“Reg, get on the phone to the police, and report an impending attack on our house.”Reg pulled his phone from his pocket, and made the call to the ...olice station. The call was diverted to the area station, where someone asked what the problem was.“This is Reginald Robertson. You should have had advance notice from British Transport police of a possible attack on our home. It seems to be starting now. Five armed men outside, heading to our front door.”“Oh. That was to do with drugs, wasn’t it? I. No matter what liberal crap you hear out there, a real man is still judged on two things: how well he holds his liquor and how good he is at bedding women.” We looked at each other, feeling silly on our knees in our underwear. But we listened. “During the past week, you have all shown that alcohol is no problem for you. But now we come to the women.” He moved to an easel and pulled back the first page, revealing a chart. On it were two rows of words. Across the top were nine names, those. More

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