Gillon’s hands trembled as he brought the coffee and trays of assorted pastries through to the to the boardroom. It took three journeys just to get the macaroons through.
He gently placed the last carefully arranged lattice of éclairs before Andrew and withdrew deferentially.
“Gillon,” Andrew said, with a snap of his fingers, “You may stay. You may not speak. You will take notes. Am I understood?”
Gillon nodded obediently. He took a seat away from the vast eagle shaped mahogany table where Andrew held all the important meetings. The six people that formed the governing council of the game awaited the chief executive’s announcement.
He examined the board, carefully not to let any of their gimlet eyes meet his. There was Wolfgang, wanted in three countries for war crimes. Rupert, a typical banker, grown fat on the mortgage pain of Joe and Janey Sixpack out in their quarter acre block. A thick set man with a heavy Eastern European accent known only as Ozcelot looked after negotiations with the player’s union.
There was the token woman, an ex-player with strong connections to organised crime, an elder statesman of the game on a first name basis with the city’s transsexual escort community and finally, Fyodr the Werewolf.
Initially, Gillon had refused to believe that the man who was ostensibly one of Australia’s wealthiest toilet furniture magnates and a die-hard Adelaide Crows supporter could be a real life werewolf. But then during particularly tense TV rights negotiations, the talk had dragged on and suddenly, the silvery orb of a full moon filled one window, and Fyodr had emitted an unearthly howl before beginning the change from man to wolf like creature.
“Now,” said Andrew, brushing the crumbs from an éclair he had swallowed whole, like a python with a gerbil, from his expensive suit, “Prepare for the future of our game.”
He clicked his fingers and the room dimmed.
“I give you PROJECT SAUVIGNON BLANC!”
As the martial music began, and the film rolled, Gillon noticed something. Andrew crept behind the screen and with the other members of the ruling cabal transfixed by the presentation, produced a bottle. Then, to Gillon’s surprise, he unzipped his trousers and placed his shrivelled member inside the bottle, before urinating quietly.
Once finished, he screwed the bottle shut and placed it by the skirting board before returning to admire his film. Gillon saw that there were a number of bottles, arranged in an orderly fashion.
It was ever so curious.
Friday 29 May 2009
The Amazing Transformation Of Miss Brendina Fevolina
The Amazing Transformation Of Miss Brendina Fevolina
Twas the night after the party
And all the creatures of the footy forest
Were asleep in their bed
Save for a full forward called Brendan
Who was awake copping head
He knew not her name, he knew not her race
The one thing he did know
What was what he’d do on her face
But inside his wooly brainbox
A small voice did rise
O Brendan O Brendan surely you tire
Of treating chicks like your old wanking socks
The notion befuddled
For he preferred to be sucked and plucked rather
Than snuggled and cuddled
But then as he moaned
And reached a stunning climax
He realised it were true
As he emptied his sac
What he needed now was change from within
No more shagging strippers
No more rooting slags
So welcome to the tale
Of how Brendan got his funbags
Twas the night after the party
And all the creatures of the footy forest
Were asleep in their bed
Save for a full forward called Brendan
Who was awake copping head
He knew not her name, he knew not her race
The one thing he did know
What was what he’d do on her face
But inside his wooly brainbox
A small voice did rise
O Brendan O Brendan surely you tire
Of treating chicks like your old wanking socks
The notion befuddled
For he preferred to be sucked and plucked rather
Than snuggled and cuddled
But then as he moaned
And reached a stunning climax
He realised it were true
As he emptied his sac
What he needed now was change from within
No more shagging strippers
No more rooting slags
So welcome to the tale
Of how Brendan got his funbags
Saturday 23 May 2009
Excerpt
The crowd on Bourke Street parted like the Red Sea as the Dewosaurus rampaged down the tramlines. The noise, the confusion, the incessant dinging of the tram bells and now the blaring sirens all combined to confuse the great beast. The ringing in his ears, the noise, the colour.
He picked up a car and threw it smashing into the plate glass windows of a coffee shop, sending the latte sipper inside scurrying for cover. In the tumult that was his brain, the only thought he could hold onto was Bunyip. He had to find Bunyip. He to save Bunyip from living the hellish life he had.
The Dewosaurus headed up the Bourke Street hill, unaware that the police had set a trap for him. As he lumbered through the intersection with Exhibition Street, divisional vans screeched to a halt on all four corners. Immediately, policemen took up position, their service revolvers pointed directly at him.
The crowd quickly surged behind the police to encircle the Dewosaurus. He was trapped. He quickly looked left, right, even above him the police helicopter hovered.
He roared at the police but unlike so many times before, they did not flee at his threat. Instead, they held their ground, knuckles wrapped around pistols turning white with determination.
A expectant hush fell over the crowd. The Dewosaurus snorted and pawed at the ground. Would he charge? One last desperate bid for freedom? Surely such a brave but futile act could only be met with a hail of bullets.
Then something magical happened. From out of the crowd came a slight figure, hands outstretched.
The Dewosaurus caught its scent. Soft, unthreatening, nothing to be afraid of.
The figure approached the great beast and laid a tiny, womanly hand on his heaving snout.
“Hello. My name is Bryce. What’s yours?”
He picked up a car and threw it smashing into the plate glass windows of a coffee shop, sending the latte sipper inside scurrying for cover. In the tumult that was his brain, the only thought he could hold onto was Bunyip. He had to find Bunyip. He to save Bunyip from living the hellish life he had.
The Dewosaurus headed up the Bourke Street hill, unaware that the police had set a trap for him. As he lumbered through the intersection with Exhibition Street, divisional vans screeched to a halt on all four corners. Immediately, policemen took up position, their service revolvers pointed directly at him.
The crowd quickly surged behind the police to encircle the Dewosaurus. He was trapped. He quickly looked left, right, even above him the police helicopter hovered.
He roared at the police but unlike so many times before, they did not flee at his threat. Instead, they held their ground, knuckles wrapped around pistols turning white with determination.
A expectant hush fell over the crowd. The Dewosaurus snorted and pawed at the ground. Would he charge? One last desperate bid for freedom? Surely such a brave but futile act could only be met with a hail of bullets.
Then something magical happened. From out of the crowd came a slight figure, hands outstretched.
The Dewosaurus caught its scent. Soft, unthreatening, nothing to be afraid of.
The figure approached the great beast and laid a tiny, womanly hand on his heaving snout.
“Hello. My name is Bryce. What’s yours?”
Friday 8 May 2009
Jarkyn
“I rooted your Mum last night,” Jarkyn Lockheed said to his opponent as they watched the boundary throw in take place in the pocket at the other end of the ground.
It was the semi finals of the under 18’s championship, and Lockheed, the highly regarded forward from Bulleen was being stood by a defender from one of those towns out in the Australian bush that sound like the kind of fart you do after eight pints and a kebab.
“While I was rooting her, I taped it my phone and made your sister watch it the next night when I done up her up the shitbox,” Lockheed continued.
His opponent merely stared ahead. Not only had he heard it all before, but Lockheed was quick of the mark and could turn on a sixpence. The city boys had won the tap and were working the ball up towards where the defender and his foul mouthed opponent stood just on the parabolic curve of the 50 metre line.
“Then the next day, I got your two little brothers and dressed them as Caro and Rebecca and made them act that video out and I taped it and made your Dad watch it while I rooted him.”
Lockheed’s opponent turned involuntarily, took his eyes of the ball, felt his right hand rise. But then the target of his fist was suddenly gone. Too late the big bloke realised a kick had been punched forward and seized upon by Lockheed, who used the burst of pace and unerring finish that had the recruiters slapping the salami when they watched his performances.
His fourth goal of the first quarter registered, Lockheed returned to his position with a taunting grin on his pockmarked face.
“Ha ha, sucked in dipshit,” he said.
“See when I get drafted number one this year, I’m gunna go up to whatever shithole you come from and root your Mum again to celebrate. Might even let my mates have a shot too. I’ve got this one mate called Donkeycock. Do you know why we call him that …”
The defender sighed. It was going to be a long afternoon.
It was the semi finals of the under 18’s championship, and Lockheed, the highly regarded forward from Bulleen was being stood by a defender from one of those towns out in the Australian bush that sound like the kind of fart you do after eight pints and a kebab.
“While I was rooting her, I taped it my phone and made your sister watch it the next night when I done up her up the shitbox,” Lockheed continued.
His opponent merely stared ahead. Not only had he heard it all before, but Lockheed was quick of the mark and could turn on a sixpence. The city boys had won the tap and were working the ball up towards where the defender and his foul mouthed opponent stood just on the parabolic curve of the 50 metre line.
“Then the next day, I got your two little brothers and dressed them as Caro and Rebecca and made them act that video out and I taped it and made your Dad watch it while I rooted him.”
Lockheed’s opponent turned involuntarily, took his eyes of the ball, felt his right hand rise. But then the target of his fist was suddenly gone. Too late the big bloke realised a kick had been punched forward and seized upon by Lockheed, who used the burst of pace and unerring finish that had the recruiters slapping the salami when they watched his performances.
His fourth goal of the first quarter registered, Lockheed returned to his position with a taunting grin on his pockmarked face.
“Ha ha, sucked in dipshit,” he said.
“See when I get drafted number one this year, I’m gunna go up to whatever shithole you come from and root your Mum again to celebrate. Might even let my mates have a shot too. I’ve got this one mate called Donkeycock. Do you know why we call him that …”
The defender sighed. It was going to be a long afternoon.
The Beast Caged
The Dewosaurus paced the perimeter of his enclosure in the same measured fashion he had for months now.
By the far fence, a group of schoolchildren issued shrill taunts and threw stones at his slow-moving form.
"HA! Fatso, what are you going to do now huh? Come and eat me Stewy, carn, come on you fat bugger."
The sedatives his keepers ground into his feed had dulled his reflexes, slowed his wits. In better times, he would have been over the fence in a single bound, the blood of his tormentors a thick claret stain on his matted coat.
Instead, he was bound by chemical bonds.
But a spark, an ember that refused to be extinguished, still glowed deep within his vast form. Every insult, every icy pole he was forced to fetch from the dusty surface of his prison for the amusement of a snot nosed toddler, all of them, he kept them, distilled them in the soft bubbling cauldron of his undead heart.
The Dewosaurus would rise again. He would break his chains.
His day would come.
And then all Australia would tremble at his approach.
By the far fence, a group of schoolchildren issued shrill taunts and threw stones at his slow-moving form.
"HA! Fatso, what are you going to do now huh? Come and eat me Stewy, carn, come on you fat bugger."
The sedatives his keepers ground into his feed had dulled his reflexes, slowed his wits. In better times, he would have been over the fence in a single bound, the blood of his tormentors a thick claret stain on his matted coat.
Instead, he was bound by chemical bonds.
But a spark, an ember that refused to be extinguished, still glowed deep within his vast form. Every insult, every icy pole he was forced to fetch from the dusty surface of his prison for the amusement of a snot nosed toddler, all of them, he kept them, distilled them in the soft bubbling cauldron of his undead heart.
The Dewosaurus would rise again. He would break his chains.
His day would come.
And then all Australia would tremble at his approach.
At Least Toss Off Onto Them?
COMING SOON!
“Jesus,” said Ratts, “If Fev gets a set of tits, we’re gunna be looking for a new full forward. He’ll just sit on the couch playing with them all day.”
A silence descended over the match committee. It became apparent all of them were of the opinion that if they had a set of tits, they’d spend all day sitting on the couch playing with them too.
“Grrghh orgghhrgr grhghgffgs,” said Sticks, his low growl causing the windows to shake and setting off alarms in car park.
“Sticks, turn your translator on mate,” said Ratts.
Kernahan reached to the small black device at his throat that adjusted his voice to a pitch that humans could hear.
“Dunno about you blokes, but if Fev gets a big pair of perfectly formed funbags, don’t you reckon there’s a danger some of the other boys are gunna want to root him? At least toss off onto them?”
Ratts looked around the table. Heads nodded sadly. It was true. They would.
“Fear not!,” said the unmistakeable voice of Richard Pratt’s ghost, who sat at the end of the table, just like how Yoda and Obi Wan would appear in slightly smaller and blurrier form in Star Wars to dispense wisdom, or offer advice on the best strategems for maximising revenue by working in conjunction with competitors.
“I have a solution!”
“Jesus,” said Ratts, “If Fev gets a set of tits, we’re gunna be looking for a new full forward. He’ll just sit on the couch playing with them all day.”
A silence descended over the match committee. It became apparent all of them were of the opinion that if they had a set of tits, they’d spend all day sitting on the couch playing with them too.
“Grrghh orgghhrgr grhghgffgs,” said Sticks, his low growl causing the windows to shake and setting off alarms in car park.
“Sticks, turn your translator on mate,” said Ratts.
Kernahan reached to the small black device at his throat that adjusted his voice to a pitch that humans could hear.
“Dunno about you blokes, but if Fev gets a big pair of perfectly formed funbags, don’t you reckon there’s a danger some of the other boys are gunna want to root him? At least toss off onto them?”
Ratts looked around the table. Heads nodded sadly. It was true. They would.
“Fear not!,” said the unmistakeable voice of Richard Pratt’s ghost, who sat at the end of the table, just like how Yoda and Obi Wan would appear in slightly smaller and blurrier form in Star Wars to dispense wisdom, or offer advice on the best strategems for maximising revenue by working in conjunction with competitors.
“I have a solution!”
The denouement bit
The room was full of nervous tension as the audience awaited the Premier’s statement. The death and partial consumption of Alan Didak by Stewart Dew – or Homo Dewosaurus as the scientists now referred to him - had lead to calls for the Government to step in.
John Brumby strode from the wings and approached the microphone smiling like a wolf that had just disembowelled a lamb.
“Ladies, gentlemen, Ms Wilson, thanks for coming. I’m going to keep this short as I’m sure, this being a room full of journalists and footballers, you’re all dying to hit the free piss that’s sitting at the back of the room.
