“Pithflapth,” muttered Caroline as she scanned the opposition paper.
There was no way around it. They’d beaten her to the Nathan the gutless hide behind the pastel-patterned skirts of mediocrity tool story.
Something would need to be done to regain the initiative. And she knew what it would be.
“OK, we’re going to chase thith rumour about a big player having a sexth change. Tham already hath a lead, tho the’ll be doing motht of the leg work,” Caroline told the The Era’s footy team at their morning editorial conference.
She scanned the room for a response. She could feel Liam meeting her gaze.
“You got a pwoblem with that Bob Bernstein?” she asked provocatively.
“Carl,” the younger man replied.
“What? Thpeak thense, Wiam,” she said.
“The Watergate journalists. It was Bob Woodward and CARL Bernstein,” he replied coolly.
Someone at the other end of the table barely disguised a snigger. Caro shot a searching glance around the table but the guilty party managed to disguise themselves. For now.
“Wew, I knew that anyway,” Caro sniffed, “That wath a tetht to thee if you knew. Now leth get out here people. Thammy, I want copy for tomowwow. Fwont page at leatht.”
Half an hour later and the hateful creature was sat inside her car outside Brendan’s house, dialling his number. He picked up.
“Hello, is that Brendan?” she asked in her best pretend voice.
“Yes,” he replied, “It is I,”
He’d just been watching Charlton Heston in The Ten Commandments and had been taken by the Californian Moses’ cadences and rhythms.
“That’s great. I’m calling from Hot Chicks Lotteries and I just wanted to let you know that you’ve been randomly selected to get $100,000 and a blowie off a glamour if you run out your front door in the next thirty seconds …”
She heard the phone on the other end hit the hardwood decking inside Brendan’s house. She got out of the car and opened the front gate just as Brendan came barreling out his door.
“Oh,” he said, recognising Sam. “It’s you. Where’s the hot chicks and my money?”
“What?” asked Sam, affecting innocence. “I just arrived here. I haven’t seen any women or piles of money around here?”
Brendan’s brow furrowed with effort as he tried to work out what was going on. Finally, it dawned on him. The bitch.
“Full on. You just pranked me then with the blowie bullshit. Well, I’ve got news for you Sam, I’d rather put it in the wrong end of lawnmower than your fucken gob.”
He made to move towards her. She stood her ground, intrepid reporter she was.
“Look Brendan, I just want to ask you a few questions,” she said.
“Nah, fuck off. You’re not stitching me up like you did to Sheeds and all those other poor bastards. On your broomstick, Esmeralda. Get off my property.”
He moved quickly to shut his front gate and prevent the reporter – by now legally trespassing – from entering any further into her property.
But as he did, the talentless beat-up merchant stuck her foot in the way. The gate made slight contact with her withered claw before she withdrew and retreated to her car as Brendan stormed away, more disappointed at the lack of a gobble than not getting a $100,000.
He returned inside and promptly gouged a hole in a melon, before gently warming it in the oven and releasing the pressure that had built up after the promised Lewinsky had failed to materialise.
In the car however, Sam examined her foot. A small red, quickly fading, mark was visible from where Brendan’s front gate had briefly connected with her gnarled and vile-smelling foot.
Looking to see nobody was watching, she took a nail file and scratched herself until blood came. She then took a photo of the false injury with her mobile phone camera.
She could already see the first sentence of her story in her head.
“Wayward Carlton forward Brendan Fevola is tonight being questioned by police after launching a savage and unprovoked assault on this reporter.
The full-forward, believed to be considering a sex-change, most is most likely suffering major hormonal imbalances, but this in now excuses his shock and awe tactics on a gentle young woman merely trying to do her best in a nasty male-dominated world.”
And thus Gategate was born.
Wednesday 29 July 2009
Monday 27 July 2009
Like The Dirty Mercenary Slut He Was
Nathan was feeling pretty bloody pleased with himself as he drove out of the carpark at Arden Street, his less than substantial erection already straining his acid wash flared jeans.
