Operation Marshland

Justin repeated the mantra to himself as he waited with his brother for the meeting to begin.

“Nothing tastes as good as skinny feels, nothing tastes as good as skinny feels!”

He looked at his brother’s twig like arm. The tattoo gave him strength.

Ana4Life

Justin was glad that Warren opened the door for him, as it was a heavy door. Add to that the fact that he felt disgustingly bloated after sharing that chip with Matt yesterday. Luckily Andrew from the other mob had swooped on it before they could finish it, saving him from going too far. But still.

Inside the room there was a little stage. Choco sat on it next a creepy looking bloke and a little kid. Justin sat down. He noticed the creepy man staring at him. He had cold dead eyes, the eyes of a man who’d known nothing but suffering in his life.

Choco got up and spoke:

“Gidday guys, bit of an update. Two things. First, we still haven’t got a major sponsor and second, Dean, who some of you have already met, has now officially come on board and will be responsible for developing our gameplan. Contrary to some unkind suggestions in the media, these two developments are not linked.

“I’ll hand you over to Dean now.”

The lean wiry man, whose figure was a sharp contrast to that of the ever expanding Choco, took the floor.

“Yeah nah look,” he began, “Before we get stuck into the gameplan, or Operation Marshland as I like to call it, I need to introduce someone myself. This young fellow is someone you’re going to see a lot of.”

He indicated the kid stand up.

“This young bloke embodies what I want the new team spirit to be. When you’re holding the ball above your head to indicate that its time to slow the game down – and you’ll be doing a fuckload of that – I want you to think of this bloke. When you’re chipping the ball back and forth across half back, remember him. When you’re crabbing the ball along the boundary line at an achingly slow pace, think of him. When the runner comes out when we’re 25 points up and got a run on to tell you to take the pedal off the metal, think of this name.

“Boys, Westoffs, Warren, I give you … Terry Bosniak.”