“Today, in conjunction with the Justice Minister, I created a new offence of Making Up Bullshit Footy Stories To Advance Your Own Career And Agenda. The maximum penalty for those found guilty of this offence will be life in prison.
“As many of you know, a broadsheet reporter called Sam recently made up a whole load of bullshit in an ego-driven attempt to boost her own shitful nepotistically derived career. To make matters worse, she tried to cloak this chiseling little effort in the kind of first year arts student pseudo feminist claptrap that The Wiggles would dismiss as intellectually shaky.
“As a result, a number of good people had their reputations tarnished and ultimately, a chain of events was put in place where Alan Didak was killed and eaten by Stewart Dew. Now I am not defending the events that lead up to what was so pathetically called ‘Dingogate’ – it sounds like Mr Sheedy does need to have a long hard look at himself - but what I am saying now is that beating shit like that up is wrong, it’s journalistically unprofessional and worse, it is, if you’ll pardon the pun, crying wolf.
“What if someone actually does try and root a dingo at the zoo? When the media reports that, people will just think ‘Oh, it’s just another beat up’. By doing what she did, Lane has actually set the cause of dingo protection back, she’s trivialized it. I come from the country and I’ve seen a dingo get rooted and let me tell you, it’s not very pretty. It’s certainly not something you should pretend happened when it didn’t.
“So as a result of this, I can today announce that the journalist in question is to be the first person jailed under the anti-making up bullshit footy story laws. A release date has not been set and we do not anticipate setting one. That is all, thank you.”
Brumby stepped down and someone at the back of the room turned on a stereo. Within minutes a full scale party had developed.
“I wonder what’s going to happen to poor Stewart,” Rebecca asked Chris, who bopped along to the music, mouthing the words to Livin’ La Vida Loco as he went.
“Apparently they’ve sent him out to a farm in South Australia where he can graze freely and wander around. You can hire him out for rides at kid’s parties and stuff. Look babes, I know this has been a tough few weeks but I know I haven’t been the boyfriend I should lately and I want to work on that,” he said.
Rebecca grabbed his hands eagerly. Was her old Chris finally coming back to her?
“Chris, I know you care so much about the environment and that’s so important, but I have needs too,” she said.
Chris nodded.
“I know babes, I know. Obviously I can’t give up my challenging and rewarding and in no way suspect job as a Visy Environmental Ambassador, but let’s just say I’m going to spending more time checking on the state of your lady garden too.”
They embraced. Chris said:
“Carn, let’s get out of here before bloody Nathan Brown comes over and starts bullshitting on about what a great fit he’d make in our forward line.”
The two left, holding hands. Elsewhere in the room, Caroline had cornered the Premier.
“You know, I wath alwayth againtht the Dingogate sthtowy, but Tham, thee wath like a bull in a china thop, I jutht couldn’t contwol her,” she said.
The world of football was almost back to normal. Briefly, it seemed equilibrium had been regained. Normal service had resumed.
And it would have stayed that way had a strapping bloke called Brendan not woken up the next morning, admired himself in a full length mirror and thought:
“I wonder what I’d look like with a big set of fake tits”
TO BE CONTINUED …
John Brumby strode from the wings and approached the microphone smiling like a wolf that had just disembowelled a lamb.
“Ladies, gentlemen, Ms Wilson, thanks for coming. I’m going to keep this short as I’m sure, this being a room full of journalists and footballers, you’re all dying to hit the free piss that’s sitting at the back of the room.
“Today, in conjunction with the Justice Minister, I created a new offence of Making Up Bullshit Footy Stories To Advance Your Own Career And Agenda. The maximum penalty for those found guilty of this offence will be life in prison.
“As many of you know, a broadsheet reporter called Sam recently made up a whole load of bullshit in an ego-driven attempt to boost her own shitful nepotistically derived career. To make matters worse, she tried to cloak this chiseling little effort in the kind of first year arts student pseudo feminist claptrap that The Wiggles would dismiss as intellectually shaky.
“As a result, a number of good people had their reputations tarnished and ultimately, a chain of events was put in place where Alan Didak was killed and eaten by Stewart Dew. Now I am not defending the events that lead up to what was so pathetically called ‘Dingogate’ – it sounds like Mr Sheedy does need to have a long hard look at himself - but what I am saying now is that beating shit like that up is wrong, it’s journalistically unprofessional and worse, it is, if you’ll pardon the pun, crying wolf.
“What if someone actually does try and root a dingo at the zoo? When the media reports that, people will just think ‘Oh, it’s just another beat up’. By doing what she did, Lane has actually set the cause of dingo protection back, she’s trivialized it. I come from the country and I’ve seen a dingo get rooted and let me tell you, it’s not very pretty. It’s certainly not something you should pretend happened when it didn’t.
“So as a result of this, I can today announce that the journalist in question is to be the first person jailed under the anti-making up bullshit footy story laws. A release date has not been set and we do not anticipate setting one. That is all, thank you.”
Brumby stepped down and someone at the back of the room turned on a stereo. Within minutes a full scale party had developed.
“I wonder what’s going to happen to poor Stewart,” Rebecca asked Chris, who bopped along to the music, mouthing the words to Livin’ La Vida Loco as he went.
“Apparently they’ve sent him out to a farm in South Australia where he can graze freely and wander around. You can hire him out for rides at kid’s parties and stuff. Look babes, I know this has been a tough few weeks but I know I haven’t been the boyfriend I should lately and I want to work on that,” he said.
Rebecca grabbed his hands eagerly. Was her old Chris finally coming back to her?
“Chris, I know you care so much about the environment and that’s so important, but I have needs too,” she said.
Chris nodded.
“I know babes, I know. Obviously I can’t give up my challenging and rewarding and in no way suspect job as a Visy Environmental Ambassador, but let’s just say I’m going to spending more time checking on the state of your lady garden too.”
They embraced. Chris said:
“Carn, let’s get out of here before bloody Nathan Brown comes over and starts bullshitting on about what a great fit he’d make in our forward line.”
The two left, holding hands. Elsewhere in the room, Caroline had cornered the Premier.
“You know, I wath alwayth againtht the Dingogate sthtowy, but Tham, thee wath like a bull in a china thop, I jutht couldn’t contwol her,” she said.
The world of football was almost back to normal. Briefly, it seemed equilibrium had been regained. Normal service had resumed.
And it would have stayed that way had a strapping bloke called Brendan not woken up the next morning, admired himself in a full length mirror and thought:
“I wonder what I’d look like with a big set of fake tits”
TO BE CONTINUED …
The Rise Of The Dewosaurus
Alan had little experience of driving high performance cars at top speed and as he wove through the back streets of Camberwell, his main concern was for the safety of others. In the distance, the wail of police sirens grew ever closer.
It would be fair to say he and Colin’s plan of going to his old primary school and asking they destroy the record of him being given detention all those years ago had not been entirely flawless.
The principal had met his request with undisguised disdain.
“Mr Didak,” she’d said, “You reek of alcohol, you are wearing no trousers and it appears you have recently attempted to pierce your own nipples. Please leave my office right now.”
He’d done as she asked but when he’d returned to the car, Colin had laid into him.
“You gunna let your dream move to Carlton get ruined because of this bullshit. Nah, bugger that mate,” he’d said. “Brocky’s left his chainsaw in the boot. Just go round the back of the office, cut a hole in the wall and grab the stuff.”
It had seemed like a good plan at the time, but as Alan walked through the playground with the chainsaw revving, he saw how the incident could be misconstrued in the media. So he did the right thing, he put the chainsaw down and ran away as fast as he could.
Outside Stewart Dew’s house, Johnno sat in his car mulling his options. Was taking a human life really the best way to avenge his murdered furry companions? Would he be able to live with himself?
His reverie was broke by the screech of tires as a car hurtled round the corner. Didak had remembered Dew lived in the area and was going to seek sanctuary inside his house. Johnno watched in shock as the car pulled up, a young man got out and rushed to the door. As he pushed it open, Johnno saw a mighty paw deliver a savage blow that almost separated the young man’s head from his body.
A unearthly scream pierced the air, not man, not animal. Shaken, Johnno took the tranquiliser gun he always kept handy and approached the house. He pushed the door open and was greeted by a vile smell, like hundred wet dog’s farts kept in a jar then held under your nose. A trail of blood led into the gloom.
He could hear breathing, heaving breathing. It was close. He tightened his grip on the tranquiliser gun, activated the torch function. He swept the room and in the corner saw a pair of glowing red eyes. The beast was crouched over its kill, blood on its muzzle.
“It’s alright big fella,” Johnno soothed, “I don’t want your dinner. I just want you to have a little sleep.”
And with that, he fired a dart, that hit truly. Within seconds, the red eyes faded and the beast slumped to the ground.
Johnno was glad he hadn’t harmed Stewart. Standing over the enormous mass of him as he slept, he saw that Stewart Dew had ceased to be fully human. He had regressed to an earlier stage of evolution. He had become the Dewosaurus.
It would be fair to say he and Colin’s plan of going to his old primary school and asking they destroy the record of him being given detention all those years ago had not been entirely flawless.
The principal had met his request with undisguised disdain.
“Mr Didak,” she’d said, “You reek of alcohol, you are wearing no trousers and it appears you have recently attempted to pierce your own nipples. Please leave my office right now.”
He’d done as she asked but when he’d returned to the car, Colin had laid into him.
“You gunna let your dream move to Carlton get ruined because of this bullshit. Nah, bugger that mate,” he’d said. “Brocky’s left his chainsaw in the boot. Just go round the back of the office, cut a hole in the wall and grab the stuff.”
It had seemed like a good plan at the time, but as Alan walked through the playground with the chainsaw revving, he saw how the incident could be misconstrued in the media. So he did the right thing, he put the chainsaw down and ran away as fast as he could.
Outside Stewart Dew’s house, Johnno sat in his car mulling his options. Was taking a human life really the best way to avenge his murdered furry companions? Would he be able to live with himself?
His reverie was broke by the screech of tires as a car hurtled round the corner. Didak had remembered Dew lived in the area and was going to seek sanctuary inside his house. Johnno watched in shock as the car pulled up, a young man got out and rushed to the door. As he pushed it open, Johnno saw a mighty paw deliver a savage blow that almost separated the young man’s head from his body.
A unearthly scream pierced the air, not man, not animal. Shaken, Johnno took the tranquiliser gun he always kept handy and approached the house. He pushed the door open and was greeted by a vile smell, like hundred wet dog’s farts kept in a jar then held under your nose. A trail of blood led into the gloom.
He could hear breathing, heaving breathing. It was close. He tightened his grip on the tranquiliser gun, activated the torch function. He swept the room and in the corner saw a pair of glowing red eyes. The beast was crouched over its kill, blood on its muzzle.
“It’s alright big fella,” Johnno soothed, “I don’t want your dinner. I just want you to have a little sleep.”
And with that, he fired a dart, that hit truly. Within seconds, the red eyes faded and the beast slumped to the ground.
Johnno was glad he hadn’t harmed Stewart. Standing over the enormous mass of him as he slept, he saw that Stewart Dew had ceased to be fully human. He had regressed to an earlier stage of evolution. He had become the Dewosaurus.
Who? Who Come Stewart House?
With Sam safely under arrest, Rebecca moved to her next problem. What to do with Johnno. He had a huge bee in his bonnet about Stewart Dew and couldn’t be calmed down.
A plan formed. She dialled Chris. By Christ she hoped he wasn’t still dancing round the backyard chanting gibberish.
He answered on the second ring.
“Hey babes, how’s my favourite little eco-friendly speech pathologist slash part time TV presenter slash face of our good friends at Myer?”
“I’m well, Chris, have you finished your ritual then?”
“Yeah, look babes, I got to thinking, what would Mr Pratt really want me to do at a time like this? Dance round the backyard like a drongo? Then I saw my watch and realised it was 7.30PM and that’s when I have to empty the bilge on his yacht, so I’m off to do that now.”
“Can you do me a favour? You know where Stewart Dew lives don’t you?”
“Of course babes, he lives in that big joint in Camberwell that looks like a gingerbread house. I don’t think its real gingerbread. Though he is always getting renovation work done.”
“Good, give me his address. But the thing is, and this is really important, as soon as you hang up, I need you to ring him and tell him to get out of the house, straight away, that’s really important.”
“Why?”
“Look, I’ll explain later babes, there’ll be someone coming around, and Stewart really doesn’t want to be there when he does.”
Chris gave her the address and promised he’d call Dew. He was as good as his word.
“Stewy mate, I’ve got a whisper someone is coming around to your house and you shouldn’t be home when they get there.”
“Who? Who come Stewart house?” the great beast asked, the phone tiny in his giant hairy paw.
“Just get out mate, do yourself a favour,” said Chris before hanging up.
But the beast was not easily driven from its lair. He had absorbed the essence of three crocodiles, a lion and various other powerful creatures in the last week. He was stronger than before, his eyes keen, and nose sharp. He felt an enormous strength within himself. He would lurk in the darkness of the hallway and await this mere human who dared challenge the Great Dew. He would strike swift and vicious. He would taste manflesh.
A plan formed. She dialled Chris. By Christ she hoped he wasn’t still dancing round the backyard chanting gibberish.
He answered on the second ring.
“Hey babes, how’s my favourite little eco-friendly speech pathologist slash part time TV presenter slash face of our good friends at Myer?”
“I’m well, Chris, have you finished your ritual then?”
“Yeah, look babes, I got to thinking, what would Mr Pratt really want me to do at a time like this? Dance round the backyard like a drongo? Then I saw my watch and realised it was 7.30PM and that’s when I have to empty the bilge on his yacht, so I’m off to do that now.”
“Can you do me a favour? You know where Stewart Dew lives don’t you?”
“Of course babes, he lives in that big joint in Camberwell that looks like a gingerbread house. I don’t think its real gingerbread. Though he is always getting renovation work done.”