He admired himself in the rearview mirror. Shit blonde sub-Warney mullets never go out of fashion he thought to himself, and who was he to argue with himself? He was never wrong. Not wrong to turn down North now to go to be a bitch slave instead.
Certainly not wrong about the decision to leave Brisbane and shamefully spurn North – after a signing a deal with them previously – in order to chase money at the world’s most reviled sporting institution.
No, that move had worked out well. Hey, how many blokes got to win a Norm Smith in a losing Grand Final side? There was Gary Ablett Snr, and everybody knew what a good bloke he was.
His walnut sized penis was now begging for attention, and Nathan realised he wouldn’t be able to make it home before satisfying himself. He pulled over quickly into the carpark of an anonymous light industrial unit in West Melbourne.
He freed his pathetic tiny so-called hard on from its bonds and arranged himself to begin the act. All the training had been worth it. This was the time that ‘process’ paid off.
As he lowered his mouth onto his own dick and began gently fellating himself, Nathan recalled some of his favourite Australian Rules football related moments. There was that great barbeque he’d been to in late September 1996. The pork and herb snags were great. Then a few years later … must have been 1999 … he’d had the chance to go and cycle around the scenic former logging towns of north western Tasmania, again in late September. That was one off the list of Things To Do Before You Die.
Warming to the task of sucking his own cock, the shitman Buckley recalled those halcyon days of the early part of this decade. Sure, there’d been 2001, when the Brisbane side he’d shafted after one year won a flag. That didn’t matter. History wouldn’t repeat itself. And even when it did, twice, the very next two years, he wasn’t that concerned, despite having the proof that he was a complete and utter fuckwit with the judgement of a particularly retarded retard rubbed in his face in consecutive years on the games grandest stage.
Now thought Nathan, going at himself like the clappers, I’ve definitely made the right decision in heading back to Collingwood and embroiling myself in a protracted and almost certainly unwieldy succession arrangement with a man who is known as one of the greates coaches ever. This is sure to work out.
He worked his tongue down the excuse for a shaft on his shrunken manhood and felt the excitement rise. He’d almost held on for minute this time, a new record.
It rose and then he just had a moment to pull his head away before he shot big wad of foul smelling jizz all over his face like the dirty mercenary slut he was.
He admired himself in the rearview mirror. Shit blonde sub-Warney mullets never go out of fashion he thought to himself, and who was he to argue with himself? He was never wrong. Not wrong to turn down North now to go to be a bitch slave instead.
Certainly not wrong about the decision to leave Brisbane and shamefully spurn North – after a signing a deal with them previously – in order to chase money at the world’s most reviled sporting institution.
No, that move had worked out well. Hey, how many blokes got to win a Norm Smith in a losing Grand Final side? There was Gary Ablett Snr, and everybody knew what a good bloke he was.
His walnut sized penis was now begging for attention, and Nathan realised he wouldn’t be able to make it home before satisfying himself. He pulled over quickly into the carpark of an anonymous light industrial unit in West Melbourne.
He freed his pathetic tiny so-called hard on from its bonds and arranged himself to begin the act. All the training had been worth it. This was the time that ‘process’ paid off.
As he lowered his mouth onto his own dick and began gently fellating himself, Nathan recalled some of his favourite Australian Rules football related moments. There was that great barbeque he’d been to in late September 1996. The pork and herb snags were great. Then a few years later … must have been 1999 … he’d had the chance to go and cycle around the scenic former logging towns of north western Tasmania, again in late September. That was one off the list of Things To Do Before You Die.
Warming to the task of sucking his own cock, the shitman Buckley recalled those halcyon days of the early part of this decade. Sure, there’d been 2001, when the Brisbane side he’d shafted after one year won a flag. That didn’t matter. History wouldn’t repeat itself. And even when it did, twice, the very next two years, he wasn’t that concerned, despite having the proof that he was a complete and utter fuckwit with the judgement of a particularly retarded retard rubbed in his face in consecutive years on the games grandest stage.
Now thought Nathan, going at himself like the clappers, I’ve definitely made the right decision in heading back to Collingwood and embroiling myself in a protracted and almost certainly unwieldy succession arrangement with a man who is known as one of the greates coaches ever. This is sure to work out.
