Rebecca stared wistfully at the examination chair in her office. It had been more than a chair, more than merely functional office furniture. It had been a portal to carnal pleasure the likes of which she had never known before and feared would never experience again.
She allowed herself the briefest reverie, recalling those magical mornings with Caroline, how Rebecca would sling one long, perfectly tanned leg over the rest of the chair and wrap the other gently around Caroline’s neck and shoulders, using gentle pressure to force the older woman deeply into her most sensitive places as the gasping, drenching, spine-tingling moment of climax approached.
Rebecca felt her hand gently moving southwards. She held the image in her mind, a picture of the last she and Caroline had made sweet, sweet flange-flavoured music. It had been the fourth time that morning, Rebecca straining every sinew as Caroline, who showed no signs of tiring, had lifted her up to a pinnacle of sexual release she had never know existed.
Back in the real world, Rebecca was just about to slip one long, elegant finger beneath the elastic of her tight Bonds – bought at david Jones though – panties when the door of her office burst open.
Flushed, she quickly moved her hand away from her womanhood and up toward her face.
“Haven’t you ever heard of knocking first? Were you born in a tent?” she demanded, flustered and caught off-guard.
The man who’d entered her office instead began pointing and laughing.
“Oh my God, Ooh my God,” he laughed breathlessly, “You were gunna have a wank weren’t you? You were gunna have a lady toss. You were feeding the gerbil!”
“Excuse me,” said Rebecca, with the haughtiest tone she could summon, “I was merely adjusting and important piece of medical equipment. How may I help you?”
“I’ve got an appointment,” the tall, slightly dubious looking chap replied.
Rebecca looked at her diary. Indeed, there was an appointment, name of Brendan. Suddenly it clicked. This was the one Chris had been yammering on about the other day. She tended to zone out whenever Chris started talking about football.
“Well, come and sit down Brendan, how can I help you?”
Brendan sat gingerly in the examination seat. Rebecca was glad he didn’t immediately bend down and sniff it. He looked he wanted to it.
“I want you to help me get a big set of false tits,” Brendan declared matter of factly.
Rebecca was taken aback by that, but recovered her composure.
This could be interesting. This could be something new.
“Ok,” she replied, “Let’s talk. I’m going to need to take some measurements for a start.”
Brendan stood up with a big boyish grin and dropped his daks.
“Ya gunna need a really long tape measure then!”
Rebecca smiled to herself. This would indeed be fun.
“I meant your chest Brendan, you can pull your trousers up now.”
He did, but not before they shared a giggle. This would be fun indeed.
Showing posts with label Rebecca's Journey. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Rebecca's Journey. Show all posts
Thursday, 9 July 2009
Sunday, 14 June 2009
Personal best
That morning, as Brendan was wondering why his chest looked so empty, yet so fertile, Chris and Rebecca were busy making the beast with two backs.
Having assumed the traditional position, Chris was becoming visibly excited as he approached the vinegar strokes.
“213, 214, 215, 216,” he panted.
As he reached 250, he let go a soft growl, and rolled off the prone Rebecca, immediately checking his large sports watch.
“Hey look, babes, 9 minutes 22, that’s a new PB!”
Rebecca forced a smile and let her lissome arm dangle over Chris’ sculpted chest.
It wasn’t that sex with Chris was bad, in fact, sometimes it was good. And she knew she had no right to feel like this. There were thousands of girls who would happily swap places with her, she knew that. Chris was successful, wealthy, reasonably smart. He treated her well, had taken her back after a well-publicised lesbian affair with an ageing football writer. He was a good guy.
But she couldn’t help but think something was missing. Was this how life would be now, for the rest of her days? The occasional well-meaning but fairly mechanical root? Chris certainly shagged like he did everything else.
She felt a great melancholy settle over her as she showered. She tried to shake it off, telling herself that today at work, she would be able to help a poor unfortunate live a better life through the wonder of speech therapy, but even that failed her.
“See you tonight babes,” Chris said, kissing her as she dressed, “I’m off to lick Mr Pratt’s gravestone clean.”
Maybe he would, maybe he wouldn’t. She didn’t know how much longer she could go on living this charade.
Having assumed the traditional position, Chris was becoming visibly excited as he approached the vinegar strokes.
“213, 214, 215, 216,” he panted.
As he reached 250, he let go a soft growl, and rolled off the prone Rebecca, immediately checking his large sports watch.
“Hey look, babes, 9 minutes 22, that’s a new PB!”
Rebecca forced a smile and let her lissome arm dangle over Chris’ sculpted chest.
It wasn’t that sex with Chris was bad, in fact, sometimes it was good. And she knew she had no right to feel like this. There were thousands of girls who would happily swap places with her, she knew that. Chris was successful, wealthy, reasonably smart. He treated her well, had taken her back after a well-publicised lesbian affair with an ageing football writer. He was a good guy.
But she couldn’t help but think something was missing. Was this how life would be now, for the rest of her days? The occasional well-meaning but fairly mechanical root? Chris certainly shagged like he did everything else.
She felt a great melancholy settle over her as she showered. She tried to shake it off, telling herself that today at work, she would be able to help a poor unfortunate live a better life through the wonder of speech therapy, but even that failed her.
“See you tonight babes,” Chris said, kissing her as she dressed, “I’m off to lick Mr Pratt’s gravestone clean.”
Maybe he would, maybe he wouldn’t. She didn’t know how much longer she could go on living this charade.
Thursday, 11 June 2009
Funbags
It was new day in the football firmament and Brendan had finally managed to get rid of the chick he’d been doing that evening/morning.
Why did they always want to hang around and stuff? Sure, if they could kick he’d take them out in the park and they could boot balls back to him as he practiced his set shots but every time he suggested that, they just put a finger to their lips and said something like:
“Why don’t we stay inside and have some fun, baby?”
Nah, he’d think to himself, I’ve already rooted you. And I’m gunna root a different chick tonight. Why would I want to root you again? What I want to do is practice my set shots and that. So normally he called them a cab and promised them he’d meet them at a café on Lygon Street in an hour for coffee and cakes.
Then, when they got there, the owner of the café, who was good mates with a few famous Carlton supporters who worked in the nightclub security industry, would tell the young lady that it would be in her best interest to not make contact with Brendan and to most certainly not go to any media or newspaper.
The newspapers. They were sitting on the grass outside his house as he watched the cab carrying Narelle or Chantelle or whatever her name was drive safely away. He picked them up and brought them inside.
He sat down with a glass of milk and a few slices of white bread. Dieticians be fucked. If one of them could come round and teach him how to work the toaster, then he’d the toasted brown bread they recommended.
Then to the papers. He was glad all that Dingogate stuff was off the front pages. It was just some bullshit about some country called Israel (what a stupid name for a country!) dropping a nuclear bomb on some other country. Boring.
Brendan hadn’t understood what the fuss about the Rebecca/Caroline video was about anyway. He’d seen it. It was two chicks getting it on. He alone possessed hundreds of videos where girls did that and more. Loads more. Things you wouldn’t believe. And not just with each other. With blokes, sometimes loads of blokes. And carrots and ice cream and chairs and he even had one with a spiny ant-eater in it. Two chicks just going for it for 15 minutes was nothing.
He turned the pages of the paper. A few pages in there was a picture of a touring African American chanteuse wearing a remarkably tight fitting top of sorts.
Christ, thought Brendan to himself, would you look at the funbags on her?