“Good, give me his address. But the thing is, and this is really important, as soon as you hang up, I need you to ring him and tell him to get out of the house, straight away, that’s really important.”
“Why?”
“Look, I’ll explain later babes, there’ll be someone coming around, and Stewart really doesn’t want to be there when he does.”
Chris gave her the address and promised he’d call Dew. He was as good as his word.
“Stewy mate, I’ve got a whisper someone is coming around to your house and you shouldn’t be home when they get there.”
“Who? Who come Stewart house?” the great beast asked, the phone tiny in his giant hairy paw.
“Just get out mate, do yourself a favour,” said Chris before hanging up.
But the beast was not easily driven from its lair. He had absorbed the essence of three crocodiles, a lion and various other powerful creatures in the last week. He was stronger than before, his eyes keen, and nose sharp. He felt an enormous strength within himself. He would lurk in the darkness of the hallway and await this mere human who dared challenge the Great Dew. He would strike swift and vicious. He would taste manflesh.
Old friends reunite
Events moved swiftly over the course of the evening and the following day. And as is the way in this inter-connected world of ours, where information streams in invisible packets through the very air we breath, where something that happens to an individual is known by millions seconds later, the best laid plans went awry.
The element of chance came into play, the ball that was bouncing toward the big sticks took a leg break that nobody could have predicted, trundled over the line and the game was lost. Fate occurred, life happened. As a result, a man who would have otherwise have lived died, and others faced broken careers and ruined futures
“There she is, there’s the little bitch”, spat Sam as Johnno piloted the big car through the casino carpark.
Rebecca sensed something was wrong the minute the car pulled up next to her. Who was this other person with Caroline? Was it even Caroline?
Johnno got out quickly, clutching the bucket of acid. He wasn’t comfortable with disfiguring a woman he’d never met, but thought it a price worth paying to stop the monster Dew before he ruined the country’s fragile ecosystem.
But then as he approached the woman, he realised he did know her. The slender figure, the long brown hair.
He put the bucket down.
“Rebecca?” he asked.
She looked over.
“Johnno?”
The two rushed to one another. Johnno had been the very first patient Rebecca had ever seen when she was studying speech pathology back in Perth. It had taken a year, but she’d finally been able to help him remove the stutter that had blighted his speech and as result, he’d been able to present convincingly in interviews and get his dream job at the zoo.
“What the bloody hell is going on,” shrieked Sam from inside the car, “Why haven’t you thrown the acid over her yet?”
“Johnno, what’s going on?” asked Rebecca.
“Well, Sam here is pissed off because you’ve been playing fanny bangers with Caroline, and I want revenge on Stewart Dew because he ate my crocodiles so we did a deal where I’d chuck this acid on you if she helped me get Dew’s address so I could teach him a lesson about sustainable wildlife management,” replied Johnno.
Rebecca absorbed it all.
“Johnno, that’s madness, she’s just using you. You could go to jail for this. Don’t think she won’t drop you right in it to save her own little skin,” she said.
They looked over to the car where Sam’s face, twisted into a hideous mask of hate and bitterness, was pressed against the glass like a kid from the special school on the bus home.
“You’re right Rebecca, but what should we do?”
“The first thing we should do is call the police and get this crazy woman arrested,” replied Rebecca, dialling 000 as she spoke.
The element of chance came into play, the ball that was bouncing toward the big sticks took a leg break that nobody could have predicted, trundled over the line and the game was lost. Fate occurred, life happened. As a result, a man who would have otherwise have lived died, and others faced broken careers and ruined futures
“There she is, there’s the little bitch”, spat Sam as Johnno piloted the big car through the casino carpark.
Rebecca sensed something was wrong the minute the car pulled up next to her. Who was this other person with Caroline? Was it even Caroline?
Johnno got out quickly, clutching the bucket of acid. He wasn’t comfortable with disfiguring a woman he’d never met, but thought it a price worth paying to stop the monster Dew before he ruined the country’s fragile ecosystem.
But then as he approached the woman, he realised he did know her. The slender figure, the long brown hair.
He put the bucket down.
“Rebecca?” he asked.
She looked over.
“Johnno?”
The two rushed to one another. Johnno had been the very first patient Rebecca had ever seen when she was studying speech pathology back in Perth. It had taken a year, but she’d finally been able to help him remove the stutter that had blighted his speech and as result, he’d been able to present convincingly in interviews and get his dream job at the zoo.
“What the bloody hell is going on,” shrieked Sam from inside the car, “Why haven’t you thrown the acid over her yet?”
“Johnno, what’s going on?” asked Rebecca.
“Well, Sam here is pissed off because you’ve been playing fanny bangers with Caroline, and I want revenge on Stewart Dew because he ate my crocodiles so we did a deal where I’d chuck this acid on you if she helped me get Dew’s address so I could teach him a lesson about sustainable wildlife management,” replied Johnno.
Rebecca absorbed it all.
“Johnno, that’s madness, she’s just using you. You could go to jail for this. Don’t think she won’t drop you right in it to save her own little skin,” she said.
They looked over to the car where Sam’s face, twisted into a hideous mask of hate and bitterness, was pressed against the glass like a kid from the special school on the bus home.
“You’re right Rebecca, but what should we do?”
“The first thing we should do is call the police and get this crazy woman arrested,” replied Rebecca, dialling 000 as she spoke.
Honti hontu wawehluh! Honti hontu wawehlul! Ompil ompil artemog!
Rebecca moved her seat on the balcony away from the smoke wafting up from below. She took a sip of her G and T and counted, slowly, forcefully. She was having to get up into the twenties now before she felt the anger dissolve and calm return.
Below, Chris let out a shrill whoop. She saw him below, covered in bodypaint and with some seagull feathers stickytaped to the side of his head, dancing around a small fire he’d built earlier that evening.
He stopped twirling and pointed his hands to the sky.
“Honti hontu wawehluh! Honti hontu wawehlul! Ompil ompil artemog!” he cried.
It was a Native American dance he told her was performed when a tribal chief, or valiant warrior, lay gravely ill or mortally wounded.
“Honti hontu wawehluh! Honti hontu wawehlul! Ompil ompil artemog!” Chris repeated.
According to the book he’d bought especially for the occasion, this particular incantation translated as:
“O mighty spirit! A good man comes to you! He is pure of deed and life! Welcome him to your wigwam!”
The G and T was going down well. It was the second of the evening and if, as he’d promised, Chris was going to maintain an all-night vigil for Mr Pratt, it certainly wouldn’t be the last.
Her phone buzzed softly, announcing the arrival of a text. She stretched a languid arm and grabbed it, flicked it open.
Caroline.
Webecca. I can’t live like thith. I mutht thee you. When will our bodieth again mingle in that way we wove tho much? Youth, Cx
Wow, thought Rebecca, thee even texthted like that. What? Now, she was doing it too. Was it contagious?
She looked down at Chris, who had begun to smear ash on his face, and flog himself with a small whip.
Bugger this for game of cowboys and Indians, she thought.
She texted back. Caroline replied quickly. They would meet in the underground carpark at the casino. Chris appeared to have entered some strange trance state and gave no indication that he noticed as she announced she was going out for a bit. In the car, on the way to the illicit assignation, Rebecca began to moisten in anticipation.
At The Age’s HQ on Spencer Street, Sam put the phone down just as Caro emerged from the toilets.
“Geeth, I needed that,” she said, “I feel about three poundth lighter. I’d give the ladieth a mith for a few minuteth girlth.”
“I’m just off to meet a contact boss,” Sam said. “Won’t back until tomorrow.”
Caro waved her hand dismissively and began dialling a number on her mobile. She gave no indication that she suspected Sam had sent any messages from the phone.
As agreed, Johnno was waiting outside.
“Have you got the acid,” Sam asked?
Johnno nodded.
“You got this Dew prick's address?”
Sam held up the bit of paper.
“Its yours once we get this job done. I want to watch.”
Johnno nodded grimly. They drove off, heading for underground carpark at Crown. Not a word was said.
Below, Chris let out a shrill whoop. She saw him below, covered in bodypaint and with some seagull feathers stickytaped to the side of his head, dancing around a small fire he’d built earlier that evening.
He stopped twirling and pointed his hands to the sky.
“Honti hontu wawehluh! Honti hontu wawehlul! Ompil ompil artemog!” he cried.
It was a Native American dance he told her was performed when a tribal chief, or valiant warrior, lay gravely ill or mortally wounded.
“Honti hontu wawehluh! Honti hontu wawehlul! Ompil ompil artemog!” Chris repeated.
According to the book he’d bought especially for the occasion, this particular incantation translated as:
“O mighty spirit! A good man comes to you! He is pure of deed and life! Welcome him to your wigwam!”
The G and T was going down well. It was the second of the evening and if, as he’d promised, Chris was going to maintain an all-night vigil for Mr Pratt, it certainly wouldn’t be the last.
Her phone buzzed softly, announcing the arrival of a text. She stretched a languid arm and grabbed it, flicked it open.
Caroline.
Webecca. I can’t live like thith. I mutht thee you. When will our bodieth again mingle in that way we wove tho much? Youth, Cx
Wow, thought Rebecca, thee even texthted like that. What? Now, she was doing it too. Was it contagious?
She looked down at Chris, who had begun to smear ash on his face, and flog himself with a small whip.
Bugger this for game of cowboys and Indians, she thought.
She texted back. Caroline replied quickly. They would meet in the underground carpark at the casino. Chris appeared to have entered some strange trance state and gave no indication that he noticed as she announced she was going out for a bit. In the car, on the way to the illicit assignation, Rebecca began to moisten in anticipation.
At The Age’s HQ on Spencer Street, Sam put the phone down just as Caro emerged from the toilets.
“Geeth, I needed that,” she said, “I feel about three poundth lighter. I’d give the ladieth a mith for a few minuteth girlth.”
“I’m just off to meet a contact boss,” Sam said. “Won’t back until tomorrow.”
Caro waved her hand dismissively and began dialling a number on her mobile. She gave no indication that she suspected Sam had sent any messages from the phone.
As agreed, Johnno was waiting outside.
“Have you got the acid,” Sam asked?
Johnno nodded.
“You got this Dew prick's address?”
Sam held up the bit of paper.
“Its yours once we get this job done. I want to watch.”
Johnno nodded grimly. They drove off, heading for underground carpark at Crown. Not a word was said.
Back to school
Earlier that day, much earlier, in the hour when the darkest night begins to lift and the first pink fingers of dawn are stretching themselves across an unseeable horizon, Alan and Colin were discussing their respective futures as only centimeters away, a bored 19 year from Corowa call Krystal gyrated listlessly.
“Run this past me again, what’s the plan,” said Alan as he sipped his 23rd Big Fat Root of the night.
“Chrisso's missus has been getting the good news off Caroline, all that, you saw the video,” said Colin.
Alan had seen the footage. It had become the most popular YouTube video in the country within days.
“So, apparently Rebecca has decided she’s back on solids but that she can’t stay in Melbourne coz everyone knows she had Caro studying her fish pie recipe for a while. She’s getting in Chrisso’s ear saying ‘Let’s go to the Gold Coast’. Then Stewy Dew’s gone and eaten those crocodiles …”
“And the rest of it,” interrupted Alan. He had always been fond of animals and news of Dew’s bloody rampage at the Zoo had turned his stomach.
“Yeah, yeah, whatever. So Dew’s gunna get the arse, we’re both playing at shitful teams. I reckon it goes like this. Chris goes to the Gold Coast, you go to Carlton and I’ll fill big Stewie’s boots over at Hawthorn.”
Alan liked the sound of it. He knew that he would fit in perfectly at the by-the-book culture predominant at Princes Park. He was an abstemious chap by nature and that was the kind of thing they respected at Carlton. In fact, it was well known that their high moral standards meant that nobody with even the slightest cloud over them was welcome.
He had a problem though. He had one blot in his copybook. In Grade Four, he’d gotten a detention after carelessly allowing an icy pole stick to slip from his grasp in the playground and been spotted by a teacher.
He knew if the indiscretion was revealed, the Blues would shut the door on him. He confided his problem in Colin.
Who suggested a solution. An entirely plausible solution. Stay and here getting pissed on Big Fat Roots and watching Krystal’s tits sway hypnotically back and forth, then head up to the primary school when it opened and politely ask them to excise the matter from his permanent record.
Simple. What could go wrong?
“Run this past me again, what’s the plan,” said Alan as he sipped his 23rd Big Fat Root of the night.
“Chrisso's missus has been getting the good news off Caroline, all that, you saw the video,” said Colin.
Alan had seen the footage. It had become the most popular YouTube video in the country within days.
“So, apparently Rebecca has decided she’s back on solids but that she can’t stay in Melbourne coz everyone knows she had Caro studying her fish pie recipe for a while. She’s getting in Chrisso’s ear saying ‘Let’s go to the Gold Coast’. Then Stewy Dew’s gone and eaten those crocodiles …”
“And the rest of it,” interrupted Alan. He had always been fond of animals and news of Dew’s bloody rampage at the Zoo had turned his stomach.
“Yeah, yeah, whatever. So Dew’s gunna get the arse, we’re both playing at shitful teams. I reckon it goes like this. Chris goes to the Gold Coast, you go to Carlton and I’ll fill big Stewie’s boots over at Hawthorn.”
Alan liked the sound of it. He knew that he would fit in perfectly at the by-the-book culture predominant at Princes Park. He was an abstemious chap by nature and that was the kind of thing they respected at Carlton. In fact, it was well known that their high moral standards meant that nobody with even the slightest cloud over them was welcome.
He had a problem though. He had one blot in his copybook. In Grade Four, he’d gotten a detention after carelessly allowing an icy pole stick to slip from his grasp in the playground and been spotted by a teacher.
He knew if the indiscretion was revealed, the Blues would shut the door on him. He confided his problem in Colin.
