“Welcome back Tham!” cried Caroline, letting off a party popper that sent thin multi coloured strands of paper into the air.
Sam surveyed the room before her. Same old office, same old deadshits inside it.
Prison had changed her, hardened her. She’d done her time hard at first, but after she bit that slag’s ear off in the rec room in the blue over the TV remote, the others had learned that she wouldn’t be pushed around.
And now she was out, she wanted some revenge.
“Want a dwink Tham?” asked Caroline, who was already a bit tipsy.
Sam just nodded and Caroline poured some bubbly into her glass.
“What’th wrong Tham? Cheer up. You’re out now, everythingth going to be OK,” she slurred.
Sam’s lifeless eyes, devoid of any human emotion, told Caroline all she needed to know.
She took the younger woman aside.
“Look Tham, don’t worry. I’ve got an eathy one for you to think your teeth into straight away.”
“What is it?”
The sound of her own voice scared Sam slightly. It had developed an edge inside that sounded harsher now than she meant it to.
“It’th that big log Brendan. My sourthes thay he’th up to thomething. I don’t know what it ith, but I want you to find out.”
Sam nodded. Caroline took a nervous sip of her champagne.
“He’th been theen coming out of Webecca’th office,” she said quickly.
Sam arched an eyebrow, making her teardrop tattoo jump quickly.
“Yeth, that Webecca and no, I haven’t been back for thecondth if that’th what you’re thinking.”
Sam said nothing.
“Tho come, welax Tham, have a glatth of bubbwy. Then tomorrow, you’ll be back at it.”
Caroline left her and rejoined the small group that had gathered in the room.
Sam finished her champagne in one gulp and slowly crushed the glass in her hand.
She was back indeed. Back to settle some old scores.
Monday, 20 July 2009
Monday, 13 July 2009
Parrots Spreading The Message
Emma’s spirits sank when she read the first email of the day. It was from her superior in the PR department informing the team that Chris was coming in for his annual visit to the office to brainstorm ideas on how the company could be leaner, meaner and greener.
God, that slogan. That had been his big idea last year.
“We’ll get heaps of pamphlets printed up all saying how we are leaner, greener and meaner now,” he’d said, his big expectant face reminding of her a dog her brother had as a child that she’d always disliked.
It was a patently stupid idea but the way things were, what he said had to happen, so, they’d duly printed up 150,000 flyers only to realise Chris wouldn’t be doing any more work as part of his ‘sponsorship’ for the rest of the year. In the end, the flyers had all been pulped.
Emma didn’t know how much the company was paying Chris for his sponsorship committment, but knew it would be a hell of a lot more than she got for doing actual real life work.
Maybe she wondered, now the boss had gone to the great Competition Commission hearing in the sky, the deal would be reviewed.
She could only hope.
Two hours later she was sitting in a meeting room listening to the prematurely-balding moron drone away in that voice of his. She’d studied hard at uni, even done a post-grad. And here she was taking notes like a secretary while a professional bloody footballer lectured her about the environment and climate change.
“I had another idea. I reckon in the off-season, you guys could fly me to every country in the world in alphabetical order so I could give talks on the importance of reducing carbon to schoolkids? It would have to be first-class because of my shoulders though. But the media would lap it up. You know, like me flying to America and then Austria and then Azerbaijan and so on. Be awesome,” he said.
Chris looked at Emma and held her gaze. What the fuck was he staring at she thought? Was he trying it on with her? One of these footballers who thought every woman in the world wanted to screw him just because he was better than most at kicking a bloody ball around? Then it dawned on. He was waiting for her to write down the latest pearl of wisdom he’d just dispensed. For fuck’s sake. She began writing and he continued.
“Then I had a really good idea about how we could spread the message about climate change. You know those parrots that you can train to say stuff? Well, what we do is get like ten thousand of them, and make them all root each other heaps so we get loads of parrots, like a million, and teach them to say stuff like ‘Switch off your lights when you leave the room’ and ‘Don’t leave your plasma screen on standby, unplug it at the wall’
“Then we like release a couple of hundred thousand in all the big cities and towns and that, and they’ll just fly around and spread the message,” he said earnestly.
Emma glanced at her phone and saw there was another hour and forty five minutes of the meeting to go. She felt her very will to live slipping away. Imagine having to spend whole days in his company. No wonder his missus preferred dining at the Y.
God, that slogan. That had been his big idea last year.
