most keen to begin any future, paying commission! Just email me at hislordship@lordlikely.com and I shall put you in touch with the cove!

3. Advertise! If you are interested in getting a Victorian-themed advertisement made for your web-site or business, to be proudly displayed in these very journals, or are intrigued by the notion of somehow sponsoring our endeavours, please do contact me through electrical letter, and let us discuss!

4. Buy Clothing! And finally, Mr. Fanton has a range of t-shaped shirts on sale, some of which feature ME, so feel quite free to purchase many by visiting his little store, Mr. Fanton At Redbubble.

And, there we have it. If you can help my stinking scribe out of this sticky wicket, then we both shall be truly, truly humbled and thankful.

And then, if he is able to successfully traverse this awful bump in the road, then perhaps Mr. Fanton will be free to toil away on the myriad exciting Likely-based projects he has in the works all that much quicker!…

Many fully-engorged thanks, and toodle-pip!

- Lord Likely.

We now return you to the Astonishing Adventure in progress.

~ Lord Likely and the Bloody Nuisances Part Five ~

For the previous chapter, please click here.

THREE DAYS had passed since I had soundly defeated the nefarious neck-biter Mr. Strix, a skirmish which had resulted in the blood-sucking bounder dissolving into a pile of bones, guts and well-tailored clothing. Naturally, the whole spectacle rather perturbed Strx’s housemaid, Helena Handbaskett, leaving her deeply traumatised. Of course, being a naturally caring and benevolent fellow, I immediately offered her lodgings at Likely Towers, where I spent the following three days comforting the poor girl, offering her a shoulder to cry on, and a penis to wildly straddle, both of which she gladly accepted.

After three days of such strenuous counsel, wherein I offered solace to the lady in numerous different positions and locales, we wound up back in my magnificent bed-chamber. Helena lay on her back, with me holding her legs in the air, pumping away at her quivering mound like a piston on a particularly well-oiled (and damnably attractive) machine. With each impressive thrust Helena moaned and gasped with delight, as in the manner of many a lady before her, and dare I say, many a lady after her as well.

“RULE BRITANNIA!” I bellowed, as I shot my ennobled ejaculate into Helena’s silken flesh-purse at the precise point at which she climaxed with all the force of a raging river crashing through a damn. Sweaty and utterly sated, I rolled off the gasping form of the maid and lit myself a cigarette.

“Do you always smoke after intercourse, my lord?” asked Helena as she caught her breath.

“Sometimes,” I replied, dragging on my cigarette. “Sometimes, I smoke during intercourse. The friction can be incredible, you know.”

A post-coital silence fell upon us as we both lay back on the pillows, a silence that lasted up until the point that Helena spoke once more.

“My lord, may I ask you a question?” she spake.

“Well, you have already asked two question, including that one, so I cannot see what difference a third would make.”

“Very well,” Helena responded, “My lord…are we to be married now?”

I nearly swallowed my cigarette in shock at this abrupt suggestion.

“M-m-married?” I stuttered in a stunned staccato. “Why on earth would you want to go and ruin a perfectly good relationship by getting married?”

“But my lord, you have laid with me these past few days…surely you must be planning to wed me as well?”

“Good heavens no, dear,” I said. “I have something of a distrust of the institution of marriage. I liken it to glueing together two fifty pound notes…far from ending up with one, crisp hundred pound note, all you have is a messy lump of glue and paper that is worth considerably less than the two component parts.”

“My lord!” raged Helena, her face turning scarlet, which actually complimented her red hair rather nicely. “You must make an honest woman of me!”

“You are a woman, honestly!” I retorted. “I should know, I’ve seen a few. Look, dear Helena, you are a sweet, innocent girl but I am…I am Lord Likely, Aristocratic Adventurer and Gentle-Man of Action! I am a bachelor, a man-about-town, a wild and free spirit. Think of me as being a lithe, world-class race-horse. You do not get yourself a champion racer and then tether it to a large, heavy carriage, expecting it to drag the blasted thing about with it all day and all night. Why, to do so would be absolute insanity, and would only serve to crush the spirit and drain the soul of the poor creature.”

“Oh! So I am a ‘large, heavy carriage’ now, am I?” wailed Helena, rising up out of the bed with the sheets wrapped around her slender frame.

