"Wow, that's the biggest mix bowl I've ever seen," said Brendan as he sat down in Chris and Rebecca's kitchen. "You must be able to mull up like an ounce in there!"
Chris looked at him coldy.
"It's a actually a Mongolian lentil pot mate," he said, as if he was talkling to a retarded child.
Rebecca hated Chris when he was like this and even more so now. Anyone could see filling Brendan up with a million litres of piss at the Brownlow was going to end in disaster. And Chris hadn't really done anything about it at the time.
But he could see which way the wind was turning and had, like the mercenary turncoat he was at heart, gone with it.
The powers that be at Carlton had assigned him the job of breaking the news to Brendan that he'd be put up for trade. He'd invited the big bloke around to his house to let him know and asked Rebecca to be there when he told him.
"He knows you and he likes you babes, it'll be better if you're there," he'd reasoned.
Rebecca suspected the reason Chris wanted her present was that he was afraid the bigger man would kick off and wanted her there to try and deter him.
Obviously sensing something was up, Brendan tried to get on the front foot.
"Look skip, yeah I stuffed up I know that, but ..."
Chris dismissed him with a wave of his hand.
"It's too late mate. We're going to put you up for trade. It's gone too far this time."
Brendan's head sank. Then Chris started with the speech. Rebecca had urged him just to tell Brendan they were dumping him and leave it at that, but no, Chris had insisted on giving the speech too.
"It's all about honesty, babes, it's all about honesty," he'd said.
He stood up and began pacing in front of the table. Rebecca curled her toes in embarrassment.
"Look mate," Chris began, with the kind of obnoxious false sincerity he'd mastered over the years, "You need to look at this as an opportunity, but you also have to take responsibility here too."
Rebecca held her head in her hands and wished she could be very far away.
"The last time you mucked up mate, the club told you it was your last chance and now you've mucked up again, we've got to stand by our word, or what would we look like? We'd look like frauds mate, and that's not the Carlton way. We're the honest club, the reliable club and we have to stand by that. You know, when my relentless homesickness suddenly came over me that day when Mr Pratt rang a few years ago, I thought, 'Really, there's only one place a bloke like me who is willing to shit in the face of the club that gave me my start belongs, and that's Carlton'"
Warming to his theme, Chris picked up a large banana from the fruit bowl and held it as he paced, sometimes pointing it directly at Brendan to emphasise a point.
"Think of some of the great players who have represented this club mate, guys like John Nicholls and Jimmy Buckley and Wayne Johnston. How would they feel if they found out we weren't being straight up? They'd be disgusted. And it's not just players mate, itd everyone administrators, guys like Mr Pratt, even the fans. Could look Judy Moran in the eye and tell her the club her boys loved wasn't legit? Neither could I.
"So take the opportunity mate, learn from it. Grow as a person. Here, look, I got this book for you, its called The Humility Of Failing Happily, its got all like Chinese sayings and Native American wisdom and shit. I used to keep it by the dunny and flick through it when I was snapping one off but I've read them all now, so you can have it."
He passed over the yellowing dog eared book. Brendan took it and considered it.
The big forward stood up and took a deep breath. He was visibly preparing to say something. Chris felt a warm glow within. He'd obviously gotten through to the big bloke and now, his leadership skills having worked their magic, Brendan wanted to thank him for setting his life back on track.
Chris waited expectanctly, using that look he'd practised for the last rounds of the Brownlow, the one where you expected the votes to come in because hey, you were pretty bloody good after all, but not up yourself and arrogant.
"Why don't you go and fuck yourself?" said Brendan.
"What?" asked Chris, blinking furiously.
"You heard me you stuck up piece of shit. Why don't you go and fuck yourself?"
Rebecca interjected softly: "Don't Brendan, not now"
"Nah, stuff it Becs, someone has to tell him. You swan around like your shit doesn't stink mate. You dogged on West Coast to come here, you pretend like you've always loved Carlton when every cunt knows you only came here coz Pratt gave you that bullshit job at his company. You act like you deserve to win every Brownlow but you go for bloke's eyes at the bottom of every pack. You're a bullshit artist mate. Everyone laughs at you, thinks you're a fuckwit and you don't even know it. At least I know I'm a dipshit when I get on the piss."
He turned and made to leave, but spun on his heel and offered a parting shot. He flung the book back at Chris.
"You can stick this up your fucken arse too. Native American wisdom. What a load of bullshit. Maybe get a book and how to root your missus properly, then she wouldn't be looking to see what's on the other side of the fence" he spat.
A few minutes later in his car outside, he was getting his breath back. Rebecca knocked on the window. He let her in.
"Well, I think that's your career at Princes Park over," she laughed.
"Yeah, spose it is. Glad I said it but. Sorry about that stuff about him not rooting your properly"
"Don't worry about it. Truth hurts I suppose. Where are you going to go now," Rebecca asked.
"Hawthorn or St Kilda," the big man replied.
"Did you say them because they were the first things that came into your head," Rebecca asked.
"Ummm, yeah," he replied.
"There's one more thing Rebecca. I'm gunna need your help again. If I want to find a new club, I'm gunna need to get rid of these," he said, gently cupping his enormous breasts.
Rebecca bit her lip. She really would miss those tits, but she understood too.
Wednesday 30 September 2009
Monday 28 September 2009
Yin And Yang
Caroline pressed Sam's buzzer again, but still no answer. She was getting worried now.
"Thammy, Thammy, it's only me!" she implored through the letterbox.
It wasn't like Sam to miss work and not call in. For two days running. And especially not Mad Monday, a veritable goldmine for a "journalist" obssesed with footballers getting up to juvenile and tasteless yet essentially harmless hijinx.
For Sam to miss this, something must be truly wrong.
Caroline knocked one more time and got no response. She decided to take matters into her own hands.
Hoping she wouldn't have to climb it, she pushed at the side gate and it opened obligingly. She did not notice them but a few hours later, police forensic officers would identify the coarse strands of fur caught on the wire and adjacent bushes as belonging to Homo Dewosaurus.
Sam lived alone. Caro knew that. Her last housemate had left after one of Sam's Abu Ghraib fuelled hairbrush wank sessions.
Caro picked her way through the hundreds of silver goonbag bladders Sam had collected over the last month.
She got to the lounge room window and looked in. She wished she hadn't. Blood spattered on the walls. The furniture had been smashed by an unholy force. And in the middle of it all, Sam's broken body.
Hundreds of kilometres away, the Dewosaurus was racing time itself. He knew that from when the sun went down on this day, he had only the hours of no light. Once the great fiery orb rose to cast its harsh glare on the land of the mortals, the Dewosaurus would be no more.
As he pushed through the scrub, he felt his energy draining. He had not consumed the one of from Grand Final night. That was for the ceremony, not the belly. When he'd struck her, she'd bled a strange green liquid that had stung his paw ...
He had two calls to make before his time fell. The Shaneosaurus. Then Bunyip.
Half an hour later he approached the gaping maw of the cavern where his Lord dwelt. He uttered the customary password roar but heard nothing in return. He ventured into the void.
Far away, in the chamber of the Shaneosaurus, he saw a faint illumination. He roared again and this time heard something low and tragic. He roared a third time and the sound, like a million of the world's saddest violins all being played at once, intensified.
He kept going.
The Dewosaurus entered the Great Hall Of The Shaneosaurus gingerly. He did not want to surprise his master.
The spectacle that greeted him was magnificent in its abandoned desperation.
The collosal blonde King Of The Fat Bastards was slumped despondent in his throne of human skulls. A baseball bat sized of rough hewn tobacco encased in an A3 sheet burnt dangerously toward its end. At his feet were littered the remains of a thousand bottles of Midori, some smashed, some still intact, green tendrils visible in their glass interior.
"Sire!" said the Dewosaurus.
The Shaneosaurus lifted his eyes from wherever his mind had been.
"Dewosaurus" he replied in a soft growl.
The smaller one let the moment sit.
"I have come to say goodbye, my liege, before the hours take me."
The Shaneosaurus considered him. Approach young one he said and as the Dewosaurus drew close, the yellow one sprang forward and grasped him, held him close to a furry chest matted with endless tears.
"Shit fucken kicking mate, shit kicking fcucken cost us badly," he sobbed.
The Dewosaurus struggled for breath, his face pressed into the wiry jungle of the Shaneosaurus' chest.
"You wouldn't have fucken missed those shots would you? Would you mate? You would have sunk them!"
As always, the Shaneosaurus' wisdom knew no bounds. Yes, the Dewosaurus would have taken the goal scoring opportunities that mere puny humans like Schneider and Milne had squandered. He would have dobbed them. He would have brought his master his one unattainable prize.
"Yes Lord Shaneosaurus, yes I would have."
The Shaneosaurus released his grip. He set the Dewosaurus on his feet.
"A great one among our kind you are O Dewosaurus! Before you go to endless Bainmarie In Sky, I give you this one gift."
In his enormous yellow paw, the Shaneosaurus held a single normal sized cigarette.
"Give this to your apprentice. If ever in mortal danger he finds himself, then smoke this fag in one drag, and an hour on this world you shall have to help him!" he pronounced.
The Dewosaurus took the enchanted dhurry and tucked it behind his ear.
"For obvious fucken reasons, if he has any brothers and sisters, don't let them find out. You don't want to be summoned to help some little shit get the Mel Meninga up his cousin," the Shaneosaurus counselled.
The Dewosaurus growled his acquisence. Then the two embraced for the last time.
"Worry not sire, go back on the tank and get some more draft picks and you might finally win something," he said.
The Shaneosaurus nodded ruefully. St Kilda really were shit.
"Fare thee well O great Dewosaurus," he cried as his favoured underling departed up the darkened passage, "Fare thee well you magnificent fat bastard!"
A hop skip and a jump later, the Dewosaurus was lightly tapping on Bunyip's window. Weighed down by sleep, the apprentice gazed lazily out the window until he saw the enormous visage of his yeti-sensei fill the glass.
Bunyip rushed outside. Glancing at the eastern sky, where dawn's first salmon fingers crept over the horizon, the Dewosaurus knew he didn't have long.
"YOUNG ONE!" he boomed, perhaps the last time his voice would ever be heard.
"TAKE THIS CIAGRETTE! IF EVER YOU NEED HELP, ONLY IN WORST OF TIMES, YOU SMOKE IN ONE BREATH! THEN THE DEWOSAURUS WILL COME, FOR BUT ONE HOUR! USE THIS WISELY!"
Bunyip understood immediately.
Dewosaurus grabbed him in a great bear hug.
"Defintely go first round you will. Maybe even top five if team pick according to best available talent rather than by positional need!"
"I go now," whispered the Dewosaurus.
He extended a big furry index finger. Bunyip met it with his own.
As the day began to make itself felt, the Dewosaurus left our world. Slowly at first, then with ever increasingly rapidity. In the quickest moment, Bunyip felt the bulk pressing a finger against his own go, saw a crumpled suit of thick fur fall before him, as if it were just a costume donned for a higher purpose.
A tiny bumble of sparkle light danced before him. The essence of the Dewosarus. Bunipy saluted then tossed back his head and let fly a mighty roar. A manbeasts's roar. The sparkle stopped in its motion, and like a tracer bullet, blazed into the oblivion with a perfectly curved trajectory. In seconds, it could be seen no more.
This night my friends, take a moment to step outside. Onto the street, your garden, the exercise yard for any Collingwood supporters who may have someone reading this to them.
Survey the ancient obsidian canopy that envelopes us all, pierced by pinpricks of brightest light. Select one of these twinkling dots, one that smiles for you, focus upon it and know that from far away, another time, another place, yet inextricably intertwined with yours, the Dewosaurus watches content in his mighty heart.
Bunyip does.
"Thammy, Thammy, it's only me!" she implored through the letterbox.
It wasn't like Sam to miss work and not call in. For two days running. And especially not Mad Monday, a veritable goldmine for a "journalist" obssesed with footballers getting up to juvenile and tasteless yet essentially harmless hijinx.
For Sam to miss this, something must be truly wrong.
Caroline knocked one more time and got no response. She decided to take matters into her own hands.
Hoping she wouldn't have to climb it, she pushed at the side gate and it opened obligingly. She did not notice them but a few hours later, police forensic officers would identify the coarse strands of fur caught on the wire and adjacent bushes as belonging to Homo Dewosaurus.
