NOTHING WITHOUT ME!

Rebecca awoke in an uncomfortable position feeling rougher than Amy Winehouse’s clunge.

Which was appropriate, because as she slowly came to, she became aware of the raven haired London Jewesses lilting, and deeply affecting, version of Valerie playing somewhere in the background.

Wow thought Rebecca to herself. Chris’ taste in music has suddenly improved. Normally he only listened to Thirty Odd Foot Of Grunt and that band that Pat Cash and John McEnroe used to be in years ago.

But slowly Rebecca became aware that she wasn’t in her own bed. In fact, she wasn’t in any bed. She was on a couch. And as she let her long and delicate lashes open, it became obvious that it wasn’t a recording of Amy Winehouse she was listening to. It was the crack fancying chanteuse herself, sat only feet away from where Rebecca laid, her Fevolaesque fake tits heaving as she belted out her best known hit.

“And I miss your ginger hair and the way you like to dress,” she trilled to a small group who were circled around an enormous footy shaped glass topped coffee table.

What a group it was too. Rebecca’s previously heavy eyelids jolted wide open as she registered just who indeed it was sat before her.

There was Amy in the middle and around her sat Ben Cousins, Keith Richards, Bill Clinton, Nick Cave, Kim Deal from the Pixies and the ghost of Carl Williams.

“Wooow!” hooted Bill in the way Americans do as Amy drew to a close. “Honey, I’ve always had a thing for slutty Jewish scrubbers and you’ve got my deficit rising right there!”

Amy smiled demurely and then put her head and devoured a line of coke so big it had a pilot fish attending it.

“Sheeeee-it!” continued Bill, “baby, after I’ve put it everywhere else, I’m sticking my dick up your nose!”

The merry band of revelers clapped Amy as she went about and as he encouraged her along – “Come on Amy, that’s bigger than the one that killed Fletch in Vegas!” – Benny noticed his houseguest had awoken.

He came over, his rippling muscles glistening with beads of cocaine hydrochloride infused sweat.

“Morning gorgeous, get your beauty sleep?” he asked.

Rebecca was confused. Last thing she could remember was drinking shot after shot of Patron with Ben. Then nothing.

“You had one too many and flaked out on the couch. A few of the gang called and we thought we’d make a night of it.” Ben explained, gesturing over to where Keith Richards and the spectral form of Carl Williams were engaged in a good natured arm wrestle to see who would get the next line.

Rebecca nodded. She was still tired.

But she had to ask.

“Ben, last night, did we …?”

Ben looked at her with undisguised affection.

“No, you were a bit pissed and weirded out. I’m not that kind of guy. Don’t me wrong Becs, I like you, but I’m not that kind of guy.

“Why don’t you grab a bit more sleep? And don’t worry about us. Sure, we’re going to sit and put an entire Colombian village through college now, but we’ve all achieved massive success in our professional lives while enjoying a bit of recreational drug use after hours, its not like we’re widely scorned hypocritical fucking puissant so-called footy journalists who change position at the drop of a hat,” he said, allowing the author a gratuitous bit of editorializing.

Rebecca drifted off back to sleep to the entirely unlikely but captivating sight of a gacked up Bill Clinton dirty dancing with Amy Winehouse to Armand Van Helden’s legendery remix of Professional Widow.

She liked Ben’s house. She liked Ben too. And when he came and gently stroked her hair as he smiled at the former President of the United States and Little Miss Crackstain 2008 getting it on in his living room, she felt happier and safer than she had in years.

But she shouldn’t have. Because only a few hundred yards from Ben’s Docklands apartment, in the offices of shitful pathetic rag The Era, Caroline and Sam were watching the happy scene on the tiny webcam they had secretly installed in Ben’s house. convincingly disguised as a Bulgarian plumber, Sam had conned the talented yet unconventional midfielder into letting her onto his premises a few months before where she had installed the hidden camera.

“STHLUT!” screeched Caro as she watched Rebecca accept Ben’s gentle kisses. “FILTHY DIRTY LITTLE THLUT!”