“Only in a metaphorical sense,” I cooed. “In actuality you are rather pleasingly assembled indeed.”

Helena stared out of the bed-room window for a while, then turned back to me. “Fine, my lord. I see that you have your beliefs, and are quite certain of yourself. I can accept that.” She sat back down beside me, and placed a hand on my arm, while she gazed deeply into my eyes. “But I am completely certain that you shall change your mind in no time at all, and that you shall very soon acquiesce to my demands to marry me.”

I stared into her dark eyes, for what seemed like an eternity.There was something about them, something intangible that seemed to hold one’s gaze, drawing one further and further in. Everything else seemed to fade away into the background, and all that was left were the eyes, those dark, beautiful eyes…

I shook my head sharply to free myself of the daze that I had found myself in.

“Sorry, my dear? You were saying?”

“I was just wondering, my lord,” Helena said, taking my hand and holding it close to her. “Shall we get married?”

I smiled.

“Why, most certainly, my dear! How about tomorrow?”

- Lord Likely.

Next Time in The Astonishing Adventures of Lord Likely: Nice Day For A Bite Wedding!

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“HAPPY BIRTHDAY to me, happy birthday to me! Happy birthdaaaaay Lord Like-leeeeeee….you handsome swine you!”

‘Twas September the Twenty-Third, a day of much rejoicing at Likely Towers, for it was my most wondrous and glorious birthday, and as such I was in a most chipper mood indeed as I descended the staircase into the Great Hall.

“Ah, Botter!” I beamed as I beheld my man-servant, who was busily polishing my vast array of fencing trophies. “Not even your wretched, stomach-churningly disgusting face can sour this most fabulous of days!”

“Oh yes, milord?” Botter replied, as he dusted my  ‘Largest Fence Built From Human Hair‘ trophy from 1876. “Something happening to-day, is there?”

“Well, I – ” I stopped short, as the full meaning of Botter’s words dawned upon me. “Wait a moment…you DO realise what day it is to-day, yes?”

“Erm…hold on…” Botter replied, consulting a nearby calendar. “Why, it’s September the Twenty-Third, is it not?”

I nodded stiffly. “Yes, yes…and does that date remind you of anything very special, Botter?”

Botter furrowed his brow as he tried to pull the relevant memory from his woefully inadequate brain. “Umm…no, no…I cannot say that it does, my lord.”

“Try to think harder, Botter…think of an earth-shatteringly important event which took place years ago…”

“Erm…oh, yes!” Botter smiled, clicking his fingers. “The Concordat of Worms!”

“Yes, that’s right the – ” I stopped again. “The what, Botter?”

“The Concordat of Worms, milord – sometimes called the Pactum Calixtinum by papal historians. It was an agreement between Pope Calixtus II and the Holy Roman Emperor Henry V, which was made on September 23, 1122 near the city of Worms. It brought to an end the first phase of the power struggle between the Papacy and the Holy Roman Emperors, and it has since been suggested by historians that it laid the foundations of a nation-based sovereignty that would later be confirmed in the Treaty of Westphalia.”

I stood unblinking and slightly dumbfounded by my man-servant’s hitherto unheralded knowledge of papal history.

“No, Botter…” I said slowly. “No, that was not what I had in mind…”

“Oh! Well, then…I’m afraid I can’t think of anything particularly notable about this day then, milord,” Botter chirped, as he resumed his dusting duties, whistling merrily to himself.

I narrowed my eyes.

*****

I TOOK a prolonged constitutional thereafter, which quickly turned into a prolonged pub-crawl, as I frequented many a public house along the way in an attempt to drink away the thoughts nagging away at the back of my mind.

Had Botter – my faithful man-servant and companion of nigh on twenty years REALLY forgotten my birthday? And what of Inspector Spunkleford, or Dorothy Mount-Worthy, or the Duke of Fircombe, or Lady Quimblast, Madam Vadgerton, Lady Nibgobble or any of my many, varied acquaintances? I had not had one communication from any of them, not even so much as a single, congratulatory telegram. Had they ALL forgotten my most special of days? Or had they remembered, but chosen not to care?