He worked his tongue down the excuse for a shaft on his shrunken manhood and felt the excitement rise. He’d almost held on for minute this time, a new record.
It rose and then he just had a moment to pull his head away before he shot big wad of foul smelling jizz all over his face like the dirty mercenary slut he was.
Tuesday 21 July 2009
A Set Like That
“I wanna set like that,” Brendan said, pointing at the image of Scarlett Johansson that Rebecca had pulled up on her computer screen.
She smiled to herself. The man may have the mental capabilities of a severely retarded cat, but he knew a cracking set of tits when he saw one. Or two, she supposed.
And you couldn’t deny the life-affirming awesomeness of Johansson’s lady pillows. You could just put your head in between them and drift off, she thought. Or you’d just sit her on your lap and spend hours gently cupping them, weighing them in each hand, gently stroking the nipple until it hardened and you feel her urgent panting in your ear, aching for your touch in other … God, no, no. Gotta stop that. Gotta stop thinking about her holiday south of the Border with Caroline. Its Chris now. Chris.
She was brought back to shuddering reality by the realisation that Brendan had his hand in his pocket and was making a repetitive movement while staring intently at Johansson’s enormous yet undeniably firm funbags.
“Um, Brendan, what are you doing? You’re not … touching yourself are you?”
Brendan looked at her with genuine hurt in his eyes.
“Nah! I’m just scratching my nuts. Geez,” he said.
“Look sorry, I didn’t mean that. I’m just a bit nervous at the moment.”
“Is that why you were having a wank yourself the other day? I always toss one off when I’m nervous. Before the game, last thing I do before we run on it is knock out a dicksneeze in the changing room dunnies,” said Brendan.
A beat passed.
“Ok,” said Rebecca, swiftly changing the subject. “So you’re decided on these ones then?”
“Yep,” said Brendan, “They’re fucken awesome. If I had a pair like that, I’d just it and home feeling myself up all day.”
You’re not the only one, Rebecca thought.
“So where do we go from here?” the big forward asked.
“I’ll pop up to the Titology Department and have a word with my pal Narelle. We might be able to get you in for surgery in a few weeks.”
“That’s brilliant. Look, thanks loads for your help with this,” said Brendan, before heading out the door with a spring his step, dreaming about the enormous milky mammaries that would sitting on his chest sooner rather than later.
Sadly for Brendan, a certain sour-faced talentless bitch pretending to be a journalist was watching him go. As he pulled away from the carpark, she followed him into traffic.
Sam was on the story.
She smiled to herself. The man may have the mental capabilities of a severely retarded cat, but he knew a cracking set of tits when he saw one. Or two, she supposed.
And you couldn’t deny the life-affirming awesomeness of Johansson’s lady pillows. You could just put your head in between them and drift off, she thought. Or you’d just sit her on your lap and spend hours gently cupping them, weighing them in each hand, gently stroking the nipple until it hardened and you feel her urgent panting in your ear, aching for your touch in other … God, no, no. Gotta stop that. Gotta stop thinking about her holiday south of the Border with Caroline. Its Chris now. Chris.
She was brought back to shuddering reality by the realisation that Brendan had his hand in his pocket and was making a repetitive movement while staring intently at Johansson’s enormous yet undeniably firm funbags.
“Um, Brendan, what are you doing? You’re not … touching yourself are you?”
Brendan looked at her with genuine hurt in his eyes.
“Nah! I’m just scratching my nuts. Geez,” he said.
“Look sorry, I didn’t mean that. I’m just a bit nervous at the moment.”
“Is that why you were having a wank yourself the other day? I always toss one off when I’m nervous. Before the game, last thing I do before we run on it is knock out a dicksneeze in the changing room dunnies,” said Brendan.
A beat passed.
“Ok,” said Rebecca, swiftly changing the subject. “So you’re decided on these ones then?”
“Yep,” said Brendan, “They’re fucken awesome. If I had a pair like that, I’d just it and home feeling myself up all day.”
You’re not the only one, Rebecca thought.
“So where do we go from here?” the big forward asked.
