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."