Rebecca woke late but content. Chris had finally popped the question and she'd said yes. Yes, yes, yes.
It had been a tough decision. They'd had quite an interesting a year. But then, as he got down on one knee in the two grand a night luxury apartment he'd rented and presented her with a chunk of diamond that must have taken three blokes to prise from the dirt in South Africa, the Noosa sunlight glinting off the posh car he'd bought her, his bulging wallet prominent in his pocket as he balanced with the ring profferred on a velvet cushion with gold lining, she'd found it easy to say yes. After a few questions.
"Is that real gold thread," she'd asked.
"Of course babes, of course it is."
"And how many dresses will I have?"
"As many you want babes."
"And will I be able to arrive in a gold plated limo that runs on expensive perfume fumes?"
"Of course babes."
"And will I get to have 1000 bridesmaids all wearing expensive dresses and will we have Beyonce performing and will I get to release a flock of endangered doves at the end of the ceremony?"
"Babes, nothing is too much for you"
"And at the end can we burn a giant pile of money in front of the cameras while you kiss me adoringly so those sluts at school who called me Skeletor and flushed my head down the dunny can watch it and cry hot salty tears at their own pathetic lives which are in no way as affluent or successful as mine?"
"Sure thing babes. We can even have special letters reminding them they haven't been invited to the nation's wedding of the year delivered to their houses!"
That was a nice touch, thought Rebecca. Good old Chris. He was worth hanging onto.
She reached out for him in the bed but he wasn't there. He'd been up late the night before writing emails to Kevin Rudd offering his services to guide the ETS through parliament but
She looked over. His side of the bed was unmade. This again wasn't weird. He was a bit of neat freak and if he got up early, as he often did, for a run, or to lick Mr Pratt's gravestone clean, he would carefully make his side before heading out.
Rebecca let her head fall back on the pillow and sleep envelop her again.
He couldn't have gotten too far, could he?
Tuesday 24 November 2009
Monday 16 November 2009
Sunday 15 November 2009
Parc d'Victoire
Sir Mick of Gayfer landed in the dead of night in the carpark of the Hoddle Street flats. It was lucky it was night as the journey through the tear in the time space contiuum had torn his chain mail and other knightly accoutrement from his body.
Sir Mick was not a man given to self reflection. Contrary to the philosoper's maxim, he had lived the unexamined life. So it was that he didn't bother himself too much about the fact that he had been untimely ripped from his own world and set about finding something to wear.
He had little patience for those who dwelt on the past. It was like when he was on the Crusades with the Errant Knight Sir Campbell of Brown. The feisty little barrel on legs held a grudge against Sir Matthew The Diver, a long time foe.
And how Sir Campbell had droned on and on about what he would do to Sir Matthew upon their return from seizing Christendom's holiest places from the hands of the Saracen.
After they had sacked Constantinople:
"Oh by the Shroud of Our Lord, I shall runneth through Sir Matthew with mine lance when I do return to castle."
As Antioch lay in flames, her citizens either slain or sold unto slavery:
"YEA VERILY! I keep mine sword sharpened upon the dark heart of the Jews so it may pierce the hide of the mangy cur Sir Matthew 'pon my return!"
By the campfire as Saladin's emissarries sought parley with the Templars outside Jerusalem itself:
"Hear me now, I shall return from this holy work and seize Sir Matthew and torture him for many days in my filthiest dungeon and then, just as he thinks death's cold grip arrives to bring him peace from my infernal torments, I shall let him rest and then when he hath regained his strength, LO! I shall return unto the fray with the heated spikes and the sharpened nails and all the instruments of pain I can muster!"
It really was fucking tiresome.
So without further ado Sir Mick he set about finding some garb to wear. Luckily for him, a local heroin enthusiast had partken in perhaps a bit to much of his chosen tipple and lay prone in the bushes.
"Ah," Sir Mick thought to himself, "This serf has been waylaid by bandits, or has fallen victim to a sorceror. I shall remove his rags and take them as my own."
Having donned the knock off three stripe Adidas tracksuit and Collingwood polo shirt so common to the bottom feeders of Melbourne's criminal underclass, Sir Mick set off to find his bearings.
He was immediately startled by cars racing along Hoddle Street.