Impossible, I thought. I am cocking well fantastic.

It was getting dark by the time I staggered back to Likely Towers, my head spinning like an inebriated carousel. It was more by chance than judgement that I managed to actually get into my mansion at all.

Inside, all was pitch-black. I stumbled into my dining-room, and somehow I successfully lit a gas-lamp without setting fire to myself or the nearby curtains.

As I turned around, I was suddenly greeted by a horde of people standing at the other end of the room. “SURPRISE!” they cried in unison, causing me to stagger back in shock. Confused and disoriented, I quickly pulled out my pistol and shot wildly into the crowd.

“Gah! Take that! And that! And also some of that!” I bellowed, as I fired shot after shot into the amassed horde.

“LIKELY! LIKELY! Stop, man! For heaven’s sake, STOP!” cried Inspector Spunkleford, breaking from the crowd and wrestling my fire-arm from me. “Good grief, man! Calm down!”

“Wh-what in the name of Her Majesty’s Muffty is going on here?” I demanded, swaying uneasily on the spot. “How did all these criminals get into my house?”

“It’s a surprise birthday party in your honour, Likely,” Spunkleford explained. “Although I fear we received the biggest surprise of the night!”

“Oh,” I said, as I scanned the crowd and realised that all of my dearest, closest and large-breasted friends were in attendance, staring at me in disbelief. “Oh! Ahem. I…I do apologise. Is anyone hurt?”

“The Earl of Bumchutney has been shot in the leg,” came a voice in the crowd.

“I am ever so sorry,” I replied. “I was…I was just rather taken aback, you see. I had no idea you’d all be here! How did this happen?”

“Ah, ’twas your man-servant’s doing, Likely! Organised the whole thing. Rather sterling effort, eh? Where is he anyhow?”

I coughed noisily. “Never mind that now…we are here to have a party, and a party we shall damn well have! Come – let us eat, drink and be bloody merry!”

And with that, the atmosphere lightened considerably and the party began in earnest, and continued on well into the small hours, as we drank and debauched ourselves rotten.

Meanwhile, strung up upside-down by his ankles from an oak tree on my estate, Botter contemplated the repercussions of feigning ignorance of my birthday.

- Lord Likely.

Hip-hip-hooray! Let us all carry the party on, dear readers, as I toast not only my glorious self, but all of you who have continued to thrill to my Astonishing Adventures! Many thanks for your unswerving loyalty, chums! Hurrah for us all!

Ahem! Of course, being my birthday, you may feel compelled to make a very generous donation to the Likely Funds, so that many more adventures may be forthcoming!

And lest we forget, the latest chapter of my current escapade, “Lord Likely and the Bloody Nuisances”, may be found hither.

Now – bottoms up, ev’ryone! CHEERS!

~ Lord Likely and the Bloody Nuisances, Part Four ~

For the previous chapter, please click here.

From the Journals of Lord Likely, Aristocratic Adventurer and Gentle-Man of Action.

MR. STRIX hissed at me, and opened his mouth to reveal his fearsome fanged teeth. Any doubts I may have had pertaining to the existence of vampires were quickly vanishing in the face of cold, hard, pointy facts.

With another loud hiss, Mr. Strix lunged at me, but I proved much too quick for the blood-sucking bounder, and deftly leapt out of the way. Strix proceeded to fall over a table behind where I’d stood, and then he landed in a rather undignified and un-terrifying heap.

“By Beelzebub’s Acrid Arse-Gas!” I exclaimed as I gathered myself up. “What a turn-up for the books, eh?” I turned to my companions, Inspector Spunkleford and my man-servant, Botter (still clutching his erroneous steak), who were both trembling and white with fear. I believe Botter may have even soiled himself slightly, but I was not prepared to investigate further.

“H-he’s an actual vampire!” Spunkleford stammered, pointing a shaky finger in Strix’s direction.

“Very good, inspector,” I remarked. “I dare say you shall quickly work your way up to commissioner with such remarkable deductive skills.”

“B-but he’s a vampire!” Spunkleford repeated.

“Yes, so we have established. Now, what say we get out of this forsaken hell-hole before that very same vampire recovers himself, hmmm?”

But, even as I spoke it was much too late, and Strix was scrabbling to his feet, his eyes glowing with rage.