Funbags. Dirty pillows. God’s gift. He loved them. Geez, if he had a set of his own like that, he’d never get into trouble in a club or with sheilas again.
He’d just sit at home and play with him. Might even make it easier to take chest marks.
He chomped down on another slice of white bread, softening it up with milk until it formed a viscous liquid that slowly dripped down the back of his throat.
This is what is must feel like for chicks when they swallow, he thought, running his hands across his worringly flat chest as he did.
Now why was he doing that? Why did it feel so, so, flat?
Why did they always want to hang around and stuff? Sure, if they could kick he’d take them out in the park and they could boot balls back to him as he practiced his set shots but every time he suggested that, they just put a finger to their lips and said something like:
“Why don’t we stay inside and have some fun, baby?”
Nah, he’d think to himself, I’ve already rooted you. And I’m gunna root a different chick tonight. Why would I want to root you again? What I want to do is practice my set shots and that. So normally he called them a cab and promised them he’d meet them at a café on Lygon Street in an hour for coffee and cakes.
Then, when they got there, the owner of the café, who was good mates with a few famous Carlton supporters who worked in the nightclub security industry, would tell the young lady that it would be in her best interest to not make contact with Brendan and to most certainly not go to any media or newspaper.
The newspapers. They were sitting on the grass outside his house as he watched the cab carrying Narelle or Chantelle or whatever her name was drive safely away. He picked them up and brought them inside.
He sat down with a glass of milk and a few slices of white bread. Dieticians be fucked. If one of them could come round and teach him how to work the toaster, then he’d the toasted brown bread they recommended.
Then to the papers. He was glad all that Dingogate stuff was off the front pages. It was just some bullshit about some country called Israel (what a stupid name for a country!) dropping a nuclear bomb on some other country. Boring.
Brendan hadn’t understood what the fuss about the Rebecca/Caroline video was about anyway. He’d seen it. It was two chicks getting it on. He alone possessed hundreds of videos where girls did that and more. Loads more. Things you wouldn’t believe. And not just with each other. With blokes, sometimes loads of blokes. And carrots and ice cream and chairs and he even had one with a spiny ant-eater in it. Two chicks just going for it for 15 minutes was nothing.
He turned the pages of the paper. A few pages in there was a picture of a touring African American chanteuse wearing a remarkably tight fitting top of sorts.
Christ, thought Brendan to himself, would you look at the funbags on her?
Funbags. Dirty pillows. God’s gift. He loved them. Geez, if he had a set of his own like that, he’d never get into trouble in a club or with sheilas again.
He’d just sit at home and play with him. Might even make it easier to take chest marks.
He chomped down on another slice of white bread, softening it up with milk until it formed a viscous liquid that slowly dripped down the back of his throat.
This is what is must feel like for chicks when they swallow, he thought, running his hands across his worringly flat chest as he did.
Now why was he doing that? Why did it feel so, so, flat?
Friday, 8 May 2009
The denouement bit
The room was full of nervous tension as the audience awaited the Premier’s statement. The death and partial consumption of Alan Didak by Stewart Dew – or Homo Dewosaurus as the scientists now referred to him - had lead to calls for the Government to step in.
John Brumby strode from the wings and approached the microphone smiling like a wolf that had just disembowelled a lamb.
“Ladies, gentlemen, Ms Wilson, thanks for coming. I’m going to keep this short as I’m sure, this being a room full of journalists and footballers, you’re all dying to hit the free piss that’s sitting at the back of the room.
“Today, in conjunction with the Justice Minister, I created a new offence of Making Up Bullshit Footy Stories To Advance Your Own Career And Agenda. The maximum penalty for those found guilty of this offence will be life in prison.
“As many of you know, a broadsheet reporter called Sam recently made up a whole load of bullshit in an ego-driven attempt to boost her own shitful nepotistically derived career. To make matters worse, she tried to cloak this chiseling little effort in the kind of first year arts student pseudo feminist claptrap that The Wiggles would dismiss as intellectually shaky.
“As a result, a number of good people had their reputations tarnished and ultimately, a chain of events was put in place where Alan Didak was killed and eaten by Stewart Dew. Now I am not defending the events that lead up to what was so pathetically called ‘Dingogate’ – it sounds like Mr Sheedy does need to have a long hard look at himself - but what I am saying now is that beating shit like that up is wrong, it’s journalistically unprofessional and worse, it is, if you’ll pardon the pun, crying wolf.
“What if someone actually does try and root a dingo at the zoo? When the media reports that, people will just think ‘Oh, it’s just another beat up’. By doing what she did, Lane has actually set the cause of dingo protection back, she’s trivialized it. I come from the country and I’ve seen a dingo get rooted and let me tell you, it’s not very pretty. It’s certainly not something you should pretend happened when it didn’t.
“So as a result of this, I can today announce that the journalist in question is to be the first person jailed under the anti-making up bullshit footy story laws. A release date has not been set and we do not anticipate setting one. That is all, thank you.”
Brumby stepped down and someone at the back of the room turned on a stereo. Within minutes a full scale party had developed.
“I wonder what’s going to happen to poor Stewart,” Rebecca asked Chris, who bopped along to the music, mouthing the words to Livin’ La Vida Loco as he went.
“Apparently they’ve sent him out to a farm in South Australia where he can graze freely and wander around. You can hire him out for rides at kid’s parties and stuff. Look babes, I know this has been a tough few weeks but I know I haven’t been the boyfriend I should lately and I want to work on that,” he said.
Rebecca grabbed his hands eagerly. Was her old Chris finally coming back to her?
“Chris, I know you care so much about the environment and that’s so important, but I have needs too,” she said.
Chris nodded.
“I know babes, I know. Obviously I can’t give up my challenging and rewarding and in no way suspect job as a Visy Environmental Ambassador, but let’s just say I’m going to spending more time checking on the state of your lady garden too.”
They embraced. Chris said:
“Carn, let’s get out of here before bloody Nathan Brown comes over and starts bullshitting on about what a great fit he’d make in our forward line.”
The two left, holding hands. Elsewhere in the room, Caroline had cornered the Premier.
“You know, I wath alwayth againtht the Dingogate sthtowy, but Tham, thee wath like a bull in a china thop, I jutht couldn’t contwol her,” she said.
The world of football was almost back to normal. Briefly, it seemed equilibrium had been regained. Normal service had resumed.
And it would have stayed that way had a strapping bloke called Brendan not woken up the next morning, admired himself in a full length mirror and thought:
“I wonder what I’d look like with a big set of fake tits”
TO BE CONTINUED …
John Brumby strode from the wings and approached the microphone smiling like a wolf that had just disembowelled a lamb.
“Ladies, gentlemen, Ms Wilson, thanks for coming. I’m going to keep this short as I’m sure, this being a room full of journalists and footballers, you’re all dying to hit the free piss that’s sitting at the back of the room.
“Today, in conjunction with the Justice Minister, I created a new offence of Making Up Bullshit Footy Stories To Advance Your Own Career And Agenda. The maximum penalty for those found guilty of this offence will be life in prison.
“As many of you know, a broadsheet reporter called Sam recently made up a whole load of bullshit in an ego-driven attempt to boost her own shitful nepotistically derived career. To make matters worse, she tried to cloak this chiseling little effort in the kind of first year arts student pseudo feminist claptrap that The Wiggles would dismiss as intellectually shaky.