“I’ll pop up to the Titology Department and have a word with my pal Narelle. We might be able to get you in for surgery in a few weeks.”
“That’s brilliant. Look, thanks loads for your help with this,” said Brendan, before heading out the door with a spring his step, dreaming about the enormous milky mammaries that would sitting on his chest sooner rather than later.
Sadly for Brendan, a certain sour-faced talentless bitch pretending to be a journalist was watching him go. As he pulled away from the carpark, she followed him into traffic.
Sam was on the story.
Monday 20 July 2009
Tham's Back!
“Welcome back Tham!” cried Caroline, letting off a party popper that sent thin multi coloured strands of paper into the air.
Sam surveyed the room before her. Same old office, same old deadshits inside it.
Prison had changed her, hardened her. She’d done her time hard at first, but after she bit that slag’s ear off in the rec room in the blue over the TV remote, the others had learned that she wouldn’t be pushed around.
And now she was out, she wanted some revenge.
“Want a dwink Tham?” asked Caroline, who was already a bit tipsy.
Sam just nodded and Caroline poured some bubbly into her glass.
“What’th wrong Tham? Cheer up. You’re out now, everythingth going to be OK,” she slurred.
Sam’s lifeless eyes, devoid of any human emotion, told Caroline all she needed to know.
She took the younger woman aside.
“Look Tham, don’t worry. I’ve got an eathy one for you to think your teeth into straight away.”
“What is it?”
The sound of her own voice scared Sam slightly. It had developed an edge inside that sounded harsher now than she meant it to.
“It’th that big log Brendan. My sourthes thay he’th up to thomething. I don’t know what it ith, but I want you to find out.”
Sam nodded. Caroline took a nervous sip of her champagne.
“He’th been theen coming out of Webecca’th office,” she said quickly.
Sam arched an eyebrow, making her teardrop tattoo jump quickly.
“Yeth, that Webecca and no, I haven’t been back for thecondth if that’th what you’re thinking.”
Sam said nothing.
“Tho come, welax Tham, have a glatth of bubbwy. Then tomorrow, you’ll be back at it.”
Caroline left her and rejoined the small group that had gathered in the room.
Sam finished her champagne in one gulp and slowly crushed the glass in her hand.
She was back indeed. Back to settle some old scores.
Sam surveyed the room before her. Same old office, same old deadshits inside it.
Prison had changed her, hardened her. She’d done her time hard at first, but after she bit that slag’s ear off in the rec room in the blue over the TV remote, the others had learned that she wouldn’t be pushed around.
And now she was out, she wanted some revenge.
“Want a dwink Tham?” asked Caroline, who was already a bit tipsy.
Sam just nodded and Caroline poured some bubbly into her glass.
“What’th wrong Tham? Cheer up. You’re out now, everythingth going to be OK,” she slurred.
Sam’s lifeless eyes, devoid of any human emotion, told Caroline all she needed to know.
She took the younger woman aside.
“Look Tham, don’t worry. I’ve got an eathy one for you to think your teeth into straight away.”
“What is it?”
The sound of her own voice scared Sam slightly. It had developed an edge inside that sounded harsher now than she meant it to.
“It’th that big log Brendan. My sourthes thay he’th up to thomething. I don’t know what it ith, but I want you to find out.”
Sam nodded. Caroline took a nervous sip of her champagne.
“He’th been theen coming out of Webecca’th office,” she said quickly.
Sam arched an eyebrow, making her teardrop tattoo jump quickly.
“Yeth, that Webecca and no, I haven’t been back for thecondth if that’th what you’re thinking.”
Sam said nothing.
“Tho come, welax Tham, have a glatth of bubbwy. Then tomorrow, you’ll be back at it.”
Caroline left her and rejoined the small group that had gathered in the room.
Sam finished her champagne in one gulp and slowly crushed the glass in her hand.
She was back indeed. Back to settle some old scores.
Monday 13 July 2009
Parrots Spreading The Message
Emma’s spirits sank when she read the first email of the day. It was from her superior in the PR department informing the team that Chris was coming in for his annual visit to the office to brainstorm ideas on how the company could be leaner, meaner and greener.
