How it feels by Brendan Cowell Read Free Book Online

knew it, Malaki simply using his height and power to barge over Stuart and blast him onto his back. He was like a tractor stomping on a field of silly reeds, following up with two driving knees to the shoulder and armpit, from where he would dribble saliva down onto his brother’s face and count back from three to one – ‘You’re out of there!’
    Even Gordon (a lover and participant in martial arts fighting) had lost all hope, shifting to a chair behind Ebony’s flowing sarong, embarrassed. Ebony was the opposite; she was loving every moment of the spectacle: two ripped and toned bodies clashing, sweating and springing off each other, rolling and moaning about on the hard, manicured lawn. She twitched and quivered, pulling at the wire of her g-string.
    â€˜I’m sorry, little Stu-Stu, you’re going to have to do better than that if you want to come play with the big boys in the city!’ Malaki said, pushing off his brother and preparing for the next round of front-yard annihilation.
    Stuart sat up, spitting blood through a gap in his two front teeth, checking the status of his wobbling, aching jaw. Why was he losing so badly? He had smashed Shaun Clifford in the gym challenge, every chump at school feared him, and even the NRL heavies at Coyotes nightclub thought he was ‘proper tough’. Stuart stared up into the golden orb that stung his bloody, cracking lips. Deep down, Mal was a weak piece of shit and Stu knew it. And we knew he knew it, and he knew we knew he knew we knew it too. Gordon thumped me on the shoulder saying ‘Watch this now, Nelly.’
    Stu scrunched his face in recognition, looking over to the balcony where he caught sight of Ebony and her too-tanned D cups popping out of her bikini top like overripe honeydew melons. Her figure filled Stuart with sweet memories: taking her from behind in Malaki’s bed a month ago, sucking on her clit three nights ago in Malaki’s shower, and just this morning, while Malaki was at the shops buying protein shakes – giving her the big stick on the rough, burning carpet of Malaki’s bedroom floor.
    â€˜Round nine! Go, Stuey!’ Ebony yelped, lighting a Horizon four-milligram and sucking hard on the thing.
    Malaki, eight rounds up and loving it, swept his sweaty blond locks behind his ears and once again bounded towards his blood-soaked brother, assuming the story would play out as it had done thus far. Mal opened his lips to reveal his broad wall of gums as he drove towards Stuart, who stood still like a stalk, hands by his side, as Malaki picked up a bullocking pace. Extending his seemingly telescopic arms and emitting a loud, guttural roar, Malaki gripped Stuart’s neck and chest with his massive webbed hands and drew breath to kill with. Stu took one step back and Zen-like spun on his heel, using his brother’s rampaging force and speed to turn the both of them around then lift Goliath up off the ground and drive him back into the pylon – smashing his skull against the trestle and holding him there, a foot off the ground, with a thumb and forefinger dug deep into the pulp of Malaki’s windpipe.
    I couldn’t believe what I was seeing, and despite my position as a pacifist, I yearned for Stuart to finish the duel with some more smashing of head. Eat his head or throw him, throw him and then eat his head.
    David had flung the thing, and Malaki was no hero. Stu could see it all so clearly now in his brother’s beady, fearful eyes. How pathetic that he only lasted three weeks in the police force, quitting after his first call to a domestic. How pathetic it was that Malaki wet his bed until he was fourteen and how he still couldn’t even read that well. How paranoid he was, convinced everyone was laughing at him all the time, when, like always, people were thinking about themselves.
    The defeat on Mal’s face and the magnificently low and fatal choking sound that gurgled from