“I…musssst…FEEEEEED!” he snarled.

“Quick, Spunkleford! Show him your cross!” I bellowed.

“Erm…all-all right, Likely,” Spunkleford replied nervously, before stepping up in front of Mr. Strix, puffing his chest out in a feeble attempt to look braver than he actually was. “Now…now listen here, my man…I really am rather annoyed, you know…and…and I have found your behaviour quite unacceptable. Furthermore, I – ”

“No, Spunkleford!” I cried out, exasperated. “Don’t show him YOU ARE cross, show him YOUR cross – your damned crucifix!”

Spunkleford nodded his comprehension, but as he went to reach into his pocket to retrieve the cross, Strix was upon him, bashing him out of the way like he was nothing more than a portly, middle-aged rag-doll, and sending him flying into a beam on the other side of the room. That would most assuredly leave a mark, I mused, before refocusing my attention on Strix, who was gliding toward me, his arms outstretched in my direction.

“Oh, for heaven’s sake!” I said. “What is your obsession with me? I dare say Spunkleford had more blood in him than I! I mean you only have to look at him to realise he is positively brimming with the stuff…surely he would make for a fine feast indeed? No?…oh, to hell with it all!” I cried, as I grabbed the raw steak from Botter’s limp grasp, and then brought it sharply across Strix’s face as he leapt at me once more. The full-force of the lump of cow-meat forced Strix to spin round two hundred and forty degrees, at which point he lost his footing and collapsed back onto the table, inadvertently skewering himself on a solid-gold fountain pen which had been resting in an ink-well.

From the diary of Mr. Strix, Vampire.

Owch.

From the Journals of Lord Likely, Aristocratic Adventurer and Gentle-Man of  Action.

Strix let out a piercing shriek, writhed about for a bit, before falling silent and limp on the table.

“Well,” I smiled, hurling the steak back to Botter. “It seems he certainly got the POINT, eh Botter?”

“Very good, milord,” Botter drawled.

“The point…of the pen,” I added.

“Yes, milord.”

“In his chest.”

“Um…yes.”

“And then he died.”

“Erm…”

“Right! Enough quick-fire witticisms! Let us get out of here and – oh-ho? What now?” I exclaimed, as Strix’s body started to steam and crackle noisily, like bacon on a stove, and then – before our very eyes – the corpse began to melt, the skin slipping off the bones and dissolving into smoke.

“Bloody hell!” I remarked.

“I…I think I’m going to be sick…” Botter whined.

At that point, Strix’s maid entered the room, eager to see what all the commotion was about. “What’s all the commotion in here?” she said, confirming my previous sentence. “What’s been happening? Where’s the mast – oh!” Her eyes fell upon the smouldering remains of her former employer, moving her to emit a loud, piercing scream. Thus sated, she swiftly passed out in a dead faint into my manly arms.

“She must have been rather perturbed by the terrible mess,” I hypothesised. “I dare say there’s a good hour or two’s worth of cleaning to be done in here. Poor thing,” I said, stroking strands of the girl’s red hair from her eyes. “Listen, Botter…I shall go and make sure this poor darling is comfortable…you go and check on the inspector. I fear his pride may be slightly bruised, at least if the angle at which he hit that beam is anything to go by.”

“Very good, milord,” Botter nodded, scuttling off to perform my wishes.

“Wha…what happened?” murmured the maid, as she slowly returned to a state of consciousness.

“Do not worry yourself dear,” I cooed sympathetically. “The nightmare is over now – and forever more!”

- Lord Likely.

Next Week in “Lord Likely and the Bloody Nuisances”: The Nightmare is Far From Over!

PLUS: Be back here to-morrow, for a bonus Likely tale, “Lord Likely’s Birthday Bash”. HUZZAH!

Enjoyed? Then do please donate! If you have enjoyed this thrilling instalment, or indeed any of the thrilling instalments of the journals thus far, then perhaps you would care to donate a farthing or two to help with the upkeep of these tremendous journals, and help to keep our scribe alive? All help is muchly appreciated, and those who help now receive access to his lordship’s top-secret Member’s Lounge! HUZZAH!