God, that slogan. That had been his big idea last year.
“We’ll get heaps of pamphlets printed up all saying how we are leaner, greener and meaner now,” he’d said, his big expectant face reminding of her a dog her brother had as a child that she’d always disliked.
It was a patently stupid idea but the way things were, what he said had to happen, so, they’d duly printed up 150,000 flyers only to realise Chris wouldn’t be doing any more work as part of his ‘sponsorship’ for the rest of the year. In the end, the flyers had all been pulped.
Emma didn’t know how much the company was paying Chris for his sponsorship committment, but knew it would be a hell of a lot more than she got for doing actual real life work.
Maybe she wondered, now the boss had gone to the great Competition Commission hearing in the sky, the deal would be reviewed.
She could only hope.
Two hours later she was sitting in a meeting room listening to the prematurely-balding moron drone away in that voice of his. She’d studied hard at uni, even done a post-grad. And here she was taking notes like a secretary while a professional bloody footballer lectured her about the environment and climate change.
“I had another idea. I reckon in the off-season, you guys could fly me to every country in the world in alphabetical order so I could give talks on the importance of reducing carbon to schoolkids? It would have to be first-class because of my shoulders though. But the media would lap it up. You know, like me flying to America and then Austria and then Azerbaijan and so on. Be awesome,” he said.
Chris looked at Emma and held her gaze. What the fuck was he staring at she thought? Was he trying it on with her? One of these footballers who thought every woman in the world wanted to screw him just because he was better than most at kicking a bloody ball around? Then it dawned on. He was waiting for her to write down the latest pearl of wisdom he’d just dispensed. For fuck’s sake. She began writing and he continued.
“Then I had a really good idea about how we could spread the message about climate change. You know those parrots that you can train to say stuff? Well, what we do is get like ten thousand of them, and make them all root each other heaps so we get loads of parrots, like a million, and teach them to say stuff like ‘Switch off your lights when you leave the room’ and ‘Don’t leave your plasma screen on standby, unplug it at the wall’
“Then we like release a couple of hundred thousand in all the big cities and towns and that, and they’ll just fly around and spread the message,” he said earnestly.
Emma glanced at her phone and saw there was another hour and forty five minutes of the meeting to go. She felt her very will to live slipping away. Imagine having to spend whole days in his company. No wonder his missus preferred dining at the Y.
God, that slogan. That had been his big idea last year.
“We’ll get heaps of pamphlets printed up all saying how we are leaner, greener and meaner now,” he’d said, his big expectant face reminding of her a dog her brother had as a child that she’d always disliked.
It was a patently stupid idea but the way things were, what he said had to happen, so, they’d duly printed up 150,000 flyers only to realise Chris wouldn’t be doing any more work as part of his ‘sponsorship’ for the rest of the year. In the end, the flyers had all been pulped.
Emma didn’t know how much the company was paying Chris for his sponsorship committment, but knew it would be a hell of a lot more than she got for doing actual real life work.
Maybe she wondered, now the boss had gone to the great Competition Commission hearing in the sky, the deal would be reviewed.
She could only hope.
Two hours later she was sitting in a meeting room listening to the prematurely-balding moron drone away in that voice of his. She’d studied hard at uni, even done a post-grad. And here she was taking notes like a secretary while a professional bloody footballer lectured her about the environment and climate change.
“I had another idea. I reckon in the off-season, you guys could fly me to every country in the world in alphabetical order so I could give talks on the importance of reducing carbon to schoolkids? It would have to be first-class because of my shoulders though. But the media would lap it up. You know, like me flying to America and then Austria and then Azerbaijan and so on. Be awesome,” he said.
Chris looked at Emma and held her gaze. What the fuck was he staring at she thought? Was he trying it on with her? One of these footballers who thought every woman in the world wanted to screw him just because he was better than most at kicking a bloody ball around? Then it dawned on. He was waiting for her to write down the latest pearl of wisdom he’d just dispensed. For fuck’s sake. She began writing and he continued.