"What manner of witchery is this, yon devil's chariot?" he mused, but being made of stern stuff, he simply kept a wary eye on the squat iron horses as they sped about their business.
After a mile or so he began to grow weary. He needed rest and victuals. But there seemed no welcoming glade where he could rest his head. Then he saw the sign that gladdened his heart.
Victoria Park.
It was the wrong around but the meaning was unmistakeable. It was his own father's estate, Parc d'Victoire, named after a particularly successful campaign against the rebellious Walloons in the north. He set forth.
He arrived to find a vast expanse of grass. The jousting lists! Ah, the memories he had of the afternoons spent there, seeking the favour of a fair maiden through his skill in the martial sports.
Then there were the games, the jesters and the fools.
He strode to the centre of the grass and took in the scene. Yes, this was a place where he felt at home.
He saw in his mind's eye a great throng of unwashed serfs and peasants gathered to witness the spectacle, heard their jeering and hooting as the painted cretins danced for their amusement, their shrill cackle during the goading of the blackamoors.
Yes, this Victoria Park, this was a place he could call home. He laid down his tired head in the centre of the field and slept the sleep of the content.
Sir Mick was not a man given to self reflection. Contrary to the philosoper's maxim, he had lived the unexamined life. So it was that he didn't bother himself too much about the fact that he had been untimely ripped from his own world and set about finding something to wear.
He had little patience for those who dwelt on the past. It was like when he was on the Crusades with the Errant Knight Sir Campbell of Brown. The feisty little barrel on legs held a grudge against Sir Matthew The Diver, a long time foe.
And how Sir Campbell had droned on and on about what he would do to Sir Matthew upon their return from seizing Christendom's holiest places from the hands of the Saracen.
After they had sacked Constantinople:
"Oh by the Shroud of Our Lord, I shall runneth through Sir Matthew with mine lance when I do return to castle."
As Antioch lay in flames, her citizens either slain or sold unto slavery:
"YEA VERILY! I keep mine sword sharpened upon the dark heart of the Jews so it may pierce the hide of the mangy cur Sir Matthew 'pon my return!"
By the campfire as Saladin's emissarries sought parley with the Templars outside Jerusalem itself:
"Hear me now, I shall return from this holy work and seize Sir Matthew and torture him for many days in my filthiest dungeon and then, just as he thinks death's cold grip arrives to bring him peace from my infernal torments, I shall let him rest and then when he hath regained his strength, LO! I shall return unto the fray with the heated spikes and the sharpened nails and all the instruments of pain I can muster!"
It really was fucking tiresome.
So without further ado Sir Mick he set about finding some garb to wear. Luckily for him, a local heroin enthusiast had partken in perhaps a bit to much of his chosen tipple and lay prone in the bushes.
"Ah," Sir Mick thought to himself, "This serf has been waylaid by bandits, or has fallen victim to a sorceror. I shall remove his rags and take them as my own."
Having donned the knock off three stripe Adidas tracksuit and Collingwood polo shirt so common to the bottom feeders of Melbourne's criminal underclass, Sir Mick set off to find his bearings.
He was immediately startled by cars racing along Hoddle Street.
"What manner of witchery is this, yon devil's chariot?" he mused, but being made of stern stuff, he simply kept a wary eye on the squat iron horses as they sped about their business.
After a mile or so he began to grow weary. He needed rest and victuals. But there seemed no welcoming glade where he could rest his head. Then he saw the sign that gladdened his heart.
Victoria Park.
It was the wrong around but the meaning was unmistakeable. It was his own father's estate, Parc d'Victoire, named after a particularly successful campaign against the rebellious Walloons in the north. He set forth.
He arrived to find a vast expanse of grass. The jousting lists! Ah, the memories he had of the afternoons spent there, seeking the favour of a fair maiden through his skill in the martial sports.
Then there were the games, the jesters and the fools.
He strode to the centre of the grass and took in the scene. Yes, this was a place where he felt at home.
He saw in his mind's eye a great throng of unwashed serfs and peasants gathered to witness the spectacle, heard their jeering and hooting as the painted cretins danced for their amusement, their shrill cackle during the goading of the blackamoors.