“As a result, a number of good people had their reputations tarnished and ultimately, a chain of events was put in place where Alan Didak was killed and eaten by Stewart Dew. Now I am not defending the events that lead up to what was so pathetically called ‘Dingogate’ – it sounds like Mr Sheedy does need to have a long hard look at himself - but what I am saying now is that beating shit like that up is wrong, it’s journalistically unprofessional and worse, it is, if you’ll pardon the pun, crying wolf.
“What if someone actually does try and root a dingo at the zoo? When the media reports that, people will just think ‘Oh, it’s just another beat up’. By doing what she did, Lane has actually set the cause of dingo protection back, she’s trivialized it. I come from the country and I’ve seen a dingo get rooted and let me tell you, it’s not very pretty. It’s certainly not something you should pretend happened when it didn’t.
“So as a result of this, I can today announce that the journalist in question is to be the first person jailed under the anti-making up bullshit footy story laws. A release date has not been set and we do not anticipate setting one. That is all, thank you.”
Brumby stepped down and someone at the back of the room turned on a stereo. Within minutes a full scale party had developed.
“I wonder what’s going to happen to poor Stewart,” Rebecca asked Chris, who bopped along to the music, mouthing the words to Livin’ La Vida Loco as he went.
“Apparently they’ve sent him out to a farm in South Australia where he can graze freely and wander around. You can hire him out for rides at kid’s parties and stuff. Look babes, I know this has been a tough few weeks but I know I haven’t been the boyfriend I should lately and I want to work on that,” he said.
Rebecca grabbed his hands eagerly. Was her old Chris finally coming back to her?
“Chris, I know you care so much about the environment and that’s so important, but I have needs too,” she said.
Chris nodded.
“I know babes, I know. Obviously I can’t give up my challenging and rewarding and in no way suspect job as a Visy Environmental Ambassador, but let’s just say I’m going to spending more time checking on the state of your lady garden too.”
They embraced. Chris said:
“Carn, let’s get out of here before bloody Nathan Brown comes over and starts bullshitting on about what a great fit he’d make in our forward line.”
The two left, holding hands. Elsewhere in the room, Caroline had cornered the Premier.
“You know, I wath alwayth againtht the Dingogate sthtowy, but Tham, thee wath like a bull in a china thop, I jutht couldn’t contwol her,” she said.
The world of football was almost back to normal. Briefly, it seemed equilibrium had been regained. Normal service had resumed.
And it would have stayed that way had a strapping bloke called Brendan not woken up the next morning, admired himself in a full length mirror and thought:
“I wonder what I’d look like with a big set of fake tits”
TO BE CONTINUED …
The Rise Of The Dewosaurus
Alan had little experience of driving high performance cars at top speed and as he wove through the back streets of Camberwell, his main concern was for the safety of others. In the distance, the wail of police sirens grew ever closer.
It would be fair to say he and Colin’s plan of going to his old primary school and asking they destroy the record of him being given detention all those years ago had not been entirely flawless.
The principal had met his request with undisguised disdain.
“Mr Didak,” she’d said, “You reek of alcohol, you are wearing no trousers and it appears you have recently attempted to pierce your own nipples. Please leave my office right now.”
He’d done as she asked but when he’d returned to the car, Colin had laid into him.
“You gunna let your dream move to Carlton get ruined because of this bullshit. Nah, bugger that mate,” he’d said. “Brocky’s left his chainsaw in the boot. Just go round the back of the office, cut a hole in the wall and grab the stuff.”
It had seemed like a good plan at the time, but as Alan walked through the playground with the chainsaw revving, he saw how the incident could be misconstrued in the media. So he did the right thing, he put the chainsaw down and ran away as fast as he could.
Outside Stewart Dew’s house, Johnno sat in his car mulling his options. Was taking a human life really the best way to avenge his murdered furry companions? Would he be able to live with himself?
His reverie was broke by the screech of tires as a car hurtled round the corner. Didak had remembered Dew lived in the area and was going to seek sanctuary inside his house. Johnno watched in shock as the car pulled up, a young man got out and rushed to the door. As he pushed it open, Johnno saw a mighty paw deliver a savage blow that almost separated the young man’s head from his body.
A unearthly scream pierced the air, not man, not animal. Shaken, Johnno took the tranquiliser gun he always kept handy and approached the house. He pushed the door open and was greeted by a vile smell, like hundred wet dog’s farts kept in a jar then held under your nose. A trail of blood led into the gloom.
He could hear breathing, heaving breathing. It was close. He tightened his grip on the tranquiliser gun, activated the torch function. He swept the room and in the corner saw a pair of glowing red eyes. The beast was crouched over its kill, blood on its muzzle.
“It’s alright big fella,” Johnno soothed, “I don’t want your dinner. I just want you to have a little sleep.”
And with that, he fired a dart, that hit truly. Within seconds, the red eyes faded and the beast slumped to the ground.
Johnno was glad he hadn’t harmed Stewart. Standing over the enormous mass of him as he slept, he saw that Stewart Dew had ceased to be fully human. He had regressed to an earlier stage of evolution. He had become the Dewosaurus.
It would be fair to say he and Colin’s plan of going to his old primary school and asking they destroy the record of him being given detention all those years ago had not been entirely flawless.
The principal had met his request with undisguised disdain.
“Mr Didak,” she’d said, “You reek of alcohol, you are wearing no trousers and it appears you have recently attempted to pierce your own nipples. Please leave my office right now.”
He’d done as she asked but when he’d returned to the car, Colin had laid into him.
“You gunna let your dream move to Carlton get ruined because of this bullshit. Nah, bugger that mate,” he’d said. “Brocky’s left his chainsaw in the boot. Just go round the back of the office, cut a hole in the wall and grab the stuff.”
It had seemed like a good plan at the time, but as Alan walked through the playground with the chainsaw revving, he saw how the incident could be misconstrued in the media. So he did the right thing, he put the chainsaw down and ran away as fast as he could.
Outside Stewart Dew’s house, Johnno sat in his car mulling his options. Was taking a human life really the best way to avenge his murdered furry companions? Would he be able to live with himself?
His reverie was broke by the screech of tires as a car hurtled round the corner. Didak had remembered Dew lived in the area and was going to seek sanctuary inside his house. Johnno watched in shock as the car pulled up, a young man got out and rushed to the door. As he pushed it open, Johnno saw a mighty paw deliver a savage blow that almost separated the young man’s head from his body.
A unearthly scream pierced the air, not man, not animal. Shaken, Johnno took the tranquiliser gun he always kept handy and approached the house. He pushed the door open and was greeted by a vile smell, like hundred wet dog’s farts kept in a jar then held under your nose. A trail of blood led into the gloom.
He could hear breathing, heaving breathing. It was close. He tightened his grip on the tranquiliser gun, activated the torch function. He swept the room and in the corner saw a pair of glowing red eyes. The beast was crouched over its kill, blood on its muzzle.
“It’s alright big fella,” Johnno soothed, “I don’t want your dinner. I just want you to have a little sleep.”
And with that, he fired a dart, that hit truly. Within seconds, the red eyes faded and the beast slumped to the ground.
Johnno was glad he hadn’t harmed Stewart. Standing over the enormous mass of him as he slept, he saw that Stewart Dew had ceased to be fully human. He had regressed to an earlier stage of evolution. He had become the Dewosaurus.
Who? Who Come Stewart House?
