The man swung open the door and stepped back as two young girls wearing hooded tracksuits and baseball caps minced into his porch.
"Trick or treat, mate!" chorused the girls in an aggressive South London whine.
"What?" asked the man.
"Trick or treat," they repeated. "It's 'alloween, innit. Gissa treat or..."
The man raised his eyebrows inquiringly. "Or what?"
"We'll trick ya," said the younger girl with a practiced sneer.
He looked her up and down, his eyes lingering on her bare belly and the lurid, red thong poking out of the top of her baggy, tracksuit bottoms.
"You being?"
"Me mate Stacey 'n' me," said the older girl, stepping out of the shadows.
He glanced theatrically up and down the darkened street.
"No army of witches and warlocks to back you up then?"
"Dontcha take da piss outta Jordan," said Stacey, "Or we'll trick ya."

"So what 'tricks"... he paused to stare distastefully at the logos plastered all over their shapeless, plastic clothes..."would a twelve-year-old chav know?"
"Fuck off—I'm four'een!" shouted Stacey, "an' Jordan's nearly sixteen. An' there's nuffink wrong wit chavs, innit, Jord?"
"Bit old for Halloween then, aren't you?" asked the man. "So where are your pumpkins, broomsticks and comical Friday the Thirteenth masks?"
"Chavs don't wear no grungin' Goth tat," said Stacey with a curl of her cherry-red lips. "But Jordan's got some mint 'alloween earrings. You show 'im babe."
Jordan pulled off her Von Dutch cap and shook out a mane of blond hair to reveal the six-inch diameter golden pumpkins dangling from her ears. "Quali'ee, ain't they?"
"Yes, very nice," said the man. "But I prefer the little golden broomstick in your friend's belly button. Nice touch that. Goes with the nipple rings, I imagine."
"Y'wot?" said Stacey pulling up her Tommy Hilfiger top. "Me tits aint big eno—ere, you dissin me, mate?" she asked.
"Do I need to?"

"Gonna gissa treat or wot?" she demanded sulkily.
"That depends on what tricks you can do."
"Y'wot?" they chorused.
"Well, what do Chavs usually do for a couple of Stellas and a packet of fags?"
"Y' dirty ol' man," said Stacey.
"Dat y' posh Beemer parked out front?" asked Jordan.
"Why?" asked the man.
"Y' wouldn't want it damaged, would ya?"
"Frankly, I couldn't care less."
"Y'wot?" they chorused.
"I believe it belongs to the Assistant Chief Constable who lives across the road."
"Yer, well..." muttered Jordan, unabashed, "We could do you easy, Stace 'as a mingin' knife—you show 'im babe."
Stacey's hand was halfway inside her white, Nicholson jacket, when the man lunged forward, grabbed her arm and twisted it viciously up her back.
"Fuckin' 'ell!" she complained, as he relieved her of a small penknife and threw it into the garden. "Dat cost me ten quid."
"Nah it ditn't, Stace, y' blagged it off Darren for a BJ, remember?"

Stacey's reply was lost as the man shoved his tongue into her unresisting mouth, unzipped her jacket and slid his hands underneath her top. "Mmm, no tits, but your nipples are rock hard. Must be cold out."
"Y' dirty ol' man..." she complained, but made no attempt to remove his hands from her bra. She lurched drunkenly towards him as his fingers wandered into her tracksuit bottoms and began drawing little grunts from her throat.
"Have you been drinking?" he asked after she finally withdrew her tongue.
"We may 'ave 'ad a few Stellas and done some spliff 'fore we come aht, why?" asked Jordan.
"Because little Stacey's pissed out of her head and tastes like a bloody distillery. "Tell you what, girls, I'll be your trick and you can give me a treat."

"Fuck off!" said Stacey, tearing herself away from him. "I aint doing you for nuffink an' I aint drunk!"
"Y'wot?" said Jordan.
"Show me a trick," repeated the man, "and I might give you two lovely chavs a treat you won't forget in a hurry."
"ang on a minute, Stace," said Jordan. "e's a pretty fit lookin' ol' geezer. I'd do 'im if da price is right."
"Y'wot?" said Stacey.
"That's the ticket," said the man, drawing Jordan inside. "You girls wouldn't want to pass up the chance to earn a few bob, now would you?"
Stacey stuck out her tongue and wriggled it provocatively. "Y' dirty ol' man," she giggled. "Fancy little girls do ya?"
"I fancy you, you gorgeous little chav..." said the man huskily, running his hands down her narrow, boyish hips and into her tracksuit bottoms. She slouched back against the wall indifferently, letting his fingers travel down between her skinny legs; her false eyelashes veiling the cunning look in her baby blue eyes.
"Wot y' gonna gis us then?" she asked slyly, tightening her thighs around his hand and grinding her crotch against his.
"What's on offer? "he asked. Her answer was to lift her top up and pull her bra down. She thrust her immature breasts toward him.
"Come on then—cop a propa feel, mate!" she taunted.

"So what tricks do you sexy little chavs know?" asked the man.
"You're a cheeky bugger, aintcha, mate!" laughed Jordan. She slipped off her RocaWear Sheen Bomber Jacket and tossing her Burberry cap onto a coat hook, followed the man into a spacious, luxuriously furnished lounge.
"Fuckin' ell!" exclaimed Stacey, as she caught sight of the twelve-speaker Home Entertainment system and back projection TV that filled the opposite wall. Then she grabbed a heavy, gold bracelet lying on a coffee table. "Is dis 18 carat?" Her blue eyes widened to the size of saucers as she took in the wall-to-wall cocktail bar, X-Box game console and stack of pink and blue iPod nano's piled on top of the multi-region DVD recorders.