Yes, this Victoria Park, this was a place he could call home. He laid down his tired head in the centre of the field and slept the sleep of the content.
Thursday 12 November 2009
Made In Heaven?
The rolling breakers of the Noosa headland rolled breakingly in Chris' middle vision.
He was about to make an honest woman of her.
Bloody Rebecca, crazy old Becks. They'd been through a lot. There he was, hottest shit on the West Coast and unaccountably short of a date on Brownlow night so he'd done what any normal bloke would do: he'd called a modelling agency and asked for the hottest one they had.
A season of magic - even if he said it himself - later, and she was his.
There'd been some bumps along the way. The drug allegations about the club, the drug stuff being proved, his good mate dying then being resuscitated on a trip overseas, his other good mate being done for forging a prescription, his other other good mate having to retire under a drug-coated cloud, that same mate being arrested off his face on drugs, another mate actually dying from a fast food overdose, none of that had anything to do with his decision to chase the brown paper bag ... er, dream ... which represented his desire to go HOME.
Then when they'd gone home there'd been the whole carpet munching stuff with the missus and Caro. Less said about that the better.
He looked through the enormous plate glass window of Moe's, the posh restaurant he'd chosen to pop the question.
He steeled himself for it. Took the enviromentally friendly diamond ring that had in no way been mined then transported over thousands of miles to end up in his pocket, from his pocket. He went in.
Half a world and an ocean of time away, Sir Mick of Gayfer took his beloved's hand.
"Ma blonde, mon cheri," the noble knight began, "We 'ave found amour zat knows no bound-aries. Mon pipi, 'e stands to leerve your petit jambon!"
The court of the Franks rose as one to acclaim the Dauphin Gayfer's romantic gambit.
The bravest back pocket knight in all of Christendom, chosen by the ailing liege Baron Mick d'Chateau Malt as his succesor, was set to wed the fairest maid of them all, Madmoiselle Leanne of Edelstone.
"Let urs seal nous bond magnifique!" he pronouced, sliding the ring he had taken from a dead Saracen's finger upon her wan thin digit.
Little did either dolt know that a sorceror was at work.
A conjurer. The devil's own. The damned. An alchemist.
A pharmacist.
"LEAVE ME WOULD YOU VICTORIAN TOAD!" raged the Wizard Of The West.
"A FUCKEN GUN MIDFIELD I HAD! NO GAPS! OUTSIDE, INSIDE, IN AND UNDER, RUNNERS, BLOCKERS, EVERYTHING!"
The Wizard Woosha added extra boot of duck and light of tunnel, poke of toe and drop of head, call of ball and advantage paid and just as he was about to add the final drop, sauce of plugger, his errant knight Sir Daniel of the Horse's Salve came running, mistaking the potion pot for a home brewed Valium cook, and nudged his arm.
Wizard Woosha could not help the final salt entering the broth. Then the bubbling, the spoil and troubling. Cackles, overflow, a sudden drop in temperature, a harsh wind screaming off unseen mountaintops.
As the enraged shaman rained down blows upon his miscreant apprentice, a great schism cut the very heavens that towered above them.
CRACK!
Lightning spread a false light from horizon to horizon and backly thus.
"Loki the Trickster God walks this night!" breathed the idiot Daniel to his master.
"Yes, yes, he does. Sumich knows what sorcery will be required to cage this beast again," his mentor replied, diving for shelter under an enormous tree branch.
The camera lifts from the pathetic pair. See it. Believe it.
It ascends to the meridian point and hovers. We breath a beat.
Then a cataclysmic bolt of thunder/lightning ... thlightning ... distracts us.
A great vortex in the world, like in shitty adventure movie videos you would watch as a kid, perhaps wagging school, appears.
Into it from our dimension, the unwilling bald brave of bodgy payments, Sir Chris the Overrated, is ripped untimely from his newly betrothed, and flung into the maelstrom.
On the unknown pitch, a great wind blows through the pristine hall of Sir Mick of Gayfer's nuptials.
As he is taken into the maw of the daemon, he cries:
"O LADY LEANNE! FIND YOU I WILL! BACK I SHALL BE! SHAG NOT ANY OF MY TEAMMATES FOR I TRULY KNOW I AM PUNCHING ABOVE MY WEIGHT!"
