Project Sauvignon Blanc

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.