With Sam safely under arrest, Rebecca moved to her next problem. What to do with Johnno. He had a huge bee in his bonnet about Stewart Dew and couldn’t be calmed down.
A plan formed. She dialled Chris. By Christ she hoped he wasn’t still dancing round the backyard chanting gibberish.
He answered on the second ring.
“Hey babes, how’s my favourite little eco-friendly speech pathologist slash part time TV presenter slash face of our good friends at Myer?”
“I’m well, Chris, have you finished your ritual then?”
“Yeah, look babes, I got to thinking, what would Mr Pratt really want me to do at a time like this? Dance round the backyard like a drongo? Then I saw my watch and realised it was 7.30PM and that’s when I have to empty the bilge on his yacht, so I’m off to do that now.”
“Can you do me a favour? You know where Stewart Dew lives don’t you?”
“Of course babes, he lives in that big joint in Camberwell that looks like a gingerbread house. I don’t think its real gingerbread. Though he is always getting renovation work done.”
“Good, give me his address. But the thing is, and this is really important, as soon as you hang up, I need you to ring him and tell him to get out of the house, straight away, that’s really important.”
“Why?”
“Look, I’ll explain later babes, there’ll be someone coming around, and Stewart really doesn’t want to be there when he does.”
Chris gave her the address and promised he’d call Dew. He was as good as his word.
“Stewy mate, I’ve got a whisper someone is coming around to your house and you shouldn’t be home when they get there.”
“Who? Who come Stewart house?” the great beast asked, the phone tiny in his giant hairy paw.
“Just get out mate, do yourself a favour,” said Chris before hanging up.
But the beast was not easily driven from its lair. He had absorbed the essence of three crocodiles, a lion and various other powerful creatures in the last week. He was stronger than before, his eyes keen, and nose sharp. He felt an enormous strength within himself. He would lurk in the darkness of the hallway and await this mere human who dared challenge the Great Dew. He would strike swift and vicious. He would taste manflesh.
A plan formed. She dialled Chris. By Christ she hoped he wasn’t still dancing round the backyard chanting gibberish.
He answered on the second ring.
“Hey babes, how’s my favourite little eco-friendly speech pathologist slash part time TV presenter slash face of our good friends at Myer?”
“I’m well, Chris, have you finished your ritual then?”
“Yeah, look babes, I got to thinking, what would Mr Pratt really want me to do at a time like this? Dance round the backyard like a drongo? Then I saw my watch and realised it was 7.30PM and that’s when I have to empty the bilge on his yacht, so I’m off to do that now.”
“Can you do me a favour? You know where Stewart Dew lives don’t you?”
“Of course babes, he lives in that big joint in Camberwell that looks like a gingerbread house. I don’t think its real gingerbread. Though he is always getting renovation work done.”
“Good, give me his address. But the thing is, and this is really important, as soon as you hang up, I need you to ring him and tell him to get out of the house, straight away, that’s really important.”
“Why?”
“Look, I’ll explain later babes, there’ll be someone coming around, and Stewart really doesn’t want to be there when he does.”
Chris gave her the address and promised he’d call Dew. He was as good as his word.
“Stewy mate, I’ve got a whisper someone is coming around to your house and you shouldn’t be home when they get there.”
“Who? Who come Stewart house?” the great beast asked, the phone tiny in his giant hairy paw.
“Just get out mate, do yourself a favour,” said Chris before hanging up.
But the beast was not easily driven from its lair. He had absorbed the essence of three crocodiles, a lion and various other powerful creatures in the last week. He was stronger than before, his eyes keen, and nose sharp. He felt an enormous strength within himself. He would lurk in the darkness of the hallway and await this mere human who dared challenge the Great Dew. He would strike swift and vicious. He would taste manflesh.
Old friends reunite
Events moved swiftly over the course of the evening and the following day. And as is the way in this inter-connected world of ours, where information streams in invisible packets through the very air we breath, where something that happens to an individual is known by millions seconds later, the best laid plans went awry.
The element of chance came into play, the ball that was bouncing toward the big sticks took a leg break that nobody could have predicted, trundled over the line and the game was lost. Fate occurred, life happened. As a result, a man who would have otherwise have lived died, and others faced broken careers and ruined futures
“There she is, there’s the little bitch”, spat Sam as Johnno piloted the big car through the casino carpark.
Rebecca sensed something was wrong the minute the car pulled up next to her. Who was this other person with Caroline? Was it even Caroline?
Johnno got out quickly, clutching the bucket of acid. He wasn’t comfortable with disfiguring a woman he’d never met, but thought it a price worth paying to stop the monster Dew before he ruined the country’s fragile ecosystem.
But then as he approached the woman, he realised he did know her. The slender figure, the long brown hair.
He put the bucket down.
“Rebecca?” he asked.
She looked over.
“Johnno?”
The two rushed to one another. Johnno had been the very first patient Rebecca had ever seen when she was studying speech pathology back in Perth. It had taken a year, but she’d finally been able to help him remove the stutter that had blighted his speech and as result, he’d been able to present convincingly in interviews and get his dream job at the zoo.
“What the bloody hell is going on,” shrieked Sam from inside the car, “Why haven’t you thrown the acid over her yet?”
“Johnno, what’s going on?” asked Rebecca.
“Well, Sam here is pissed off because you’ve been playing fanny bangers with Caroline, and I want revenge on Stewart Dew because he ate my crocodiles so we did a deal where I’d chuck this acid on you if she helped me get Dew’s address so I could teach him a lesson about sustainable wildlife management,” replied Johnno.
Rebecca absorbed it all.
“Johnno, that’s madness, she’s just using you. You could go to jail for this. Don’t think she won’t drop you right in it to save her own little skin,” she said.
They looked over to the car where Sam’s face, twisted into a hideous mask of hate and bitterness, was pressed against the glass like a kid from the special school on the bus home.
“You’re right Rebecca, but what should we do?”
“The first thing we should do is call the police and get this crazy woman arrested,” replied Rebecca, dialling 000 as she spoke.
The element of chance came into play, the ball that was bouncing toward the big sticks took a leg break that nobody could have predicted, trundled over the line and the game was lost. Fate occurred, life happened. As a result, a man who would have otherwise have lived died, and others faced broken careers and ruined futures
“There she is, there’s the little bitch”, spat Sam as Johnno piloted the big car through the casino carpark.
Rebecca sensed something was wrong the minute the car pulled up next to her. Who was this other person with Caroline? Was it even Caroline?
Johnno got out quickly, clutching the bucket of acid. He wasn’t comfortable with disfiguring a woman he’d never met, but thought it a price worth paying to stop the monster Dew before he ruined the country’s fragile ecosystem.
But then as he approached the woman, he realised he did know her. The slender figure, the long brown hair.
He put the bucket down.
“Rebecca?” he asked.
She looked over.
“Johnno?”
The two rushed to one another. Johnno had been the very first patient Rebecca had ever seen when she was studying speech pathology back in Perth. It had taken a year, but she’d finally been able to help him remove the stutter that had blighted his speech and as result, he’d been able to present convincingly in interviews and get his dream job at the zoo.
“What the bloody hell is going on,” shrieked Sam from inside the car, “Why haven’t you thrown the acid over her yet?”
“Johnno, what’s going on?” asked Rebecca.
“Well, Sam here is pissed off because you’ve been playing fanny bangers with Caroline, and I want revenge on Stewart Dew because he ate my crocodiles so we did a deal where I’d chuck this acid on you if she helped me get Dew’s address so I could teach him a lesson about sustainable wildlife management,” replied Johnno.