Who suggested a solution. An entirely plausible solution. Stay and here getting pissed on Big Fat Roots and watching Krystal’s tits sway hypnotically back and forth, then head up to the primary school when it opened and politely ask them to excise the matter from his permanent record.
Simple. What could go wrong?
Terry Bosniak
The news of Richard Pratt’s ill-health brought out not the slightest hint of sympathy in Dean Laidley. Even the most casual observer could see Laidley was not a sympathetic man.
He hadn’t been born with a silver spoon in his mouth. He’d been brought up like he played his footy: hard, tough, with a system that might not look pretty but got results. Except in September. There was some flaw in the system that made it fail in September. Laidley put it down to hemispsheric disparities, or the phase of the moon.
“Am I in trouble Dad,” asked his 10 year old son.
“You’re always in trouble son, that’s what life is about. A desperate struggle to keep your head above water while the world tries to grind you down at every opportunity,” he replied, his steely eyes navigating the traffic ahead of him.
“So why have you asked for a meeting with my teacher?”
“You’ll find out when we get there.”
Mrs Miller, the teacher, had heard a lot of stuff from parents in her 23 years as a teacher, but this was a new one.
“You want to what, Mr Laidley?”
“I want to trade my son. He hasn’t been putting in the required effort, his performances have been sub-par, the lawn has been covered in leaves for days now, his room is always dirty.
“But yes, he has potential, I see that, so that’s why I’m not just taking him down the beach with a potato sack and a few bricks. I want to see what I can get for him.”
Miller shook her head. This was a new one.
“And, what, who … what do you expect to get from trading your son Mr Laidley?” she asked, finding it hard to believe the conversation was even happening.
“Terry Bosniak”
“What?”
“Kid in Grade Two. I like the look of him. He’s not flashy, but gets the job done. Never once been late with his homework. Hasn’t pissed his bed in years. Looks like a solid performer,” Laidley said.
“Let me get this straight, you’re proposing to swap your son for Terry Bosniak?”
Laidley nodded.
“Or,” he said, “Alternatively, I’ll let you guys have him, you could use him around the school and stuff, picking up papers and washing the dunnies, and then I get to choose whatever prep I want from the new intake in February.”
Mrs Miller was just about to attempt to explain to the … the … the … maniac … why what he was proposing was not only illegal, but immoral on so many grounds, when the vice principal rushed into the room.
“Mrs Miller, sorry to interrupt, there’s an emergency. Alan Didak’s outside the art room with a chainsaw!”
He hadn’t been born with a silver spoon in his mouth. He’d been brought up like he played his footy: hard, tough, with a system that might not look pretty but got results. Except in September. There was some flaw in the system that made it fail in September. Laidley put it down to hemispsheric disparities, or the phase of the moon.
“Am I in trouble Dad,” asked his 10 year old son.
“You’re always in trouble son, that’s what life is about. A desperate struggle to keep your head above water while the world tries to grind you down at every opportunity,” he replied, his steely eyes navigating the traffic ahead of him.
“So why have you asked for a meeting with my teacher?”
“You’ll find out when we get there.”
Mrs Miller, the teacher, had heard a lot of stuff from parents in her 23 years as a teacher, but this was a new one.
“You want to what, Mr Laidley?”
“I want to trade my son. He hasn’t been putting in the required effort, his performances have been sub-par, the lawn has been covered in leaves for days now, his room is always dirty.
“But yes, he has potential, I see that, so that’s why I’m not just taking him down the beach with a potato sack and a few bricks. I want to see what I can get for him.”
Miller shook her head. This was a new one.
“And, what, who … what do you expect to get from trading your son Mr Laidley?” she asked, finding it hard to believe the conversation was even happening.
“Terry Bosniak”
“What?”
“Kid in Grade Two. I like the look of him. He’s not flashy, but gets the job done. Never once been late with his homework. Hasn’t pissed his bed in years. Looks like a solid performer,” Laidley said.
“Let me get this straight, you’re proposing to swap your son for Terry Bosniak?”
Laidley nodded.
“Or,” he said, “Alternatively, I’ll let you guys have him, you could use him around the school and stuff, picking up papers and washing the dunnies, and then I get to choose whatever prep I want from the new intake in February.”
Mrs Miller was just about to attempt to explain to the … the … the … maniac … why what he was proposing was not only illegal, but immoral on so many grounds, when the vice principal rushed into the room.
“Mrs Miller, sorry to interrupt, there’s an emergency. Alan Didak’s outside the art room with a chainsaw!”
Hug o'clock
“Look at this, this is the best bit! I mean the worst bit,” Chris spluttered.
Rebecca glanced over. They were watching An Inconvenient Truth for the 176th time. That wasn’t an exaggeration either. She’d been keeping count. And it was also 175 times more than Chris had ever done to her what Caroline had enjoyed so much. No, mustn’t think about Caroline. Think about Chris.
“Look at the way the ice is cracking, its just, bloody, it just amazes me people don't seem to care,” he said.
Rebecca moved her hand further up Chris’s leg. She’d had it there for half an hour, inching ever northward, but he didn’t seem to notice.
Chris shook his head.
“You know what babes, I reckon we need a new plasma screen so I can really understand the full detail of how we as a species are destroying this planet. The 87 incher just isn’t up to it anymore,” he said.
Rebecca met his eyes.
“Why don’t you show me your 87 incher Chris? It’s been a while since we got anything entertaining out of that.”
She moved her hand directly onto his manhood but he brushed it away.
“Babes, not now, this is important stuff. We can really make a difference to the future of our world here. What about our children? What kind of world will we be leaving them?” he said.
Rebecca resisted the urge to inform Chris that their children wouldn’t care about the environmental degradation wrought on this fragile planet if he didn’t occasionally throw one up her, unprotected penetrative vaginal sex being the key component of human reproduction it was, but resisted.
Instead, she went over to island in their kitchen and poured herself an OJ. As soon, as she tasted it, she spat it out. It was rotten. Literally. Gone off.
“Chris, what’s wrong this OJ?” she asked.
“Oh, I meant to tell you babes, I chucked out that commercial crap full of preservatives you were buying from the supermarket. Instead, I just recycled some oranges I found in next door’s bin.”
One, two, three … four. Rebecca did the counting thing. It worked. But she didn’t how much longer it would be remain effective.
She’d sat down again just as the amazingly lifelike Al Gore began his long droning speech about the polar bears. Chris knew the speech off by heart. She had a sinking suspicion that if they were ever to get married, he’d want to work it into the vows somehow.
Then the phone rang. The call that would change their lives.
The ringtone was Yellow by Coldplay, the one Chris had selected for when Mr Pratt called. He’d chosen it because he said Coldplay were just like Mr Pratt, innovative, brave, not commercial.
“Good evening Sir,” Chris said promptly.
“Chris! Chris! Izza no Mr Pratt! Izza Jeanne here! You come over quick! Mr Pratt, hizza sick! I think he gonna die!”
Rebecca saw the colour drain from Chris’ face.
“What is it babes, is everything OK?”
A tear was already forming in Chris’ eyes.
“It’s Mr Pratt,” he said, “He’s sick. He might die.”
The silence enveloped them. Rebecca liked Mr Pratt. When they went to his house to serve dinner, sometimes the old man would let her swim in his Olympic size pool full of gold coins.
“You swim pretty girl,” he would say, “I justa sit here anda watch”
She put her hand on Chris’ shoulder.
He spoke:
“I think its hug o’clock babes.”
She held him tight.
“Why?” he asked, the grief in his voice only too heart-wrenchingly apparent.
“Why do bad things only ever happen to good people?”
Rebecca glanced over. They were watching An Inconvenient Truth for the 176th time. That wasn’t an exaggeration either. She’d been keeping count. And it was also 175 times more than Chris had ever done to her what Caroline had enjoyed so much. No, mustn’t think about Caroline. Think about Chris.
“Look at the way the ice is cracking, its just, bloody, it just amazes me people don't seem to care,” he said.
Rebecca moved her hand further up Chris’s leg. She’d had it there for half an hour, inching ever northward, but he didn’t seem to notice.
Chris shook his head.
“You know what babes, I reckon we need a new plasma screen so I can really understand the full detail of how we as a species are destroying this planet. The 87 incher just isn’t up to it anymore,” he said.
Rebecca met his eyes.
“Why don’t you show me your 87 incher Chris? It’s been a while since we got anything entertaining out of that.”
She moved her hand directly onto his manhood but he brushed it away.
“Babes, not now, this is important stuff. We can really make a difference to the future of our world here. What about our children? What kind of world will we be leaving them?” he said.
Rebecca resisted the urge to inform Chris that their children wouldn’t care about the environmental degradation wrought on this fragile planet if he didn’t occasionally throw one up her, unprotected penetrative vaginal sex being the key component of human reproduction it was, but resisted.
Instead, she went over to island in their kitchen and poured herself an OJ. As soon, as she tasted it, she spat it out. It was rotten. Literally. Gone off.
“Chris, what’s wrong this OJ?” she asked.
“Oh, I meant to tell you babes, I chucked out that commercial crap full of preservatives you were buying from the supermarket. Instead, I just recycled some oranges I found in next door’s bin.”
One, two, three … four. Rebecca did the counting thing. It worked. But she didn’t how much longer it would be remain effective.
She’d sat down again just as the amazingly lifelike Al Gore began his long droning speech about the polar bears. Chris knew the speech off by heart. She had a sinking suspicion that if they were ever to get married, he’d want to work it into the vows somehow.
Then the phone rang. The call that would change their lives.
The ringtone was Yellow by Coldplay, the one Chris had selected for when Mr Pratt called. He’d chosen it because he said Coldplay were just like Mr Pratt, innovative, brave, not commercial.
“Good evening Sir,” Chris said promptly.
“Chris! Chris! Izza no Mr Pratt! Izza Jeanne here! You come over quick! Mr Pratt, hizza sick! I think he gonna die!”
Rebecca saw the colour drain from Chris’ face.
“What is it babes, is everything OK?”
A tear was already forming in Chris’ eyes.
“It’s Mr Pratt,” he said, “He’s sick. He might die.”
The silence enveloped them. Rebecca liked Mr Pratt. When they went to his house to serve dinner, sometimes the old man would let her swim in his Olympic size pool full of gold coins.
“You swim pretty girl,” he would say, “I justa sit here anda watch”
She put her hand on Chris’ shoulder.
He spoke:
“I think its hug o’clock babes.”
She held him tight.
“Why?” he asked, the grief in his voice only too heart-wrenchingly apparent.
“Why do bad things only ever happen to good people?”
Sam's Exclusive: My Rape Hell By Jessie The Dingo
The dingo so savagely not sexually assaulted by Essendon Premiership winning coach Kevin Sheedy today exclusively reveals its torment to The Age.
Although Sheedy never actually touched the dingo, his actions still amount to the worst crime since the Holocaust, although this reporter believes the two are equal, and that if the dingo, known only as ‘Jessie’, carries out her threat to commit suicide due to the unbearable pain of her near-experience, then Kevin Sheedy will surpass Adolf Hitler in the ranks of history’s greatest monsters.
Such is the horror of Jessie’s Story that we have simply reprinted the transcript of her exclusive interview below, so that the power of her words may wash over you like the enormous tsunami of suffering they are.
Sam: How did you feel when Kevin Sheedy broke into your cage, held you down and raped you repeatedly, just like Josef Fritzl did to his daughter in that dungeon in Poland or wherever it was?
Jessie: I was deeply traumatized and remain so. The only thing that can salve my distress is if you get a Walkley for this in no way self-promoting and ethically unsound campaign you are running.
Sam: You are too kind Jessie. I agree that a Walkley would be the only fair recognition for my efforts in making this shit up as I go along. Maybe an award from the UN presented by the ghost of Benazir Bhutto? Perhaps, dare I say it … Nobel?
Jessie: I for one will happily nominate you. My, that is a fetching trouser suit you are wearing Sam. Wherever did you get it?
(Continues for another 167 pages, three more pages than The Age has readers)
Johnno folded the paper and reached for his mobile phone. He was no book-learnin’ type but he knew that if he was to track down the murderer Dew, this Sam woman could be an ally.
He dialed The Age footy desk number and got Sam.
“You don’t know me, but I might have a story for you,” he said. “Can we meet somewhere.”
Two hours later and the deal had been done. In exchange for Stewart Dew’s home address, Johnno would disfigure this Rebecca woman with a bucket of acid. Such was the currency of revenge.
Later, at her desk, Sam wondered if she had done the right thing. Of course she had. Dew was just another rapist in waiting like the rest of them (except of course her lovely Dad.)
She recalled the time at a media conference at Waverley when she’d been eating a sandwich, and she’d felt a hot lusting gaze on her. She’d looked up, and there was Dew, staring at her, undressing her with his eyes.
He come over like it was the most normal thing in the world and propositioned her in the most vile fashion.
“If you’re not going to finish that sandwich Sam, can I have it?” he’d asked.
The bastard. Whatever this mad Johnno bloke did to him, he had coming. They all did.
Although Sheedy never actually touched the dingo, his actions still amount to the worst crime since the Holocaust, although this reporter believes the two are equal, and that if the dingo, known only as ‘Jessie’, carries out her threat to commit suicide due to the unbearable pain of her near-experience, then Kevin Sheedy will surpass Adolf Hitler in the ranks of history’s greatest monsters.
Such is the horror of Jessie’s Story that we have simply reprinted the transcript of her exclusive interview below, so that the power of her words may wash over you like the enormous tsunami of suffering they are.
Sam: How did you feel when Kevin Sheedy broke into your cage, held you down and raped you repeatedly, just like Josef Fritzl did to his daughter in that dungeon in Poland or wherever it was?
Jessie: I was deeply traumatized and remain so. The only thing that can salve my distress is if you get a Walkley for this in no way self-promoting and ethically unsound campaign you are running.