“We’ll get heaps of pamphlets printed up all saying how we are leaner, greener and meaner now,” he’d said, his big expectant face reminding of her a dog her brother had as a child that she’d always disliked.
It was a patently stupid idea but the way things were, what he said had to happen, so, they’d duly printed up 150,000 flyers only to realise Chris wouldn’t be doing any more work as part of his ‘sponsorship’ for the rest of the year. In the end, the flyers had all been pulped.
Emma didn’t know how much the company was paying Chris for his sponsorship committment, but knew it would be a hell of a lot more than she got for doing actual real life work.
Maybe she wondered, now the boss had gone to the great Competition Commission hearing in the sky, the deal would be reviewed.
She could only hope.
Two hours later she was sitting in a meeting room listening to the prematurely-balding moron drone away in that voice of his. She’d studied hard at uni, even done a post-grad. And here she was taking notes like a secretary while a professional bloody footballer lectured her about the environment and climate change.
“I had another idea. I reckon in the off-season, you guys could fly me to every country in the world in alphabetical order so I could give talks on the importance of reducing carbon to schoolkids? It would have to be first-class because of my shoulders though. But the media would lap it up. You know, like me flying to America and then Austria and then Azerbaijan and so on. Be awesome,” he said.
Chris looked at Emma and held her gaze. What the fuck was he staring at she thought? Was he trying it on with her? One of these footballers who thought every woman in the world wanted to screw him just because he was better than most at kicking a bloody ball around? Then it dawned on. He was waiting for her to write down the latest pearl of wisdom he’d just dispensed. For fuck’s sake. She began writing and he continued.
“Then I had a really good idea about how we could spread the message about climate change. You know those parrots that you can train to say stuff? Well, what we do is get like ten thousand of them, and make them all root each other heaps so we get loads of parrots, like a million, and teach them to say stuff like ‘Switch off your lights when you leave the room’ and ‘Don’t leave your plasma screen on standby, unplug it at the wall’
“Then we like release a couple of hundred thousand in all the big cities and towns and that, and they’ll just fly around and spread the message,” he said earnestly.
Emma glanced at her phone and saw there was another hour and forty five minutes of the meeting to go. She felt her very will to live slipping away. Imagine having to spend whole days in his company. No wonder his missus preferred dining at the Y.
Thursday, 9 July 2009
Rebecca's Reverie
Rebecca stared wistfully at the examination chair in her office. It had been more than a chair, more than merely functional office furniture. It had been a portal to carnal pleasure the likes of which she had never known before and feared would never experience again.
She allowed herself the briefest reverie, recalling those magical mornings with Caroline, how Rebecca would sling one long, perfectly tanned leg over the rest of the chair and wrap the other gently around Caroline’s neck and shoulders, using gentle pressure to force the older woman deeply into her most sensitive places as the gasping, drenching, spine-tingling moment of climax approached.
Rebecca felt her hand gently moving southwards. She held the image in her mind, a picture of the last she and Caroline had made sweet, sweet flange-flavoured music. It had been the fourth time that morning, Rebecca straining every sinew as Caroline, who showed no signs of tiring, had lifted her up to a pinnacle of sexual release she had never know existed.
Back in the real world, Rebecca was just about to slip one long, elegant finger beneath the elastic of her tight Bonds – bought at david Jones though – panties when the door of her office burst open.
Flushed, she quickly moved her hand away from her womanhood and up toward her face.
“Haven’t you ever heard of knocking first? Were you born in a tent?” she demanded, flustered and caught off-guard.
The man who’d entered her office instead began pointing and laughing.
“Oh my God, Ooh my God,” he laughed breathlessly, “You were gunna have a wank weren’t you? You were gunna have a lady toss. You were feeding the gerbil!”
“Excuse me,” said Rebecca, with the haughtiest tone she could summon, “I was merely adjusting and important piece of medical equipment. How may I help you?”
“I’ve got an appointment,” the tall, slightly dubious looking chap replied.
Rebecca looked at her diary. Indeed, there was an appointment, name of Brendan. Suddenly it clicked. This was the one Chris had been yammering on about the other day. She tended to zone out whenever Chris started talking about football.
“Well, come and sit down Brendan, how can I help you?”
Brendan sat gingerly in the examination seat. Rebecca was glad he didn’t immediately bend down and sniff it. He looked he wanted to it.
“I want you to help me get a big set of false tits,” Brendan declared matter of factly.