Rebecca absorbed it all.
“Johnno, that’s madness, she’s just using you. You could go to jail for this. Don’t think she won’t drop you right in it to save her own little skin,” she said.
They looked over to the car where Sam’s face, twisted into a hideous mask of hate and bitterness, was pressed against the glass like a kid from the special school on the bus home.
“You’re right Rebecca, but what should we do?”
“The first thing we should do is call the police and get this crazy woman arrested,” replied Rebecca, dialling 000 as she spoke.
Honti hontu wawehluh! Honti hontu wawehlul! Ompil ompil artemog!
Rebecca moved her seat on the balcony away from the smoke wafting up from below. She took a sip of her G and T and counted, slowly, forcefully. She was having to get up into the twenties now before she felt the anger dissolve and calm return.
Below, Chris let out a shrill whoop. She saw him below, covered in bodypaint and with some seagull feathers stickytaped to the side of his head, dancing around a small fire he’d built earlier that evening.
He stopped twirling and pointed his hands to the sky.
“Honti hontu wawehluh! Honti hontu wawehlul! Ompil ompil artemog!” he cried.
It was a Native American dance he told her was performed when a tribal chief, or valiant warrior, lay gravely ill or mortally wounded.
“Honti hontu wawehluh! Honti hontu wawehlul! Ompil ompil artemog!” Chris repeated.
According to the book he’d bought especially for the occasion, this particular incantation translated as:
“O mighty spirit! A good man comes to you! He is pure of deed and life! Welcome him to your wigwam!”
The G and T was going down well. It was the second of the evening and if, as he’d promised, Chris was going to maintain an all-night vigil for Mr Pratt, it certainly wouldn’t be the last.
Her phone buzzed softly, announcing the arrival of a text. She stretched a languid arm and grabbed it, flicked it open.
Caroline.
Webecca. I can’t live like thith. I mutht thee you. When will our bodieth again mingle in that way we wove tho much? Youth, Cx
Wow, thought Rebecca, thee even texthted like that. What? Now, she was doing it too. Was it contagious?
She looked down at Chris, who had begun to smear ash on his face, and flog himself with a small whip.
Bugger this for game of cowboys and Indians, she thought.
She texted back. Caroline replied quickly. They would meet in the underground carpark at the casino. Chris appeared to have entered some strange trance state and gave no indication that he noticed as she announced she was going out for a bit. In the car, on the way to the illicit assignation, Rebecca began to moisten in anticipation.
At The Age’s HQ on Spencer Street, Sam put the phone down just as Caro emerged from the toilets.
“Geeth, I needed that,” she said, “I feel about three poundth lighter. I’d give the ladieth a mith for a few minuteth girlth.”
“I’m just off to meet a contact boss,” Sam said. “Won’t back until tomorrow.”
Caro waved her hand dismissively and began dialling a number on her mobile. She gave no indication that she suspected Sam had sent any messages from the phone.
As agreed, Johnno was waiting outside.
“Have you got the acid,” Sam asked?
Johnno nodded.
“You got this Dew prick's address?”
Sam held up the bit of paper.
“Its yours once we get this job done. I want to watch.”
Johnno nodded grimly. They drove off, heading for underground carpark at Crown. Not a word was said.
Below, Chris let out a shrill whoop. She saw him below, covered in bodypaint and with some seagull feathers stickytaped to the side of his head, dancing around a small fire he’d built earlier that evening.
He stopped twirling and pointed his hands to the sky.
“Honti hontu wawehluh! Honti hontu wawehlul! Ompil ompil artemog!” he cried.
It was a Native American dance he told her was performed when a tribal chief, or valiant warrior, lay gravely ill or mortally wounded.
“Honti hontu wawehluh! Honti hontu wawehlul! Ompil ompil artemog!” Chris repeated.
According to the book he’d bought especially for the occasion, this particular incantation translated as:
“O mighty spirit! A good man comes to you! He is pure of deed and life! Welcome him to your wigwam!”
The G and T was going down well. It was the second of the evening and if, as he’d promised, Chris was going to maintain an all-night vigil for Mr Pratt, it certainly wouldn’t be the last.
Her phone buzzed softly, announcing the arrival of a text. She stretched a languid arm and grabbed it, flicked it open.
Caroline.
Webecca. I can’t live like thith. I mutht thee you. When will our bodieth again mingle in that way we wove tho much? Youth, Cx
Wow, thought Rebecca, thee even texthted like that. What? Now, she was doing it too. Was it contagious?
She looked down at Chris, who had begun to smear ash on his face, and flog himself with a small whip.
Bugger this for game of cowboys and Indians, she thought.
She texted back. Caroline replied quickly. They would meet in the underground carpark at the casino. Chris appeared to have entered some strange trance state and gave no indication that he noticed as she announced she was going out for a bit. In the car, on the way to the illicit assignation, Rebecca began to moisten in anticipation.
At The Age’s HQ on Spencer Street, Sam put the phone down just as Caro emerged from the toilets.
“Geeth, I needed that,” she said, “I feel about three poundth lighter. I’d give the ladieth a mith for a few minuteth girlth.”
“I’m just off to meet a contact boss,” Sam said. “Won’t back until tomorrow.”
Caro waved her hand dismissively and began dialling a number on her mobile. She gave no indication that she suspected Sam had sent any messages from the phone.
As agreed, Johnno was waiting outside.
“Have you got the acid,” Sam asked?
Johnno nodded.
“You got this Dew prick's address?”
Sam held up the bit of paper.
“Its yours once we get this job done. I want to watch.”
Johnno nodded grimly. They drove off, heading for underground carpark at Crown. Not a word was said.
Back to school
Earlier that day, much earlier, in the hour when the darkest night begins to lift and the first pink fingers of dawn are stretching themselves across an unseeable horizon, Alan and Colin were discussing their respective futures as only centimeters away, a bored 19 year from Corowa call Krystal gyrated listlessly.
“Run this past me again, what’s the plan,” said Alan as he sipped his 23rd Big Fat Root of the night.
“Chrisso's missus has been getting the good news off Caroline, all that, you saw the video,” said Colin.
Alan had seen the footage. It had become the most popular YouTube video in the country within days.
“So, apparently Rebecca has decided she’s back on solids but that she can’t stay in Melbourne coz everyone knows she had Caro studying her fish pie recipe for a while. She’s getting in Chrisso’s ear saying ‘Let’s go to the Gold Coast’. Then Stewy Dew’s gone and eaten those crocodiles …”
“And the rest of it,” interrupted Alan. He had always been fond of animals and news of Dew’s bloody rampage at the Zoo had turned his stomach.
“Yeah, yeah, whatever. So Dew’s gunna get the arse, we’re both playing at shitful teams. I reckon it goes like this. Chris goes to the Gold Coast, you go to Carlton and I’ll fill big Stewie’s boots over at Hawthorn.”
Alan liked the sound of it. He knew that he would fit in perfectly at the by-the-book culture predominant at Princes Park. He was an abstemious chap by nature and that was the kind of thing they respected at Carlton. In fact, it was well known that their high moral standards meant that nobody with even the slightest cloud over them was welcome.
He had a problem though. He had one blot in his copybook. In Grade Four, he’d gotten a detention after carelessly allowing an icy pole stick to slip from his grasp in the playground and been spotted by a teacher.