Sam: You are too kind Jessie. I agree that a Walkley would be the only fair recognition for my efforts in making this shit up as I go along. Maybe an award from the UN presented by the ghost of Benazir Bhutto? Perhaps, dare I say it … Nobel?
Jessie: I for one will happily nominate you. My, that is a fetching trouser suit you are wearing Sam. Wherever did you get it?
(Continues for another 167 pages, three more pages than The Age has readers)
Johnno folded the paper and reached for his mobile phone. He was no book-learnin’ type but he knew that if he was to track down the murderer Dew, this Sam woman could be an ally.
He dialed The Age footy desk number and got Sam.
“You don’t know me, but I might have a story for you,” he said. “Can we meet somewhere.”
Two hours later and the deal had been done. In exchange for Stewart Dew’s home address, Johnno would disfigure this Rebecca woman with a bucket of acid. Such was the currency of revenge.
Later, at her desk, Sam wondered if she had done the right thing. Of course she had. Dew was just another rapist in waiting like the rest of them (except of course her lovely Dad.)
She recalled the time at a media conference at Waverley when she’d been eating a sandwich, and she’d felt a hot lusting gaze on her. She’d looked up, and there was Dew, staring at her, undressing her with his eyes.
He come over like it was the most normal thing in the world and propositioned her in the most vile fashion.
“If you’re not going to finish that sandwich Sam, can I have it?” he’d asked.
The bastard. Whatever this mad Johnno bloke did to him, he had coming. They all did.
A bloody morning
An eerie silence hung over the Parkville dawn as the zookeeper began his rounds. He was a man who’d seen the world, been caught with his patrol 25 clicks from anywhere in ‘Nam in ’68, seen what a mortar shell does to a man when it scores a direct hit.
After that, he’d travelled loose and light. Tuna fishing off Port Lincoln, a spell up in the Kimberleys. There’d been a bit of jail along the way, fights in bars that he always won, sometimes won a little too well. No, he’d seen blood before, he’d seen suffering, he’d seen things no man should ever have to see.
But he’d never seen anything like this before.
The paths of the zoo were covered in feathers, fur and scales. The hind leg of a kangaroo lay broken on a grassy verge, bloodied where some monstrous force had gnawed the flesh from the bone.
He followed the trail carefully, automatically into survival mode. He knew whoever – whatever – had done this could still be lurking, watching him , poised to strike,
He came to the open space just by the front gates. A charnel house greeted him. The heads of dozens, no hundreds of animals, from seals, to a zebra, even the poor bloody little lemurs sat in a macabre pyramid. And at the foot of the pyramid, a huge thing, a great pink mass, blood dripping from its gaping maw as it attempted to fit one last morsel into its grotesquely stuffed belly.
“What in the name Peter bloody Landy has happened here,” the ranger demanded.
The man, if you could call the abomination such a thing, shifted its tiny eyes in its enormous head and dimly registered his presence.
“I’m, I’m sorry Mr Clarkson, I couldn’t help myself. I just got hungry.”
With that, he passed out.
Later, as the firemen loaded the man he now knew was Hawthorn player Stewart Dew onto the kind sling normally only used to assist in the rescue of beached whales, the ranger assessed the damage.
Dew had eaten well over half of the animals in the entire zoo. He’d eaten all the crocodiles. All of them. And if the vet staff couldn’t revive the little quoll he’d taken a bite out of before discarding in favour of larger fare, then he may well have sentenced an entire sub-species to extinction with his ravenous hunger.
Just as the ranger was wiping away tears at the sight of the horror, the Zoo’s lawyer came over.
“Bad news Johnno, it looks like Hawthorn have got an injunction slapped on this already. Seems they registered Dew as disabled due to his eating disorders when they recruited him. Legally, we can’t say a word about this to anyone.”
Well, thought Johnno, the law might apply to straight suits and short back and sides men like you, but I answer to a higher power. No, someone would pay for this. Blood would be spilt. An eye for an eye, a tail for a tail.
After that, he’d travelled loose and light. Tuna fishing off Port Lincoln, a spell up in the Kimberleys. There’d been a bit of jail along the way, fights in bars that he always won, sometimes won a little too well. No, he’d seen blood before, he’d seen suffering, he’d seen things no man should ever have to see.
But he’d never seen anything like this before.
The paths of the zoo were covered in feathers, fur and scales. The hind leg of a kangaroo lay broken on a grassy verge, bloodied where some monstrous force had gnawed the flesh from the bone.
He followed the trail carefully, automatically into survival mode. He knew whoever – whatever – had done this could still be lurking, watching him , poised to strike,
He came to the open space just by the front gates. A charnel house greeted him. The heads of dozens, no hundreds of animals, from seals, to a zebra, even the poor bloody little lemurs sat in a macabre pyramid. And at the foot of the pyramid, a huge thing, a great pink mass, blood dripping from its gaping maw as it attempted to fit one last morsel into its grotesquely stuffed belly.
“What in the name Peter bloody Landy has happened here,” the ranger demanded.
The man, if you could call the abomination such a thing, shifted its tiny eyes in its enormous head and dimly registered his presence.
“I’m, I’m sorry Mr Clarkson, I couldn’t help myself. I just got hungry.”
With that, he passed out.
Later, as the firemen loaded the man he now knew was Hawthorn player Stewart Dew onto the kind sling normally only used to assist in the rescue of beached whales, the ranger assessed the damage.
Dew had eaten well over half of the animals in the entire zoo. He’d eaten all the crocodiles. All of them. And if the vet staff couldn’t revive the little quoll he’d taken a bite out of before discarding in favour of larger fare, then he may well have sentenced an entire sub-species to extinction with his ravenous hunger.
Just as the ranger was wiping away tears at the sight of the horror, the Zoo’s lawyer came over.
“Bad news Johnno, it looks like Hawthorn have got an injunction slapped on this already. Seems they registered Dew as disabled due to his eating disorders when they recruited him. Legally, we can’t say a word about this to anyone.”
Well, thought Johnno, the law might apply to straight suits and short back and sides men like you, but I answer to a higher power. No, someone would pay for this. Blood would be spilt. An eye for an eye, a tail for a tail.
A big slug from a goonbag
The morning broke bright and fresh. Sam had just walked through the door at The Era when Nathan, the new English guy, told her that the city's biggest commercial radio station wanted her to get down to studios straight away to take some talkback on her story.
“Dingogate is massive! Biggest story since Diana died. This shit’s going bloody Mexico baby!”
Sam spent the next two hours sitting happily in the soundproof booth as a series of credulous morons, the mentally infirm and those who liked to welcome the day with a big slug from a goonbag rang to praise her story and offer their own insights into the now confirmed culture of animal hatred at Punt Road.
“I used to live next door to Nathan Brown, at least I think it was Nathan Brown, looked like him anyway,” slurred one imbecile from the kind of suburb where hopes and dreams go to die, “And he would go hours without feeding his cat. He’d leave food for it in the morning, and then go out all day and not feed it again until he came back. You could tell the poor thing was hungry because it used to spend the day trying to catch birds.”
Sam sighed: “Yep, studies have shown that violent males will control every aspect of their victim’s life, right down to diet. It’s disturbing and as far as I’m concerned, the only course of action is chemical castration.”
It got worse. One man rang in to describe an awful scene at Mentone beach where Matthew Richardson had been observed shouting at his dog to ‘heel’ as they approached a busy road.
“Textbook case of psychological bullying. The man is clearly a monster. This single act, for mine, wipes away any good he has ever done in his entire pathetic life. His name is now mud. Parents should shield their children’s eyes if they are unfortunate enough to pass this demon in the streets,” Sam opined, the weight of a journalism degree and a reference from her Dad providing unassailable moral authority.
On and on it went. All of the evening news bulletins lead with it. The assassination attempt on President Obama was relegated to a few minutes before the weather.
And quite rightly too. The Americans could always get another President. Maybe a woman this time, instead of yet another black MAN. But there would never be story of such historic significance as Dingogate.
She felt the tape of the interview she’d done with the dingo in her pocket. Sure, the dingo hadn’t actually spoken to her, more emitted a series of low growls. And to be fair, it wasn’t actually a dingo she’d interviewed, it would be pretty bloody stupid to get that close to wild animal. No, she’d looked into the eyes of a stray dog in a park in Carlton. And its eyes had told her an unbelievable story of pain, exploitation, of fear as the deranged Sheedy chased the dingo round the enclosure, his enormous threatening manhood tumescent in those tight short, uttering all kinds of vile threats and curses.
Tomorrow she would tell the dingo's story and there would be no escaping the truth for Richmond – that it was a club of hate and despair that was the football of equivalent of Nazi Germany, Saddam’s Iraq and the late stage Roman Empire all rolled into one.
Little did Sam know she wasn’t the only one with animals on her mind. Nor did she know that her carefully prepared story would be blown out of the water by an event so shocking, so disturbing that even the most hardened observer would be sickened.
In the abandoned wasteland behind the Zoo, near where derelicts would gather to find a dark place to huddle in their blankets, a lumbering form with number 31 on its back approached the high red brick walls of the popular attraction.
If that drunken old codger Sheedy could get in, then so could he. And get in he would. The hunger was driving him, giving him energy, power. The cries and hoots of the beasts contained within only served to intensify his desire.
He would start with handfuls of frogs from the reptile house, then move onto something bigger, maybe a few fairy penguins before the main course – a camel. This night, he would devour a camel whole.
Tonight Stewart would feast!
“Dingogate is massive! Biggest story since Diana died. This shit’s going bloody Mexico baby!”
Sam spent the next two hours sitting happily in the soundproof booth as a series of credulous morons, the mentally infirm and those who liked to welcome the day with a big slug from a goonbag rang to praise her story and offer their own insights into the now confirmed culture of animal hatred at Punt Road.
“I used to live next door to Nathan Brown, at least I think it was Nathan Brown, looked like him anyway,” slurred one imbecile from the kind of suburb where hopes and dreams go to die, “And he would go hours without feeding his cat. He’d leave food for it in the morning, and then go out all day and not feed it again until he came back. You could tell the poor thing was hungry because it used to spend the day trying to catch birds.”
Sam sighed: “Yep, studies have shown that violent males will control every aspect of their victim’s life, right down to diet. It’s disturbing and as far as I’m concerned, the only course of action is chemical castration.”
It got worse. One man rang in to describe an awful scene at Mentone beach where Matthew Richardson had been observed shouting at his dog to ‘heel’ as they approached a busy road.
“Textbook case of psychological bullying. The man is clearly a monster. This single act, for mine, wipes away any good he has ever done in his entire pathetic life. His name is now mud. Parents should shield their children’s eyes if they are unfortunate enough to pass this demon in the streets,” Sam opined, the weight of a journalism degree and a reference from her Dad providing unassailable moral authority.
On and on it went. All of the evening news bulletins lead with it. The assassination attempt on President Obama was relegated to a few minutes before the weather.
And quite rightly too. The Americans could always get another President. Maybe a woman this time, instead of yet another black MAN. But there would never be story of such historic significance as Dingogate.
She felt the tape of the interview she’d done with the dingo in her pocket. Sure, the dingo hadn’t actually spoken to her, more emitted a series of low growls. And to be fair, it wasn’t actually a dingo she’d interviewed, it would be pretty bloody stupid to get that close to wild animal. No, she’d looked into the eyes of a stray dog in a park in Carlton. And its eyes had told her an unbelievable story of pain, exploitation, of fear as the deranged Sheedy chased the dingo round the enclosure, his enormous threatening manhood tumescent in those tight short, uttering all kinds of vile threats and curses.
Tomorrow she would tell the dingo's story and there would be no escaping the truth for Richmond – that it was a club of hate and despair that was the football of equivalent of Nazi Germany, Saddam’s Iraq and the late stage Roman Empire all rolled into one.
Little did Sam know she wasn’t the only one with animals on her mind. Nor did she know that her carefully prepared story would be blown out of the water by an event so shocking, so disturbing that even the most hardened observer would be sickened.
In the abandoned wasteland behind the Zoo, near where derelicts would gather to find a dark place to huddle in their blankets, a lumbering form with number 31 on its back approached the high red brick walls of the popular attraction.
If that drunken old codger Sheedy could get in, then so could he. And get in he would. The hunger was driving him, giving him energy, power. The cries and hoots of the beasts contained within only served to intensify his desire.
He would start with handfuls of frogs from the reptile house, then move onto something bigger, maybe a few fairy penguins before the main course – a camel. This night, he would devour a camel whole.
Tonight Stewart would feast!
Whale Sperm Burgers All Round
“Thenthational, thpecial, thpectacular, thith’s thuper thtuff Tham,” said Caroline as she read over Sam’s carefully crafted copy.
“Thith will shut that little tewevithion thit up with his awful tape that ith a cwear intruthion into my pwivate wife,” she continued.
“What about Benny Cousins, what about his private life,” shouted a voice from the back of the newsroom.
“That’s diffewent,” snapped Caroline, “Evewybody knowth there’th different wules for uth and them.”
She patted Sam on the back.
“Good work, Thammy. Now, we’re going to need a follow up. Did you get that dingo to talk? On the wecord?”
Sam nodded.
“Yep, yep, she said she’d be willing to talk to me and me only.”
“Well, get that done tomowwow.”
Meanwhile, barely a kilometre from the The Age offices, Chris and Rebecca sat in Melbourne’s hottest new eco-friendly restaurant, Daintree.
They’d agreed it was best to go out and avoid the spectacle of the video being shown that night. And Chris said he wanted to talk, he needed talk, that he didn’t think this meant the end.
“I’ll have the salad thanks,” said Rebecca demurely when the waiter, complete with red and blue hair and a face full of piercings, came to take their order.
“And I’ll have the whale sperm burger,” said Chris. The waiter nodded and departed.
“You’ll have the what?” What is that?” Rebecca asked with disbelief.