The two men, seperated by epochs and a fair slice of footy ability, were sucked into the mighty draft.
Imagine now crappy special effects, sort of like looking through a kalediescope when you're really pissed.
And as they passed in the depths of the wormhole, modern day shitman and ancient hero, an unearthly voice, perhaps the voice of time itself, was heard to utter:
"Isn't this just a big rip off of that criminally unappreciated Frog movie Les Visiteurs that got shitly remade a while ago by cockmuncher Americans? Hopefully this shit ripoff will be better than that."
TO BE CONTINUED
He was about to make an honest woman of her.
Bloody Rebecca, crazy old Becks. They'd been through a lot. There he was, hottest shit on the West Coast and unaccountably short of a date on Brownlow night so he'd done what any normal bloke would do: he'd called a modelling agency and asked for the hottest one they had.
A season of magic - even if he said it himself - later, and she was his.
There'd been some bumps along the way. The drug allegations about the club, the drug stuff being proved, his good mate dying then being resuscitated on a trip overseas, his other good mate being done for forging a prescription, his other other good mate having to retire under a drug-coated cloud, that same mate being arrested off his face on drugs, another mate actually dying from a fast food overdose, none of that had anything to do with his decision to chase the brown paper bag ... er, dream ... which represented his desire to go HOME.
Then when they'd gone home there'd been the whole carpet munching stuff with the missus and Caro. Less said about that the better.
He looked through the enormous plate glass window of Moe's, the posh restaurant he'd chosen to pop the question.
He steeled himself for it. Took the enviromentally friendly diamond ring that had in no way been mined then transported over thousands of miles to end up in his pocket, from his pocket. He went in.
Half a world and an ocean of time away, Sir Mick of Gayfer took his beloved's hand.
"Ma blonde, mon cheri," the noble knight began, "We 'ave found amour zat knows no bound-aries. Mon pipi, 'e stands to leerve your petit jambon!"
The court of the Franks rose as one to acclaim the Dauphin Gayfer's romantic gambit.
The bravest back pocket knight in all of Christendom, chosen by the ailing liege Baron Mick d'Chateau Malt as his succesor, was set to wed the fairest maid of them all, Madmoiselle Leanne of Edelstone.
"Let urs seal nous bond magnifique!" he pronouced, sliding the ring he had taken from a dead Saracen's finger upon her wan thin digit.
Little did either dolt know that a sorceror was at work.
A conjurer. The devil's own. The damned. An alchemist.
A pharmacist.
"LEAVE ME WOULD YOU VICTORIAN TOAD!" raged the Wizard Of The West.
"A FUCKEN GUN MIDFIELD I HAD! NO GAPS! OUTSIDE, INSIDE, IN AND UNDER, RUNNERS, BLOCKERS, EVERYTHING!"
The Wizard Woosha added extra boot of duck and light of tunnel, poke of toe and drop of head, call of ball and advantage paid and just as he was about to add the final drop, sauce of plugger, his errant knight Sir Daniel of the Horse's Salve came running, mistaking the potion pot for a home brewed Valium cook, and nudged his arm.
Wizard Woosha could not help the final salt entering the broth. Then the bubbling, the spoil and troubling. Cackles, overflow, a sudden drop in temperature, a harsh wind screaming off unseen mountaintops.
As the enraged shaman rained down blows upon his miscreant apprentice, a great schism cut the very heavens that towered above them.
CRACK!
Lightning spread a false light from horizon to horizon and backly thus.
"Loki the Trickster God walks this night!" breathed the idiot Daniel to his master.
"Yes, yes, he does. Sumich knows what sorcery will be required to cage this beast again," his mentor replied, diving for shelter under an enormous tree branch.
The camera lifts from the pathetic pair. See it. Believe it.
It ascends to the meridian point and hovers. We breath a beat.
Then a cataclysmic bolt of thunder/lightning ... thlightning ... distracts us.
A great vortex in the world, like in shitty adventure movie videos you would watch as a kid, perhaps wagging school, appears.
Into it from our dimension, the unwilling bald brave of bodgy payments, Sir Chris the Overrated, is ripped untimely from his newly betrothed, and flung into the maelstrom.