~ Lord Likely and the Bloody Nuisances, Part Three. ~

For the previous chapter, do please click here.

From the Journals of Lord Likely, Aristocratic Adventurer and Gentle-Man of Action.

THE VERY notion that we might have to apprehend a vampire seemed frankly ludicrous and absurd in my mind. I am a reasonable and rational fellow, and have no time for such ridiculous flights of fancy and superstitious piffle. If I cannot see it, touch it, hold it and feel it, I simply cannot believe in it. Thus, the only things I really have one-hundred per-cent complete faith in are my penis, and ladies’ bodies.

However, there was no doubting that something decidedly strange had transpired in the city last night, and after having read Dr. Elton Whelkbladder’s diary I was suitably convinced that this mysterious Mr. Strix chap may well be worth investigating.

Plus there were other small matters to take into consideration; such as the two, small puncture marks in the doctor’s neck, and the fact that he also seemed to be now lacking a heart-beat or indeed a pulse of any sort, symptoms which struck me as rather unusual, and which led me to conclude that  some rum business may indeed be afoot.

*****

AND SO we thus found ourselves outside Mr. Strix’s stereotypically sinister-looking abode, readying ourselves to meet with Dr. Whelkbladder’s vicious attacker. Whether or not he was a vampire, Mr. Strix was certainly a violent and dangerous man, and was thus not someone I was prepared to visit without making sure I was equipped without at least three weapons, lest our conversation turned difficult and required a few bullet-points for clarity.

As I slotted some bullets into my trusty pistol, I noticed Inspector Spunkleford gently kissing a small, golden trinket he held in his hands.

“What is that you have there, inspector?” I asked.

“‘Tis a crucifix!” Spunkleford exclaimed, waving the cross proudly in the air. “If this Strix fellow comes at me, then he shall feel the full power of God, I tell you!”

“Mmmm,” I said, not entirely convinced. “Well, if it’s all the same to you, I shall take my chances with shooting him in the bollocks. That’s still got to ruddy well hurt, supernatural entity or not, eh?…Botter!” I exclaimed, suddenly noticing my man-servant cradling a lump of raw meat. “What on earth have you got there?”

“Well,” Botter began, earnestly. “If Mr. Strix is a vampire, I thought I’d better bring a steak to drive into his heart.”

I slapped my hand against my face and slowly drew it down over my proud features. “Botter, what you’ve done there is to…oh, never mind! Come on, let us get this over and done with, hmmm?”

With our final checks carried out, we turned and headed toward the foreboding house.

*****

From the Diary of Mr. Jonathan Creakshaft, Cab Driver.

I watched his lordship and the other two blokes head off up the path to the creepy-looking house, and then decided that I really wanted a smoke.

As I drew heavily upon my cigarette, I came to the sudden realisation that I really had nothing of interest to add to this narrative.

*****

From the Journals of Lord Likely, Aristocratic Adventurer and Gentle-Man of Action.

“WHY HELLO,” I beamed, lowering my pistol and raising my penis as the door was answered by a rather attractive-looking maid, and not the fearsome beast we had anticipated. “‘Tis a pleasure to meet you, m’dear.”

“Likely!” Spunkleford whined, in that tone of voice he reserves for spoiling for my fun.

“Alright, alright, inspector,” I sighed, switching seamlessly into professional investigator mode. “My dear, I wonder if we might converse with the master of the house, a Mr. Strix?…”

“Certainly, sir,” the beautiful, petite, raven-haired temptress cooed. “Would you care to follow me?”

“Anywhere!” I grinned, as we walked in after the delightful young lady, my eyes barely moving from her pert bottom as it wiggled seductively under her clothing. “Good heavens!” I whispered to Spunkleford as we carried on through the house. “That really is a first-class arse. Now there is something I would not mind sinking my teeth into, I can tell you.”

“Likely!” hissed Spunkleford, jabbing me in the ribs with his elbow. “Please!”

“Oh, do calm down, inspector. Crikey, it is no wonder your wife wants to leave you!”

“Oh, now Likely!” Spunkleford protested. “Now that really was below the belt.”

“A lot of marital problems are, as I understand it,” I winked.