“Then I had a really good idea about how we could spread the message about climate change. You know those parrots that you can train to say stuff? Well, what we do is get like ten thousand of them, and make them all root each other heaps so we get loads of parrots, like a million, and teach them to say stuff like ‘Switch off your lights when you leave the room’ and ‘Don’t leave your plasma screen on standby, unplug it at the wall’
“Then we like release a couple of hundred thousand in all the big cities and towns and that, and they’ll just fly around and spread the message,” he said earnestly.
Emma glanced at her phone and saw there was another hour and forty five minutes of the meeting to go. She felt her very will to live slipping away. Imagine having to spend whole days in his company. No wonder his missus preferred dining at the Y.
Thursday 9 July 2009
Rebecca's Reverie
Rebecca stared wistfully at the examination chair in her office. It had been more than a chair, more than merely functional office furniture. It had been a portal to carnal pleasure the likes of which she had never known before and feared would never experience again.
She allowed herself the briefest reverie, recalling those magical mornings with Caroline, how Rebecca would sling one long, perfectly tanned leg over the rest of the chair and wrap the other gently around Caroline’s neck and shoulders, using gentle pressure to force the older woman deeply into her most sensitive places as the gasping, drenching, spine-tingling moment of climax approached.
Rebecca felt her hand gently moving southwards. She held the image in her mind, a picture of the last she and Caroline had made sweet, sweet flange-flavoured music. It had been the fourth time that morning, Rebecca straining every sinew as Caroline, who showed no signs of tiring, had lifted her up to a pinnacle of sexual release she had never know existed.
Back in the real world, Rebecca was just about to slip one long, elegant finger beneath the elastic of her tight Bonds – bought at david Jones though – panties when the door of her office burst open.
Flushed, she quickly moved her hand away from her womanhood and up toward her face.
“Haven’t you ever heard of knocking first? Were you born in a tent?” she demanded, flustered and caught off-guard.
The man who’d entered her office instead began pointing and laughing.
“Oh my God, Ooh my God,” he laughed breathlessly, “You were gunna have a wank weren’t you? You were gunna have a lady toss. You were feeding the gerbil!”
“Excuse me,” said Rebecca, with the haughtiest tone she could summon, “I was merely adjusting and important piece of medical equipment. How may I help you?”
“I’ve got an appointment,” the tall, slightly dubious looking chap replied.
Rebecca looked at her diary. Indeed, there was an appointment, name of Brendan. Suddenly it clicked. This was the one Chris had been yammering on about the other day. She tended to zone out whenever Chris started talking about football.
“Well, come and sit down Brendan, how can I help you?”
Brendan sat gingerly in the examination seat. Rebecca was glad he didn’t immediately bend down and sniff it. He looked he wanted to it.
“I want you to help me get a big set of false tits,” Brendan declared matter of factly.
Rebecca was taken aback by that, but recovered her composure.
This could be interesting. This could be something new.
“Ok,” she replied, “Let’s talk. I’m going to need to take some measurements for a start.”
Brendan stood up with a big boyish grin and dropped his daks.
“Ya gunna need a really long tape measure then!”
Rebecca smiled to herself. This would indeed be fun.
“I meant your chest Brendan, you can pull your trousers up now.”
He did, but not before they shared a giggle. This would be fun indeed.
She allowed herself the briefest reverie, recalling those magical mornings with Caroline, how Rebecca would sling one long, perfectly tanned leg over the rest of the chair and wrap the other gently around Caroline’s neck and shoulders, using gentle pressure to force the older woman deeply into her most sensitive places as the gasping, drenching, spine-tingling moment of climax approached.
Rebecca felt her hand gently moving southwards. She held the image in her mind, a picture of the last she and Caroline had made sweet, sweet flange-flavoured music. It had been the fourth time that morning, Rebecca straining every sinew as Caroline, who showed no signs of tiring, had lifted her up to a pinnacle of sexual release she had never know existed.
Back in the real world, Rebecca was just about to slip one long, elegant finger beneath the elastic of her tight Bonds – bought at david Jones though – panties when the door of her office burst open.
Flushed, she quickly moved her hand away from her womanhood and up toward her face.
