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."