“Ah, gentlemen!” boomed Mr. Strix’s voice, rather rudely interrupting what I considered to be some of my wittiest wordplay thus far. “Welcome, welcome!”

Mr. Strix was a tall, angular fellow with high cheekbones, jet-black hair pulled tightly back across his head, and dark, piercing eyes. He was dressed immaculately in a jet-black suit, and carried with him an equally-black cane, atop of which was mounted a silver skull.

In short, this fellow could not have looked more like a villain, even if he had the word ‘villain‘ scrawled across his face in Indian ink, and a kitten’s decapitated head held in his hand.

“Ah, Mr. Strix,” I smiled, walking up to the man and shaking him warmly by the hand, although the warmth part was most definitely from me; Mr. Strix’s skin felt as cold as ice. “Lord Likely, Aristocratic Adventu-”

“I know who you are, your lordship,” Strix grinned. “And I know precisely why you and the dear inspector are here. I presume this is something to do with that silly old fool Dr. Whelkbladder, yes?…”

“Well, yes, as a matter of fact,” I replied. “You see, the dear doctor has led us to believe that – and this shall sound ridiculous – that you are a vampire, sir.”

“Quack!” shouted Strix.

“It seems we were mistaken,” I whispered to Spunkleford. “I think Mr. Strix may be a duck. Possibly a vampire duck, I’ll warrant you.”

“Quack!” Strix repeated. “Dr. Whelkbladder is just a silly old quack. Do you know that when he visited me, he thought me to be on death’s door? Yet here I am, as fit as a fiddle! Clearly the doctor is trying to save his own dubious reputation by discrediting me with these preposterous accusations.”

I mulled over Mr. Strix’s words, looked at Spunkleford, and then turned back to Mr. Strix, my pistol drawn. “An interesting counterpoint, sir,” I exclaimed. “But I have been watching our little exchange in the mirror behind you, and it seems that you are lacking to the tune of one whole reflection. Care to explain that, my man?”

“Would you believe I lost it in a game of chance?” Strix smiled. I nodded in the negative.

And then the fiend lunged at me.

- Lord Likely.

Next Time in Lord Likely and the Bloody Nuisances: Buffet, the Vampire Slayer!

Enjoyed? Then do please donate! If you have enjoyed this thrilling instalment, or indeed any of the thrilling instalments of the journals thus far, then perhaps you would care to donate a farthing or two to help with the upkeep of these tremendous journals, and help to keep our scribe alive? All help is muchly appreciated, and those who help now receive access to his lordship’s top-secret Member’s Lounge! HUZZAH!

Many thanks, chums!

For the previous chapter, do please click here.

From the Journals of Lord Likely, Aristocratic Adventurer and Gentle-Man of Action

AND SO with the scent of Adventure in my nostrils (my favourite fragrance, and one which was doing a fine job of masking the wretched odour emanating from Botter’s general vicinity), we hopped into a cab and headed off to Scotland Yard, to meet this dead body that had decided to stop being dead.

After an uneventful carriage-ride, we arrived at our destination – Whitehall, and the rather unimpressive sight of Scotland Yard itself. As my man-servant and I disembarked from our cab, I noticed a hearse waiting outside the yard, with the driver trying to determine whether or not he was supposed to be picking up a corpse from a rather embarrassed-looking police-officer.

Botter and I strolled in to the cramped offices of the Yard, to be met by a rather perplexed Inspector Spunkleford. Spunkleford, of course, is often in a state of great perplexity, but on this occasion he seemed even more perplexitious than usual.

“Oh, Likely, you made it!” he flustered as he shook my hand gladly. “Oh, there is quite a hullabaloo about to-day, quite a hullabaloo indeed! You bring in one walking corpse and the whole place goes tiddly-pop! It is all a big old brouhaha, if you know what I mean.”

“I have positively no idea,” I replied. “I am not entirely sure half of what you said was even in English.”

“No! No I have nothing more to say, you parasite!” Spunkleford roared, as a seedy-looking gent with a notebook harassed him by the door. “Get out of here! Go on, hop it!…Sorry, Likely. You were saying?”

“Journalist?” I asked, indicating to the hawk-faced man now smarting from a sharp boot to the backside.