“Whale sperm? Well babes, just like you and me, whales are mammals, and you know how when we do the doona dance, and at the end I …”
“Yep, yep, look Chris, enough. I know what whale sperm is. I just don’t understand why you’re eating it. In burger form.”
Chris looked at her as if she had just asked why the sky was blue.
“Because its packed full of nutrients babes, and it comes from a whale, it must be environmentally friendly.”
Rebecca sighed and pretended to be interested as Chris described his day, how Mr Pratt had needed some old admin records gotten rid of and how Chris had had to shred them, then mix them up and drive around the city burning them in separate little piles and rubbing the ashes into the dirt.
“I did so much driving in the Prius today babes, I reckon I would have made a real dent in global warming all by myself.”
He continued to rabbit on and Rebecca began to count to ten. Slowly. It helped. Sometimes.
“Thith will shut that little tewevithion thit up with his awful tape that ith a cwear intruthion into my pwivate wife,” she continued.
“What about Benny Cousins, what about his private life,” shouted a voice from the back of the newsroom.
“That’s diffewent,” snapped Caroline, “Evewybody knowth there’th different wules for uth and them.”
She patted Sam on the back.
“Good work, Thammy. Now, we’re going to need a follow up. Did you get that dingo to talk? On the wecord?”
Sam nodded.
“Yep, yep, she said she’d be willing to talk to me and me only.”
“Well, get that done tomowwow.”
Meanwhile, barely a kilometre from the The Age offices, Chris and Rebecca sat in Melbourne’s hottest new eco-friendly restaurant, Daintree.
They’d agreed it was best to go out and avoid the spectacle of the video being shown that night. And Chris said he wanted to talk, he needed talk, that he didn’t think this meant the end.
“I’ll have the salad thanks,” said Rebecca demurely when the waiter, complete with red and blue hair and a face full of piercings, came to take their order.
“And I’ll have the whale sperm burger,” said Chris. The waiter nodded and departed.
“You’ll have the what?” What is that?” Rebecca asked with disbelief.
“Whale sperm? Well babes, just like you and me, whales are mammals, and you know how when we do the doona dance, and at the end I …”
“Yep, yep, look Chris, enough. I know what whale sperm is. I just don’t understand why you’re eating it. In burger form.”
Chris looked at her as if she had just asked why the sky was blue.
“Because its packed full of nutrients babes, and it comes from a whale, it must be environmentally friendly.”
Rebecca sighed and pretended to be interested as Chris described his day, how Mr Pratt had needed some old admin records gotten rid of and how Chris had had to shred them, then mix them up and drive around the city burning them in separate little piles and rubbing the ashes into the dirt.
“I did so much driving in the Prius today babes, I reckon I would have made a real dent in global warming all by myself.”
He continued to rabbit on and Rebecca began to count to ten. Slowly. It helped. Sometimes.
The Steadier
Meanwhile, at headquarters, Andrew had just finished his third chocolate éclair of the morning – the pre-brunch éclair, or ‘the steadier’ as he liked to refer to it – when his loyal consigliore Gillon came into the room bearing the daily media monitoring report.
“Um, boss, have you seen the papers today?”
Andrew adjusted his generous rump on the snow leopard upholstered calf skin recliner he liked to repose in of a morning.
“No, Gillon, I haven’t seen the papers. That’s why I pay A BLOODY MORON LIKE YOU TO BRING ME MEDIA MONITORING REPORTS! YOU’RE A MORON AREN’T YOU GILLON? SAY IT! SAY ‘YES SIR MR ANDREW SIR, I’M A MORON!”
The younger man’s bottom lip began to tremble and a tear welled up in his eye.
“Oh for God’s sake don’t cry you pathetic little toad. If you cry I will send you over to listen to that doddering old fool Tim Lane bleating on about why Tasmania needs a footy team. You know when Tasmania will get a footy team? WHEN A WEDGE TAILED EAGLE FLIES OUT OF MY ARSE, THAT’S WHEN!”
Gillon had composed himself by now and let the boss rant a bit more about the conspiracies and injustices that faced him. Why couldn’t people see that a team based in the Solomon Islands was a good idea? Why did people always whinge just because he wanted to remove all physical contact from the game and replace the oval ball with a round one? Why? Why!
“Um, sir,” Gillon begun.
“Yes, speak,” Andrew replied haughtily.
“Um, well, rumour has it that Caro and Rebecca have been conducting a steamy lesbian affair, all of which has been filmed by a TV type. And now I’m hearing that to divert attention from that story, The Era are cooking up a yarn where they are going to accuse Kevin Sheedy of raping a dingo,” said Gillon quickly.
Andrew leaned back into his chair and steepled his fingers. He hadn’t seen that coming, that was for sure. But that didn’t mean there weren’t opportunities there. There was always an opportunity. His mind began to race, weighing up the various options, settling the ledgers, reading the play.
Gillon stood nervously.
“Leave me now Gillon. Go and play with your dick in the carpark or whatever it is you do with your days. I must think now,” Andrew said in a low whisper.
Gillon obeyed, bowing so low his tie touched the Italian marble floor as he left.
“Very good Your Excellency.”
To act immediately would be to act in haste, Andrew thought. And to act in haste is to risk waste. To risk fear.
The words of his favourite philosopher, the one whose wisdom guided his stewardship of the great game of Australian Rules football, echoed in his mind.
"Fear leads to anger; anger leads to hate; hate to suffering and suffering leads to the Dark Side.
He would decide his course of action later in the day. Now though, he would return to his favourite hobby: ripping the last page out of mystery novels then donating them to op shops.
“Um, boss, have you seen the papers today?”
Andrew adjusted his generous rump on the snow leopard upholstered calf skin recliner he liked to repose in of a morning.
“No, Gillon, I haven’t seen the papers. That’s why I pay A BLOODY MORON LIKE YOU TO BRING ME MEDIA MONITORING REPORTS! YOU’RE A MORON AREN’T YOU GILLON? SAY IT! SAY ‘YES SIR MR ANDREW SIR, I’M A MORON!”
The younger man’s bottom lip began to tremble and a tear welled up in his eye.
“Oh for God’s sake don’t cry you pathetic little toad. If you cry I will send you over to listen to that doddering old fool Tim Lane bleating on about why Tasmania needs a footy team. You know when Tasmania will get a footy team? WHEN A WEDGE TAILED EAGLE FLIES OUT OF MY ARSE, THAT’S WHEN!”
Gillon had composed himself by now and let the boss rant a bit more about the conspiracies and injustices that faced him. Why couldn’t people see that a team based in the Solomon Islands was a good idea? Why did people always whinge just because he wanted to remove all physical contact from the game and replace the oval ball with a round one? Why? Why!
“Um, sir,” Gillon begun.
“Yes, speak,” Andrew replied haughtily.
“Um, well, rumour has it that Caro and Rebecca have been conducting a steamy lesbian affair, all of which has been filmed by a TV type. And now I’m hearing that to divert attention from that story, The Era are cooking up a yarn where they are going to accuse Kevin Sheedy of raping a dingo,” said Gillon quickly.
Andrew leaned back into his chair and steepled his fingers. He hadn’t seen that coming, that was for sure. But that didn’t mean there weren’t opportunities there. There was always an opportunity. His mind began to race, weighing up the various options, settling the ledgers, reading the play.
Gillon stood nervously.
“Leave me now Gillon. Go and play with your dick in the carpark or whatever it is you do with your days. I must think now,” Andrew said in a low whisper.
Gillon obeyed, bowing so low his tie touched the Italian marble floor as he left.
“Very good Your Excellency.”
To act immediately would be to act in haste, Andrew thought. And to act in haste is to risk waste. To risk fear.
The words of his favourite philosopher, the one whose wisdom guided his stewardship of the great game of Australian Rules football, echoed in his mind.
"Fear leads to anger; anger leads to hate; hate to suffering and suffering leads to the Dark Side.
He would decide his course of action later in the day. Now though, he would return to his favourite hobby: ripping the last page out of mystery novels then donating them to op shops.
Sam - hard hitting journalist
Sam had seen a lot of things in her career as a middling journalist for a dying paper reporting on a parochial game played in a city on the edge of a continent at the bottom the world. She could mix it with the big hitters like Seymour Hersh or Jason Burke or Christine Amanpour, she knew that.
For some journalists, it was the low thud of a car bomb in the Baghdad haze that got the adrenalin racing. For others, the thrill of grilling the Prime Minister. But nothing made Sam happier that asking a nervous 19 year old a series of leading questions in the hope he’d blurt out something about his private life.
The scene near the dingo cage was one of chaos. She could see Sheedy, naked except for a pair of tight fitting shorts, handcuffed and propped against a wall. Periodically, like some great enraged beast, he would struggle against his bonds, but without success.
She approached one of the police.
“What’s happened here pal?”
The officer looked her up and down, saw her My Little Pony notebook with pencil poised,
“Nothing much to be honest. The old fella’s been on the sauce for the last few days. We reckon the stress of being around Richmond again has got to him; he’s had some sort of breakdown. It’s like in his mind; it’s the 80s again, like he’s gone back to a time when he was happier. When we got here he was saying he had to stop the dingoes before they took the baby. That’s what he kept shouting. The dingoes are going to take the baby.”
“He wasn’t trying to, you know, be sexual with the dingoes?”
The cop looked at her with a mixture of disgust and derision.
“What? No. Geez, the old blokes had a pretty rough time of it lately but rooting a dingo? Nah, nah, you’re barking up the wrong tree there.”
Sam walked away and was about to phone her newsdesk to let them know the story.
Just as she put the phone to her ear, it rang. She looked at the screen. Caroline.
“Caroline! Where are you?”
“Shhhhh, not tho loud,” Caroline said down the line. “Go over near the monkey enclothure, I’ll thee you there.”
Sam followed the signs and arrived in a heavily wooded part of the zoo complex, the hoots and jabbering of caged primates filling the air.
“Over here, thith way Tham,” she heard Caroline whisper urgently.
The frond of a fern waved. Sam went over and saw Caroline crouched behind it.
“Thith hath to be quick. I’m in hiding. We need to kill thith Webecca thtory. I need you to help me.”
“Of course Caroline, I’ll do what a can,” Sam said, relieved to see her mentor.
“Thith Theedy thtuff, I need you to thex it up, thay you have a thource that thays he actually wath trying to thcrew the dingoeth. Turn it into a animal wighth itthue. Call into question Wichmond’th attitude to animalth. Call up one of those animal wighth nutterth and get them to thay they shouldn’t be allowed to uthe the tiger as their mathcot any more.”
“OK. I’ll see what I can do boss,” Sam said.
“You’re the betht Tham,” said Caroline, retreating into her jungle redoubt.
Sam made sure she was out of earshot of any police before she rang the newsdesk.
“Yep, hi it's Sam. Look, this is a big winner, this is big stuff. Cops are trying to hose the story down but I’ve got a source that says Sheedy was up to no good with those poor defenceless dingoes. I want the front page. I’m going splash on this,” she said.
Two hours later and Sam stared contedly at the lead paragraph she had crafted for the story - Dingogate as she was referring to it in her own mind.
“Former Essendon coach Kevin Sheedy was today arrested by police on suspicion of attempting to rape a dingo after the Richmond figure embarked on a terrifying drunken rampage at the Melbourne Zoo.
"Although no schoolchildren were present at the time, hundreds of children visit the zoo every day, any of whom could have been attacked, and possibly eaten, by the crazed Sheedy.
“Sheedy, who is understood to be wanted for questioning by The Hague over possible involvement in the Rwandan genocide, has a long association with canines like the dingo, having owned dogs as pets previously. The fate of these previous victims is not yet known.
“Sheedy’s arrest throws into a harsh light Richmond’s attitude to animal welfare. A spokesperson for the animal rights movement Roar!, Mr Ren T’Aquote, said the club should be stripped of the right to use a tiger as its mascot and all players on the list forced to donate half their income to the Lost Dog’s Home."
For some journalists, it was the low thud of a car bomb in the Baghdad haze that got the adrenalin racing. For others, the thrill of grilling the Prime Minister. But nothing made Sam happier that asking a nervous 19 year old a series of leading questions in the hope he’d blurt out something about his private life.
The scene near the dingo cage was one of chaos. She could see Sheedy, naked except for a pair of tight fitting shorts, handcuffed and propped against a wall. Periodically, like some great enraged beast, he would struggle against his bonds, but without success.
She approached one of the police.
“What’s happened here pal?”
The officer looked her up and down, saw her My Little Pony notebook with pencil poised,
“Nothing much to be honest. The old fella’s been on the sauce for the last few days. We reckon the stress of being around Richmond again has got to him; he’s had some sort of breakdown. It’s like in his mind; it’s the 80s again, like he’s gone back to a time when he was happier. When we got here he was saying he had to stop the dingoes before they took the baby. That’s what he kept shouting. The dingoes are going to take the baby.”
“He wasn’t trying to, you know, be sexual with the dingoes?”
The cop looked at her with a mixture of disgust and derision.
“What? No. Geez, the old blokes had a pretty rough time of it lately but rooting a dingo? Nah, nah, you’re barking up the wrong tree there.”
Sam walked away and was about to phone her newsdesk to let them know the story.
Just as she put the phone to her ear, it rang. She looked at the screen. Caroline.
“Caroline! Where are you?”
“Shhhhh, not tho loud,” Caroline said down the line. “Go over near the monkey enclothure, I’ll thee you there.”
Sam followed the signs and arrived in a heavily wooded part of the zoo complex, the hoots and jabbering of caged primates filling the air.
“Over here, thith way Tham,” she heard Caroline whisper urgently.
The frond of a fern waved. Sam went over and saw Caroline crouched behind it.
“Thith hath to be quick. I’m in hiding. We need to kill thith Webecca thtory. I need you to help me.”
“Of course Caroline, I’ll do what a can,” Sam said, relieved to see her mentor.