Sam lived alone. Caro knew that. Her last housemate had left after one of Sam's Abu Ghraib fuelled hairbrush wank sessions.
Caro picked her way through the hundreds of silver goonbag bladders Sam had collected over the last month.
She got to the lounge room window and looked in. She wished she hadn't. Blood spattered on the walls. The furniture had been smashed by an unholy force. And in the middle of it all, Sam's broken body.
Hundreds of kilometres away, the Dewosaurus was racing time itself. He knew that from when the sun went down on this day, he had only the hours of no light. Once the great fiery orb rose to cast its harsh glare on the land of the mortals, the Dewosaurus would be no more.
As he pushed through the scrub, he felt his energy draining. He had not consumed the one of from Grand Final night. That was for the ceremony, not the belly. When he'd struck her, she'd bled a strange green liquid that had stung his paw ...
He had two calls to make before his time fell. The Shaneosaurus. Then Bunyip.
Half an hour later he approached the gaping maw of the cavern where his Lord dwelt. He uttered the customary password roar but heard nothing in return. He ventured into the void.
Far away, in the chamber of the Shaneosaurus, he saw a faint illumination. He roared again and this time heard something low and tragic. He roared a third time and the sound, like a million of the world's saddest violins all being played at once, intensified.
He kept going.
The Dewosaurus entered the Great Hall Of The Shaneosaurus gingerly. He did not want to surprise his master.
The spectacle that greeted him was magnificent in its abandoned desperation.
The collosal blonde King Of The Fat Bastards was slumped despondent in his throne of human skulls. A baseball bat sized of rough hewn tobacco encased in an A3 sheet burnt dangerously toward its end. At his feet were littered the remains of a thousand bottles of Midori, some smashed, some still intact, green tendrils visible in their glass interior.
"Sire!" said the Dewosaurus.
The Shaneosaurus lifted his eyes from wherever his mind had been.
"Dewosaurus" he replied in a soft growl.
The smaller one let the moment sit.
"I have come to say goodbye, my liege, before the hours take me."
The Shaneosaurus considered him. Approach young one he said and as the Dewosaurus drew close, the yellow one sprang forward and grasped him, held him close to a furry chest matted with endless tears.
"Shit fucken kicking mate, shit kicking fcucken cost us badly," he sobbed.
The Dewosaurus struggled for breath, his face pressed into the wiry jungle of the Shaneosaurus' chest.
"You wouldn't have fucken missed those shots would you? Would you mate? You would have sunk them!"
As always, the Shaneosaurus' wisdom knew no bounds. Yes, the Dewosaurus would have taken the goal scoring opportunities that mere puny humans like Schneider and Milne had squandered. He would have dobbed them. He would have brought his master his one unattainable prize.
"Yes Lord Shaneosaurus, yes I would have."
The Shaneosaurus released his grip. He set the Dewosaurus on his feet.
"A great one among our kind you are O Dewosaurus! Before you go to endless Bainmarie In Sky, I give you this one gift."
In his enormous yellow paw, the Shaneosaurus held a single normal sized cigarette.
"Give this to your apprentice. If ever in mortal danger he finds himself, then smoke this fag in one drag, and an hour on this world you shall have to help him!" he pronounced.
The Dewosaurus took the enchanted dhurry and tucked it behind his ear.
"For obvious fucken reasons, if he has any brothers and sisters, don't let them find out. You don't want to be summoned to help some little shit get the Mel Meninga up his cousin," the Shaneosaurus counselled.
The Dewosaurus growled his acquisence. Then the two embraced for the last time.
"Worry not sire, go back on the tank and get some more draft picks and you might finally win something," he said.
The Shaneosaurus nodded ruefully. St Kilda really were shit.
"Fare thee well O great Dewosaurus," he cried as his favoured underling departed up the darkened passage, "Fare thee well you magnificent fat bastard!"
A hop skip and a jump later, the Dewosaurus was lightly tapping on Bunyip's window. Weighed down by sleep, the apprentice gazed lazily out the window until he saw the enormous visage of his yeti-sensei fill the glass.
Bunyip rushed outside. Glancing at the eastern sky, where dawn's first salmon fingers crept over the horizon, the Dewosaurus knew he didn't have long.
"YOUNG ONE!" he boomed, perhaps the last time his voice would ever be heard.
"TAKE THIS CIAGRETTE! IF EVER YOU NEED HELP, ONLY IN WORST OF TIMES, YOU SMOKE IN ONE BREATH! THEN THE DEWOSAURUS WILL COME, FOR BUT ONE HOUR! USE THIS WISELY!"
Bunyip understood immediately.
Dewosaurus grabbed him in a great bear hug.
"Defintely go first round you will. Maybe even top five if team pick according to best available talent rather than by positional need!"
"I go now," whispered the Dewosaurus.
He extended a big furry index finger. Bunyip met it with his own.
As the day began to make itself felt, the Dewosaurus left our world. Slowly at first, then with ever increasingly rapidity. In the quickest moment, Bunyip felt the bulk pressing a finger against his own go, saw a crumpled suit of thick fur fall before him, as if it were just a costume donned for a higher purpose.
A tiny bumble of sparkle light danced before him. The essence of the Dewosarus. Bunipy saluted then tossed back his head and let fly a mighty roar. A manbeasts's roar. The sparkle stopped in its motion, and like a tracer bullet, blazed into the oblivion with a perfectly curved trajectory. In seconds, it could be seen no more.
This night my friends, take a moment to step outside. Onto the street, your garden, the exercise yard for any Collingwood supporters who may have someone reading this to them.
Survey the ancient obsidian canopy that envelopes us all, pierced by pinpricks of brightest light. Select one of these twinkling dots, one that smiles for you, focus upon it and know that from far away, another time, another place, yet inextricably intertwined with yours, the Dewosaurus watches content in his mighty heart.
Bunyip does.
Sunday 27 September 2009
Peas In A Pod
The gravel crunched beneath Dean's feet as he walked across the desolate and windswept Alberton carpark toward the figure that waited at the other side, solitary and melancholy.
The wind from the nearby sea was cold and Dean tucked his mullet into the back his jacket for added warmth.
The other figure came to meet him. When they were a few paces away, the taciturn type extended a gnarled hand in greeting.
"Tunnel, good to see ya."
"Yeah nah look, good to see you too Choco," Dean replied.
It was the most either man had said in days.
They walked towards the training rooms in contemplative silence. After a few minutes, Dean spoke, his tone an empty chip packet blowing in maudlin Sunday afternoon ennui.
"How's things around here anyway?" he asked.
Choco looked back at him with a thousand yard stare.
"We're up to our bottom lip in debt, the players hate me and our gameplan is negative and shit," he replied without any discernible emotion.
Dean smiled inwardly as they continued their slow progress. He'd fit right in here.
He took out his phone.
"Just gotta make a quick call Choc," he said.
Choco merely nodded before picking up a stone and throwing it at a crow that had landed ahead of them. It missed.
Dean dialled the number, got a quick answer.
"Mrs Power, yes look its Dean here. I was wondering if Sam was there."
The wind from the nearby sea was cold and Dean tucked his mullet into the back his jacket for added warmth.
The other figure came to meet him. When they were a few paces away, the taciturn type extended a gnarled hand in greeting.
"Tunnel, good to see ya."
"Yeah nah look, good to see you too Choco," Dean replied.
It was the most either man had said in days.
They walked towards the training rooms in contemplative silence. After a few minutes, Dean spoke, his tone an empty chip packet blowing in maudlin Sunday afternoon ennui.
"How's things around here anyway?" he asked.
Choco looked back at him with a thousand yard stare.
"We're up to our bottom lip in debt, the players hate me and our gameplan is negative and shit," he replied without any discernible emotion.
Dean smiled inwardly as they continued their slow progress. He'd fit right in here.
He took out his phone.
"Just gotta make a quick call Choc," he said.
Choco merely nodded before picking up a stone and throwing it at a crow that had landed ahead of them. It missed.
Dean dialled the number, got a quick answer.
"Mrs Power, yes look its Dean here. I was wondering if Sam was there."
Friday 25 September 2009
On The Rampage
There is nothing like the centre of Melbourne on the Friday before the Grand Final. The atmosphere, the team colours in the crowded streets, the sheer electricity about the town.
And this year, the added spectacle of a Mexican standoff between armed police and an enormous enraged beast with a devastating hangover and a taste for human flesh.
The tequila drinking session in the park had left him much the worse for wear. Between, them Fev, Brown, Colin and man beast that used be Stewie Dew had drunk a crate of tequila washed down with a slab each. At one point, Fev had climbed a tree in an attempt to reach an owl's nest he claimed he could see and then got stuck up the tree and the Dewosaurus had had to go up after him and rescue the drunken sot.
It all got a bit messy after that. Browny did the right thing and handcuffed Fev and frogmarched him into a taxi. Colin disappeared muttring something about heading to The Men's Gallery while Danny Four Fingers had long since disappeared with a group of large heavily tattooed men.
Stupefied by drink, the Dewosaurus had wandered the streets before laying his great head on the first flat surface he could find.
Unfortunately for him, it was the steps of Parliament House. He slept until mid morning, oblivious to the crowd that had gathered around him. Upon awakening, he was startled and took flight, seeking shelter from the tumult.
The crowd on Bourke Street parted like the Red Sea as the Dewosaurus rampaged down the tramlines. The noise, the confusion, the incessant dinging of the tram bells and now the blaring sirens all combined to confuse the great beast. The ringing in his ears, the noise, the colour.
He picked up a car and threw it smashing into the plate glass windows of a coffee shop, sending the latte sipper inside scurrying for cover.
The Dewosaurus headed down the Bourke Street hill, unaware that the police had set a trap for him. As he lumbered through the intersection with Exhibition Street, divisional vans screeched to a halt on all four corners. Immediately, policemen took up position, their service revolvers pointed directly at him.
The crowd quickly surged behind the police to encircle the Dewosaurus. He was trapped. He quickly looked left, right, even above him the police helicopter hovered.
He roared at the police but unlike so many times before, they did not flee at his threat. Instead, they held their ground, knuckles wrapped around pistols turning white with determination. One of the policeman was a Geelong supporter and he was itching to get revenge for that third quarter burst last year.
A expectant hush fell over the crowd. The Dewosaurus snorted and pawed at the ground. Would he charge? One last desperate bid for freedom? Surely such a brave but futile act could only be met with a hail of bullets.
Then something magical happened. From out of the crowd came a slight figure, hands outstretched, approached
The Dewosaurus caught its scent. Soft, unthreatening, nothing to be afraid of.
The figure approached the great beast and laid a tiny, womanly hand on his heaving snout.
“Hello. My name is Bryce. What’s yours?”
The beast was confused. Normally he would swipe such a puny thing away, but he felt nothing but peace from this small wisp of a thing. This Bryce was no threat, it carried no malice in its heart.
He would trust Bryce. He sank to his haunches and waited.
Bryce turned to the crowd and from nowhere, slightly tinny mood music appeared:
"Why are we persecuting this poor misunderstood creature? It isn't his fault he is what he is. So he looks a bit different. Don't we all look a bit different, you sir for example, " said Bryce, pointing into the crowd at Luke Hodge, "you look like you've eaten the entire frozen food section at your local Safeway and have a face like a squished tomato, but nobody wants to hunt you down and kill you do they?"
Luke nodded. Bryce was right.
"Can't we all look into our hearts and find a little bit of room for Stewie? He might be hideously ugly on the outside, but on the inside, he's just a normal person with feelings like the rest of us."
The music that had appeared from nowhere now switched to soaring strings. Morgan Freeman walked out of the crowd and shook Bryce's hand. Together they embraced the Dewosaurus who shook his mane appreciatively.
The police lowered their guns and the commanding officer came over.
"Great speech there Marc"
"I'm Bryce"
"Whatever. Tell you what, we've give this bastard a ten minute headstart, after that, all bets are off."
The policeman who's 'Geelong Gay Premiers' tatoo was visible through his light blue shirt nodded grimly.
"OK," said Bryce, "That sounds fair."
The Dewosaurus was about to head through the crowd, who were stroking him appreciatively and beginning to chant his name, when a hideous screech broke the bonhomie.
Looking for all the world like one of Macbeth's witches, Sam's hateful thin reedy voice was heard:
"NO! NO! KILL IT! KILL IT! KILL THE PIG! KILL PIGGY!"
