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.