“Haven’t you ever heard of knocking first? Were you born in a tent?” she demanded, flustered and caught off-guard.
The man who’d entered her office instead began pointing and laughing.
“Oh my God, Ooh my God,” he laughed breathlessly, “You were gunna have a wank weren’t you? You were gunna have a lady toss. You were feeding the gerbil!”
“Excuse me,” said Rebecca, with the haughtiest tone she could summon, “I was merely adjusting and important piece of medical equipment. How may I help you?”
“I’ve got an appointment,” the tall, slightly dubious looking chap replied.
Rebecca looked at her diary. Indeed, there was an appointment, name of Brendan. Suddenly it clicked. This was the one Chris had been yammering on about the other day. She tended to zone out whenever Chris started talking about football.
“Well, come and sit down Brendan, how can I help you?”
Brendan sat gingerly in the examination seat. Rebecca was glad he didn’t immediately bend down and sniff it. He looked he wanted to it.
“I want you to help me get a big set of false tits,” Brendan declared matter of factly.
Rebecca was taken aback by that, but recovered her composure.
This could be interesting. This could be something new.
“Ok,” she replied, “Let’s talk. I’m going to need to take some measurements for a start.”
Brendan stood up with a big boyish grin and dropped his daks.
“Ya gunna need a really long tape measure then!”
Rebecca smiled to herself. This would indeed be fun.
“I meant your chest Brendan, you can pull your trousers up now.”
He did, but not before they shared a giggle. This would be fun indeed.
Friday 3 July 2009
There is another
Jarkyn Lockheed strode to the true centre half forward position with his customary assuredness. It was the first game of the under 18 championships and as well as being in dominant form, Lockheed had prepared a veritable arsenal of witticisms to deploy upon his hapless opponent.
Subjects that Lockheed intended to pursue included ‘If I had three dicks, do you reckon I could fit them all up your Mum’s arse at once’ – naturally Jarkyn was of the opinion that with suitable application of a makeshift lubricant, he could – and the potential of his opponent being interested in viewing a mobile phone video that Jarkyn claimed depicted a family member of said opponent engaged in frantic sexual congress with ‘a big fuck-off Alsatian dog.’
So it was with a spring in his step that he strode toward the large boy-man waiting for him on the edge of the square. Jarkyn looked the chap up and down. He didn’t recognise him. It wasn’t that sad virgin Maguire cunt the South Australians normally dished up. It was some other bloke. Big bloke.
It didn’t bother Jarkyn. He’d tear the bloke apart and then root his missus. He knew that.
The problem was that for once, Jarkyn’s confidence was misplaced. The big bloke waiting for him might have been an unknown, but that didn’t mean he could’nt play. Oh he could play. And there was nothing that Jarkyn, or anyone on this great green Earth for that matter, that could say to Bunyip that would put him off his game.
One of the scouts had brought him down to the Croweaters second from last training session before the champs. Found him playing outside of a little town called Dunt, the scout said. Doesn’t talk much, but by Christ can he play.
The coach wasn’t convinced but agreed to give him a run for five minutes, if only to keep the scout sweet. As Bunyip – they later found a tattered old birth certificate in his jeans pockets revealing his name to be Mark Smith – warmed up on the boundary, Clayton O’Toole, a bursting midfielder, indigenous guy, go first round for sure, came up to the coach.
“Who’s that bloke?”
The coach looked over. Clayton seemed worried. The last thing he needed was his gun centreman off his game a fortnight before the champs.
“Just some bloke we’re giving a quick run. Why?”
Clayton came over. He looked like he was going to say something, then decided against it, before thinking he’d spit it out after all.
“It’s just, it’s a story the old fellas, you know, my people, where I’m from, a story they tell. About the wild man, you know, not really a person. Like a monster. They reckon he’d come into your camp and you’d think he was a just a normal bloke, then at night, he’d steal kids, take them away, eat them.”
The coach gave Clayton a searching look.
“Ah stuff it, it’s just old man’s stories I know, means nothing. If the bloke can play, then he’s one of us,” Clayton said.