The Dewosaurus, recognising danger, went immediately into combat mode. He sparng hundreds of feet into the air in a single mighty bound. He stuck his landing on top of a skyscraper like a gymnast and emitted a deathly roar that was heard as far away as Melbourne's new training ground in Orbost.
Where the Dewosaurus had been so close to perhaps regaining some humanity, now Sam's appearance had driven him once more back into his animal side.
"Why," asked Bryce of Sam, "Why do you have to ruin everything good in footy with your bullshit childish talentless fucking know nothing seedy death and sex obssesed crap, you monstrous witch?"
Sam merely cackled in reply, before raking Bryce's face with her claws and scampering off down a laneway.
The amusement over, the crowd began to depart home and get a skinful before the Grand Final tomorrow.
Once they had all filtered away, a single melancholic figure was left in the middle of the empty streets, yellowing autumnal leaves gusting around him while hot salty tears ran down his cheeks.
It was Luke Hodge.
"I'm not fat," he sniffed.
"I'm just big boned"
And this year, the added spectacle of a Mexican standoff between armed police and an enormous enraged beast with a devastating hangover and a taste for human flesh.
The tequila drinking session in the park had left him much the worse for wear. Between, them Fev, Brown, Colin and man beast that used be Stewie Dew had drunk a crate of tequila washed down with a slab each. At one point, Fev had climbed a tree in an attempt to reach an owl's nest he claimed he could see and then got stuck up the tree and the Dewosaurus had had to go up after him and rescue the drunken sot.
It all got a bit messy after that. Browny did the right thing and handcuffed Fev and frogmarched him into a taxi. Colin disappeared muttring something about heading to The Men's Gallery while Danny Four Fingers had long since disappeared with a group of large heavily tattooed men.
Stupefied by drink, the Dewosaurus had wandered the streets before laying his great head on the first flat surface he could find.
Unfortunately for him, it was the steps of Parliament House. He slept until mid morning, oblivious to the crowd that had gathered around him. Upon awakening, he was startled and took flight, seeking shelter from the tumult.
The crowd on Bourke Street parted like the Red Sea as the Dewosaurus rampaged down the tramlines. The noise, the confusion, the incessant dinging of the tram bells and now the blaring sirens all combined to confuse the great beast. The ringing in his ears, the noise, the colour.
He picked up a car and threw it smashing into the plate glass windows of a coffee shop, sending the latte sipper inside scurrying for cover.
The Dewosaurus headed down the Bourke Street hill, unaware that the police had set a trap for him. As he lumbered through the intersection with Exhibition Street, divisional vans screeched to a halt on all four corners. Immediately, policemen took up position, their service revolvers pointed directly at him.
The crowd quickly surged behind the police to encircle the Dewosaurus. He was trapped. He quickly looked left, right, even above him the police helicopter hovered.
He roared at the police but unlike so many times before, they did not flee at his threat. Instead, they held their ground, knuckles wrapped around pistols turning white with determination. One of the policeman was a Geelong supporter and he was itching to get revenge for that third quarter burst last year.
A expectant hush fell over the crowd. The Dewosaurus snorted and pawed at the ground. Would he charge? One last desperate bid for freedom? Surely such a brave but futile act could only be met with a hail of bullets.
Then something magical happened. From out of the crowd came a slight figure, hands outstretched, approached
The Dewosaurus caught its scent. Soft, unthreatening, nothing to be afraid of.
The figure approached the great beast and laid a tiny, womanly hand on his heaving snout.
“Hello. My name is Bryce. What’s yours?”
The beast was confused. Normally he would swipe such a puny thing away, but he felt nothing but peace from this small wisp of a thing. This Bryce was no threat, it carried no malice in its heart.
He would trust Bryce. He sank to his haunches and waited.
Bryce turned to the crowd and from nowhere, slightly tinny mood music appeared:
"Why are we persecuting this poor misunderstood creature? It isn't his fault he is what he is. So he looks a bit different. Don't we all look a bit different, you sir for example, " said Bryce, pointing into the crowd at Luke Hodge, "you look like you've eaten the entire frozen food section at your local Safeway and have a face like a squished tomato, but nobody wants to hunt you down and kill you do they?"
Luke nodded. Bryce was right.
"Can't we all look into our hearts and find a little bit of room for Stewie? He might be hideously ugly on the outside, but on the inside, he's just a normal person with feelings like the rest of us."
The music that had appeared from nowhere now switched to soaring strings. Morgan Freeman walked out of the crowd and shook Bryce's hand. Together they embraced the Dewosaurus who shook his mane appreciatively.
The police lowered their guns and the commanding officer came over.
"Great speech there Marc"
"I'm Bryce"
"Whatever. Tell you what, we've give this bastard a ten minute headstart, after that, all bets are off."
The policeman who's 'Geelong Gay Premiers' tatoo was visible through his light blue shirt nodded grimly.
"OK," said Bryce, "That sounds fair."
The Dewosaurus was about to head through the crowd, who were stroking him appreciatively and beginning to chant his name, when a hideous screech broke the bonhomie.
Looking for all the world like one of Macbeth's witches, Sam's hateful thin reedy voice was heard:
"NO! NO! KILL IT! KILL IT! KILL THE PIG! KILL PIGGY!"
The Dewosaurus, recognising danger, went immediately into combat mode. He sparng hundreds of feet into the air in a single mighty bound. He stuck his landing on top of a skyscraper like a gymnast and emitted a deathly roar that was heard as far away as Melbourne's new training ground in Orbost.
Where the Dewosaurus had been so close to perhaps regaining some humanity, now Sam's appearance had driven him once more back into his animal side.
"Why," asked Bryce of Sam, "Why do you have to ruin everything good in footy with your bullshit childish talentless fucking know nothing seedy death and sex obssesed crap, you monstrous witch?"
Sam merely cackled in reply, before raking Bryce's face with her claws and scampering off down a laneway.
The amusement over, the crowd began to depart home and get a skinful before the Grand Final tomorrow.
Once they had all filtered away, a single melancholic figure was left in the middle of the empty streets, yellowing autumnal leaves gusting around him while hot salty tears ran down his cheeks.
It was Luke Hodge.
"I'm not fat," he sniffed.
"I'm just big boned"
Thursday 24 September 2009
Drinking With The Dewosaurus
The great beast stirred in its hidey hole.
"Ya shure itsh him," slurred Brendan as the group gathered round the form that lay prone in the deepest bushes in the Exhibition Gardens.
"Could fucken just be a binny or something. We fucken should fucken set him on fire and see what happens," the shaven headed, newly be-titted hoon continued.
Browny turned around.
"Fucken turn it fucken up mate. You've fucken caused enough fucken trouble as it fucken is."
The big bloke from South Warnambool had a point.
The media had only caught the briefest taste of Brendan's antics on Brownlow night. The spewing off the balcony, the harrassment of other guests, the horrendous acapella version of DJ Otzi, all these paled into insignificance compared to what he got up to once the Dewosaurus search party had set off into the haze of a million Crownies to try and get a few gargles into their mate Stewie.
Within minutes he'd bought a Big Mac and had rooted it, to graphic conclusion, against a tram stop, to the horror of those watching. Then, when the tram had arrived, he'd repeatedly charged it front on, headbutting the windscreen and shouting maniacally 'Look at me! Look at me! I'm Graham Polak!"
Then, as they reached the Gardens, where Brown had a sixth sense that the Dewosaurus would be lurking, Brendan used the turn of pace that made him so hard to stop on the lead to pursue and quickly capture a possum that had been foraging for seeds and nuts on the floodlit grass.
The other players looked on apprehensively as Brendan examined the terrified creature.
"Fucken don't worry, I'm not gunna hurt it," he said, with a look of indignation that anybody would even consider such a thing. Instead he carefully tucked the marsupial deep within the vast chasm of his cleavage, leaving only its small grey head poking out.
Back at the beast's lair, Brendan continued to agitate to be allowed to assualt the sleeping form in some fashion.
"Fucken look mate, leave the fucken brainy shit to fucken Browny," said Colin. "You'll fucken just fucken fuck it up."
The others ushered Brendan away as Brown leant down to the huge form and waved a bottle of tequila under its nose.
"Stewie, Stewie mate, that you? Come and have a fucken drink mate!" he cajoled.
The creature stirred. Brown kept the bottle under its nose like a dose of smelling salts.
"Carn Stewie, have a few shandies for old times sake. Its just me and Col and Fev and that. Nobody's gunna hurt ya. Just a few drinks."
First one red eye opened, the another. Brown drew back carefully as the Dewosaurus awoke from its slumber. He then reached forward and carefully placed the tequila bottle in its paw.
Slowly, the creature came to. He dimly recognised Brown from the old days. More importantly, he sensed no threat. And what was this in his paw? It smelt strong and familiar.
He put the bottle to his lips. Ah yes, he recalled what this potion was. He drained the bottle in fell swig.
"That's the fucken spirit Stewie," enthused Brown, indicating that the others should pass him another bottle. "Get this one into ya Stewie."
The Dewosaurus tanned the second bottle. This, he remembered how much he liked this. He let out a friendly Chewbacca type growl to indicate he meant no harm. On hearing this, the others came forward and gave him pats on the back and the like.
"Fucken good to see you Stewie mate, fucken ace."
And so it came to pass that Brendan, Jono Brown, Colin and the Dewosaurus all hit the piss together in a central Melbourne park.
Nothing bad could come of that surely.
TODAY'S POST BROUGHT TO YOU BY BEER!
I LIKE BEER! SEE BELOW TO DONATE TO THE BEER FUND!
"Ya shure itsh him," slurred Brendan as the group gathered round the form that lay prone in the deepest bushes in the Exhibition Gardens.
"Could fucken just be a binny or something. We fucken should fucken set him on fire and see what happens," the shaven headed, newly be-titted hoon continued.
Browny turned around.
"Fucken turn it fucken up mate. You've fucken caused enough fucken trouble as it fucken is."
The big bloke from South Warnambool had a point.
The media had only caught the briefest taste of Brendan's antics on Brownlow night. The spewing off the balcony, the harrassment of other guests, the horrendous acapella version of DJ Otzi, all these paled into insignificance compared to what he got up to once the Dewosaurus search party had set off into the haze of a million Crownies to try and get a few gargles into their mate Stewie.
Within minutes he'd bought a Big Mac and had rooted it, to graphic conclusion, against a tram stop, to the horror of those watching. Then, when the tram had arrived, he'd repeatedly charged it front on, headbutting the windscreen and shouting maniacally 'Look at me! Look at me! I'm Graham Polak!"
Then, as they reached the Gardens, where Brown had a sixth sense that the Dewosaurus would be lurking, Brendan used the turn of pace that made him so hard to stop on the lead to pursue and quickly capture a possum that had been foraging for seeds and nuts on the floodlit grass.
The other players looked on apprehensively as Brendan examined the terrified creature.
"Fucken don't worry, I'm not gunna hurt it," he said, with a look of indignation that anybody would even consider such a thing. Instead he carefully tucked the marsupial deep within the vast chasm of his cleavage, leaving only its small grey head poking out.
Back at the beast's lair, Brendan continued to agitate to be allowed to assualt the sleeping form in some fashion.
"Fucken look mate, leave the fucken brainy shit to fucken Browny," said Colin. "You'll fucken just fucken fuck it up."
The others ushered Brendan away as Brown leant down to the huge form and waved a bottle of tequila under its nose.
"Stewie, Stewie mate, that you? Come and have a fucken drink mate!" he cajoled.
The creature stirred. Brown kept the bottle under its nose like a dose of smelling salts.
"Carn Stewie, have a few shandies for old times sake. Its just me and Col and Fev and that. Nobody's gunna hurt ya. Just a few drinks."
First one red eye opened, the another. Brown drew back carefully as the Dewosaurus awoke from its slumber. He then reached forward and carefully placed the tequila bottle in its paw.
Slowly, the creature came to. He dimly recognised Brown from the old days. More importantly, he sensed no threat. And what was this in his paw? It smelt strong and familiar.
He put the bottle to his lips. Ah yes, he recalled what this potion was. He drained the bottle in fell swig.
"That's the fucken spirit Stewie," enthused Brown, indicating that the others should pass him another bottle. "Get this one into ya Stewie."
The Dewosaurus tanned the second bottle. This, he remembered how much he liked this. He let out a friendly Chewbacca type growl to indicate he meant no harm. On hearing this, the others came forward and gave him pats on the back and the like.
