Escalator.

Alan Brooks stormed back into his house and slammed the door behind him triumphantly. “That little shit won’t do that again in a hurry!”

Tanya had stopped crying but was still sitting poe faced on the couch.

“What happened?” asked Angie.

“I told him he was a little shit and if he hit our Tanya again I’d throttle the little fucker!” Angie nodded in agreement.

Alan and Angie both jumped at the load banging that had erupted upon the front door.
Alan nearly sprinted over to the door and hauled it open “What?”

Stot!
A quick sound that reminded Angie of a turnip being dropped from a high height…and then Angie looked on as Alan Brooks came sailing back into the room, arse first!

Alan was holding his nose as he struggled to get himself up off the cheap carpet.

“What’s goin’ on?” asked Angie Brooks. Truth be told; Angie wasn’t the sharpest tool in the shed.

“My fuggan nohze!” cracked Alan. Dark crimson spread between his fingers as he did that thing injured parties do – they keep looking down at the blood as if it were going to foretell the future or something equally meaningful – it never does!

“Who was it Alan?” asked Angie the oracle.

“Fuggin Terry Rawlin’s, who d’ya fink?!” he answered, still cradling his face.

“Whatcha gonna do now Alan?” she asked.
On her lap, little Tanya looked up from the DVD of High School Musical that was playing away on the flat screen TV. Her tears had dried up the moment Angie, the domestic goddess, had pressed play on the remote.

Alan just looked back at her and tried to shake the white sparks out of his vision. He knew what he was going to do, as soon as his head stopped doing revolutions.

An hour later, Terry Rawlings had resumed his weight training in the garage. He’d worked on his arms and chest now he was blasting his legs with heel lifts, a fifty KG weighted bar across his shoulders as his grunted away through the exercise.

Terry was a big guy and he loved the muscle definition that the weights and his kickboxing training gave him. Last year in Lanzarote, every one had looked at him with envious eyes. The men wishing they had arms like his and the women no doubt wanted to know what lay beneath his Speedo’s!
Yeah, Terry was pretty happy with himself! He’d sorted out that shit from up the road sharpish enough. One snappy right cross had shut him up quick time!

Another ten reps ought to do it for today he thought to himself. Then a voice from the kitchen door; “You wanna cuppa, Tez?"

“No thanks Becky, I’ll have one of my protein shakes” he answered his wife.

A blonde mop of hair appeared above an orange fake tanned face, sporting a set of teeth so white she didn’t need a night light to read. “Whatever, babes, can you get it your self when you’re done?”

Terry grunted a reply as he struggled with the last three calf raises. His legs felt like they were going to set on fire such was the burn in his muscles.

Terry was admiring his form in the full length mirror. Damn his legs looked great, if he said so himself. Then another image appeared in the mirror; some dipshit with a wad of toilet paper in each nostril...and a pool cue in his hands.

SHIT!

Terry tried to drop the weighted bar from his shoulders but Alan Brooks ran full tilt into the garage and started swinging on his way in! The pool cue caught Terry just above the belt and the pain was both unexpected and nasty. Both the weights and Terry fell in an untidy heap on the garage floor. Both made an ungodly din as they landed.

Another thwack on the side of the head with the pool cue…and another!

Terry aimed a sloppy kick that missed by a good twelve inches and Alan replied by cracking down on his shins with the stick.

“Not so clever now are you, ya twat!” spat Brooks.

Terry sprawled on the ground, the weight bar now acting as a pinion, holding him down as his head swam.

Alan Brooks cast one more glance at the prostrate muscle man and smirked; “Bye for now shithead.”

As Brooks walked back out of the garage, he could hear Rawlings’ wife bleating on in the background. “Tez, Tez, what’s happened? Did you fall? What’s goin’ on?”

Brooks whistled a tune as he swished his pool cue through the air with only a little of the aplomb of his hero, Errol Flynn.

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