On the unknown pitch, a great wind blows through the pristine hall of Sir Mick of Gayfer's nuptials.
As he is taken into the maw of the daemon, he cries:
"O LADY LEANNE! FIND YOU I WILL! BACK I SHALL BE! SHAG NOT ANY OF MY TEAMMATES FOR I TRULY KNOW I AM PUNCHING ABOVE MY WEIGHT!"
The two men, seperated by epochs and a fair slice of footy ability, were sucked into the mighty draft.
Imagine now crappy special effects, sort of like looking through a kalediescope when you're really pissed.
And as they passed in the depths of the wormhole, modern day shitman and ancient hero, an unearthly voice, perhaps the voice of time itself, was heard to utter:
"Isn't this just a big rip off of that criminally unappreciated Frog movie Les Visiteurs that got shitly remade a while ago by cockmuncher Americans? Hopefully this shit ripoff will be better than that."
TO BE CONTINUED
Monday 9 November 2009
A Thin Crop
"Why should you have the honour of representing the West Melbourne Wombats son?" Knacker asked the lanky pale bloke in front of him.
"Fooked if Ah know, me agent joost said Ah should coom here because you lot were tekin' any old bassa with a bit of athletic abiliteh," the bloke replied.
Knacker shook his head. It was true. You had the Woods taking on some Yank on the basis of a YouTube highlight, Sydney with their rugby bloke, various Irish types. It was getting beyond a joke.
He couldn't blame this Pommy bastard, buggered if he could remember his name, for dipping his toe in the water on the grounds he was half good at lacrosse.
"Me main concern is the 'eat out 'ere," he continued, "Look here now like, it's only November and Ah'm fookin' sweatin' like a fat lass."
Knacker didn't know what to make of that. He thanked the Pommy for his time and said he'd be in touch.
He took a deep breath. Up next was Jarkyn Lockheed. He took an instant dislike to the cocky little shit the second he walked in the door.
"Why should you have the honour of playing for the West Melbourne Wombats?" asked Knacker.
"I shouldn't, youse are shit. Don't draft me, I'll just piss off after two years," the big smartarse smirked, obviously looking for a reaction.
Knacker wasn't biting though.
"Good to hear, we didn't want you anyway. Hope you didn't have too much on yourself to go number one pal," he said gruffly, standing by the door, indicating he should leave.
"Er, what, umm ..." spluttered Jarkyn, who had indeed stolen $3k from his dying Grandma to put on himself as the number one draft pick.
"As I said son, thanks for coming, we had our doubts about you and you've just confirmed them. You might be a lot of things son, including a very talented footballer, but you're not a Wombats man and never will be."
Knacker sat down. That had been easier than he'd expected. Stuck up little cunt. Knacker couldn't wait to tell one of the boys to knock him rotten.
One more to go. The one he had a good feeling about. Bunyip.
There was a booming knock at the door that almost startled even Knacker.
He got up and answered it. It was Bunyip. Christ, thought Knacker to himself, this is one big bastard.
"Sit down, sit down," he said. He watched with interest as Bunyip manouevered his large form into the small chair.
"Now tell me why you should have the honour of playing for the West Melbourne Wombats?" he asked, employing the same line he'd used on all the other prospects.
Bunyip leant forward and answered immediately.
"Because I owe my life to wombats and I have a great debt which I must repay unto the proud beasts."
This Knacker hadn't expected.
"Do tell," he said.
"In the before time," began Bunyip, "I was lost in the bush and I was about to starve when a wombat came to me and it offered itself to me. 'Take me' it said, 'And devour me and I shall give you life'. So I picked it up, smashed it against a rock and ate it whole.
"Ever since then, I've known that I would play for the Wombats. It is like it is written in the stars, like a higher force is guiding me."
He looked wistfully out the window and even though it was broad daylight, just for an instant, a twinkle in the sky appeared.
Knacker took this all in. The kid seemed sincere. He gave him the once over again. Yep. Centre half back written all over him.
He extended his hand.
"Welcome to the Wombats son."
Bunyip smiled. This was good.
"Fooked if Ah know, me agent joost said Ah should coom here because you lot were tekin' any old bassa with a bit of athletic abiliteh," the bloke replied.
