I came inside and sat on the couch, facing the north I remarked about the sun, getting closer to the horizon. She said she wanted to stay up and watch it all, but didn’t think she would make it that long, all the while standing next to the window with the sun light, dim as it was getting, still allowing me views of her body. It was then I remembered I didn’t have any shorts or tee shirt on, as I could feel some stirrings in my groin, knowing an erection was trying to form. My robe was one purchased at the goodwill, white short with a hotel name on it, and old and worn, it barely covered much, but I liked it. So when I had sat down the opening in the front had spread a bit, showing some inner thigh, and perhaps a peek a boo of my balls. I noticed Joanne was taking glimpses at me, paying attention to the crotch, furtive stares, that eventually went to my eyes. It was one of these glances at me I noticed she had a curious look on her face, hoping she was more than curious, I wiggled in. ‘Charlie, let me prosecute this one,’ said Little Twat. ‘It’s my turn.’ ‘Fair enough,’ said the man on the desk. ‘You can be Mr Prosecutor today. Did you frisk him?’ ‘Yeah. He only had this.’ The lad was holding up Huyton’s favourite weapon: a silver hammer. In his agony he hadn’t been able to stop it being confiscated. Now the sight of it made him sigh. He wasn’t a sentimental guy but he loved that hammer. He’d got it from a fence who swore it was the one that inspired the old Beatles’ song. It wasn’t, of course. It wasn’t even made of silver. But it didn’t half feel good when he banged it down on some fucker’s head. ‘Must be the Liverpool in him.’ Charlie grinned. ‘Okay, son, I’m going to give you a choice. Sit or be nailed to the floor. What’s your poison?’ Oh fuck, thought Huyton as realization dawned, this crazy bastard thinks he’s Charlie Richardson. ***** Pat was spending the afternoon in a similar manner to his lifelong crony. The difference was that he wouldn’t be bragging.
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