He knew if the indiscretion was revealed, the Blues would shut the door on him. He confided his problem in Colin.
Who suggested a solution. An entirely plausible solution. Stay and here getting pissed on Big Fat Roots and watching Krystal’s tits sway hypnotically back and forth, then head up to the primary school when it opened and politely ask them to excise the matter from his permanent record.
Simple. What could go wrong?
“Run this past me again, what’s the plan,” said Alan as he sipped his 23rd Big Fat Root of the night.
“Chrisso's missus has been getting the good news off Caroline, all that, you saw the video,” said Colin.
Alan had seen the footage. It had become the most popular YouTube video in the country within days.
“So, apparently Rebecca has decided she’s back on solids but that she can’t stay in Melbourne coz everyone knows she had Caro studying her fish pie recipe for a while. She’s getting in Chrisso’s ear saying ‘Let’s go to the Gold Coast’. Then Stewy Dew’s gone and eaten those crocodiles …”
“And the rest of it,” interrupted Alan. He had always been fond of animals and news of Dew’s bloody rampage at the Zoo had turned his stomach.
“Yeah, yeah, whatever. So Dew’s gunna get the arse, we’re both playing at shitful teams. I reckon it goes like this. Chris goes to the Gold Coast, you go to Carlton and I’ll fill big Stewie’s boots over at Hawthorn.”
Alan liked the sound of it. He knew that he would fit in perfectly at the by-the-book culture predominant at Princes Park. He was an abstemious chap by nature and that was the kind of thing they respected at Carlton. In fact, it was well known that their high moral standards meant that nobody with even the slightest cloud over them was welcome.
He had a problem though. He had one blot in his copybook. In Grade Four, he’d gotten a detention after carelessly allowing an icy pole stick to slip from his grasp in the playground and been spotted by a teacher.
He knew if the indiscretion was revealed, the Blues would shut the door on him. He confided his problem in Colin.
Who suggested a solution. An entirely plausible solution. Stay and here getting pissed on Big Fat Roots and watching Krystal’s tits sway hypnotically back and forth, then head up to the primary school when it opened and politely ask them to excise the matter from his permanent record.
Simple. What could go wrong?
Terry Bosniak
The news of Richard Pratt’s ill-health brought out not the slightest hint of sympathy in Dean Laidley. Even the most casual observer could see Laidley was not a sympathetic man.
He hadn’t been born with a silver spoon in his mouth. He’d been brought up like he played his footy: hard, tough, with a system that might not look pretty but got results. Except in September. There was some flaw in the system that made it fail in September. Laidley put it down to hemispsheric disparities, or the phase of the moon.
“Am I in trouble Dad,” asked his 10 year old son.
“You’re always in trouble son, that’s what life is about. A desperate struggle to keep your head above water while the world tries to grind you down at every opportunity,” he replied, his steely eyes navigating the traffic ahead of him.
“So why have you asked for a meeting with my teacher?”
“You’ll find out when we get there.”
Mrs Miller, the teacher, had heard a lot of stuff from parents in her 23 years as a teacher, but this was a new one.
“You want to what, Mr Laidley?”
“I want to trade my son. He hasn’t been putting in the required effort, his performances have been sub-par, the lawn has been covered in leaves for days now, his room is always dirty.
“But yes, he has potential, I see that, so that’s why I’m not just taking him down the beach with a potato sack and a few bricks. I want to see what I can get for him.”
Miller shook her head. This was a new one.
“And, what, who … what do you expect to get from trading your son Mr Laidley?” she asked, finding it hard to believe the conversation was even happening.
“Terry Bosniak”
“What?”
“Kid in Grade Two. I like the look of him. He’s not flashy, but gets the job done. Never once been late with his homework. Hasn’t pissed his bed in years. Looks like a solid performer,” Laidley said.
“Let me get this straight, you’re proposing to swap your son for Terry Bosniak?”
Laidley nodded.
“Or,” he said, “Alternatively, I’ll let you guys have him, you could use him around the school and stuff, picking up papers and washing the dunnies, and then I get to choose whatever prep I want from the new intake in February.”
Mrs Miller was just about to attempt to explain to the … the … the … maniac … why what he was proposing was not only illegal, but immoral on so many grounds, when the vice principal rushed into the room.
“Mrs Miller, sorry to interrupt, there’s an emergency. Alan Didak’s outside the art room with a chainsaw!”
He hadn’t been born with a silver spoon in his mouth. He’d been brought up like he played his footy: hard, tough, with a system that might not look pretty but got results. Except in September. There was some flaw in the system that made it fail in September. Laidley put it down to hemispsheric disparities, or the phase of the moon.
“Am I in trouble Dad,” asked his 10 year old son.
“You’re always in trouble son, that’s what life is about. A desperate struggle to keep your head above water while the world tries to grind you down at every opportunity,” he replied, his steely eyes navigating the traffic ahead of him.
“So why have you asked for a meeting with my teacher?”
“You’ll find out when we get there.”
Mrs Miller, the teacher, had heard a lot of stuff from parents in her 23 years as a teacher, but this was a new one.
“You want to what, Mr Laidley?”
“I want to trade my son. He hasn’t been putting in the required effort, his performances have been sub-par, the lawn has been covered in leaves for days now, his room is always dirty.
“But yes, he has potential, I see that, so that’s why I’m not just taking him down the beach with a potato sack and a few bricks. I want to see what I can get for him.”
Miller shook her head. This was a new one.
“And, what, who … what do you expect to get from trading your son Mr Laidley?” she asked, finding it hard to believe the conversation was even happening.
“Terry Bosniak”
“What?”
“Kid in Grade Two. I like the look of him. He’s not flashy, but gets the job done. Never once been late with his homework. Hasn’t pissed his bed in years. Looks like a solid performer,” Laidley said.
“Let me get this straight, you’re proposing to swap your son for Terry Bosniak?”
Laidley nodded.
“Or,” he said, “Alternatively, I’ll let you guys have him, you could use him around the school and stuff, picking up papers and washing the dunnies, and then I get to choose whatever prep I want from the new intake in February.”
Mrs Miller was just about to attempt to explain to the … the … the … maniac … why what he was proposing was not only illegal, but immoral on so many grounds, when the vice principal rushed into the room.
“Mrs Miller, sorry to interrupt, there’s an emergency. Alan Didak’s outside the art room with a chainsaw!”
Hug o'clock
“Look at this, this is the best bit! I mean the worst bit,” Chris spluttered.
Rebecca glanced over. They were watching An Inconvenient Truth for the 176th time. That wasn’t an exaggeration either. She’d been keeping count. And it was also 175 times more than Chris had ever done to her what Caroline had enjoyed so much. No, mustn’t think about Caroline. Think about Chris.
“Look at the way the ice is cracking, its just, bloody, it just amazes me people don't seem to care,” he said.
Rebecca moved her hand further up Chris’s leg. She’d had it there for half an hour, inching ever northward, but he didn’t seem to notice.
Chris shook his head.
“You know what babes, I reckon we need a new plasma screen so I can really understand the full detail of how we as a species are destroying this planet. The 87 incher just isn’t up to it anymore,” he said.
Rebecca met his eyes.
“Why don’t you show me your 87 incher Chris? It’s been a while since we got anything entertaining out of that.”
She moved her hand directly onto his manhood but he brushed it away.