Knacker shook his head. It was true. You had the Woods taking on some Yank on the basis of a YouTube highlight, Sydney with their rugby bloke, various Irish types. It was getting beyond a joke.
He couldn't blame this Pommy bastard, buggered if he could remember his name, for dipping his toe in the water on the grounds he was half good at lacrosse.
"Me main concern is the 'eat out 'ere," he continued, "Look here now like, it's only November and Ah'm fookin' sweatin' like a fat lass."
Knacker didn't know what to make of that. He thanked the Pommy for his time and said he'd be in touch.
He took a deep breath. Up next was Jarkyn Lockheed. He took an instant dislike to the cocky little shit the second he walked in the door.
"Why should you have the honour of playing for the West Melbourne Wombats?" asked Knacker.
"I shouldn't, youse are shit. Don't draft me, I'll just piss off after two years," the big smartarse smirked, obviously looking for a reaction.
Knacker wasn't biting though.
"Good to hear, we didn't want you anyway. Hope you didn't have too much on yourself to go number one pal," he said gruffly, standing by the door, indicating he should leave.
"Er, what, umm ..." spluttered Jarkyn, who had indeed stolen $3k from his dying Grandma to put on himself as the number one draft pick.
"As I said son, thanks for coming, we had our doubts about you and you've just confirmed them. You might be a lot of things son, including a very talented footballer, but you're not a Wombats man and never will be."
Knacker sat down. That had been easier than he'd expected. Stuck up little cunt. Knacker couldn't wait to tell one of the boys to knock him rotten.
One more to go. The one he had a good feeling about. Bunyip.
There was a booming knock at the door that almost startled even Knacker.
He got up and answered it. It was Bunyip. Christ, thought Knacker to himself, this is one big bastard.
"Sit down, sit down," he said. He watched with interest as Bunyip manouevered his large form into the small chair.
"Now tell me why you should have the honour of playing for the West Melbourne Wombats?" he asked, employing the same line he'd used on all the other prospects.
Bunyip leant forward and answered immediately.
"Because I owe my life to wombats and I have a great debt which I must repay unto the proud beasts."
This Knacker hadn't expected.
"Do tell," he said.
"In the before time," began Bunyip, "I was lost in the bush and I was about to starve when a wombat came to me and it offered itself to me. 'Take me' it said, 'And devour me and I shall give you life'. So I picked it up, smashed it against a rock and ate it whole.
"Ever since then, I've known that I would play for the Wombats. It is like it is written in the stars, like a higher force is guiding me."
He looked wistfully out the window and even though it was broad daylight, just for an instant, a twinkle in the sky appeared.
Knacker took this all in. The kid seemed sincere. He gave him the once over again. Yep. Centre half back written all over him.
He extended his hand.
"Welcome to the Wombats son."
Bunyip smiled. This was good.
Wednesday 4 November 2009
Always Wanted To Play For The Tigers. Honest.
Caroline walked into The Era's offices resplendent in her new fake tan. Summer always presented her with a condundrum. She liked to look good with a tan, but she was a delicate creature and didn't like exposing her soft skin to the harsh sun. So a fake tan it was.
"How now brown cow" murmurmed Liam as she waltzed into the newsroom.
"What," she snapped?
"I just said, How's it going now?" Liam replied with a smirk on his face.
"I thee you O'Loughlin," Caro snarled, "I thee you and your thmarmy gob. You'll get taken down a peg or two thoon my boy, oh yeth you will!"
She strode past him and into her office where she snatched her keys off her desk and strode out the door, a barely disguised 'Moooooooooooo!' following her as she went.
Half an hour later, she was sitting in a non-descript kitchen in a house in Melbourne's eastern suburbs. Jarkyn Lockheed's house.
The young man in question came striding confidently into the room. Caroline assesed him - big, strong through the shoulders, bit of a cheeky chappie glint to the eye.
But he wouldn't be getting off too easy. Caroline had heard the stories about his attitude, especially to women, and the game's self appointed arbiter of what was offensive to women wasn't going to let this chance slide. But first though, she'd soften him up with some easy questions.
But the young bloke got in first.
"Wow, have you just come back from holiday?" he asked, "That's a great tan. Bali?"
Caroline came over all girlish but then recovered herself to begin the interview.