"Fucken good to see you Stewie mate, fucken ace."
And so it came to pass that Brendan, Jono Brown, Colin and the Dewosaurus all hit the piss together in a central Melbourne park.
Nothing bad could come of that surely.
TODAY'S POST BROUGHT TO YOU BY BEER!
I LIKE BEER! SEE BELOW TO DONATE TO THE BEER FUND!
Monday 21 September 2009
Foiled Again!
“It’s bloody bullshit babes,” Chris fumed, punching the dashboard of the Prius with frustration.
“What’s the bloody prematurely balding shit ever done anyway? And bloody Murphy and Bryce, stealing all my votes, they better make themselves scarce next time I’m about.”
Rebecca knew better than to interrupt Chris when he was in full self-righteous mode. She remembered with a shudder the time she’d innocently asked him why it was so important to separate the various plastics into their respective piles for the recycling. By the time he’d finished the slide show depicting the bloated corpses of tsunami victims, she’d regretted ever even mentioning it. And she still didn’t have an answer.
Chris was still moaning away – “none of his touches should count, his Dad was a gun at footy, mine wasn’t” – when they pulled up at the lights.
A group of hoons in a hotted up car pumping awful commercial trance music pulled up beside them. The hoons eyed up Rebecca, who was still in her stylish yet tasteful gown. One wound down the passenger side window.
“Hey gorgeous, me n the boys are going down to Flaming Moe’s in Bentleigh. Me mates Stevie and Joey here wanna know if you fancy a spit roast on the way down?” he leered.
Luckily the lights changed and the hoons sped off, cackling like rednecks with a freshly captured college boy.
Chris continued his rant as they headed down Chapel Street towards their fashionable apartment:
“When I came over here, Mr Pratt promised me he’d buy me … er, er, I’d win … a Brownlow at least every second year. And what have I got since I arrived? Bloody nothing. Bugger all.”
Rebecca turned right into their street and pulled up at the appointed complex.
“Oh jeez, I’m sorry babes, it’s not your fault, I shouldn’t take it out on you,” he said apologetically.
She smiled at him. He might be colossally thick and have a vastly over inflated sense of his own relevance in the greater scheme of things, but his heart was in the right place.
“Tell you what babes, it’s been a long night and I need to chill out a bit. Why don’t you head up to bed and I’ll check my emails. Leo must have replied by now. That’ll cheer me up. Maybe I’ll even get on the blower and have a chat with him.”
Chris had recently seen Leonardo Di Caprio’s monumentally shit rip off of An Inconvenient Truth – The Eleventh Hour – and had gotten it into his head that he and Di Caprio should become mates. A bromance he’d taken to calling it.
“It makes perfect sense babes, I mean we’re both young affluent guys with a really keen sense of environmental justice. It’d be great, we’d hang out and go for bike rides and talk about our ideas for wind power and stuff.”
To this end, Chris had instructed his ‘people’ to get in touch with Di Caprio’s agent and set up some ‘face time’.
Rebecca didn’t have the heart to tell him that Leonardo Di Caprio had probably never even heard of Aussie Rules, let alone one of its most fraudulently overrated exponents. She was glad of the chance to sneak off to bed early. She’d had a few glasses of wine with Brendan early in the evening – he looked stunning in his spaghetti strap number that showed if his new assets to the finest advantage – and had had to ease up as she was driving, leaving her feeling a bit groggy and washed out.
She’d just about fallen asleep when she was startled by Chris shouting and what sounded suspiciously like a Mongolian lentil pot hitting a black slate floor with great force.
She went downstairs.
“What was that,” she asked. Chris had his head in his hands. When he raised his eyes, she could see tears forming.
“Look,” he sniffed, “Look at this.”
There was an email open on his laptop. She read it.
“Dear Mr Chudd,
Leo would like to thank you for your interest in his upcoming movie [INSERT NAME OF MOVIE HERE] . Leo has asked me to let you know that due to the volume of mail he receives, he sadly cannot respond to each message personally.
However, if you click here, Leo would like to invite you to become part of the Di Caprio Community by donating $US10 (All Major Cards Accepted) to his favoured sustainability project [ISENRT NAME OF CURRENT PROJECT HERE]
Yours with most awesome wishes,
Summer Stryker-Macgyver
Head of External Engagement Processes
Rebecca looked at Chris fondly. The poor big stupid bugger. He tried his hardest, that much was taken as read. In fact, she couldn’t think of a bigger try hard on the face of the planet.
“Come up to bed babes,” she said, gently massaging his shoulder, “Who needs stupid Leonardo Di Caprio anyway?”
As they slept, with Chris enduring an uneasy slumber, back in the great gambling den by the river, a council of war had formed.
Composed of those gents best placed to manage the effect of drinking enough piss in one night as the good people of Belfast in their entirety get through in a week, the brave band had convened to pursue a singular goal.
“Fucken Shtewie turned into a fucken fucken dinosaur or fucken whatever,” slurred Big Jono Brown.
“Nah, fucken Yeti or fucken Shashquatch or shome shit,” replied Colin, who had taken the loss of his friend Alan to the fanged jaws of the Dewosaurus only months earlier with admirable good humour.
“You fucken know what I fucken fucken reckon we should fucken do?” offered Danny ‘Four Fingers’ Chick, who had only turned up at the gig for the craic (geddit?).
Nah what, asked the assembled brains trust, which included Brendan, who lay back with his eyes closed, gently massaging his own breasts.
“We should fucken go fucken find fucken Shtewie” the missing digited dodgemaster continued, “Get some piss into him.”
There was a silence.
“Best fucken idea I’ve heard all night,” pronounced Brown, “Let’s get some fucken travellers and fucken do it.”
The motley crew headed out into the night, clutching bottles of tequila, determined to locate their old mate the Dewosaurus.
“What’s the bloody prematurely balding shit ever done anyway? And bloody Murphy and Bryce, stealing all my votes, they better make themselves scarce next time I’m about.”
Rebecca knew better than to interrupt Chris when he was in full self-righteous mode. She remembered with a shudder the time she’d innocently asked him why it was so important to separate the various plastics into their respective piles for the recycling. By the time he’d finished the slide show depicting the bloated corpses of tsunami victims, she’d regretted ever even mentioning it. And she still didn’t have an answer.
Chris was still moaning away – “none of his touches should count, his Dad was a gun at footy, mine wasn’t” – when they pulled up at the lights.
A group of hoons in a hotted up car pumping awful commercial trance music pulled up beside them. The hoons eyed up Rebecca, who was still in her stylish yet tasteful gown. One wound down the passenger side window.
“Hey gorgeous, me n the boys are going down to Flaming Moe’s in Bentleigh. Me mates Stevie and Joey here wanna know if you fancy a spit roast on the way down?” he leered.
Luckily the lights changed and the hoons sped off, cackling like rednecks with a freshly captured college boy.
Chris continued his rant as they headed down Chapel Street towards their fashionable apartment:
“When I came over here, Mr Pratt promised me he’d buy me … er, er, I’d win … a Brownlow at least every second year. And what have I got since I arrived? Bloody nothing. Bugger all.”
Rebecca turned right into their street and pulled up at the appointed complex.
“Oh jeez, I’m sorry babes, it’s not your fault, I shouldn’t take it out on you,” he said apologetically.
She smiled at him. He might be colossally thick and have a vastly over inflated sense of his own relevance in the greater scheme of things, but his heart was in the right place.
“Tell you what babes, it’s been a long night and I need to chill out a bit. Why don’t you head up to bed and I’ll check my emails. Leo must have replied by now. That’ll cheer me up. Maybe I’ll even get on the blower and have a chat with him.”
Chris had recently seen Leonardo Di Caprio’s monumentally shit rip off of An Inconvenient Truth – The Eleventh Hour – and had gotten it into his head that he and Di Caprio should become mates. A bromance he’d taken to calling it.
“It makes perfect sense babes, I mean we’re both young affluent guys with a really keen sense of environmental justice. It’d be great, we’d hang out and go for bike rides and talk about our ideas for wind power and stuff.”
To this end, Chris had instructed his ‘people’ to get in touch with Di Caprio’s agent and set up some ‘face time’.
Rebecca didn’t have the heart to tell him that Leonardo Di Caprio had probably never even heard of Aussie Rules, let alone one of its most fraudulently overrated exponents. She was glad of the chance to sneak off to bed early. She’d had a few glasses of wine with Brendan early in the evening – he looked stunning in his spaghetti strap number that showed if his new assets to the finest advantage – and had had to ease up as she was driving, leaving her feeling a bit groggy and washed out.
She’d just about fallen asleep when she was startled by Chris shouting and what sounded suspiciously like a Mongolian lentil pot hitting a black slate floor with great force.
She went downstairs.
“What was that,” she asked. Chris had his head in his hands. When he raised his eyes, she could see tears forming.
“Look,” he sniffed, “Look at this.”
There was an email open on his laptop. She read it.
“Dear Mr Chudd,
Leo would like to thank you for your interest in his upcoming movie [INSERT NAME OF MOVIE HERE] . Leo has asked me to let you know that due to the volume of mail he receives, he sadly cannot respond to each message personally.
However, if you click here, Leo would like to invite you to become part of the Di Caprio Community by donating $US10 (All Major Cards Accepted) to his favoured sustainability project [ISENRT NAME OF CURRENT PROJECT HERE]
Yours with most awesome wishes,
Summer Stryker-Macgyver
Head of External Engagement Processes
Rebecca looked at Chris fondly. The poor big stupid bugger. He tried his hardest, that much was taken as read. In fact, she couldn’t think of a bigger try hard on the face of the planet.
“Come up to bed babes,” she said, gently massaging his shoulder, “Who needs stupid Leonardo Di Caprio anyway?”
As they slept, with Chris enduring an uneasy slumber, back in the great gambling den by the river, a council of war had formed.
Composed of those gents best placed to manage the effect of drinking enough piss in one night as the good people of Belfast in their entirety get through in a week, the brave band had convened to pursue a singular goal.
“Fucken Shtewie turned into a fucken fucken dinosaur or fucken whatever,” slurred Big Jono Brown.
“Nah, fucken Yeti or fucken Shashquatch or shome shit,” replied Colin, who had taken the loss of his friend Alan to the fanged jaws of the Dewosaurus only months earlier with admirable good humour.
“You fucken know what I fucken fucken reckon we should fucken do?” offered Danny ‘Four Fingers’ Chick, who had only turned up at the gig for the craic (geddit?).
Nah what, asked the assembled brains trust, which included Brendan, who lay back with his eyes closed, gently massaging his own breasts.
“We should fucken go fucken find fucken Shtewie” the missing digited dodgemaster continued, “Get some piss into him.”
There was a silence.
“Best fucken idea I’ve heard all night,” pronounced Brown, “Let’s get some fucken travellers and fucken do it.”
The motley crew headed out into the night, clutching bottles of tequila, determined to locate their old mate the Dewosaurus.
Saturday 19 September 2009
What A Game!
The headlights from the enormous convoy of stolen early 90s model Commodores heading back west after the Dogs had shit the bed - again - in a preliminary final bathed Caro in a sickly yellow light as she worked late in her office on the CBD periphery.
She was putting the final touches on her Brendina splash. For all the flak she copped, Caro certainly worked hard at her craft. Some days, she was in the office for a whole two hours.
Her steely concentration was broken by the ever-annoying Liam bursting through the door.
"What a game!" he said with boyish exuberance, "What a bloody game. How many inches on the front page boss? I've got great react quotes from Rocket, Bob Murphy spilt his guts to me in the rooms. And the St Kilda guys were great, gave me loads."
"You're not getting the fwont page," Caroline snapped.
"What," Liam asked with thinly disguised disbelief, "We're not going on the preliminary final result on the front page of the next day's paper."
"Yeth, Wiam, that'th wight. People can get the thilly old thcores from anywhere. They can only get my inthightful and touching thtowy about Bwendan'th thtwuggle for accethpanth in this cwuel cwuel world from The Ewa"
She put her head back down. Liam tried one more time.
"But, boss, I really think ..."
She waved him away.
"Wiam, go and wite up your copy. We'll find a few inches for your widdle match weport."
With a sigh, Liam did exactly that. Two hours later, once he'd filed, he trudged over to the lift to head home for a cold beer and an empty bed.