Good kid Clayton, he’d go a long way. Captain material.
The bench indicated a rotation was due and asked the coach if he wanted to stick the new bloke on.
“Yeah, stick him on; let’s see if he can get a kick”
Less than a minute later, the coach’s question had been answered. Bunyip had made good position and received a pass. He’d turned with amazing grace for such a big man and lifted his left leg and just gone BANG.
On the sidelines, the coaching staff stood with jaws literally dropped. There’d only ever been one other South Australian with a left leg like that. One that just went BANG.
As one, they assessed Bunyip. Then they saw it. The big thick head. The fat low slung arse. He was taller sure, but you could see it, the way the knuckles looked like they could droop and drag on the ground. The coach was sure that if he had Bunyip examined by a dentist, they’d see the first points of the fangs poking through his gums.
“Jesus,” the coach said, “There’s another one.”
The scout merely smiled and nodded.
There was another.
Subjects that Lockheed intended to pursue included ‘If I had three dicks, do you reckon I could fit them all up your Mum’s arse at once’ – naturally Jarkyn was of the opinion that with suitable application of a makeshift lubricant, he could – and the potential of his opponent being interested in viewing a mobile phone video that Jarkyn claimed depicted a family member of said opponent engaged in frantic sexual congress with ‘a big fuck-off Alsatian dog.’
So it was with a spring in his step that he strode toward the large boy-man waiting for him on the edge of the square. Jarkyn looked the chap up and down. He didn’t recognise him. It wasn’t that sad virgin Maguire cunt the South Australians normally dished up. It was some other bloke. Big bloke.
It didn’t bother Jarkyn. He’d tear the bloke apart and then root his missus. He knew that.
The problem was that for once, Jarkyn’s confidence was misplaced. The big bloke waiting for him might have been an unknown, but that didn’t mean he could’nt play. Oh he could play. And there was nothing that Jarkyn, or anyone on this great green Earth for that matter, that could say to Bunyip that would put him off his game.
One of the scouts had brought him down to the Croweaters second from last training session before the champs. Found him playing outside of a little town called Dunt, the scout said. Doesn’t talk much, but by Christ can he play.
The coach wasn’t convinced but agreed to give him a run for five minutes, if only to keep the scout sweet. As Bunyip – they later found a tattered old birth certificate in his jeans pockets revealing his name to be Mark Smith – warmed up on the boundary, Clayton O’Toole, a bursting midfielder, indigenous guy, go first round for sure, came up to the coach.
“Who’s that bloke?”
The coach looked over. Clayton seemed worried. The last thing he needed was his gun centreman off his game a fortnight before the champs.
“Just some bloke we’re giving a quick run. Why?”
Clayton came over. He looked like he was going to say something, then decided against it, before thinking he’d spit it out after all.
“It’s just, it’s a story the old fellas, you know, my people, where I’m from, a story they tell. About the wild man, you know, not really a person. Like a monster. They reckon he’d come into your camp and you’d think he was a just a normal bloke, then at night, he’d steal kids, take them away, eat them.”
The coach gave Clayton a searching look.
“Ah stuff it, it’s just old man’s stories I know, means nothing. If the bloke can play, then he’s one of us,” Clayton said.
Good kid Clayton, he’d go a long way. Captain material.
The bench indicated a rotation was due and asked the coach if he wanted to stick the new bloke on.
“Yeah, stick him on; let’s see if he can get a kick”
Less than a minute later, the coach’s question had been answered. Bunyip had made good position and received a pass. He’d turned with amazing grace for such a big man and lifted his left leg and just gone BANG.
On the sidelines, the coaching staff stood with jaws literally dropped. There’d only ever been one other South Australian with a left leg like that. One that just went BANG.
As one, they assessed Bunyip. Then they saw it. The big thick head. The fat low slung arse. He was taller sure, but you could see it, the way the knuckles looked like they could droop and drag on the ground. The coach was sure that if he had Bunyip examined by a dentist, they’d see the first points of the fangs poking through his gums.
“Jesus,” the coach said, “There’s another one.”
The scout merely smiled and nodded.
There was another.
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