Les Norton and the Case of the Talking Pie Crust by Robert G. Barrett Page B

staggered to his feet and picked up an overnight bag full of stinking wet rags. He hurled it at the younger woman on the left, who screamed as it knocked her on her backside amongst the piles of rubbish. This sent the other two women into an even wilder frenzy.
    ‘Bastard! Bastard!’ they spat at Les, furiously raining blows upon him. ‘Murdering kriminal bastard. Die, stinking shit bastard.’
    ‘Ohh fuck you,’ howled Les. ‘Stick your lousy rubbish in your arse.’ Les hastily stepped back out of the driveway to the other side of the footpath and stared at the three women in disbelief before beating a retreat to the safety of his car. The three women continued to shriek at him, still brandishing their cudgels.
    ‘Kriminal! Kriminal!’ they shouted.
    ‘Go from our street, kriminal!’
    ‘Yes. And doesn’t coming back. Bastard!’
    ‘Christ! You needn’t worry about that,’ said Les, painfully getting back behind the wheel. ‘You’re off your fuckin heads.’
    Les started the car and the wheels spun on the wet road before he sped off, putting as much distance as he could between himself and the three maddened women in the shortest time possible.
    Les hung two lefts before he pulled up for the lights at the Royal Hotel and checked himself out in the rear-vision mirror. As well as being soaking wet and covered in filth, there was blood all through his cap and trickles were running down his face and dripping off his chin. Under his top, he could feel welts along his arms and across his shoulders. A family pulled up alongside in a station wagon and they all stared at his condition. Les snarled back at them and roared off down Denham Street when the lights changed, not stopping till he pulled up outside Chez Norton. Checking to see there were no neighbours around, Les dragged his sorry arse out of the car, locked it and went inside.
    In the bathroom, Les couldn’t believe the dishevelled, bloodied face staring back at him in the mirror. ‘Shit! Can I find them or what,’ he cursed. ‘This is getting to be a bloody habit.’
    Les went to the laundry, stripped off and once again threw everything into the washing machine along with plenty of Dynamo and a liberal splash of Pine O Cleen. While that was going round, he got under the shower and let the hot water sting all the cuts as he washed away the dirt and blood. Under closerinspection with a hand mirror, none of the cuts needed stitching, but he was covered in welts and the crazed women had landed a few blows across his jaw and nose. After a long, hot shower, Les ran a bath, added some Dettol and had a good soak while he cursed his luck once more. You hate me, don’t you, boss, he grimaced, staring out the bathroom window. I know you do. That’s okay, mate. I can handle it. But just tell me the reason. I do have rights, you know.
    After getting out of the bath, Les dried off, dabbed some Dettol cream on his cuts and welts, and wrapped a blue check cotton scarf round his head. He changed into a grey, fleecy lined tracksuit, poured himself a delicious and settled down to watch the Sunday football. Brisbane vs Manly—which turned out a pretty good game, with Brisbane getting up at the death, 34–30. Half full of delicious, Les grilled a T-bone which he devoured with brown rice and salad, tea and toast.
    Once he’d cleaned up in the kitchen, Les packed a bag with what he thought he’d need in Terrigal, including his Speedos and snorkelling gear. Satisfied he had everything, he dropped some Panadeine capsules, made a delicious, thensettled back in front of the TV with another one of Warren’s DVDs, 300.
    It wasn’t the most boring movie Les had ever watched. But for all the hype, it was up there with them. The whole thing was nothing but a surge of flashing white grins and buffed-up six-packs topped by non-stop macho posturing in leather jockstraps. David Wenham traipsed around looking and sounding like Vincent van Gogh after he cut his ear off. Maybe it was