“Babes, not now, this is important stuff. We can really make a difference to the future of our world here. What about our children? What kind of world will we be leaving them?” he said.
Rebecca resisted the urge to inform Chris that their children wouldn’t care about the environmental degradation wrought on this fragile planet if he didn’t occasionally throw one up her, unprotected penetrative vaginal sex being the key component of human reproduction it was, but resisted.
Instead, she went over to island in their kitchen and poured herself an OJ. As soon, as she tasted it, she spat it out. It was rotten. Literally. Gone off.
“Chris, what’s wrong this OJ?” she asked.
“Oh, I meant to tell you babes, I chucked out that commercial crap full of preservatives you were buying from the supermarket. Instead, I just recycled some oranges I found in next door’s bin.”
One, two, three … four. Rebecca did the counting thing. It worked. But she didn’t how much longer it would be remain effective.
She’d sat down again just as the amazingly lifelike Al Gore began his long droning speech about the polar bears. Chris knew the speech off by heart. She had a sinking suspicion that if they were ever to get married, he’d want to work it into the vows somehow.
Then the phone rang. The call that would change their lives.
The ringtone was Yellow by Coldplay, the one Chris had selected for when Mr Pratt called. He’d chosen it because he said Coldplay were just like Mr Pratt, innovative, brave, not commercial.
“Good evening Sir,” Chris said promptly.
“Chris! Chris! Izza no Mr Pratt! Izza Jeanne here! You come over quick! Mr Pratt, hizza sick! I think he gonna die!”
Rebecca saw the colour drain from Chris’ face.
“What is it babes, is everything OK?”
A tear was already forming in Chris’ eyes.
“It’s Mr Pratt,” he said, “He’s sick. He might die.”
The silence enveloped them. Rebecca liked Mr Pratt. When they went to his house to serve dinner, sometimes the old man would let her swim in his Olympic size pool full of gold coins.
“You swim pretty girl,” he would say, “I justa sit here anda watch”
She put her hand on Chris’ shoulder.
He spoke:
“I think its hug o’clock babes.”
She held him tight.
“Why?” he asked, the grief in his voice only too heart-wrenchingly apparent.
“Why do bad things only ever happen to good people?”
Rebecca glanced over. They were watching An Inconvenient Truth for the 176th time. That wasn’t an exaggeration either. She’d been keeping count. And it was also 175 times more than Chris had ever done to her what Caroline had enjoyed so much. No, mustn’t think about Caroline. Think about Chris.
“Look at the way the ice is cracking, its just, bloody, it just amazes me people don't seem to care,” he said.
Rebecca moved her hand further up Chris’s leg. She’d had it there for half an hour, inching ever northward, but he didn’t seem to notice.
Chris shook his head.
“You know what babes, I reckon we need a new plasma screen so I can really understand the full detail of how we as a species are destroying this planet. The 87 incher just isn’t up to it anymore,” he said.
Rebecca met his eyes.
“Why don’t you show me your 87 incher Chris? It’s been a while since we got anything entertaining out of that.”
She moved her hand directly onto his manhood but he brushed it away.
“Babes, not now, this is important stuff. We can really make a difference to the future of our world here. What about our children? What kind of world will we be leaving them?” he said.
Rebecca resisted the urge to inform Chris that their children wouldn’t care about the environmental degradation wrought on this fragile planet if he didn’t occasionally throw one up her, unprotected penetrative vaginal sex being the key component of human reproduction it was, but resisted.
Instead, she went over to island in their kitchen and poured herself an OJ. As soon, as she tasted it, she spat it out. It was rotten. Literally. Gone off.
“Chris, what’s wrong this OJ?” she asked.
“Oh, I meant to tell you babes, I chucked out that commercial crap full of preservatives you were buying from the supermarket. Instead, I just recycled some oranges I found in next door’s bin.”
One, two, three … four. Rebecca did the counting thing. It worked. But she didn’t how much longer it would be remain effective.
She’d sat down again just as the amazingly lifelike Al Gore began his long droning speech about the polar bears. Chris knew the speech off by heart. She had a sinking suspicion that if they were ever to get married, he’d want to work it into the vows somehow.
Then the phone rang. The call that would change their lives.
The ringtone was Yellow by Coldplay, the one Chris had selected for when Mr Pratt called. He’d chosen it because he said Coldplay were just like Mr Pratt, innovative, brave, not commercial.
“Good evening Sir,” Chris said promptly.
“Chris! Chris! Izza no Mr Pratt! Izza Jeanne here! You come over quick! Mr Pratt, hizza sick! I think he gonna die!”
Rebecca saw the colour drain from Chris’ face.
“What is it babes, is everything OK?”
A tear was already forming in Chris’ eyes.
“It’s Mr Pratt,” he said, “He’s sick. He might die.”
The silence enveloped them. Rebecca liked Mr Pratt. When they went to his house to serve dinner, sometimes the old man would let her swim in his Olympic size pool full of gold coins.
“You swim pretty girl,” he would say, “I justa sit here anda watch”
She put her hand on Chris’ shoulder.
He spoke:
“I think its hug o’clock babes.”
She held him tight.
“Why?” he asked, the grief in his voice only too heart-wrenchingly apparent.
“Why do bad things only ever happen to good people?”
A bloody morning
An eerie silence hung over the Parkville dawn as the zookeeper began his rounds. He was a man who’d seen the world, been caught with his patrol 25 clicks from anywhere in ‘Nam in ’68, seen what a mortar shell does to a man when it scores a direct hit.
After that, he’d travelled loose and light. Tuna fishing off Port Lincoln, a spell up in the Kimberleys. There’d been a bit of jail along the way, fights in bars that he always won, sometimes won a little too well. No, he’d seen blood before, he’d seen suffering, he’d seen things no man should ever have to see.
But he’d never seen anything like this before.
The paths of the zoo were covered in feathers, fur and scales. The hind leg of a kangaroo lay broken on a grassy verge, bloodied where some monstrous force had gnawed the flesh from the bone.
He followed the trail carefully, automatically into survival mode. He knew whoever – whatever – had done this could still be lurking, watching him , poised to strike,
He came to the open space just by the front gates. A charnel house greeted him. The heads of dozens, no hundreds of animals, from seals, to a zebra, even the poor bloody little lemurs sat in a macabre pyramid. And at the foot of the pyramid, a huge thing, a great pink mass, blood dripping from its gaping maw as it attempted to fit one last morsel into its grotesquely stuffed belly.
“What in the name Peter bloody Landy has happened here,” the ranger demanded.
The man, if you could call the abomination such a thing, shifted its tiny eyes in its enormous head and dimly registered his presence.
“I’m, I’m sorry Mr Clarkson, I couldn’t help myself. I just got hungry.”
With that, he passed out.
Later, as the firemen loaded the man he now knew was Hawthorn player Stewart Dew onto the kind sling normally only used to assist in the rescue of beached whales, the ranger assessed the damage.
Dew had eaten well over half of the animals in the entire zoo. He’d eaten all the crocodiles. All of them. And if the vet staff couldn’t revive the little quoll he’d taken a bite out of before discarding in favour of larger fare, then he may well have sentenced an entire sub-species to extinction with his ravenous hunger.
Just as the ranger was wiping away tears at the sight of the horror, the Zoo’s lawyer came over.
“Bad news Johnno, it looks like Hawthorn have got an injunction slapped on this already. Seems they registered Dew as disabled due to his eating disorders when they recruited him. Legally, we can’t say a word about this to anyone.”