“Thith Theedy thtuff, I need you to thex it up, thay you have a thource that thays he actually wath trying to thcrew the dingoeth. Turn it into a animal wighth itthue. Call into question Wichmond’th attitude to animalth. Call up one of those animal wighth nutterth and get them to thay they shouldn’t be allowed to uthe the tiger as their mathcot any more.”
“OK. I’ll see what I can do boss,” Sam said.
“You’re the betht Tham,” said Caroline, retreating into her jungle redoubt.
Sam made sure she was out of earshot of any police before she rang the newsdesk.
“Yep, hi it's Sam. Look, this is a big winner, this is big stuff. Cops are trying to hose the story down but I’ve got a source that says Sheedy was up to no good with those poor defenceless dingoes. I want the front page. I’m going splash on this,” she said.
Two hours later and Sam stared contedly at the lead paragraph she had crafted for the story - Dingogate as she was referring to it in her own mind.
“Former Essendon coach Kevin Sheedy was today arrested by police on suspicion of attempting to rape a dingo after the Richmond figure embarked on a terrifying drunken rampage at the Melbourne Zoo.
"Although no schoolchildren were present at the time, hundreds of children visit the zoo every day, any of whom could have been attacked, and possibly eaten, by the crazed Sheedy.
“Sheedy, who is understood to be wanted for questioning by The Hague over possible involvement in the Rwandan genocide, has a long association with canines like the dingo, having owned dogs as pets previously. The fate of these previous victims is not yet known.
“Sheedy’s arrest throws into a harsh light Richmond’s attitude to animal welfare. A spokesperson for the animal rights movement Roar!, Mr Ren T’Aquote, said the club should be stripped of the right to use a tiger as its mascot and all players on the list forced to donate half their income to the Lost Dog’s Home."
Opportunity
The newsdesk at The Era was abuzz with the story of the day when Sam arrived.
“God, if I’d known it was that easy to get into Rebecca’s pants I woulda had a crack myself,” said one of the grizzled old crime reporters.
“Has anyone seen Caroline,” asked Sam. “I’m sure this story has been misreported and the truth will come out in the wash.”
“Nah, look at the photos Sam, there plenty of stuff coming out there, but the truth isn’t it,” laughed the hack.
Sam sat at her desk and begun reading the hundreds of emails her admiring readers had sent her overnight.
‘Dear Sam, you are more full of shit than the septic tank out at my uncle’s farm. I have read chapters of the Bible that are more factually accurate than the tripe you write,' began one such missive.
She wondered whether she should text Caroline. In the face of what was clearly a carefully orchestrated campaign by the patriarchal misogynist establishment to smear football’s leading female journalist, Lane felt she should show solidarity with her mentor, her guide. Sometimes Sam felt like the Naomi Klein of football, and Caroline her Germaine Greer.
“Sam, I need you to get the zoo,” shouted the news editor.
“The zoo?” she responded. “I’m a footy journo.”
“I know,” said the news editor, “Kevin Sheedy’s just been arrested trying to break into the dingo enclosure. Apparently he’s drunk and only wearing a pair of Richmond footy shorts. Dunno about you, but it sounds like a story to me.”
As Sam headed down the city streets in a Silvertop taxicab, she reflected on the morning. She would have to wait before taking action against Rebecca. If she acted now, she would become part of the story and that would be unprofessional.
But she would have her revenge, oh yes she would taste revenge. And then, then she would taste Caroline.
“God, if I’d known it was that easy to get into Rebecca’s pants I woulda had a crack myself,” said one of the grizzled old crime reporters.
“Has anyone seen Caroline,” asked Sam. “I’m sure this story has been misreported and the truth will come out in the wash.”
“Nah, look at the photos Sam, there plenty of stuff coming out there, but the truth isn’t it,” laughed the hack.
Sam sat at her desk and begun reading the hundreds of emails her admiring readers had sent her overnight.
‘Dear Sam, you are more full of shit than the septic tank out at my uncle’s farm. I have read chapters of the Bible that are more factually accurate than the tripe you write,' began one such missive.
She wondered whether she should text Caroline. In the face of what was clearly a carefully orchestrated campaign by the patriarchal misogynist establishment to smear football’s leading female journalist, Lane felt she should show solidarity with her mentor, her guide. Sometimes Sam felt like the Naomi Klein of football, and Caroline her Germaine Greer.
“Sam, I need you to get the zoo,” shouted the news editor.
“The zoo?” she responded. “I’m a footy journo.”
“I know,” said the news editor, “Kevin Sheedy’s just been arrested trying to break into the dingo enclosure. Apparently he’s drunk and only wearing a pair of Richmond footy shorts. Dunno about you, but it sounds like a story to me.”
As Sam headed down the city streets in a Silvertop taxicab, she reflected on the morning. She would have to wait before taking action against Rebecca. If she acted now, she would become part of the story and that would be unprofessional.
But she would have her revenge, oh yes she would taste revenge. And then, then she would taste Caroline.
All is revealed
Rebecca stirred as Chris rose at 6AM for his usual regime of a high-protein energy shake and a run before heading over to Mr Pratt’s place to give the Bentley a bit of a polish before the old man drove into town for his busy day of meetings with competitors and legal proceedings.
But before that, Chris would get The Age and have a quick flick through it to see if there were any interesting environmentally themed stories. He loved nothing more than finding some story about how villagers in New Guinea or Costa Rica were cutting down rainforests or selling off their wildlife.
“It’s disgusting,” he’d say with a shake of his head, “Some people will just do anything for money. Haven’t they got any dignity?”
Today though, it would be different. Rebecca luxuriated in the warmth of the bed, comforted by the knowledge that Caroline would be arriving at the office at 10AM for a two hour session. She let her fingers run down her tanned flank and considered feeding the gerbil before she got up, but instead decided to restrain herself and allow Caroline the pleasure of awakening her flower later that morning.
It was lucky that Rebecca hadn’t begun a lady shuffle, because Chris burst into the room brandishing the paper.
“What the bloody hell is this? Have you been letting that old bag from the paper dine at the Y?” he demanded.
Rebecca froze, unsure of what to say. She blinked and saw what was unmistakably her office filling the front page of the paper. And in the examination chair there was … no, it couldn’t be, there it was, her own form draped across the broad leather expanse, back arched and legs akimbo, her lustrous mane tossed back with pure sexual release, while below, between her thighs, the unmistakable red mane of Caroline Wilson, so far engrossed in Rebecca’s most intimate place that her face was partly obscured.
“I, I, I … I don’t know what to say,” she spluttered.
“Well, you better bloody think of something,” Chris snapped, “Because when I get back from washing Mr Pratt’s car, we’re going to have to have a serious talk about this. It's already affecting my aura, I can sense it. I feel really unbalanced, like through the core babes.”
Meanwhile, at a dingy tramstop in Fitzroy, another person was reading The Age with a mixture of jealousy and disgust. How could Caroline do this? Her Caroline. And with that jazzy little tramp too.
The tram’s bell tolled ominously as Sam got up and pushed her way into the crush. This could not stand. Something had to be done. She knew her Caroline, her silly bloody lovely Caroline wasn’t to blame. Her head had been turned by the strumpet Twigley, with her long legs and her speech therapy.
Well Sam might not have a model’s figure, and she might just be a humble journalist, not some high falutin doctor type, but she did have a brain, and a steely will to get what she wanted.
But before that, Chris would get The Age and have a quick flick through it to see if there were any interesting environmentally themed stories. He loved nothing more than finding some story about how villagers in New Guinea or Costa Rica were cutting down rainforests or selling off their wildlife.
“It’s disgusting,” he’d say with a shake of his head, “Some people will just do anything for money. Haven’t they got any dignity?”
Today though, it would be different. Rebecca luxuriated in the warmth of the bed, comforted by the knowledge that Caroline would be arriving at the office at 10AM for a two hour session. She let her fingers run down her tanned flank and considered feeding the gerbil before she got up, but instead decided to restrain herself and allow Caroline the pleasure of awakening her flower later that morning.
It was lucky that Rebecca hadn’t begun a lady shuffle, because Chris burst into the room brandishing the paper.
“What the bloody hell is this? Have you been letting that old bag from the paper dine at the Y?” he demanded.
Rebecca froze, unsure of what to say. She blinked and saw what was unmistakably her office filling the front page of the paper. And in the examination chair there was … no, it couldn’t be, there it was, her own form draped across the broad leather expanse, back arched and legs akimbo, her lustrous mane tossed back with pure sexual release, while below, between her thighs, the unmistakable red mane of Caroline Wilson, so far engrossed in Rebecca’s most intimate place that her face was partly obscured.
“I, I, I … I don’t know what to say,” she spluttered.
“Well, you better bloody think of something,” Chris snapped, “Because when I get back from washing Mr Pratt’s car, we’re going to have to have a serious talk about this. It's already affecting my aura, I can sense it. I feel really unbalanced, like through the core babes.”
Meanwhile, at a dingy tramstop in Fitzroy, another person was reading The Age with a mixture of jealousy and disgust. How could Caroline do this? Her Caroline. And with that jazzy little tramp too.
The tram’s bell tolled ominously as Sam got up and pushed her way into the crush. This could not stand. Something had to be done. She knew her Caroline, her silly bloody lovely Caroline wasn’t to blame. Her head had been turned by the strumpet Twigley, with her long legs and her speech therapy.
Well Sam might not have a model’s figure, and she might just be a humble journalist, not some high falutin doctor type, but she did have a brain, and a steely will to get what she wanted.
Betrayed!
Three days later and Rebecca was extending Caroline’s appointments into her lunchbreak. The sheer joy of lying back in the examination chair and feeling Caroline working away at her most intimate parts, Caroline inside her, Caroline’s gentle, teasing touch taking her to levels of pleasure she didn’t know existed.
She peaked for the third time that morning and ran her hands through Caroline’s magnificent scarlet locks as the older woman carefully licked away the last drops of Rebecca’s femininity. She thought to herself that life could not get any better.
Maybe she didn’t need Chris for physical pleasures. She still loved him and she still loved their lifestyle. Maybe she could have two lives, one with Caroline and one with Chris.
Sadly though, it would never be. For unbeknownst to the Sapphic couple, their love, a love that dare not speak its name, had been compromised. A cleaner had realised what was happening and informed illustrious broadcaster named Craig.
The journalist, revered for his attention to detail and rigour in ensuring accuracy, had stolen into the hospital in the dead of night and placed a hidden camera in Rebecca’s office which had been recording every moment of their wanton trysts.
“Geez, look at that,” his producer said when Craig had shown him the first footage, “Caro’s going at it like a dog with a bag of Maccas. I’m gunna knock one out over this right now.”
True to his word, the producer disappeared into the bathroom and while he found release from the tension the video had wrought, Craig merely watched dispassionately at the two woman locked in carnal embrace.
The plan was formed. The news tomorrow would be dominated with this most unexpected and fascinating of scandals.
She peaked for the third time that morning and ran her hands through Caroline’s magnificent scarlet locks as the older woman carefully licked away the last drops of Rebecca’s femininity. She thought to herself that life could not get any better.
Maybe she didn’t need Chris for physical pleasures. She still loved him and she still loved their lifestyle. Maybe she could have two lives, one with Caroline and one with Chris.
Sadly though, it would never be. For unbeknownst to the Sapphic couple, their love, a love that dare not speak its name, had been compromised. A cleaner had realised what was happening and informed illustrious broadcaster named Craig.
The journalist, revered for his attention to detail and rigour in ensuring accuracy, had stolen into the hospital in the dead of night and placed a hidden camera in Rebecca’s office which had been recording every moment of their wanton trysts.
“Geez, look at that,” his producer said when Craig had shown him the first footage, “Caro’s going at it like a dog with a bag of Maccas. I’m gunna knock one out over this right now.”
True to his word, the producer disappeared into the bathroom and while he found release from the tension the video had wrought, Craig merely watched dispassionately at the two woman locked in carnal embrace.
The plan was formed. The news tomorrow would be dominated with this most unexpected and fascinating of scandals.
Sometimes, only another woman knows
When Rebecca came back into the room, she saw that Caroline had adjusted her position in the examination chair, allowing her skirt to ride up.
“What happenth in that cupboard? Ith that where you kith the boyth?” she purred.
“Oh no, I don’t do that. I have a boyfriend,” Rebecca replied.
“I know,” said Caroline, “Ith he a powerful lover? Doeth he give what you need?”
Rebecca’s inability to answer straight away told Caroline all she need to know and like the experienced woman she was, she took the opportunity straight away. She looked into Rebecca’s eyes. She saw how Rebecca stared curiously as she began unbuttoning her top.
“Sometimeth Webecca, a woman needs another womanth touch to find true thatithfaction. Thometimes, only another woman knows the secwets. Thometimes .. only another woman can touch you where you motht want to be touched.”
Caroline stood up and approached Rebecca. She stroked the younger woman’s long smooth arm. She moved closer in, enjoying Rebecca’s scent.
“Would you like me to touch you Webecca? Would you like me to touch you wight now?”
She moved her hand up to Rebecca’s perfectly made up face, stroked it, then then let her fingers fall across Rebecca's chest, deliberately lingering on a nipple hard with anticipation.
The moment was broken by the strains of Crazy In Love by Beyonce. Rebecca hated that song but Chris had insisted she use it as her ringtone for when he called.
“I’m, I’m sorry, I have to get this,” she said.
Caroline gave her a knowing smile.
“Babes, big emergency. Mr Pratt’s run out of that special Liquid Paper he uses for his accounts and I’ve got to drive out to Dandenong to get some from the factory. I need you to go home and turn the energy-efficient dishwasher on so my special Mongolian pot will be clean for the lentil surprise tonight. Really need you on this one babes,” Chris said.
Rebecca sighed. This was her life. She turned around and saw Caroline had done up the top two buttons of her blouse.
The older woman took her hands gently.
“It’th OK Webecca, it’th OK. I underthtand. You go, you do what you have to,” she said.
