Sowerbutt's Rules

One-Line, a giant of a man, held the skinny youth by the neck at arm’s length, his legs kicking in the air. “You’re strangling me, mister, I can’t breathe,” gasped the 17-year-old. “I haven’t done nothing wrong, I was just passing by.”

His groaning accomplice was lying flat on the pavement, Tipper’s knee firmly in his back.
“Check the suitcase, Nero,” Sowerbutt snapped. “Let’s see what wonder-boy is selling.”
Opening the locks of the battered suitcase., Nero said. “Petrol coupons, guv. Hundreds of them. And a few cards of knicker elastic.”
Sowerbutt walked over to the skinny youth, dangling from One-Line’s arm. The 17-year-old’s face was pasty white.
“You know the rules, son. I’m always ready to talk business with anyone. But no-one comes onto the Family’s patch without permission. If you are too young to know that, you shouldn’t be out alone on the street.”
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