Rebecca was taken aback by that, but recovered her composure.
This could be interesting. This could be something new.
“Ok,” she replied, “Let’s talk. I’m going to need to take some measurements for a start.”
Brendan stood up with a big boyish grin and dropped his daks.
“Ya gunna need a really long tape measure then!”
Rebecca smiled to herself. This would indeed be fun.
“I meant your chest Brendan, you can pull your trousers up now.”
He did, but not before they shared a giggle. This would be fun indeed.
She allowed herself the briefest reverie, recalling those magical mornings with Caroline, how Rebecca would sling one long, perfectly tanned leg over the rest of the chair and wrap the other gently around Caroline’s neck and shoulders, using gentle pressure to force the older woman deeply into her most sensitive places as the gasping, drenching, spine-tingling moment of climax approached.
Rebecca felt her hand gently moving southwards. She held the image in her mind, a picture of the last she and Caroline had made sweet, sweet flange-flavoured music. It had been the fourth time that morning, Rebecca straining every sinew as Caroline, who showed no signs of tiring, had lifted her up to a pinnacle of sexual release she had never know existed.
Back in the real world, Rebecca was just about to slip one long, elegant finger beneath the elastic of her tight Bonds – bought at david Jones though – panties when the door of her office burst open.
Flushed, she quickly moved her hand away from her womanhood and up toward her face.
“Haven’t you ever heard of knocking first? Were you born in a tent?” she demanded, flustered and caught off-guard.
The man who’d entered her office instead began pointing and laughing.
“Oh my God, Ooh my God,” he laughed breathlessly, “You were gunna have a wank weren’t you? You were gunna have a lady toss. You were feeding the gerbil!”
“Excuse me,” said Rebecca, with the haughtiest tone she could summon, “I was merely adjusting and important piece of medical equipment. How may I help you?”
“I’ve got an appointment,” the tall, slightly dubious looking chap replied.
Rebecca looked at her diary. Indeed, there was an appointment, name of Brendan. Suddenly it clicked. This was the one Chris had been yammering on about the other day. She tended to zone out whenever Chris started talking about football.
“Well, come and sit down Brendan, how can I help you?”
Brendan sat gingerly in the examination seat. Rebecca was glad he didn’t immediately bend down and sniff it. He looked he wanted to it.
“I want you to help me get a big set of false tits,” Brendan declared matter of factly.
Rebecca was taken aback by that, but recovered her composure.
This could be interesting. This could be something new.
“Ok,” she replied, “Let’s talk. I’m going to need to take some measurements for a start.”
Brendan stood up with a big boyish grin and dropped his daks.
“Ya gunna need a really long tape measure then!”
Rebecca smiled to herself. This would indeed be fun.
“I meant your chest Brendan, you can pull your trousers up now.”
He did, but not before they shared a giggle. This would be fun indeed.
Friday, 3 July 2009
There is another
Jarkyn Lockheed strode to the true centre half forward position with his customary assuredness. It was the first game of the under 18 championships and as well as being in dominant form, Lockheed had prepared a veritable arsenal of witticisms to deploy upon his hapless opponent.
Subjects that Lockheed intended to pursue included ‘If I had three dicks, do you reckon I could fit them all up your Mum’s arse at once’ – naturally Jarkyn was of the opinion that with suitable application of a makeshift lubricant, he could – and the potential of his opponent being interested in viewing a mobile phone video that Jarkyn claimed depicted a family member of said opponent engaged in frantic sexual congress with ‘a big fuck-off Alsatian dog.’
So it was with a spring in his step that he strode toward the large boy-man waiting for him on the edge of the square. Jarkyn looked the chap up and down. He didn’t recognise him. It wasn’t that sad virgin Maguire cunt the South Australians normally dished up. It was some other bloke. Big bloke.
It didn’t bother Jarkyn. He’d tear the bloke apart and then root his missus. He knew that.
The problem was that for once, Jarkyn’s confidence was misplaced. The big bloke waiting for him might have been an unknown, but that didn’t mean he could’nt play. Oh he could play. And there was nothing that Jarkyn, or anyone on this great green Earth for that matter, that could say to Bunyip that would put him off his game.
One of the scouts had brought him down to the Croweaters second from last training session before the champs. Found him playing outside of a little town called Dunt, the scout said. Doesn’t talk much, but by Christ can he play.