Caro was visibly shaking with anger.

“HE’TH MINE! MINE MINE MINE MINE! I’M THE ONE WHO THTOOD BY HIM WHEN HE WATH AT HIS LOWTHEST M,OMENT AT WETHT COATHT! WITHOUT ME HE’D BE NOTHING, NOTHING I TELL YOU!”

Polar bears

Chris was casually surfing the Net for a new picture of a polar bear marooned on a shrinking iceberg to use on his Bebo profile when he came across the news about Steven Seagal maintaining a harem of Russian sex slaves.

Geezo thought Chris, that sounds alright. He could just see it now. Hot blonde chicks with big knockers who talked like Borat. Could there by anything better?

The fantasy came alive for him immediately. A long limbed goddess with a lustrous flaxen man and eyes of blue like the deepest Siberian lake came striding toward him wearing only the tiniest of revolutionary red g-strings complete with hammer and sickle emblem, an AK47 slung across her ample Muscovite charms.

“You, Australian man, you vould like me to touch your pressure point yes?” she purred, casually throwing the assault rifle off over her shoulder, allowing her enormous yet firm globes to …

“OMIGOD! CHRIS! WHAT ARE YOUNG DOING?”

Becca, Bex. Shit, shit, shit.

Chris quickly fumbled at the fly of his Sass and Bide in no way gay jeans but it was too late. His tiny manhood, which didn’t even reach the second knuckle of the little finger even when he woke up in the morning with a serious case of pink steel, immediately lost tumescence and lay useless, like a pygmy sea slug in its death throes.

“Fucken hell Chris, last time you rooted me Harold fucken Holt was prime Minister, now I come up here on 10AM on a Tuesday morning and you’re cranking one over pictures of fucking polar bears!”

“No babes, no, that’s not what it was …” Chris began, before suddenly realising that it would probably be better to go with the polar bear story rather than tell her about the Russian sex slaves with Kalashnikovs thing.

“Why don’t you go down the zoo and fucken root a polar bear if you love them so much?” Rebecca demanded.

“Well, babes, the Royal Melbourne Zoological is a responsible organisation that takes pride in ensuring its exhibits have a humane enclosure that mirrors their natural environment as best as possible. Remember when I went to open the recycling depot there? Obviously they couldn’t keep polar bears as a city like Melbourne that experiences such extremes of summer …”

He had to duck as a set of car keys came flying at him at a million miles an hour.

“I DON’T GIVE A FUCK ABOUT THE FUCKING ZOO!”

And with that Rebecca stormed downstairs and out of the flat. Fuck this, fuck this fuck this fuck fuck fuck this this this!

She stuck her hand out and just like in a movie a taxi immediately pulled over.

“Where to toots?” asked the driver.

“I don’t know, just drive. Away from here.”

Fuck this. Rebecca was sick and tired of the miserable prick. Bad enough she had to put up with his endless droning bullshit about the environment, now he was actually masturbating over polar bears stranded on fucking shrinking ledges of ice.

She began scrolling through her phone with furious intensity. Stuff Chris. He might be content to jack off over endangered bears, she had more simple needs. She looked at the clock on the driver’s dashboard. 10.25AM.

She’d be getting fucked before midday. That much true. She was heading through the Bs and into the Cs, for Caro naturally, that old scrag was forever letting her know that anytime she wanted her carpet licked in the disabled dunnies at Southern Cross Station, all she had to do was call when her eye fell upon a number she forgot she even had.

Benny Cuz.

Cuz.

Cuzzy.

Hmmm thought Rebecca. She had always thought he was quite fit back at the Eagles, especially at the team parties, even if she had found the way that he always had a strange yellow/whitish crust on the corners of his mouths and eyes that often moved independently of each other a bit weird.

But stuff it, weird she could deal. The bloke was fit, had a dick bigger than a half sucked Tic Tac if the other girls were to be believed and hadn’t, to her knowledge, bashed the old fella one in front of a picture of a snow leopard.

So she did it. She pressed the green button.