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."