“When will I see you again,” Rebecca found herself asking quickly, in a tone verging on the unprofessional.
“I’ve got an appointment for tomowwow,” replied Caroline with a smile that hinted at so much.
“In fact, I’ve made appointmenth for every day this week.”
With that, she opened the door and disappeared out into the hall.
Rebecca couldn’t wait until tomorrow.
“What happenth in that cupboard? Ith that where you kith the boyth?” she purred.
“Oh no, I don’t do that. I have a boyfriend,” Rebecca replied.
“I know,” said Caroline, “Ith he a powerful lover? Doeth he give what you need?”
Rebecca’s inability to answer straight away told Caroline all she need to know and like the experienced woman she was, she took the opportunity straight away. She looked into Rebecca’s eyes. She saw how Rebecca stared curiously as she began unbuttoning her top.
“Sometimeth Webecca, a woman needs another womanth touch to find true thatithfaction. Thometimes, only another woman knows the secwets. Thometimes .. only another woman can touch you where you motht want to be touched.”
Caroline stood up and approached Rebecca. She stroked the younger woman’s long smooth arm. She moved closer in, enjoying Rebecca’s scent.
“Would you like me to touch you Webecca? Would you like me to touch you wight now?”
She moved her hand up to Rebecca’s perfectly made up face, stroked it, then then let her fingers fall across Rebecca's chest, deliberately lingering on a nipple hard with anticipation.
The moment was broken by the strains of Crazy In Love by Beyonce. Rebecca hated that song but Chris had insisted she use it as her ringtone for when he called.
“I’m, I’m sorry, I have to get this,” she said.
Caroline gave her a knowing smile.
“Babes, big emergency. Mr Pratt’s run out of that special Liquid Paper he uses for his accounts and I’ve got to drive out to Dandenong to get some from the factory. I need you to go home and turn the energy-efficient dishwasher on so my special Mongolian pot will be clean for the lentil surprise tonight. Really need you on this one babes,” Chris said.
Rebecca sighed. This was her life. She turned around and saw Caroline had done up the top two buttons of her blouse.
The older woman took her hands gently.
“It’th OK Webecca, it’th OK. I underthtand. You go, you do what you have to,” she said.
“When will I see you again,” Rebecca found herself asking quickly, in a tone verging on the unprofessional.
“I’ve got an appointment for tomowwow,” replied Caroline with a smile that hinted at so much.
“In fact, I’ve made appointmenth for every day this week.”
With that, she opened the door and disappeared out into the hall.
Rebecca couldn’t wait until tomorrow.
There'th nothing physicawy wrong with you ...
“What seems to be the problem Caroline?” Rebecca asked.
The woman was older and seemed vaguely familiar, like an old school teacher you didn’t like that you’d keep running into at the supermarket.
“Wew, I had bwatheth for while to cowwect some dental iwweguwawities and they made me lithp a bit. But the bwatheth have been off for weekth now and the lithp still hathn’t gone away,”
“I’m sure something can be done Caroline, if you I‘d just like to lean back and relax, I’ll just need to have a look in the old wordhole.”
The woman looked at her in a faintly patronizing way.
“You don’t wecognise me do you?”
“Should I?”
“I know your boyfriend. Haven’t you theen me on TV? Or wead my hard-hitting columnth in the paper? Or lithened to my inthightful views on the wadio?”
Rebecca looked at her again. She really did recognise the face, but just couldn’t place it.
“I’m sure all that is lovely Caroline, now if you just open up and say ahhh, I’ll need to shine the torch down your throat to see if there’s anything physically wrong with you.”
“There’th nothing phisicawy wrong with you,” Caroline said directly, meeting Rebecca’s gaze with hungry eyes.
“I beg your pardon?”
“I'm just thaying you’re a vewy attwactive young woman Webecca. Is that tho bad?”
Rebecca was flustered. It was a long time since someone had complimented her so directly, so passionately.
Sure, she got the guys on the building sites who would wolf whistle at her, and the blokes in the clubs who would drunkenly slobber over her, but this was different.
There was an electricity in the room.
As she stared into the enormous cavern that was Caroline’s mouth, she felt a hand brushing lightly against her leg. The woman was touching her. And it felt alright. In fact, it felt good. She knew she should say something, move it away, but she didn’t.
Then the suddenly the light that was illuminating the vast dark space inside Caroline’s mouth disappeared. The batteries on the torch had failed.
“Sorry Caroline, I just need to change the batteries on this,” she said.
As she moved away, she felt the hand that had been stroking her leg move upwards, higher, toward more sensual areas.
“I’ll be wight here waiting for you,” the older woman replied.
Inside the stationery cupboard, Rebecca took a moment. She ran a hand over her compact yet firm bosom. She felt so alive, she felt so electric. She hadn't felt like this in months, a year. She could do it right now. She could take the step. She could live a bloody little.
The woman was older and seemed vaguely familiar, like an old school teacher you didn’t like that you’d keep running into at the supermarket.
“Wew, I had bwatheth for while to cowwect some dental iwweguwawities and they made me lithp a bit. But the bwatheth have been off for weekth now and the lithp still hathn’t gone away,”
“I’m sure something can be done Caroline, if you I‘d just like to lean back and relax, I’ll just need to have a look in the old wordhole.”
The woman looked at her in a faintly patronizing way.
“You don’t wecognise me do you?”
“Should I?”
“I know your boyfriend. Haven’t you theen me on TV? Or wead my hard-hitting columnth in the paper? Or lithened to my inthightful views on the wadio?”
Rebecca looked at her again. She really did recognise the face, but just couldn’t place it.
“I’m sure all that is lovely Caroline, now if you just open up and say ahhh, I’ll need to shine the torch down your throat to see if there’s anything physically wrong with you.”
“There’th nothing phisicawy wrong with you,” Caroline said directly, meeting Rebecca’s gaze with hungry eyes.
“I beg your pardon?”
“I'm just thaying you’re a vewy attwactive young woman Webecca. Is that tho bad?”
Rebecca was flustered. It was a long time since someone had complimented her so directly, so passionately.
Sure, she got the guys on the building sites who would wolf whistle at her, and the blokes in the clubs who would drunkenly slobber over her, but this was different.
There was an electricity in the room.
As she stared into the enormous cavern that was Caroline’s mouth, she felt a hand brushing lightly against her leg. The woman was touching her. And it felt alright. In fact, it felt good. She knew she should say something, move it away, but she didn’t.
Then the suddenly the light that was illuminating the vast dark space inside Caroline’s mouth disappeared. The batteries on the torch had failed.
“Sorry Caroline, I just need to change the batteries on this,” she said.
As she moved away, she felt the hand that had been stroking her leg move upwards, higher, toward more sensual areas.
“I’ll be wight here waiting for you,” the older woman replied.
Inside the stationery cupboard, Rebecca took a moment. She ran a hand over her compact yet firm bosom. She felt so alive, she felt so electric. She hadn't felt like this in months, a year. She could do it right now. She could take the step. She could live a bloody little.
Mith Twigwey?
The man’s brow furrowed with effort as he tried his simple best to follow her lead.
“Come on Daryn, repeat it after me. Presti. Pre-sti”
“P-p-p-p-p .. ces-ces-ces … pi!”, the unfortunate man finally spluttered.
Why were so many of her patients at the remedial English ward Collingwood supporters?
.
“No, come on, one more time, just believe in yourself Daryn. Pre-sti … now say this bit quickly … giacomo!”
“Pres-pres-pres … ti … jacumo!”
The imbecile looked up at her with a huge smile on his face.
“Well done, Daryn! I think that’s been our best session yet,” she said encouragingly.
In reality, she was thanking her lucky stars – and she had a few – that she had only one more appointment for the day. She promised herself she’d hit the shops on Chapel Street after work, maybe put that stunning $1299 LBD she’d seen on Chris’s plastic. That was about the only thing of his that was reliably rigid these days.
“M-m-m-m-m … R-r-r-r-Rebecca … w-w-w-w-would you g-g-g-g … go out … with m-m-m-me one day?” Daryn spluttered.
She got this a lot and knew how to deal with it.
“Oh Daryn, thanks so much, that’s a lovely offer but I already have a boyfriend, you know that.”
Daryn trudged dejectedly out the door. As Rebecca waited for her next patient to come in, she found herself wondering about the size of Daryn’s manhood.
He was a little rough around the edges, but with a few of the $499 facial toning makeovers she got from Tyneece at the salon, he’d scrub up alright. He was young, had a nice body, and he’d certainly appreciate what a good thing he had in her. The hottest girl in Melbourne. No, scratch that, Victoria. Australia even. Oceania. The Southern Hemisphere! No, not the Southern hemisphere, there was probably some Argentinian bitch with big tits who was hotter than her. But Oceania anyway.
Before her reverie could continue any further, there was a light knock the door.
“Mith Twigwey?”
“Come in,” Rebecca replied.
She looked at the patient details. A woman called Caroline.
“Come on Daryn, repeat it after me. Presti. Pre-sti”
“P-p-p-p-p .. ces-ces-ces … pi!”, the unfortunate man finally spluttered.
Why were so many of her patients at the remedial English ward Collingwood supporters?
.
“No, come on, one more time, just believe in yourself Daryn. Pre-sti … now say this bit quickly … giacomo!”
“Pres-pres-pres … ti … jacumo!”
The imbecile looked up at her with a huge smile on his face.
“Well done, Daryn! I think that’s been our best session yet,” she said encouragingly.
In reality, she was thanking her lucky stars – and she had a few – that she had only one more appointment for the day. She promised herself she’d hit the shops on Chapel Street after work, maybe put that stunning $1299 LBD she’d seen on Chris’s plastic. That was about the only thing of his that was reliably rigid these days.
“M-m-m-m-m … R-r-r-r-Rebecca … w-w-w-w-would you g-g-g-g … go out … with m-m-m-me one day?” Daryn spluttered.
She got this a lot and knew how to deal with it.
“Oh Daryn, thanks so much, that’s a lovely offer but I already have a boyfriend, you know that.”
Daryn trudged dejectedly out the door. As Rebecca waited for her next patient to come in, she found herself wondering about the size of Daryn’s manhood.
He was a little rough around the edges, but with a few of the $499 facial toning makeovers she got from Tyneece at the salon, he’d scrub up alright. He was young, had a nice body, and he’d certainly appreciate what a good thing he had in her. The hottest girl in Melbourne. No, scratch that, Victoria. Australia even. Oceania. The Southern Hemisphere! No, not the Southern hemisphere, there was probably some Argentinian bitch with big tits who was hotter than her. But Oceania anyway.
Before her reverie could continue any further, there was a light knock the door.
“Mith Twigwey?”
“Come in,” Rebecca replied.
She looked at the patient details. A woman called Caroline.
Rebecca's Journey
Rebecca was wearing only the flimsiest of negligees and a pair of tiny Visy Industries edible paper underpants as she stole up behind Chris and let her lissom arm fall down his rugged chest.
“I’ve got an hour or so before work Chrissy,” she whispered into his ear.
“Any idea how we could fill it?”
“Dunno about you babes, but I’ve got to pop down to the recycling centre and drop these bags off, then Mr Pratt wants me in his office quick sticks. Seems there’s been some sort of spill in the executive bathroom and they need it sorted.”
Chris grinned like a big Labrador dog as he brandished the David Jones exclusive $299ethical waste management disposal bucket. Where did all those brown paper bags come from anyway, Rebecca wondered.
She sighed as his Prius pulled out of the driveway of their smart Prahran apartment.
It hadn’t been like this in Perth. Back out west, Chris couldn’t get enough of her. Night after night, they’d enjoyed each others pleasures until they fell spent on the $559 Egyptian cotton sheets she’d picked up on special in Peppi Grove one afternoon.
Occasionally, he’d get her so worked up, so ready, so his, that she’d let him do what he liked to call the ‘midfield rotation’.
But now in Melbourne, things had changed. It was all Mr Pratt this, Mr Pratt that. She couldn’t remember the last time they’d made love until the sun came up. She couldn’t remember the last time they’d made love full stop.
She glanced at the $2799 18 carat diamond encrusted gold inlay watch she’d snaffled in Dubai last summer and saw it was almost 11AM.
Time for another taxing three hour shift at the Alfred pursuing her calling as a speech therapist.
She tore the paper underpants off and threw them in the bin and put on some something sturdier to prepare her for the day ahead.
Little did she know what the day had in store.
“I’ve got an hour or so before work Chrissy,” she whispered into his ear.
“Any idea how we could fill it?”
“Dunno about you babes, but I’ve got to pop down to the recycling centre and drop these bags off, then Mr Pratt wants me in his office quick sticks. Seems there’s been some sort of spill in the executive bathroom and they need it sorted.”
Chris grinned like a big Labrador dog as he brandished the David Jones exclusive $299ethical waste management disposal bucket. Where did all those brown paper bags come from anyway, Rebecca wondered.
She sighed as his Prius pulled out of the driveway of their smart Prahran apartment.
It hadn’t been like this in Perth. Back out west, Chris couldn’t get enough of her. Night after night, they’d enjoyed each others pleasures until they fell spent on the $559 Egyptian cotton sheets she’d picked up on special in Peppi Grove one afternoon.
Occasionally, he’d get her so worked up, so ready, so his, that she’d let him do what he liked to call the ‘midfield rotation’.
But now in Melbourne, things had changed. It was all Mr Pratt this, Mr Pratt that. She couldn’t remember the last time they’d made love until the sun came up. She couldn’t remember the last time they’d made love full stop.
She glanced at the $2799 18 carat diamond encrusted gold inlay watch she’d snaffled in Dubai last summer and saw it was almost 11AM.
Time for another taxing three hour shift at the Alfred pursuing her calling as a speech therapist.
She tore the paper underpants off and threw them in the bin and put on some something sturdier to prepare her for the day ahead.
Little did she know what the day had in store.
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