RUGBY LEAGUE – PART TWO

“Wahey! You bunch of wankers! 'Ope yer ready to get proper fuckin’ slaughtered” goaded Daz, as unsportsmanlike and immature as possible and grinning stupidly in my direction. He vaguely recognised me from previous encounters on the rugby field, and he’d seen me at the gym occasionally. Fortunately, with my shifts, he was usually leaving as I arrived, but he’d sussed me out and given me the odd nod as a fellow rugger and a player for his old team. He was scratching at one of his well pumped up pectorals, the action pulling his dirty T-shirt down to show a thick patch of glossy black hair curling over his chest. Still looking at me, his brain at last having placed me, he decided to have a dig.
“You ready for a proper game o’ rugby then grease monkey? ‘Bout time I bloodied yer nose again for ya!” Daz snickered, scratching his well packed crotch.

I wasn’t the only one who’d been working that morning by the looks of things. Daz and Trev looked like they had come to the game straight from their latest building site, still in their work clothes, filthy cement smeared jeans and brick dust powdered T shirts full of holes, showing off their thick, muscular, liberally tattooed arms. They’d probably spent the morning making an overpriced bodged job of bricklaying some poor bastards new garage. Daz spat out a big slimy gob of saliva onto the tarmac, landing with a splat, inches from the toe cap of his muddy size twelve rigger boot, the toe cap worn right through to the steel under the tan leather. He gave his substantially bulging crotch another good scratch, his filthy jeans tight over his thick tree trunk thighs, and farted again. I could distinctly see the shape of his big plum sized bollocks between his legs, the gusset of his jeans neatly separating his hefty gonads into twin bulges.

I’d steeled myself to ignore their predictable petty jibes, but true to their Neanderthal form, they were having none of it, and kept up with their goading.
“Yer might as well give up now and go home lad, ‘cos were gonna fuckin flatten yer!” Trev continued, followed up cheerfully with Daz:
“Aye, you’ll be a right sorry lookin’ bunch a cunts in a couple of hours mate!” Daz pushed. I rose to the bait.
“I don’t need to wait a couple of hours to look at sorry cunts mate,” I responded,
“I’m looking at pair of ‘em now!”
Daz stopped stock still, then bristled up in hopefully feigned, exaggerated outrage and anger.
“Whaaaat!” roared Daz in mock indignation,
“I’ll fuckin’ flatten thee now you little fucker!”
“Come on! Let’s have the cunt!” chipped in Trev, and both of them lurched from the Transit toward me, thundering like a pair of stampeding bison, a two man mountain of muscle and malevolent intent, rumbling over the car park towards me.

Before I could even blink, Daz had shouldered me painfully, spinning me round, and grabbed my left wrist with his large hand, and twisted it up behind my back, as he simultaneously hooked his big, thick, hairy forearm around my neck. I could feel the heat of his body and the firm tense muscle of his torso against me as I struggled and wriggled, but strong as I was, I couldn’t break out from his incredible grip, or pull his JCB piston like arm