"Dis gear all yours, is it?"
The man nodded.
"Got a fag?" she asked.
"Help yourself," said the man, "They're on the bar. Get yourselves a drink too, if you want, girls."
"Safe!" she shrieked, grabbing the packet and lighting up. "Vodka, Jord?"
"Yeah, mint, babe. Jus' gis da bottle."
"Got any Snoop Dogg, 50 Cent or Beyoncé, mate?" asked Stacey, rifling through the stack of CD's next to the expensive HiFi centre.
"Snoop who?" asked the man.
"Got any spliff?" asked Jordan.
"Spliff?" asked the man.
"Never mind. Wanna treat?"
"I thought you'd never ask."
Jordan giggled as she put down the empty vodka bottle and tugged her Republic polo shirt over her head. "Come 'ere then."
"Nice," he said, running his hands over her full breasts and swollen belly. "Pregnant?"
"Yeah..." she said proudly, as she sprawled on the sofa. "Five months. Be a mate for little Chardonnay."
"Chardonnay?"
"Me other kid, innit."

"Fuckin' hell, mate!" exclaimed Stacey, as she picked up a bunch of car keys with a Ferrari key fob. "Y' got a Ferrari?"
"Yup, two actually," said the man, dragging Jordan's Nike tracksuit bottoms down her legs.
"You must be fuckin' loaded, innit!"
"Well...I don't know about loaded," laughed the man, "but I'm packing a sizeable weapon."
"Y'wot? I thought you was big when y' was 'umpin' me leg," chortled the little chav, rushing over and dropping to her knees to unzip the man's trousers with practised skill.
"—Now just a minute..." said Jordan.
"Quali'ee!" exclaimed Stacey, plunging her little hands into his bulging boxers, "Dat fing'd choke me!"
"Not where I'd like to put it," laughed the man.
Stacey had her Tommy Hilfiger top off and was tugging at the man's boxers when Jordan grabbed her arm.
"Now 'ang on a fuckin' minute, babe. Wot's innit for us?"
"The five hundred quid I'd like to stuff into your mate's knickers," said the man.

"Safe!" squealed Stacey, wriggling out of her tracksuit bottoms.
"Nice," said the man. "Your thong I mean. Didn't know Asda made them with 'Virgin territory' on the crotch. So are you?"
"Depends..." pouted Stacey, teasing down her thong to expose her neatly-trimmed landing strip. "Gonna gis us some iPods?"
"As many as you like," said the man. "Here—have some more vodka."
She grabbed the bottle and swigged greedily while he kissed her belly and breasts.
"Fuckin' 'ell babe," shrieked Jordan, making a grab for the man's bulging wallet, "I'll 'ave some o' that!"

She dropped to her hands and knees like the obedient chav slut she was and slid her knickers down her legs. Stacey collapsed onto the sofa, her lipstick smeared and her mouth hanging slackly open; her baby blue eyes stared hungrily at the money in the man's wallet. He pushed her bra up around her neck and began to lick her erect nipples as he rubbed her wet crotch. "Uhh...quali'ee," she squealed, "I'm gonna make you so fuckin' 'appy mate."
She buried her face in his lap and spread her skinny thighs wide apart as he began to stuff bundles of twenty pound notes into her thong. Her voice was slurred and shrill as she glanced slyly up at him. "Y' wanna..uh...put those in me bag mate...uhh...before I cum all over 'em," she moaned.
"Ain'tcha takin' yer trainers off, babe?" asked Jordan.
"Y'wot?" said Stacey. "An' 'ave someone nick me Nikes?"

Twenty minutes later they staggered drunkenly outside and were weaving their way down the next street when Stacey suddenly stopped and pulled down her tracksuit bottoms.
"Fuck it!" she exclaimed, as she fiddled with her thong. "I fink there must've been an 'ole in dat fing coz there's dis funny white stuff running down me legs."
"Ya stupid slag. 'Da geezer chucked it after 'e done me. Ya 'ave got da five hundred 'e give us, right?"
"Yeah, cause I 'ave. 'e put in me ba—whaaa...fuckin' 'ell!"
"Y'wot?"
"Me iPods is gone!"
"Wot's dat?" asked Jordan, pulling wads of paper out of Stacey's handbag.
"Whaaa...fuckin' ell!" shrieked Stacey. "It's Monopoly money—'e must've switched it when I was gettin' dressed."
"Fuckin' 'ell!" they chorused together as the brightly coloured notes fluttered to the ground.

"D'y 'member wot 'ouse it was?" asked Stacey.
"Nah—too pissed, babe. D'you?"
"Nah...Fink I'm gonna be sick...Jord."
Stacey vomited heavily onto the pavement.
"Mind me fuckin' Rockports!" shouted Jordan.
"Fuck it..." snivelled Stacey, sliding her dripping thong down her legs. "Ya got any o' dem mornin' after pills?"
"Yeah..at 'ome, innit."
"It's started to rain, said Stacey. "Ya got da cab fare back to da estate, Jord?"
"Yeah, in my ba—fuckin' 'ell!"
"Y'wot?"
"Da bastard nicked me purse!"
"Fuckin' 'ell!" they chorused together as the rain hammered down in torrents on their designer baseball caps.