Goodbye, Brendan's Tits

"That's me going now Chris," Rebecca shouted as she quickly closed the front door behind her. She heard him grunt something approaching a farewell from upstairs.

He'd be there, at the computer, still trying to sort out flights and arrange an audience with the Dalai Lama.

"I can't see why you can't just fly straight into Dharamsala," he'd been whinging for the last few dyas, "QANTAS are so shit."

The argument had been raging for a while now. Where to go on holiday. Rebecca wanted to go to Paris. Hit the shops, drink nice wine, buy clothes, have a fuck up against the window in a posh hotel with a view of the Eiffel Tower. What was the point of being young and effluent if you couldn't do stuff like that?

But Chris was determined to get an audience with the Dalai Lama.

"This season has really drained me babes. I feel like my sprogs are turning into potential serial killers, there's so much bad karma backing up in my balls. I need absolution from His Holiness," he'd said.

Rebecca had resisted the urge to point out to the fuckwit that he was mixing up Tibetan Buddhism and Catholicism. Instead, she'd gone to see Brendan instead.

She'd been amused at his Brownlow night antics until she'd found out about the alleged monstering of the female journo in the toilets. Given her own views about the reprehensible Sam and her vile hypocrisy as regards matters footy and sexual, she couldn't in any honesty maintain Brendan as a friend. But she'd do it with a bit of class, see him off to Brisbane and let him know that he'd stuffed up, but if he worked hard, he could still redeem himself.

"They're making me get rid of these," the big bloke said glumly at the laneway coffee shop where they met, indicating his spectacular Scarlett Johanssonesque fake tits. Not that Scarlett's are fake.

"Browny texted and said if I turn up with them still on, he's gunna smash me with a fire hydrant."

"When do they go," Rebecca asked.

"Tonight," replied Fev, cupping the great globes wistfully.

"It's probably for the best," Rebecca said. "I hope you can work it out Brendan. I did my best to help you, but by Christ you turn into a cockmuncher when you're on the piss."

She got up and left. She knew it was the last time she would see Brendan, and his show-stopping funbags. She didn't look back.

Less than a kilometre away, a more savage confrontation was taking place.

It was Sam's first day back at work, and she had some scores to settle.

"Let'th get you thtarted back on thomething nithe and eathy," Caro had cajoled, but Sam was having none of it.

She'd rounded on Liam as soon as she entered the newsroom.

"YOU!" she'd screeched, "TRAITOR! QUISLING! BENEDICT ARNOLD!"

"What," he'd stumbled, looking up from the draft review he'd been working on

Her eyes rolled back in her head like that chick from Lost and she'd begun speaking in a low tone, as if guided by an unseen hand.

"Hovering 'twixt the void that divides the realm of the living and the dead," she murmured, "YOU! I saw you betray us all! Speak to the Wombatman you did. Tell him everything you did! YOU! YOU!"

She fell to the carpet frothing at the mouth and fitting like an epileptic at a rave.

"Ith thith twue?" snapped Caro

A silence fell.

Liam considered his answer.