The coach wasn’t convinced but agreed to give him a run for five minutes, if only to keep the scout sweet. As Bunyip – they later found a tattered old birth certificate in his jeans pockets revealing his name to be Mark Smith – warmed up on the boundary, Clayton O’Toole, a bursting midfielder, indigenous guy, go first round for sure, came up to the coach.
“Who’s that bloke?”
The coach looked over. Clayton seemed worried. The last thing he needed was his gun centreman off his game a fortnight before the champs.
“Just some bloke we’re giving a quick run. Why?”
Clayton came over. He looked like he was going to say something, then decided against it, before thinking he’d spit it out after all.
“It’s just, it’s a story the old fellas, you know, my people, where I’m from, a story they tell. About the wild man, you know, not really a person. Like a monster. They reckon he’d come into your camp and you’d think he was a just a normal bloke, then at night, he’d steal kids, take them away, eat them.”
The coach gave Clayton a searching look.
“Ah stuff it, it’s just old man’s stories I know, means nothing. If the bloke can play, then he’s one of us,” Clayton said.
Good kid Clayton, he’d go a long way. Captain material.
The bench indicated a rotation was due and asked the coach if he wanted to stick the new bloke on.
“Yeah, stick him on; let’s see if he can get a kick”
Less than a minute later, the coach’s question had been answered. Bunyip had made good position and received a pass. He’d turned with amazing grace for such a big man and lifted his left leg and just gone BANG.
On the sidelines, the coaching staff stood with jaws literally dropped. There’d only ever been one other South Australian with a left leg like that. One that just went BANG.
As one, they assessed Bunyip. Then they saw it. The big thick head. The fat low slung arse. He was taller sure, but you could see it, the way the knuckles looked like they could droop and drag on the ground. The coach was sure that if he had Bunyip examined by a dentist, they’d see the first points of the fangs poking through his gums.
“Jesus,” the coach said, “There’s another one.”
The scout merely smiled and nodded.
There was another.
Subjects that Lockheed intended to pursue included ‘If I had three dicks, do you reckon I could fit them all up your Mum’s arse at once’ – naturally Jarkyn was of the opinion that with suitable application of a makeshift lubricant, he could – and the potential of his opponent being interested in viewing a mobile phone video that Jarkyn claimed depicted a family member of said opponent engaged in frantic sexual congress with ‘a big fuck-off Alsatian dog.’
So it was with a spring in his step that he strode toward the large boy-man waiting for him on the edge of the square. Jarkyn looked the chap up and down. He didn’t recognise him. It wasn’t that sad virgin Maguire cunt the South Australians normally dished up. It was some other bloke. Big bloke.
It didn’t bother Jarkyn. He’d tear the bloke apart and then root his missus. He knew that.
The problem was that for once, Jarkyn’s confidence was misplaced. The big bloke waiting for him might have been an unknown, but that didn’t mean he could’nt play. Oh he could play. And there was nothing that Jarkyn, or anyone on this great green Earth for that matter, that could say to Bunyip that would put him off his game.
One of the scouts had brought him down to the Croweaters second from last training session before the champs. Found him playing outside of a little town called Dunt, the scout said. Doesn’t talk much, but by Christ can he play.
The coach wasn’t convinced but agreed to give him a run for five minutes, if only to keep the scout sweet. As Bunyip – they later found a tattered old birth certificate in his jeans pockets revealing his name to be Mark Smith – warmed up on the boundary, Clayton O’Toole, a bursting midfielder, indigenous guy, go first round for sure, came up to the coach.
“Who’s that bloke?”
The coach looked over. Clayton seemed worried. The last thing he needed was his gun centreman off his game a fortnight before the champs.
“Just some bloke we’re giving a quick run. Why?”
Clayton came over. He looked like he was going to say something, then decided against it, before thinking he’d spit it out after all.
“It’s just, it’s a story the old fellas, you know, my people, where I’m from, a story they tell. About the wild man, you know, not really a person. Like a monster. They reckon he’d come into your camp and you’d think he was a just a normal bloke, then at night, he’d steal kids, take them away, eat them.”
The coach gave Clayton a searching look.
“Ah stuff it, it’s just old man’s stories I know, means nothing. If the bloke can play, then he’s one of us,” Clayton said.
Good kid Clayton, he’d go a long way. Captain material.
The bench indicated a rotation was due and asked the coach if he wanted to stick the new bloke on.