Just as he got in the lift, he heard Sam cry out, asking him to the hold the lift. Ah fuck it, he couldn't be bothered with that weirdo tonight. He'd had enough. He pressed the ground floor button.
Just as the doors were almost closed, a scaly claw shot between them. Then another. Liam watched with unmitigated terror as Sam forced the doors open using super-human strength, like something out of Terminator 2.
She prised them apart and entered the small steel cubicle.
"Thanks for holding the lift Liam," she spat aggressively.
A silence developed, one Liam prayed would hold. But sadly, it didn't.
"You shouldn't disrespect the boss like that Liam," Sam said.
"Like what," Liam asked.
Sam moved quick as flash, pinned him up against the wall, her forearm across his throat.
"You know what I mean!" she hissed, her tongue flickering back and forth like a reptile testing the wind.
Another beat passed. She kept him pinned against the wall.
"Wanna fuck some time?"
Liam was saved by the lift reaching the ground floor and flinging its doors open.
Sam released him with a look that said - sometime soon, oh yes we will, whether you like it or not.
As Liam headed to the nearest bar for a quick beer to steady his nerves after his encounter, Sam headed home, walking through the park.
She liked walking home through the Exhibition Gardens and the other Melbourne parks. Sometimes you got some pretty hot action around the public toilets.
Tonight though, there was nothing. She kicked a twig contemptously as she went. it would have to be the hairbrush again.
Little did she know that as she went through the dark, the Dewosaurus was tracking her. For such a great beast, it could make itself quiet and all but invisible when it wanted to.
It followed her until she reached her home. It recorded the exact route she had taken then crept off to sleep.
He would strike in a week. On Grand Final day, the time when the Dewosaurus did all his best work.
She was putting the final touches on her Brendina splash. For all the flak she copped, Caro certainly worked hard at her craft. Some days, she was in the office for a whole two hours.
Her steely concentration was broken by the ever-annoying Liam bursting through the door.
"What a game!" he said with boyish exuberance, "What a bloody game. How many inches on the front page boss? I've got great react quotes from Rocket, Bob Murphy spilt his guts to me in the rooms. And the St Kilda guys were great, gave me loads."
"You're not getting the fwont page," Caroline snapped.
"What," Liam asked with thinly disguised disbelief, "We're not going on the preliminary final result on the front page of the next day's paper."
"Yeth, Wiam, that'th wight. People can get the thilly old thcores from anywhere. They can only get my inthightful and touching thtowy about Bwendan'th thtwuggle for accethpanth in this cwuel cwuel world from The Ewa"
She put her head back down. Liam tried one more time.
"But, boss, I really think ..."
She waved him away.
"Wiam, go and wite up your copy. We'll find a few inches for your widdle match weport."
With a sigh, Liam did exactly that. Two hours later, once he'd filed, he trudged over to the lift to head home for a cold beer and an empty bed.
Just as he got in the lift, he heard Sam cry out, asking him to the hold the lift. Ah fuck it, he couldn't be bothered with that weirdo tonight. He'd had enough. He pressed the ground floor button.
Just as the doors were almost closed, a scaly claw shot between them. Then another. Liam watched with unmitigated terror as Sam forced the doors open using super-human strength, like something out of Terminator 2.
She prised them apart and entered the small steel cubicle.
"Thanks for holding the lift Liam," she spat aggressively.
A silence developed, one Liam prayed would hold. But sadly, it didn't.
"You shouldn't disrespect the boss like that Liam," Sam said.
"Like what," Liam asked.
Sam moved quick as flash, pinned him up against the wall, her forearm across his throat.
"You know what I mean!" she hissed, her tongue flickering back and forth like a reptile testing the wind.
Another beat passed. She kept him pinned against the wall.
"Wanna fuck some time?"
Liam was saved by the lift reaching the ground floor and flinging its doors open.
Sam released him with a look that said - sometime soon, oh yes we will, whether you like it or not.
As Liam headed to the nearest bar for a quick beer to steady his nerves after his encounter, Sam headed home, walking through the park.
She liked walking home through the Exhibition Gardens and the other Melbourne parks. Sometimes you got some pretty hot action around the public toilets.
Tonight though, there was nothing. She kicked a twig contemptously as she went. it would have to be the hairbrush again.
Little did she know that as she went through the dark, the Dewosaurus was tracking her. For such a great beast, it could make itself quiet and all but invisible when it wanted to.
It followed her until she reached her home. It recorded the exact route she had taken then crept off to sleep.
He would strike in a week. On Grand Final day, the time when the Dewosaurus did all his best work.
Friday 18 September 2009
The Dewosaurus Revealed!
Artist's Impression of a Dewosaurus on the hunt for manflesh.
Thanks to wwww.themandus.com for the image
Thursday 17 September 2009
Nothing Like A Pint
Ever fancied buying the bloke who writes this disturbed shit a beer? Probably not, you've probably been more tempted to inform social services of his madman's screeds.
But if you do want to assist this crazed project along, or simply contribute to my ongoing Caro sex scene writing counselling bills, you can click below to MAKE A DIFFERENCE by chucking in an Aussie Dollar (other currencies probably work too, have a shot) denominated donation.
BUT WAIT!
This isn't just any ordinary Internet scam. There's some totally reassuring details below to absorb:
- Even if only a few of you demonstrate basic human kindness, I'll keep writing this stuff anyway. I'll only put this up for a few days.
- You get complete unlimited access to the entire Rebecca's Journey and The Amazing Transformation Of Miss Brendina Fevolina archives!
- You can rest assured that the HTML involved in this post has strained the very limited sinews of my computer ability. If you are concerned that by donating to PayPal below, I'll somehow have access to your details, well, even if there is some chink in their security, it'll be some crafty 17 year old Belorussian who figures it out, not a slowcoach like me.
- AND FINALLY! If a few bucks turn up, I'm going to do the right thing and do what Krudd asks and reinvest in the business. Competitively-priced Dewosaurus themed merchandise here we come. T-shirts, mouse mats, coffee cups. And with Christmas coming up ... can you afford not to?
SO DO THE RIGHT THING AND ONCE YOU HAVE, SEE THE NEXT POST DOWN FOR THE NEW BIT!
The Worst Bit Of The Season
Andrew turned up the music as the annoying fat bald man in front of him made it obvious he would not cease his tiresome yammering anytime soon.
Pachelbal's Canon In D Major.
Divine.
"Excuse me sir, I really think we need to discuss the new looking at the back rule ahead of the Grand Final. The interpretation could cause some outcry if my boys get it wrong," Jeff pleaded.
Andrew let his eyelids fall and depressed the mute button on the remote to his $2.5m gold plated Bang and Olufsen office sound system. Money well spent.
"Jeff," he said in a tone which I'm sure you can all imagine, "Put it in a memo or get a visit from Sledge. Your choice."
Jeff, who wasn't as dumb as his face or his many new rules suggested, took the hint.
"Very well sire."
The dolt left Andrew's office in the traditional fashion, his tie an impromptu chamois dragging arross the marble a few inches ahead of its owners face as he withdrew with extreme deference.
Andrew made the music return by applying the slightest pressure to the button underneath his thumb. The soaring strings returned. Glorious.
He hated this time of year. The imbeciles that were the great unwashed public cock-a-hoop with their tawdry pastime. Finals, they would shout, it's the FINALS!
Primitives.
As if this weekend wasn't bad enough, there was the Grand Final looming in just over a week's time. God, what a spectacle. Nearly a hundred thousand country-fried rubes gawking in wonder as an FA-18 fighter soared overhead. Yes, idiots, he longed to shout from his royal box, yes, mankind has mastered the feat of controlled flight. 'Tis no wizard's illusion, serfs, there's indeed a man controlling the great silver bird.
Andrew couldn't wait for the hated 'season' to be past so he concentrate on the real business of the year: shafting the pathetic West Melbourne Wombats up to the lucrative Hunter Valley where they belonged. That'd be the last of his KPIs met. Then the Sith Lords on the Commission would give him his promised reward. In both cash and liquid form.
His reverie was unexpectedly disturbed by a lisping banshee with a really shit haircut.
"Andwew!" it cried, "Andwew, good newth!"
Again he silenced the music. He would hear the witch speak.
Caroline was excited, babbling. He wondered if she'd been dining at the Y again.
"Tho Bwendan hath actuwawwy got the tith. And fuck me thidewayths with a thtick, they're wippers!" she enthused.
His expression made it plain she should be concise.
"OK, tho I've got exwuwsive wights to the stowy. I weckon we wun with that until after the thtupid Gwand Fiwnal. That way, you can thtitch up these sthupid Wombats and I can wun that stwaight after. You win, I win, evewybody wins."
"Except the Wombats," he said in that tone of voice he'd been practicing in the mirror that he was sure made him sound like Al Pacino.
"Everybody except the Wombats."
As Andrew fell back into the spell of the music, the magnificent music, Caro was heading to The Era's office in a cab.
As soon as she arrived, she called Sam into her office.
The younger woman splayed herself herself in the chair, chewing gum and occasionaly shoving her hand gruffly down underneath her skirt to scratch herself like a monkey.
"You need to way off on this Bwendan thing. No questionth. This ith stwaight from the top," she ordered.
Sam considered her with ill-disguised contempt.
"You fucken rooting someone again," she spat, more a statement than a question. "You mining some new bitch's seam?"
Caroline had to play this one carefully. Sam had become increasingly unpredictable of late. The hairbrush that sat on her desk was increasingly bloodied every time Caroline walked past. You never knew who'd she'd turn on next.
"Tham, Tham, my cwazy widdle Tham. Pathienth, pathienth, ipetuwouth one. Thometimeth you have to weawise that dithcwetion ith the better part of vawour. Your time will come, that much is thure," she said in the most conciliatory of tones.
Sam stood, pawed at her itchy red raw lady region, and left muttering inaudible imprecations.
Phew, thought Caro to herself. That wath a cwose wun.
Next cab off the rank was that pesky Liam. He always banging on about attention to detail, his ethics, his bullshit integrity stuff. Young bloke wouldn't go far in footy journalism if he kept that up.
"Wiam," she shouted into the phone, "Get your arth in here. I need some wesearch on Bwendan for a piethe I'm doing. Basiceth and thtuff. How many goalth he'th kicked, avewage Dweam Team thcore, who he playeth for, that kind of bowing thit."
The game was afoot.
Pachelbal's Canon In D Major.
Divine.
"Excuse me sir, I really think we need to discuss the new looking at the back rule ahead of the Grand Final. The interpretation could cause some outcry if my boys get it wrong," Jeff pleaded.
Andrew let his eyelids fall and depressed the mute button on the remote to his $2.5m gold plated Bang and Olufsen office sound system. Money well spent.
"Jeff," he said in a tone which I'm sure you can all imagine, "Put it in a memo or get a visit from Sledge. Your choice."
Jeff, who wasn't as dumb as his face or his many new rules suggested, took the hint.
"Very well sire."
The dolt left Andrew's office in the traditional fashion, his tie an impromptu chamois dragging arross the marble a few inches ahead of its owners face as he withdrew with extreme deference.
Andrew made the music return by applying the slightest pressure to the button underneath his thumb. The soaring strings returned. Glorious.
He hated this time of year. The imbeciles that were the great unwashed public cock-a-hoop with their tawdry pastime. Finals, they would shout, it's the FINALS!
Primitives.
As if this weekend wasn't bad enough, there was the Grand Final looming in just over a week's time. God, what a spectacle. Nearly a hundred thousand country-fried rubes gawking in wonder as an FA-18 fighter soared overhead. Yes, idiots, he longed to shout from his royal box, yes, mankind has mastered the feat of controlled flight. 'Tis no wizard's illusion, serfs, there's indeed a man controlling the great silver bird.
Andrew couldn't wait for the hated 'season' to be past so he concentrate on the real business of the year: shafting the pathetic West Melbourne Wombats up to the lucrative Hunter Valley where they belonged. That'd be the last of his KPIs met. Then the Sith Lords on the Commission would give him his promised reward. In both cash and liquid form.
His reverie was unexpectedly disturbed by a lisping banshee with a really shit haircut.
"Andwew!" it cried, "Andwew, good newth!"
Again he silenced the music. He would hear the witch speak.
Caroline was excited, babbling. He wondered if she'd been dining at the Y again.
"Tho Bwendan hath actuwawwy got the tith. And fuck me thidewayths with a thtick, they're wippers!" she enthused.
