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.