It was when she asked who he'd barracked for as a kid, that she almost slid off her seat.
"I thought you knew," he said, Caro marvelling at his soft genuine eyes, "I'm a Richmond supporter. Love the Tiges, always have. Best club in the land by a mile. My dream has always been to lead the Tiges to a flag. Just standing there in the middle of the MCG, hearing the crowd roar YELLOW AND BLACK as the play the song over and over, the premiership cup in my hands. Just be awesome, that's why you play isn't it? That's what drives me. Between you and me, this is whaddaycallit ... off the record ... if I do get "
Caroline hadn't been this wet since the first time she'd managed to get three fingers up Rebecca all those months ago. The rest of the interview went smoothly. She saw no reason to bring up those horrible rumours. He brought them up himself and she found his heartfelt denials more than believable.
And he was a believable young man. He had indeed barracked for Richmond. For a season in 95 when they had been flying and looked like winners. Then he'd been a die hard Rooboy before discovering how great Essendon were a few years later. Then he'd remembered those family holidays in Queensland and his love for Brisbane. And Sydney. And his love of Victoria's second city.
And as Caroline left to file a glowing story about the lovely young and misunderstood Jarkyn Lockheed, the bloke himself went back to his room to continue what he'd been doing prior to the interview - sending pictures of his dick with a smiley face drawn on it in black texta to random 13 year old girls on Bebo.
"Dumb bitch," he smirked to himself, thinking of how eagerly Caro had lapped up his bullshit.
He pressed send and an instant later, a girl in Wendouree was scarred for life.
"How now brown cow" murmurmed Liam as she waltzed into the newsroom.
"What," she snapped?
"I just said, How's it going now?" Liam replied with a smirk on his face.
"I thee you O'Loughlin," Caro snarled, "I thee you and your thmarmy gob. You'll get taken down a peg or two thoon my boy, oh yeth you will!"
She strode past him and into her office where she snatched her keys off her desk and strode out the door, a barely disguised 'Moooooooooooo!' following her as she went.
Half an hour later, she was sitting in a non-descript kitchen in a house in Melbourne's eastern suburbs. Jarkyn Lockheed's house.
The young man in question came striding confidently into the room. Caroline assesed him - big, strong through the shoulders, bit of a cheeky chappie glint to the eye.
But he wouldn't be getting off too easy. Caroline had heard the stories about his attitude, especially to women, and the game's self appointed arbiter of what was offensive to women wasn't going to let this chance slide. But first though, she'd soften him up with some easy questions.
But the young bloke got in first.
"Wow, have you just come back from holiday?" he asked, "That's a great tan. Bali?"
Caroline came over all girlish but then recovered herself to begin the interview.
It was when she asked who he'd barracked for as a kid, that she almost slid off her seat.
"I thought you knew," he said, Caro marvelling at his soft genuine eyes, "I'm a Richmond supporter. Love the Tiges, always have. Best club in the land by a mile. My dream has always been to lead the Tiges to a flag. Just standing there in the middle of the MCG, hearing the crowd roar YELLOW AND BLACK as the play the song over and over, the premiership cup in my hands. Just be awesome, that's why you play isn't it? That's what drives me. Between you and me, this is whaddaycallit ... off the record ... if I do get "
Caroline hadn't been this wet since the first time she'd managed to get three fingers up Rebecca all those months ago. The rest of the interview went smoothly. She saw no reason to bring up those horrible rumours. He brought them up himself and she found his heartfelt denials more than believable.
And he was a believable young man. He had indeed barracked for Richmond. For a season in 95 when they had been flying and looked like winners. Then he'd been a die hard Rooboy before discovering how great Essendon were a few years later. Then he'd remembered those family holidays in Queensland and his love for Brisbane. And Sydney. And his love of Victoria's second city.
And as Caroline left to file a glowing story about the lovely young and misunderstood Jarkyn Lockheed, the bloke himself went back to his room to continue what he'd been doing prior to the interview - sending pictures of his dick with a smiley face drawn on it in black texta to random 13 year old girls on Bebo.
"Dumb bitch," he smirked to himself, thinking of how eagerly Caro had lapped up his bullshit.
He pressed send and an instant later, a girl in Wendouree was scarred for life.
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