I Could Do That Gillon, I Could

Andrew paced his office pensively. Project Sauvignon Blanc was already meeting hurdles.

How could he shift a team which for legal reasons we’ll call the West Melbourne Wombat up into the thriving and allegedly footy mad Hunter Valley region without awakening the usual crowd of Luddites and Nimbies that this kind of situation always brought out of the woodwork?

Why couldn’t they see the bigger picture? Why were they always droning on about ‘history’ and ‘tradition’? Didn’t they know Andrew had KPIs to meet? Bonuses to earn? A thousand chocolate éclair a week habit didn’t pay for itself.

The move would have to be made. But he knew minute the first announcements were made, there’d a be a crowd of slack-jawed begrudgers holding public meetings and conducting campaigns to keep the club in Melbourne and all that other boring, dreary stuff people did.

Why couldn’t he just have all of them killed?

“What will I do, Gillon,” he asked his minion, who stood nervously before him. “What will I do with these West Melbourne bludgers?”

“Ummm, you could let them try and stay in Melbourne and survive like they say they can,” the younger man offered, immediately regretting his words as they left his lips.

Andrew’s eyes narrowed to a repitilian slit.

“I could do that, Gillon, I could. I could also shoot myself in the face with a cumgun couldn’t I? But that wouldn't be very smart now, would it Gillon?”

Andrew slammed his fist down on his desk so violently that Gillon jumped a foot in the air.

“If you ever say something as stupid as that in my office again, Gillon, I will tear off your leg, dig out the shinbone, snap it in two, and stab you in the eyes with the resulting shards,” Andrew, who had been to see the amusing British movie In The Loop the night before, said.

“Do I make myself understood?”

Gillon swallowed hard and nodded. Perhaps now was not the right time to ask his boss why there were bottles of urine lining the walls of the office.