“Yeah, stick him on; let’s see if he can get a kick”
Less than a minute later, the coach’s question had been answered. Bunyip had made good position and received a pass. He’d turned with amazing grace for such a big man and lifted his left leg and just gone BANG.
On the sidelines, the coaching staff stood with jaws literally dropped. There’d only ever been one other South Australian with a left leg like that. One that just went BANG.
As one, they assessed Bunyip. Then they saw it. The big thick head. The fat low slung arse. He was taller sure, but you could see it, the way the knuckles looked like they could droop and drag on the ground. The coach was sure that if he had Bunyip examined by a dentist, they’d see the first points of the fangs poking through his gums.
“Jesus,” the coach said, “There’s another one.”
The scout merely smiled and nodded.
There was another.
Tuesday, 30 June 2009
The bottheth sthtowieth
As Sam was plotting her bloodthirsty revenge, Liam was reading Caro’s story with an equal measure of disgust and disdain.
So THIS was what she’d bumped his Richmond footy department story for. This? This crap? This patently fed from the league agenda-driving crap?
He marched into Caroline’s office without knocking. From beneath hooded eyes, she looked up at him.
“Yeth, Wiam,” she asked in wary tone.
“Are we going to run my Richmond story tomorrow,” he asked, not caring for the niceties of the editor/reporter relationship.
“No,” said Caroline, “I’m doing a fowwow up on this Wetht Wombath thtuff.”
“A follow up,” Liam asked incredulously, “But there wasn’t anything in it to begin with.”
As soon as the words had escaped his lips, he knew he’d made a serious mistake. Caroline’s reptilian eyes narrowed to a killing focus.
“Wiam,” she began slowly, “Tell me about this Wichmond thtory of yourth.”
OK thought Liam, I’ve put my cock in the pencil sharpener on this one, time to produce.
So he told her what his two day investigation of the running of the Richmond footy department had produced. That simple skills drills had been replaced with ‘colouring in hour’. That the club doctor gave players red cordial before the game in the belief it was a performance enhancer. Of the games of kiss chasey played by the midfield group in order to enhance evasive ability.
“They’ve even got a talking horse as the forward line coach. And I’m pretty sure it’s a real horse. That can talk. I had a good look at it and there’s no seams or stiching or anything,” he said.
Caroline let a beat pass.
“Wiam. I have thome advithe for you. If you want to make it at this newsthpaper, there are two thingth you need to rewemember. One, never cwiticise the bottheth sthtowieth, and two, there’th never anything wong with Wichmond. Do I make mythelf clear?”
"Ummm, didn't we just run all this stuff about Sheedy trying to rape a dingo that was proven to be bullshit just a few weeks ago?" asked Liam.
"THTHTHTAT! WATH! DIFFEWENT!," screeched Caro, "THTHTHTHTAT! WATH! SAM'TH STHTOWY!"
Liam nodded. And decided to leave it there.
He went back to his desk to chase up a lead Caroline had given him about a report that Mark LeCras was spending too much time ‘getting close to quokkas’ on Rottnest Island.
But he wouldn’t be put off so easily. No, he’d see real journalism return to The Era. Even if it meant taking down the boss to get it.
So THIS was what she’d bumped his Richmond footy department story for. This? This crap? This patently fed from the league agenda-driving crap?
He marched into Caroline’s office without knocking. From beneath hooded eyes, she looked up at him.
“Yeth, Wiam,” she asked in wary tone.
“Are we going to run my Richmond story tomorrow,” he asked, not caring for the niceties of the editor/reporter relationship.
“No,” said Caroline, “I’m doing a fowwow up on this Wetht Wombath thtuff.”
“A follow up,” Liam asked incredulously, “But there wasn’t anything in it to begin with.”
As soon as the words had escaped his lips, he knew he’d made a serious mistake. Caroline’s reptilian eyes narrowed to a killing focus.
“Wiam,” she began slowly, “Tell me about this Wichmond thtory of yourth.”
OK thought Liam, I’ve put my cock in the pencil sharpener on this one, time to produce.
So he told her what his two day investigation of the running of the Richmond footy department had produced. That simple skills drills had been replaced with ‘colouring in hour’. That the club doctor gave players red cordial before the game in the belief it was a performance enhancer. Of the games of kiss chasey played by the midfield group in order to enhance evasive ability.