His expression made it plain she should be concise.
"OK, tho I've got exwuwsive wights to the stowy. I weckon we wun with that until after the thtupid Gwand Fiwnal. That way, you can thtitch up these sthupid Wombats and I can wun that stwaight after. You win, I win, evewybody wins."
"Except the Wombats," he said in that tone of voice he'd been practicing in the mirror that he was sure made him sound like Al Pacino.
"Everybody except the Wombats."
As Andrew fell back into the spell of the music, the magnificent music, Caro was heading to The Era's office in a cab.
As soon as she arrived, she called Sam into her office.
The younger woman splayed herself herself in the chair, chewing gum and occasionaly shoving her hand gruffly down underneath her skirt to scratch herself like a monkey.
"You need to way off on this Bwendan thing. No questionth. This ith stwaight from the top," she ordered.
Sam considered her with ill-disguised contempt.
"You fucken rooting someone again," she spat, more a statement than a question. "You mining some new bitch's seam?"
Caroline had to play this one carefully. Sam had become increasingly unpredictable of late. The hairbrush that sat on her desk was increasingly bloodied every time Caroline walked past. You never knew who'd she'd turn on next.
"Tham, Tham, my cwazy widdle Tham. Pathienth, pathienth, ipetuwouth one. Thometimeth you have to weawise that dithcwetion ith the better part of vawour. Your time will come, that much is thure," she said in the most conciliatory of tones.
Sam stood, pawed at her itchy red raw lady region, and left muttering inaudible imprecations.
Phew, thought Caro to herself. That wath a cwose wun.
Next cab off the rank was that pesky Liam. He always banging on about attention to detail, his ethics, his bullshit integrity stuff. Young bloke wouldn't go far in footy journalism if he kept that up.
"Wiam," she shouted into the phone, "Get your arth in here. I need some wesearch on Bwendan for a piethe I'm doing. Basiceth and thtuff. How many goalth he'th kicked, avewage Dweam Team thcore, who he playeth for, that kind of bowing thit."
The game was afoot.
Wednesday 16 September 2009
Kold Feet In Kew
The young Hawthorn supporter sat at his desk in bedroom in Kew and smirked at his effort.
He'd spent literally hours composing a 'witty' post on a football chat site aimed at an online adversary. And now he'd posted it. As he waited for the avalanche of praise that was sure to follow his 'pwning' of his enemy, he rubbed his feet together to dispel the cold.
He wished Mum would let him have socks in his bedroom again, but she was adamant.
"No!" she'd said, "You'll just wank into them and ruin them like you did the other hundreds of pairs we've bought you."
It hadn't stopped his furious mastubatory habits though. Not with the poster of Lance and Chance at the Big Gay Dance that he had on his wall. He wanked into and onto anything and everything he could. His fish, Max and Bailey had died after a particularly savage session in which he'd tossed a big white floating jizz slick into their tank.
Being outside didn't stop him either. His favourite game when Mum let him play in the park after he'd finished his homework was to go to the sandpit and draw a line through it. Then he'd take a few steps back and see if he could wank across it. It was rather fitting that he did it, even if he was too shit thick and moronic to know it, because in reality, the biggest wank in Melbourne in recent years was the Line In The Sand Game.
Back in his room, he decided he'd wait until he got his first postive reply to his thread from a non-Hawthorn supporter before knocking out his fifteenth and final hand shandy of the day. It was a poor total he knew, most days he cranked out twenty, twenty five tugs without even breaking a sweat, but then, it was hard to get hard being a Hawthorn supporter these days.
The most pathetic premiership defence in living memory. One that ended up in a humiliating defeat by a hated enemny and the widespread ridcule of the football world when the so-called hardman of the side was revealed as a giant loudmouth flog with the backbone of a Portguese Man'o'war. And the humiliation of chasing after a bloke who couldn't even get a game in the North backline with desperation of a lawyer after an ambulance.
He pressed refresh. Still no positive feedback. Just a few supporters from 'flog' clubs taunting him. Ah well, they weren't rich and super-cool and going to win like the next fifty zillion flags like the Mighty Hawkers.
The young poster eased open the door to the passageway that ran by the side of the house. He decided he'd rub a pre-pre bedtime toss out in the backyard. He liked to cum on a gumleaf and eat it as a bedtime snack.
It was the worst - and final - decision of his life. For in his backyard, a hungry Dewosaurus lurked. The great beast had arrived in Melbourne and was hunting Sam, with the aim of devouring her on Grand Final night in a magnificently timed end to his tenure in this world.
The creature leapt upon the Hawthorn poster even before the scrawny youngster could expose his pathetic shrivelled excuse for a dick to the cold night air. The Dewosaurus fed quickly, taking the scant meat from the bones in great gulps before leaving the torn corpse in the backyard and bounding over the fence to find a resting place in which to digest his meal.
Sam's days were numbered, even if she didn't know it.
In the morning, the youthful Hawthorn supporters parents were briefly shocked to find the dismembered body of their son in a bloody heap in the backyard.
"Ah well," they said to each other as they loaded what was left into binbags to take down the tip and dump with the other old shit, "We never really liked the little wanker anyway."
He'd spent literally hours composing a 'witty' post on a football chat site aimed at an online adversary. And now he'd posted it. As he waited for the avalanche of praise that was sure to follow his 'pwning' of his enemy, he rubbed his feet together to dispel the cold.
He wished Mum would let him have socks in his bedroom again, but she was adamant.
"No!" she'd said, "You'll just wank into them and ruin them like you did the other hundreds of pairs we've bought you."
It hadn't stopped his furious mastubatory habits though. Not with the poster of Lance and Chance at the Big Gay Dance that he had on his wall. He wanked into and onto anything and everything he could. His fish, Max and Bailey had died after a particularly savage session in which he'd tossed a big white floating jizz slick into their tank.
Being outside didn't stop him either. His favourite game when Mum let him play in the park after he'd finished his homework was to go to the sandpit and draw a line through it. Then he'd take a few steps back and see if he could wank across it. It was rather fitting that he did it, even if he was too shit thick and moronic to know it, because in reality, the biggest wank in Melbourne in recent years was the Line In The Sand Game.
Back in his room, he decided he'd wait until he got his first postive reply to his thread from a non-Hawthorn supporter before knocking out his fifteenth and final hand shandy of the day. It was a poor total he knew, most days he cranked out twenty, twenty five tugs without even breaking a sweat, but then, it was hard to get hard being a Hawthorn supporter these days.
The most pathetic premiership defence in living memory. One that ended up in a humiliating defeat by a hated enemny and the widespread ridcule of the football world when the so-called hardman of the side was revealed as a giant loudmouth flog with the backbone of a Portguese Man'o'war. And the humiliation of chasing after a bloke who couldn't even get a game in the North backline with desperation of a lawyer after an ambulance.
He pressed refresh. Still no positive feedback. Just a few supporters from 'flog' clubs taunting him. Ah well, they weren't rich and super-cool and going to win like the next fifty zillion flags like the Mighty Hawkers.
The young poster eased open the door to the passageway that ran by the side of the house. He decided he'd rub a pre-pre bedtime toss out in the backyard. He liked to cum on a gumleaf and eat it as a bedtime snack.
It was the worst - and final - decision of his life. For in his backyard, a hungry Dewosaurus lurked. The great beast had arrived in Melbourne and was hunting Sam, with the aim of devouring her on Grand Final night in a magnificently timed end to his tenure in this world.
The creature leapt upon the Hawthorn poster even before the scrawny youngster could expose his pathetic shrivelled excuse for a dick to the cold night air. The Dewosaurus fed quickly, taking the scant meat from the bones in great gulps before leaving the torn corpse in the backyard and bounding over the fence to find a resting place in which to digest his meal.
Sam's days were numbered, even if she didn't know it.
In the morning, the youthful Hawthorn supporters parents were briefly shocked to find the dismembered body of their son in a bloody heap in the backyard.
"Ah well," they said to each other as they loaded what was left into binbags to take down the tip and dump with the other old shit, "We never really liked the little wanker anyway."
Can A Leopard Change Its Spots?
Wow, thought Rebecca as she watched Caroline weaving her way through the busy city cafe. A few months ago I didn't even know who you were. And now, so much has happened.
She and Caro had embarked on a torrid affair that had been exposed in the media threatening her relationship with Chris. Said relationship had continued to dwindle after Mr Pratt went to the great Competition Commission hearing in the sky. There'd the whole disaster of that witch Sam trying to have her killed by a zoo keeper angered because poor old Stewie Dew, who had regressed into a pre-human state, had gone on a rampage and eaten all his animals.
Then the Dewosaurus had gone completley wild and eaten Alan Didak. And just when you thought everything had finally calmed down, with the Dewosaurus safely captured and sent to a farm in South Australia, Brendan and his newfound desire for boobs had come into her life. You couldn't make it up. It was like some weird satire, but only real.
Rebecca glanced over at Brendan, who was wearing a black satin shirt with the top buttons undone to show to advantage his new and undeniably impressive assets.
"Are you ready? Remember, just let me do the talking," she said.
Caroline arrived at the table and sat down with a swish.
"Webecca," she said briskly before assessing Brendan. "Nithe tiths, Brendan," she said.
"I appreciate you're probably very busy at this time of year, so we'll keep it quick," Rebecca began, "Brendan is going to have a tough time bringing the club and the footy public onside to his new choice of ... lifestyle. We need your help to break the story in a positive way."
"What'th in it for me," Caroline said, still looking directly at Brendan's magnificent chebs, which were straining against his shirt with what looked like actual force, as if they were determined to display their glory to the entire world.
"You get completely exclusive rights to the story. Nobody else gets anything. It's all yours. But there's something else."
"Yeth, what?" Caroline asked frostily. Rebecca could tell she was entranced by Brendan's new dirty pillows. She couldn't blame her.
"You have to call Sam off. That talentless little witch, all she does is beat up bullshit stories with a creepy sex angle into something far beyond what they actually are. I mean, jeez, how did she even get a job in journalism anyway? Is her dad the boss or something?"
"Yeth, thort of," Caro replied distantly.
"Anyway, that's the deal. You do the story and make sure that horrible little freak stays well away. How's that sound?"
Caro paused a moment before reaching over and opening another of Brendan's shirt buttons, revealing another few inches of perfectly formed cleavage. She slowly ran her finger down the crevice of pleasure.
"Actuwawy," she purred, "There might thomething elthe I want too ..."
She and Caro had embarked on a torrid affair that had been exposed in the media threatening her relationship with Chris. Said relationship had continued to dwindle after Mr Pratt went to the great Competition Commission hearing in the sky. There'd the whole disaster of that witch Sam trying to have her killed by a zoo keeper angered because poor old Stewie Dew, who had regressed into a pre-human state, had gone on a rampage and eaten all his animals.
Then the Dewosaurus had gone completley wild and eaten Alan Didak. And just when you thought everything had finally calmed down, with the Dewosaurus safely captured and sent to a farm in South Australia, Brendan and his newfound desire for boobs had come into her life. You couldn't make it up. It was like some weird satire, but only real.
Rebecca glanced over at Brendan, who was wearing a black satin shirt with the top buttons undone to show to advantage his new and undeniably impressive assets.
"Are you ready? Remember, just let me do the talking," she said.
Caroline arrived at the table and sat down with a swish.
"Webecca," she said briskly before assessing Brendan. "Nithe tiths, Brendan," she said.
"I appreciate you're probably very busy at this time of year, so we'll keep it quick," Rebecca began, "Brendan is going to have a tough time bringing the club and the footy public onside to his new choice of ... lifestyle. We need your help to break the story in a positive way."
"What'th in it for me," Caroline said, still looking directly at Brendan's magnificent chebs, which were straining against his shirt with what looked like actual force, as if they were determined to display their glory to the entire world.
"You get completely exclusive rights to the story. Nobody else gets anything. It's all yours. But there's something else."
"Yeth, what?" Caroline asked frostily. Rebecca could tell she was entranced by Brendan's new dirty pillows. She couldn't blame her.
"You have to call Sam off. That talentless little witch, all she does is beat up bullshit stories with a creepy sex angle into something far beyond what they actually are. I mean, jeez, how did she even get a job in journalism anyway? Is her dad the boss or something?"
"Yeth, thort of," Caro replied distantly.
"Anyway, that's the deal. You do the story and make sure that horrible little freak stays well away. How's that sound?"
