Free You Wouldn't Be Dead for Quids by Robert G. Barrett

shape up but his heart wasn’t in it — he was absolutely terrified. He saw the sickening, bloody mess Norton had made of his three mates and his face went as white as a sheet, his eyes bulging out like dog’s knackers. Like all bullies, they’re keen to bash other people but as soon as the tide turns against them they shit themselves very quickly.
    â€˜Give us a go, willya mate?’ he pleaded in desperation.
    â€˜Sure. I’ll give you a go,’ sneered Les. ‘Just like you gave me and her husband. You dirty weak prick of a thing.’
    Two straight lefts zapped into the beard’s face, followed by a short right and a left hook. Les was pulling his punches slightly, he didn’t want to knock him out. Not yet.
    Another two straight lefts and a right to the body, a little harder this time, sent him spinning backwards on to the wet sand. He stood there with his head bowed, trying to cover his face with his hands — he was almost in tears. Blood was pouring out of his nose and mouth into his beard and dripping on to the sand; it looked dreadful.
    â€˜Now, Whiskers,’ said Les, a vicious, sardonic smile etched on to his face. ‘Here’s a little trick I learnt off a bloke from Bangkok.’ He pivoted on his left foot, swung his right leg andslammed the instep against the beard’s right knee, smashing the joint. The beard screamed and fell on the wet sand, writhing in agony. Now he was crying.
    Les stood over the top of him. ‘Now don’t you go away, Whiskers,’ he said, ‘cause I haven’t quite finished with you yet.’
    He walked back, picked up one of the eskys and tipped the ice and remaining cans of beer out. ‘Have a look at that,’ he remarked, ‘not one bloody Fourex.’ Taking it by the handle he returned to the beard, who was lying on the sand whimpering with pain and fear. He saw Les coming and tried to roll himself up into a ball. Les straddled him and swinging the heavy metal esky like a squash racket started belting him across the back and head with it — you could have heard the din and screaming at Norah Head. When Les was satisfied he’d had enough he took him by his beard and stuffed his head into the empty esky.
    â€˜There you go, mate,’ said Les happily. ‘If you’re going to lay on the beach you’ve got to keep the sun out of your eyes.’
    He turned from Whiskers and walked back to the young married couple — they were together on the blanket, she was cradling his head in her arms, tears staining her cheeks. He didn’t appear to be hurt too badly but he looked very pale around the gills, like Marcel Marceau had just given him a make-up job. Their little dog was whimpering softly and licking at the husband’s hands.
    â€˜You two all right?’ asked Les.
    â€˜Yes I think so, thank you,’ replied the girl between sobs. ‘I think we’re more frightened than anything else. God, those men, they were like animals. I don’t know what would have happened if you hadn’t been here.’
    â€˜You’d have got a bit more than you bargained for on your honeymoon, wouldn’t you, love,’ replied Norton, a cheeky grin on his face.
    The girl started to smile a little through her tears. She was still minus the top half of her bikini; Les picked it up out of the sand and handed it to her.
    â€˜Here you are,’ he said. ‘You want to stick this on?’ She had one of the best pair of tits Les had ever seen. They were like two, firm brown grapefruit, with nipples like tiny, succulent pink strawberries. ‘There’s no hurry of course,’ said Les, with the grin still plastered across his face.
    Blushing with embarrassment, the girl stood up and with as much dignity as she could, wiggled into the top half of her bikini. Then she turned to Les. ‘Would you mind doing me up?’ she said coyly.
    â€˜Sure.’ Norton’s big