“They’ve even got a talking horse as the forward line coach. And I’m pretty sure it’s a real horse. That can talk. I had a good look at it and there’s no seams or stiching or anything,” he said.
Caroline let a beat pass.
“Wiam. I have thome advithe for you. If you want to make it at this newsthpaper, there are two thingth you need to rewemember. One, never cwiticise the bottheth sthtowieth, and two, there’th never anything wong with Wichmond. Do I make mythelf clear?”
"Ummm, didn't we just run all this stuff about Sheedy trying to rape a dingo that was proven to be bullshit just a few weeks ago?" asked Liam.
"THTHTHTAT! WATH! DIFFEWENT!," screeched Caro, "THTHTHTHTAT! WATH! SAM'TH STHTOWY!"
Liam nodded. And decided to leave it there.
He went back to his desk to chase up a lead Caroline had given him about a report that Mark LeCras was spending too much time ‘getting close to quokkas’ on Rottnest Island.
But he wouldn’t be put off so easily. No, he’d see real journalism return to The Era. Even if it meant taking down the boss to get it.
Monday, 29 June 2009
Soon, Mein Liebling, Soon
Once she was sure she was not being watched by any of the other inmates, Sam clutched Caro's article to her chest, rubbed the news print on her grim prison issue smock.
It was the Caroline she knew and loved. She savoured every unsourced claim, allowed the opinion dressed up as fact to drop from the page and roll gently down her waiting tongue. Ooooooh, she thought to herself, this will make a brilliant deposit in the Wank Bank.
Sam considered frigging one off right there and then, illuminated only by the watery morning twilight of Deer Park.
But she knew she couldn't. If the other girls caught her, she'd lose face. And that could be deadly here in the Roberta Moran Centre For Female Corrections.
She'd known they'd try it on with her on her first few days inside, and had prepared herself accordingly.
It had come swift, on her second night. They'd been watching Rove in the recreation room when a tough little thing with a sharpie haircut and a tattoo of a magpie on her cheek confronted her.
"You're that dumb moll journalist what made up all that bullshit about the dingos getting rooted that meant my cousin Alan got eaten by that fat prick from Hawthron aren't ya?"
Sam knew what she had to do. She'd been pissing on the floor of her cell and scraping her prison issue toothbrush into the puddle to create a sharp edge since she'd arrived. Now she used it.
"So what if I am?" Sam snarled back, before raining blows upon the unfortunate woman.
By the time they heard the screws moving, the sharpie lay broken and bloodied at Sam's feet.
Sam sat down and looked around the room. Nobody had seen anything, she knew that for sure. And she hadn't had any trouble since.
Now, just a few days short of her release date, Sam felt an inner confidence.
Yes, she'd see Caroline.
But there were also a few other people she needed to visit. Some other issues to sort out.
Starting with that slag Rebecca.
It was the Caroline she knew and loved. She savoured every unsourced claim, allowed the opinion dressed up as fact to drop from the page and roll gently down her waiting tongue. Ooooooh, she thought to herself, this will make a brilliant deposit in the Wank Bank.
Sam considered frigging one off right there and then, illuminated only by the watery morning twilight of Deer Park.
But she knew she couldn't. If the other girls caught her, she'd lose face. And that could be deadly here in the Roberta Moran Centre For Female Corrections.
She'd known they'd try it on with her on her first few days inside, and had prepared herself accordingly.
It had come swift, on her second night. They'd been watching Rove in the recreation room when a tough little thing with a sharpie haircut and a tattoo of a magpie on her cheek confronted her.
"You're that dumb moll journalist what made up all that bullshit about the dingos getting rooted that meant my cousin Alan got eaten by that fat prick from Hawthron aren't ya?"
Sam knew what she had to do. She'd been pissing on the floor of her cell and scraping her prison issue toothbrush into the puddle to create a sharp edge since she'd arrived. Now she used it.
"So what if I am?" Sam snarled back, before raining blows upon the unfortunate woman.
By the time they heard the screws moving, the sharpie lay broken and bloodied at Sam's feet.
Sam sat down and looked around the room. Nobody had seen anything, she knew that for sure. And she hadn't had any trouble since.
Now, just a few days short of her release date, Sam felt an inner confidence.
Yes, she'd see Caroline.
But there were also a few other people she needed to visit. Some other issues to sort out.
Starting with that slag Rebecca.