Caro paused a moment before reaching over and opening another of Brendan's shirt buttons, revealing another few inches of perfectly formed cleavage. She slowly ran her finger down the crevice of pleasure.
"Actuwawy," she purred, "There might thomething elthe I want too ..."
Friday 11 September 2009
Today Wasn't A Good Day
Chris really wasn't having a good day.
First, he'd gone to his favourite overpriced earthenware emporium in North Carlton to purchase a new Mongolian lentil pot after he'd found his old one unaccountably smashed in the bin at home.
He'd driven out there and gone into the shop and after carefully selecting one for its environmental credentials (he chose one that had been flown first class from Addis Ababa to ensure the clay was still warm from the kiln when it reached the shop) he'd gone up to counter to pay for it only to realise he'd left his wallet at home.
No matter. He shopped here regularly and anyway, he was Chris Judd, known and admired for his honesty and strength of character. Surely the hippy bloke who ran the store would let him take the bowl and pop back later to pay for it once he'd gone home and grabbed his wallet.
But no. He wouldn't.
Chris was genuinely puzzled.
"Come on mate, don't you know who I am? I'm Chris Judd! Everyone knows I'm a good guy, honest and reliable, devoting literally minutes every week to my work as an Environmental Ambassador for Visy, one of Australia's best loved companies!" he pleaded.
"I don't care if you are Harold fucking Holt risen from your watery grave to announce the second coming of Christ mate," the hippy had spat, "You're not walking out of here with that bowl unless you give me $175."
The hippy grabbed the bowl for emphasis. Chris turned and left.
Things got worse when he got back to the Prius. He started and almost immediately, the pretend car died in the arse. He saw it had no fuel left. And obviously, he had no money to go and buy any.
No bother he thought. I got a high ENTER! I'll think of something. Ten minutes later he'd finally worked it out. He'd get a cab home, then run in and get his wallet and pay the bloke.
Unfortunately for Chris, his taxi driver, a new arrival from East Africa, although an intelligent man, hadn't really fully grasped the complexities of Australian life and the idea that what happened on a footy field would generally stay there.
So when Chris opened the door to his taxi, all the poor bloke saw was the savage from the television who had been trying to steal the other man's eyes, probably to use in some witchdoctery.
"No, warlock!" he had cried, "Take not my eyes!" before pulling out and speeding away, leaving Chris standing dumbfounded by the side of the road.
Luckily the driver of the next cab in the rank was a Carlton supporting ex crim who had shared a cell with Jason Moran in Port Philip, who happily took Chris home.
"You ever need any of this mate," the driver had said, tapping his nose suggestively, "Or your root some bitch on the sly and she says she's gunna go to the papers and you need her shut up, you just call me. Oh yeah, and if the club needs to wash some 'extra' salary stuff through the old meter here, always happy to help"
When Chris walked in, it just got worse. There was Rebecca standing putting a bra on Fev, who clearly, quite clearly, had got the breast implants he'd been talking about put in.
"Uh, hi babes," he said.
"Hello Chris," Rebecca said sharply, "I'm just helping Brendan here."
Fev just grinned like a big idiot, and nodded his head in a silent hello, which only caused his magnificent breasts to jiggle in way Chris found alarmingly alluring.
Chris picked his wallet up off the bench. Headed back outside. He needed to clear his head. He needed to get that danged lentil pot and collect the car. He hailed another cab and headed back over to North Carlton.
Once he'd gone Rebecca gently slipped one hand inside the cup of Brendan's bra and weighed the specatcular fake mammary, squeezing gently.
"This bra is a nice fit," she ssaid.
"You know what we need to do, Brendan? We need to get on the front foot with this. If that horrible little freakazoid Sam gets to you first, she'll twist this into something its not. We need to tell your side of the story. Come on, Caroline owes me one or two, we're going to make sure this plays right."
First, he'd gone to his favourite overpriced earthenware emporium in North Carlton to purchase a new Mongolian lentil pot after he'd found his old one unaccountably smashed in the bin at home.
He'd driven out there and gone into the shop and after carefully selecting one for its environmental credentials (he chose one that had been flown first class from Addis Ababa to ensure the clay was still warm from the kiln when it reached the shop) he'd gone up to counter to pay for it only to realise he'd left his wallet at home.
No matter. He shopped here regularly and anyway, he was Chris Judd, known and admired for his honesty and strength of character. Surely the hippy bloke who ran the store would let him take the bowl and pop back later to pay for it once he'd gone home and grabbed his wallet.
But no. He wouldn't.
Chris was genuinely puzzled.
"Come on mate, don't you know who I am? I'm Chris Judd! Everyone knows I'm a good guy, honest and reliable, devoting literally minutes every week to my work as an Environmental Ambassador for Visy, one of Australia's best loved companies!" he pleaded.
"I don't care if you are Harold fucking Holt risen from your watery grave to announce the second coming of Christ mate," the hippy had spat, "You're not walking out of here with that bowl unless you give me $175."
The hippy grabbed the bowl for emphasis. Chris turned and left.
Things got worse when he got back to the Prius. He started and almost immediately, the pretend car died in the arse. He saw it had no fuel left. And obviously, he had no money to go and buy any.
No bother he thought. I got a high ENTER! I'll think of something. Ten minutes later he'd finally worked it out. He'd get a cab home, then run in and get his wallet and pay the bloke.
Unfortunately for Chris, his taxi driver, a new arrival from East Africa, although an intelligent man, hadn't really fully grasped the complexities of Australian life and the idea that what happened on a footy field would generally stay there.
So when Chris opened the door to his taxi, all the poor bloke saw was the savage from the television who had been trying to steal the other man's eyes, probably to use in some witchdoctery.
"No, warlock!" he had cried, "Take not my eyes!" before pulling out and speeding away, leaving Chris standing dumbfounded by the side of the road.
Luckily the driver of the next cab in the rank was a Carlton supporting ex crim who had shared a cell with Jason Moran in Port Philip, who happily took Chris home.
"You ever need any of this mate," the driver had said, tapping his nose suggestively, "Or your root some bitch on the sly and she says she's gunna go to the papers and you need her shut up, you just call me. Oh yeah, and if the club needs to wash some 'extra' salary stuff through the old meter here, always happy to help"
When Chris walked in, it just got worse. There was Rebecca standing putting a bra on Fev, who clearly, quite clearly, had got the breast implants he'd been talking about put in.
"Uh, hi babes," he said.
"Hello Chris," Rebecca said sharply, "I'm just helping Brendan here."
Fev just grinned like a big idiot, and nodded his head in a silent hello, which only caused his magnificent breasts to jiggle in way Chris found alarmingly alluring.
Chris picked his wallet up off the bench. Headed back outside. He needed to clear his head. He needed to get that danged lentil pot and collect the car. He hailed another cab and headed back over to North Carlton.
Once he'd gone Rebecca gently slipped one hand inside the cup of Brendan's bra and weighed the specatcular fake mammary, squeezing gently.
"This bra is a nice fit," she ssaid.
"You know what we need to do, Brendan? We need to get on the front foot with this. If that horrible little freakazoid Sam gets to you first, she'll twist this into something its not. We need to tell your side of the story. Come on, Caroline owes me one or two, we're going to make sure this plays right."
Wednesday 9 September 2009
A Bright Future
"Just imagine it, Josh," the oleaginous Hawthorn recruiter whispered in the good hearted but thick as shit young man's ear.
"You and Buddy Love out on the dancefloor at clubs, doing choreographed dance moves to the latest hot 40 hits, youse will be beating the chicks off with a stick with a picture of Jarryd Roughead on it," Wormtongue continued.
Josh adjusted his pose ever so slightly so he could get a better view of his reflection in the shiny wood surface of the cafe they were sitting in.
"And there's the money Josh. The lovely beautiful money we get from two-headed Tassie taxpayers and desperate souls who steal from their kids piggybanks for one last pokie hit. A million bucks mate. Do you know how much that is?"
Josh shook his head slowly.
"It's ten times a hundred thousand dollars and a hundred thousand dollars is fifty times fity thousand dollars. And you know how many tightly fitting shirts you could buy with fifty thousand bucks? A million."
Josh took all this in. Slowly. Very slowly. It all sounded so attractive, so brilliant. But he just wasn't sure how it would work.
"But how can you afford to give me all that money when you have Buddy and Roughy and Juniour and Hodge and all those guys?" he asked, one of the more pertinent questions he ever had.
"Oh don't you worry your pretty little head about that," Wormtongue soothed, "We'll sort all that out. Now just go and publicly demand a trade so we can try and drastically reduce your cost at the trade table in an no way typically doggish Hawthorn act."
On the other side of the city, a far more gentle and loving scene was unfolding.
Brendan, who had had never liked the base frivolity and grotesque drunkness of Mad Monday, had taken the opportunity to have his long awaited breast implant operation. Now, the glorious globes, modelled exactly on those of Scarlett Johannson, sat proudly on this chest.
"Let me see them," asked Rebecca, who had been his constant companion throughout the fraught process.
Brendan took of his shirt slowly and Rebecca felt herself begin to melt. With a toss of his bald head, he allowed his shirt to fall to the ground and stood there in his silicon magnificence.
Rebecca rose and walked over to him. Gently, she cupped Brendan's magnificent tits. He sighed gently.
"Can you feel that," she asked. He nodded.
"We just need to see if you've retained nipple sensation," she purred.
She began to lick around the aeorolia, in a soft circular motion, gently kneading his other breast with left hand. Her pace quickened and she softly bit the rapidly rising nipple. And then, at last, she threw caution to the wind and buried her face deep into Miss Brendina Fevolina's s brand new, enormous set of fake of tits.
"You and Buddy Love out on the dancefloor at clubs, doing choreographed dance moves to the latest hot 40 hits, youse will be beating the chicks off with a stick with a picture of Jarryd Roughead on it," Wormtongue continued.
Josh adjusted his pose ever so slightly so he could get a better view of his reflection in the shiny wood surface of the cafe they were sitting in.
"And there's the money Josh. The lovely beautiful money we get from two-headed Tassie taxpayers and desperate souls who steal from their kids piggybanks for one last pokie hit. A million bucks mate. Do you know how much that is?"
Josh shook his head slowly.
"It's ten times a hundred thousand dollars and a hundred thousand dollars is fifty times fity thousand dollars. And you know how many tightly fitting shirts you could buy with fifty thousand bucks? A million."
Josh took all this in. Slowly. Very slowly. It all sounded so attractive, so brilliant. But he just wasn't sure how it would work.
"But how can you afford to give me all that money when you have Buddy and Roughy and Juniour and Hodge and all those guys?" he asked, one of the more pertinent questions he ever had.
"Oh don't you worry your pretty little head about that," Wormtongue soothed, "We'll sort all that out. Now just go and publicly demand a trade so we can try and drastically reduce your cost at the trade table in an no way typically doggish Hawthorn act."
On the other side of the city, a far more gentle and loving scene was unfolding.
Brendan, who had had never liked the base frivolity and grotesque drunkness of Mad Monday, had taken the opportunity to have his long awaited breast implant operation. Now, the glorious globes, modelled exactly on those of Scarlett Johannson, sat proudly on this chest.
"Let me see them," asked Rebecca, who had been his constant companion throughout the fraught process.
Brendan took of his shirt slowly and Rebecca felt herself begin to melt. With a toss of his bald head, he allowed his shirt to fall to the ground and stood there in his silicon magnificence.
Rebecca rose and walked over to him. Gently, she cupped Brendan's magnificent tits. He sighed gently.
"Can you feel that," she asked. He nodded.
"We just need to see if you've retained nipple sensation," she purred.
She began to lick around the aeorolia, in a soft circular motion, gently kneading his other breast with left hand. Her pace quickened and she softly bit the rapidly rising nipple. And then, at last, she threw caution to the wind and buried her face deep into Miss Brendina Fevolina's s brand new, enormous set of fake of tits.
Saturday 5 September 2009
Rebecca breathed the gentlest of sighs as she watched Chris' hand rub across the face of that poor Brisbane player, Rizzydizzytellytubbie or whatever he was called.
Funny how Chris couldn't keep his hands off all these other blokes, but barely seemed interested in her.
She slipped her own hand down her banana yellow Juicy Couture trackydaks - even staying in and having a quiet night she was stylish - and let her hand rest on her mound, considering allowing her finger to travel those final few centimetres to what Caroline had so memorably described as her "thpecial thite" during their brief, yet magical affair.
