A hundred grand and a blowie off a glamour

“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.