Friday, 26 June 2009
Project Sauvignon Blanc Begins
Deal Done? Done Deal
26 June 2009
The Era
By C. Roline
The West Melbourne Wombats will probably almost certainly definitely likely be playing in the Hunter Valley from next season, The Era understands upon learning from sources.
The cash-strapped club has no option but to go to the lucrative, fast-growing, virile region where the grass is greener than in any other part of the world, according to well-informed sources. The Era understands that the league is willing is offer the Wombats twice all the money in the world to make the move.
Local Hunter Valley side, the Corkscrews, who have an oval capable of hosting crowds of dozens when it is not flooded, are encouraged by the suggestion.
“We’ve been wanting an AFL license for a while now,” said club president, Shifty O’Toole. “We’ve got 156,000 members, which is like, I dunno, shitloads more than those Wombats losers,” he continued.
Suggestions that the vast majority of the Corkscrews members are old dears who only signed up for access to the pokies and a cheap parma on a Wednesday are “ludicrous” according to league bosses.
“The Hunter Valley region is Australian football’s biggest possible target market. We must expand to keep growing. We can’t be stuck in the past. Think if it this way, if you were married, and the Wombats were your old whinging wife and then some hot chick who waxes her fanny and wanted to do a line of coke off your knob started hitting on you in a totally banging house club, what would you do? I know what I’d do,” said league supremo Andrew The Terrible.
“It’s ludicrous to suggest that the Corkscrews are not one of the biggest footy clubs in Australia. Have you seen the size of the carpark out the front of their pokie joint? It’s bloody visible from space,” he added.
The Wombats are currently run by a bunch of retards who will almost certainly fall for the league’s slick and in no way hollow sales pitch. Reputable media outlets are understood to be supportive of the deal.
Only one potential obstacle remains to the deal going through. Hated no-talent big mouth former Davis Cup star Shaun Jones, a lifelong Wombats supporter, has announced his intention to lead a campaign to keep the cash-strapped povvo, no-money, ha ha it must suck to be, you’re on the welfare, I got an ice cream, Wombats in West Melbourne.
But The Era understands that the fool has no chance at all in succeeding with his plan, which he probably dreamed up while he was cracked out in a seedy hotel room with underage hookers.
The smart money remains on Andrew The Terrible overseeing a relocation.
26 June 2009
The Era
By C. Roline
The West Melbourne Wombats will probably almost certainly definitely likely be playing in the Hunter Valley from next season, The Era understands upon learning from sources.
The cash-strapped club has no option but to go to the lucrative, fast-growing, virile region where the grass is greener than in any other part of the world, according to well-informed sources. The Era understands that the league is willing is offer the Wombats twice all the money in the world to make the move.
Local Hunter Valley side, the Corkscrews, who have an oval capable of hosting crowds of dozens when it is not flooded, are encouraged by the suggestion.
“We’ve been wanting an AFL license for a while now,” said club president, Shifty O’Toole. “We’ve got 156,000 members, which is like, I dunno, shitloads more than those Wombats losers,” he continued.
Suggestions that the vast majority of the Corkscrews members are old dears who only signed up for access to the pokies and a cheap parma on a Wednesday are “ludicrous” according to league bosses.
“The Hunter Valley region is Australian football’s biggest possible target market. We must expand to keep growing. We can’t be stuck in the past. Think if it this way, if you were married, and the Wombats were your old whinging wife and then some hot chick who waxes her fanny and wanted to do a line of coke off your knob started hitting on you in a totally banging house club, what would you do? I know what I’d do,” said league supremo Andrew The Terrible.
“It’s ludicrous to suggest that the Corkscrews are not one of the biggest footy clubs in Australia. Have you seen the size of the carpark out the front of their pokie joint? It’s bloody visible from space,” he added.
The Wombats are currently run by a bunch of retards who will almost certainly fall for the league’s slick and in no way hollow sales pitch. Reputable media outlets are understood to be supportive of the deal.
Only one potential obstacle remains to the deal going through. Hated no-talent big mouth former Davis Cup star Shaun Jones, a lifelong Wombats supporter, has announced his intention to lead a campaign to keep the cash-strapped povvo, no-money, ha ha it must suck to be, you’re on the welfare, I got an ice cream, Wombats in West Melbourne.
But The Era understands that the fool has no chance at all in succeeding with his plan, which he probably dreamed up while he was cracked out in a seedy hotel room with underage hookers.
The smart money remains on Andrew The Terrible overseeing a relocation.
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