The wisps of her remaining pubic hair tickled gently at the back of her wrist. She had the Chinese character for "opportunity" shaved there just a few days ago, in the hope of enticing Chris into a decent root for once.
But no, no luck. Even as she'd showed it to him, wearing her very best Myer's lingerie ($12.99 the set or just a fiver for the bra, 20 per cent off at the Chaddy shop if you buy something from the food hall) all he'd said was:
"I think they've missed a curl on the final stroke babes. Good calligraphy is so important in Chinese culture, even getting it a little bit wrong can change the whole meaning of the character. I think yours actually says 'devil's hole' now."
Cheers Chris. Thanks for that.
She decided against a girlyflog after all and concentrated on the footy. They showed the replay again and it really didn't look good. Even if he didn't gouge his eyes, he still shouldn't have had his hand there.
Geez, thought Rebecca, I could do with a good gouging. It was Saturday night, her boyfriend was away, she could just hit the clubs, pick up some young stud, fuck him senseless, then come home. But her being who she was, that wasn't possible. She'd be recognised. She suddenly realised she had become trapped, a prisoner of her own fame. She was the Princess Diana of the footy world.
Nah, no one night anonymous root for her. Instead she'd have to wait until tomorrow when Chris returned from Brisbane. Bloody Brisbane. He'd been shocked to learn she wouldn't come up with him.
"But babes, I need you there," he'd moaned.
So tomorrow he'd come back and he'd want a root and she'd lie there like a particularly dispirited starfish left stranded on a slimy rock at a shitty beach while he pumped away on top of her like a big boring jackhammer, counting every bloody stroke in the same tone as the talking clock Telstra used.
It was all just so vanilla. And to make it worse, he'd whinge endlessly about being 'targeted' by the umpires even though everyone in the world knew he always got away with so much more.
God. How depressing. At least she had Brendan's boob job on Monday to look forward to. He might be a big oaf, but he was nice enough and she could see he was genuine in his desire to become a half man, half woman, like that soccer player Fernando Torres.
Then it hit her. An image, a mental picture that instantly got her wetter than a Sunday arvo in Tassie.
Brendan, on her chair in her office, his top half resplendent with large yet firm breasts modelled exactly on Scarlett Johansson's while below, his enormous rigid manhood.
She saw herself astride him, riding him like a Melbourne Cup winner, a man inside her yet beautiful womanly breats in front to caress and nuzzle as if they were those of the great goddess Eros herself. The best of both worlds.
Rebecca's finger shot straight to her pleasure organ and it took only a few twirls until she peaked with a most magnificent orgasm. She kept the thought in her head and her hand down her pants and went for it until continously until two hours later, she lay spent on the couch, panting and almost teary with pure pleasure.
She'd need to get the steam cleaner out and give the cushion covers the once over before Chris got home, such was the musky stench of her vigorous self-love. But no matter, it was worth it. She couldn't wait for Monday.
Across Melbourne, Sam was also having a Saturday night wankathon. But instead of a highly charged erotic fantasy, she was doing it while watching videos of American soldiers abusing detainess at Abu Ghraib.
"Come on," she'd snarl as a rough-hewn Marine from Kentucky instered an electric baton into the anus of a terrified teenage prisoner, "Fucken give it to him harder!"
And with every new depravity, she ran the hairbrush over her own scalded and raw sex parts, trying to force one more black shudder from their tortured depths.
Such was the intensity of her furious masturbation, and the volume of the sickening footage she was watching, that she did not hear the eerie call that drifted across the cold night air.
If she had, she would have done well to pay it heed.
On the very outskirts of the city, where Collingwood players steal in the darkest of nights to tend their ice labs, the Dewosaurus had climbed a telephone pole and emitted the hunting cry of his kind.
Blood will be spilt soon. Sam's blood.
Funny how Chris couldn't keep his hands off all these other blokes, but barely seemed interested in her.
She slipped her own hand down her banana yellow Juicy Couture trackydaks - even staying in and having a quiet night she was stylish - and let her hand rest on her mound, considering allowing her finger to travel those final few centimetres to what Caroline had so memorably described as her "thpecial thite" during their brief, yet magical affair.
The wisps of her remaining pubic hair tickled gently at the back of her wrist. She had the Chinese character for "opportunity" shaved there just a few days ago, in the hope of enticing Chris into a decent root for once.
But no, no luck. Even as she'd showed it to him, wearing her very best Myer's lingerie ($12.99 the set or just a fiver for the bra, 20 per cent off at the Chaddy shop if you buy something from the food hall) all he'd said was:
"I think they've missed a curl on the final stroke babes. Good calligraphy is so important in Chinese culture, even getting it a little bit wrong can change the whole meaning of the character. I think yours actually says 'devil's hole' now."
Cheers Chris. Thanks for that.
She decided against a girlyflog after all and concentrated on the footy. They showed the replay again and it really didn't look good. Even if he didn't gouge his eyes, he still shouldn't have had his hand there.
Geez, thought Rebecca, I could do with a good gouging. It was Saturday night, her boyfriend was away, she could just hit the clubs, pick up some young stud, fuck him senseless, then come home. But her being who she was, that wasn't possible. She'd be recognised. She suddenly realised she had become trapped, a prisoner of her own fame. She was the Princess Diana of the footy world.
Nah, no one night anonymous root for her. Instead she'd have to wait until tomorrow when Chris returned from Brisbane. Bloody Brisbane. He'd been shocked to learn she wouldn't come up with him.
"But babes, I need you there," he'd moaned.
So tomorrow he'd come back and he'd want a root and she'd lie there like a particularly dispirited starfish left stranded on a slimy rock at a shitty beach while he pumped away on top of her like a big boring jackhammer, counting every bloody stroke in the same tone as the talking clock Telstra used.
It was all just so vanilla. And to make it worse, he'd whinge endlessly about being 'targeted' by the umpires even though everyone in the world knew he always got away with so much more.
God. How depressing. At least she had Brendan's boob job on Monday to look forward to. He might be a big oaf, but he was nice enough and she could see he was genuine in his desire to become a half man, half woman, like that soccer player Fernando Torres.
Then it hit her. An image, a mental picture that instantly got her wetter than a Sunday arvo in Tassie.
Brendan, on her chair in her office, his top half resplendent with large yet firm breasts modelled exactly on Scarlett Johansson's while below, his enormous rigid manhood.
She saw herself astride him, riding him like a Melbourne Cup winner, a man inside her yet beautiful womanly breats in front to caress and nuzzle as if they were those of the great goddess Eros herself. The best of both worlds.
Rebecca's finger shot straight to her pleasure organ and it took only a few twirls until she peaked with a most magnificent orgasm. She kept the thought in her head and her hand down her pants and went for it until continously until two hours later, she lay spent on the couch, panting and almost teary with pure pleasure.
She'd need to get the steam cleaner out and give the cushion covers the once over before Chris got home, such was the musky stench of her vigorous self-love. But no matter, it was worth it. She couldn't wait for Monday.
Across Melbourne, Sam was also having a Saturday night wankathon. But instead of a highly charged erotic fantasy, she was doing it while watching videos of American soldiers abusing detainess at Abu Ghraib.
"Come on," she'd snarl as a rough-hewn Marine from Kentucky instered an electric baton into the anus of a terrified teenage prisoner, "Fucken give it to him harder!"
And with every new depravity, she ran the hairbrush over her own scalded and raw sex parts, trying to force one more black shudder from their tortured depths.
Such was the intensity of her furious masturbation, and the volume of the sickening footage she was watching, that she did not hear the eerie call that drifted across the cold night air.
If she had, she would have done well to pay it heed.
On the very outskirts of the city, where Collingwood players steal in the darkest of nights to tend their ice labs, the Dewosaurus had climbed a telephone pole and emitted the hunting cry of his kind.
Blood will be spilt soon. Sam's blood.
Thursday 3 September 2009
Settling scores
Campbell was a good way down the road when he picked up his mobile phone and dialled his toaster.
"Listen you little Kambrook prick," he whispered in a low menacing tone, "You ever burn my breakfast again, and I'll hit you so hard with the wooden spoon you won't know if its brown or white up ya, ya dog."
He put the phone down, satisfied. Nothing said revenge like issuing threats from a good safe distance from the person/appliance with which you were announcing your grievance.
It was too obvious to simply use the opportunity of them being right there in front of you to do something. Oh no, that wasn't Campbell's style.
He turned on the radio, a form of communication he'd been avoiding for some reason of late. They were talking about the finals. Campbell, like the rest of the Hawthorn Army, were glad they hadn't made them this year. It wasn't in The Plan.
Campbell refelcted on The Plan as he passed the enormous, and still growing, mound of brand new Hawkers jumpers and 'I've Been A Member For Five Minutes' scarves that had mysteriously appeared at Kew Junction.
The Plan was simple. be shit for a few years, luck into a few guns because Richmond were incompetent, then hope the better side would miss simple set shots at crucial stages of the Grand Final. It wasn't complex. The best plans never are. But it worked. For a bit.
The radio blared away as traffic came to a halt. Stupid traffic lights. Once he'd got through them he'd give them a piece of his mind.
Despite it being finals, Gategategate refused to go away. Campbell knew which side he was on. If that big fairy Fevola came near him with a big set of tits, Campbell would show him he meant business, by breaking into Marc Murphy's house and hitting him with a rolling pin as he slept. In a few months time.
While Campbell entertained his Cape Fearesque plots for bloody recvenge, Brendan was just emptying his nutsac over a picture of Gretchen Killeen he'd found in a discarded Now magazine in the carpark at Safeway.
The things some people threw away.
The hormones he'd been taking to prepare him for his boob job the next week had thrown his sex drive all out whack. Normally, he'd been able to get the swimmers out six, seven times a day. And at least two of those in a supermarket carpark.
Now, he was lucky to get three off and this was the first time he'd watered the chip-stained tarmac with little Brendans in two days.
His phone rang. It was Rebecca.
"How are you Brendan, all ready for the big day on Monday?"
"Yeah," he replied contmplatively as he shook the last clinging drops of Coleman Jizzalist juice off his bellend.
"Yeah, I am."
"Listen you little Kambrook prick," he whispered in a low menacing tone, "You ever burn my breakfast again, and I'll hit you so hard with the wooden spoon you won't know if its brown or white up ya, ya dog."
He put the phone down, satisfied. Nothing said revenge like issuing threats from a good safe distance from the person/appliance with which you were announcing your grievance.
It was too obvious to simply use the opportunity of them being right there in front of you to do something. Oh no, that wasn't Campbell's style.
He turned on the radio, a form of communication he'd been avoiding for some reason of late. They were talking about the finals. Campbell, like the rest of the Hawthorn Army, were glad they hadn't made them this year. It wasn't in The Plan.
Campbell refelcted on The Plan as he passed the enormous, and still growing, mound of brand new Hawkers jumpers and 'I've Been A Member For Five Minutes' scarves that had mysteriously appeared at Kew Junction.
The Plan was simple. be shit for a few years, luck into a few guns because Richmond were incompetent, then hope the better side would miss simple set shots at crucial stages of the Grand Final. It wasn't complex. The best plans never are. But it worked. For a bit.
The radio blared away as traffic came to a halt. Stupid traffic lights. Once he'd got through them he'd give them a piece of his mind.
Despite it being finals, Gategategate refused to go away. Campbell knew which side he was on. If that big fairy Fevola came near him with a big set of tits, Campbell would show him he meant business, by breaking into Marc Murphy's house and hitting him with a rolling pin as he slept. In a few months time.
While Campbell entertained his Cape Fearesque plots for bloody recvenge, Brendan was just emptying his nutsac over a picture of Gretchen Killeen he'd found in a discarded Now magazine in the carpark at Safeway.
The things some people threw away.
The hormones he'd been taking to prepare him for his boob job the next week had thrown his sex drive all out whack. Normally, he'd been able to get the swimmers out six, seven times a day. And at least two of those in a supermarket carpark.
Now, he was lucky to get three off and this was the first time he'd watered the chip-stained tarmac with little Brendans in two days.
His phone rang. It was Rebecca.
"How are you Brendan, all ready for the big day on Monday?"
"Yeah," he replied contmplatively as he shook the last clinging drops of Coleman Jizzalist juice off his bellend.
"Yeah, I am."
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