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