“Hmmm? Oh, him? No, no, no. Divorce lawyer. I am afraid Mrs. Spunkleford seems to believe our marriage has hit the rocks…um, care to see this body, Likely?”

“Well, I have no doubt that you are rather missing those moments of intimacy with your wife, inspector, but I hardly think offering yourself to me will – ”

“What? No! The body! The body we bought in! The chap who turned out to be not-dead! Care to meet him?”

“Oh, yes, but of course,” I said, coughing lightly into my hand. “That…that is precisely what I thought you meant.”

*****

FOR A deceased gentleman, Doctor Elton Whelkbladder was looking in remarkably rude health. Certainly, his skin had a rather pale tone to it, and his eyes looked so tired I feared that they might pop out of his head and go and curl up in the large bags just underneath. But in all other respects, Dr. Whelkbladder was exhibiting very few signs of bearing any of the afflictions usually associated with death. For one, he was moving about quite a lot, and secondly he was babbling away to us at ten-to-the-dozen, both traits one does not usually equate with a person who has shuffled off this mortal coil.

“I just don’t understand it!” exclaimed Whelkbladder, pacing the room in a manner most unbecoming of a fellow in his condition. “I simply don’t understand it!”

“And you say you cannot recall much of the events of last night, sir?” I enquired, while Spunkleford scurried over to converse with a rather serious-looking police constable.

“No, no…I went to visit a patient, and as far as I recall I prescribed him some medicine…and then…and then…GAH! It all goes blank, I’m afraid.”

“Hmm, how very…unhelpful,” I remarked.

“I think I might be able to shed some light on matter!” beamed Spunkleford, marching across the room while waving a small, brown book in his hand. “My men found this among the late doctor’s possessions. Well, latterly late. Early? The right-on-time doctor’s possessions…”

“Oh, do get on with it, Spunkleford,” I sighed.

“Right. Yes. Ahem, this is the diary of the good doctor…I think you shall find it rather interesting reading…”

“I say! You can’t read my private diaries!” Whelkbladder interjected.

“You’re dead, sir – I cannot see how it is of any concern of yours,” I snapped, taking the diary from the inspector’s hands. “Now, let me see…”

From the diary of Dr. Elton Whelkbladder.

Miss Mary Spimbuffet called by my surgery to-day. Oh! How my heart misses a beat whene’er I see her, her soft blonde locks cascading over those creamy white shoulders – heavens! I can barely suppress my glee when she arrives.

To-day, Miss Spimbuffet was complaining off a slightly ticklish cough. Naturally, I asked her to disrobe completely, as I do when examining all of Miss Spimbuffet’s maladies, no matter how big or small they may be. Oh! How my heart and loins twitched upon seeing her in all her naked, curvaceous beauty! Barely able to steady my trembling hands, I took my stethoscope and –

“No! Not that page!” Spunkleford interrupted, grabbing the diary from my hands and flipping forward a few pages. “This one!”

“But it was just getting really interesting!” I pleaded, receiving a withering look form the inspector in return. “Fine! But this had better be at least half as interesting as the part I just read,” I mumbled, returning to the diary.

From the diary of Dr. Elton Whelkbladder.

The bat stopped short beside me, and seemed to hover, as if it were watching me, staring at me with its beady little eyes. Then, there was a puff of acrid-smelling smoke, and in place of the bat stood Mr. Strix, looking considerably healthier than when I had checked upon him mere moments earlier.

“Good heavens, sir!” I exclaimed. “You gave me quite a start! Why, that is a rather impressive piece of trickery, I must say! How on earth did you ever squeeze yourself into that small bat costume?”

Mr. Strix smiled at me, a smile which sent chills running through my bones: for when Mr. Strix smiled, I saw a set of fangs so fearsome that I almost dislodged last-night’s supper into my undergarments.

And then, as I stood transfixed with terror, Mr. Strix lunged at me.

I lowered the diary slowly, an eyebrow arched in a quizzical – and undeniably handsome – manner.

“Are you trying to tell me, Spunkleford, that our dear doctor has been attacked by a…vampire?”

Spunkleford nodded silently.

“Bloody hell!” I remarked.

- Lord Likely.

Next Time in Lord Likely and the Bloody Nuisances: ‘Tis Strix O’Clock!

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