TALES FROM PANDORA 3 (close window to return)

It’s Christmas Eve in two-thousand-and ten in the small outer London town of Wallington, where parties buzz in many houses and flats. The pubs are packed and heaving, especially the Weatherspoon’s pub on the main high street, and it is easy to see why it attracts the good and the bad as the drinks are much cheaper. The bad, or the worst of them, are a group of young men shouting and laughing while openly fondling their girlfriends without giving a damn who saw them. The pub manager knows better than to intervene as he feared mob retribution from the large rundown council estate not far away. He looks over to see them and looks away quickly once he recognises who they are. They are the ones who are rumoured to have burnt down another pub in the town because the manager had barred them. Their leader, a red haired, muscular brute with a scarred face called Patrick, was the sort of bloke you let lose in a war zone—not a man who belongs in a civil society and let loose on the streets of any town or village.
His girlfriend is nothing but a local whore, and people know that when Patrick was low on funds, he would rent her out on the corner of Manor Road and Acre Lane. It’s the main road leading down to Carshalton, a more affluent area than Wallington and better for punters looking for a cheap woman to have sex with. Despite being cheap, nasty, and hanging out with the likes of Patrick, she’s a stunning-looking lass and, according to those who went with her, was an accomplished deep-throat specialist. No matter the size she had to swallow, she would never be sick.
The best are like Sandra and Lucy, two young attractive women who usually would be in a better pub with less rowdiness, but for the fact that their preferred local was holding a Christmas party and they failed to get tickets on time.