Well, thought Johnno, the law might apply to straight suits and short back and sides men like you, but I answer to a higher power. No, someone would pay for this. Blood would be spilt. An eye for an eye, a tail for a tail.
After that, he’d travelled loose and light. Tuna fishing off Port Lincoln, a spell up in the Kimberleys. There’d been a bit of jail along the way, fights in bars that he always won, sometimes won a little too well. No, he’d seen blood before, he’d seen suffering, he’d seen things no man should ever have to see.
But he’d never seen anything like this before.
The paths of the zoo were covered in feathers, fur and scales. The hind leg of a kangaroo lay broken on a grassy verge, bloodied where some monstrous force had gnawed the flesh from the bone.
He followed the trail carefully, automatically into survival mode. He knew whoever – whatever – had done this could still be lurking, watching him , poised to strike,
He came to the open space just by the front gates. A charnel house greeted him. The heads of dozens, no hundreds of animals, from seals, to a zebra, even the poor bloody little lemurs sat in a macabre pyramid. And at the foot of the pyramid, a huge thing, a great pink mass, blood dripping from its gaping maw as it attempted to fit one last morsel into its grotesquely stuffed belly.
“What in the name Peter bloody Landy has happened here,” the ranger demanded.
The man, if you could call the abomination such a thing, shifted its tiny eyes in its enormous head and dimly registered his presence.
“I’m, I’m sorry Mr Clarkson, I couldn’t help myself. I just got hungry.”
With that, he passed out.
Later, as the firemen loaded the man he now knew was Hawthorn player Stewart Dew onto the kind sling normally only used to assist in the rescue of beached whales, the ranger assessed the damage.
Dew had eaten well over half of the animals in the entire zoo. He’d eaten all the crocodiles. All of them. And if the vet staff couldn’t revive the little quoll he’d taken a bite out of before discarding in favour of larger fare, then he may well have sentenced an entire sub-species to extinction with his ravenous hunger.
Just as the ranger was wiping away tears at the sight of the horror, the Zoo’s lawyer came over.
“Bad news Johnno, it looks like Hawthorn have got an injunction slapped on this already. Seems they registered Dew as disabled due to his eating disorders when they recruited him. Legally, we can’t say a word about this to anyone.”
Well, thought Johnno, the law might apply to straight suits and short back and sides men like you, but I answer to a higher power. No, someone would pay for this. Blood would be spilt. An eye for an eye, a tail for a tail.
A big slug from a goonbag
The morning broke bright and fresh. Sam had just walked through the door at The Era when Nathan, the new English guy, told her that the city's biggest commercial radio station wanted her to get down to studios straight away to take some talkback on her story.
“Dingogate is massive! Biggest story since Diana died. This shit’s going bloody Mexico baby!”
Sam spent the next two hours sitting happily in the soundproof booth as a series of credulous morons, the mentally infirm and those who liked to welcome the day with a big slug from a goonbag rang to praise her story and offer their own insights into the now confirmed culture of animal hatred at Punt Road.
“I used to live next door to Nathan Brown, at least I think it was Nathan Brown, looked like him anyway,” slurred one imbecile from the kind of suburb where hopes and dreams go to die, “And he would go hours without feeding his cat. He’d leave food for it in the morning, and then go out all day and not feed it again until he came back. You could tell the poor thing was hungry because it used to spend the day trying to catch birds.”
Sam sighed: “Yep, studies have shown that violent males will control every aspect of their victim’s life, right down to diet. It’s disturbing and as far as I’m concerned, the only course of action is chemical castration.”
It got worse. One man rang in to describe an awful scene at Mentone beach where Matthew Richardson had been observed shouting at his dog to ‘heel’ as they approached a busy road.
“Textbook case of psychological bullying. The man is clearly a monster. This single act, for mine, wipes away any good he has ever done in his entire pathetic life. His name is now mud. Parents should shield their children’s eyes if they are unfortunate enough to pass this demon in the streets,” Sam opined, the weight of a journalism degree and a reference from her Dad providing unassailable moral authority.
On and on it went. All of the evening news bulletins lead with it. The assassination attempt on President Obama was relegated to a few minutes before the weather.
And quite rightly too. The Americans could always get another President. Maybe a woman this time, instead of yet another black MAN. But there would never be story of such historic significance as Dingogate.
She felt the tape of the interview she’d done with the dingo in her pocket. Sure, the dingo hadn’t actually spoken to her, more emitted a series of low growls. And to be fair, it wasn’t actually a dingo she’d interviewed, it would be pretty bloody stupid to get that close to wild animal. No, she’d looked into the eyes of a stray dog in a park in Carlton. And its eyes had told her an unbelievable story of pain, exploitation, of fear as the deranged Sheedy chased the dingo round the enclosure, his enormous threatening manhood tumescent in those tight short, uttering all kinds of vile threats and curses.
Tomorrow she would tell the dingo's story and there would be no escaping the truth for Richmond – that it was a club of hate and despair that was the football of equivalent of Nazi Germany, Saddam’s Iraq and the late stage Roman Empire all rolled into one.
Little did Sam know she wasn’t the only one with animals on her mind. Nor did she know that her carefully prepared story would be blown out of the water by an event so shocking, so disturbing that even the most hardened observer would be sickened.
In the abandoned wasteland behind the Zoo, near where derelicts would gather to find a dark place to huddle in their blankets, a lumbering form with number 31 on its back approached the high red brick walls of the popular attraction.
If that drunken old codger Sheedy could get in, then so could he. And get in he would. The hunger was driving him, giving him energy, power. The cries and hoots of the beasts contained within only served to intensify his desire.
He would start with handfuls of frogs from the reptile house, then move onto something bigger, maybe a few fairy penguins before the main course – a camel. This night, he would devour a camel whole.
Tonight Stewart would feast!
“Dingogate is massive! Biggest story since Diana died. This shit’s going bloody Mexico baby!”
Sam spent the next two hours sitting happily in the soundproof booth as a series of credulous morons, the mentally infirm and those who liked to welcome the day with a big slug from a goonbag rang to praise her story and offer their own insights into the now confirmed culture of animal hatred at Punt Road.
“I used to live next door to Nathan Brown, at least I think it was Nathan Brown, looked like him anyway,” slurred one imbecile from the kind of suburb where hopes and dreams go to die, “And he would go hours without feeding his cat. He’d leave food for it in the morning, and then go out all day and not feed it again until he came back. You could tell the poor thing was hungry because it used to spend the day trying to catch birds.”
Sam sighed: “Yep, studies have shown that violent males will control every aspect of their victim’s life, right down to diet. It’s disturbing and as far as I’m concerned, the only course of action is chemical castration.”
It got worse. One man rang in to describe an awful scene at Mentone beach where Matthew Richardson had been observed shouting at his dog to ‘heel’ as they approached a busy road.
“Textbook case of psychological bullying. The man is clearly a monster. This single act, for mine, wipes away any good he has ever done in his entire pathetic life. His name is now mud. Parents should shield their children’s eyes if they are unfortunate enough to pass this demon in the streets,” Sam opined, the weight of a journalism degree and a reference from her Dad providing unassailable moral authority.
On and on it went. All of the evening news bulletins lead with it. The assassination attempt on President Obama was relegated to a few minutes before the weather.
And quite rightly too. The Americans could always get another President. Maybe a woman this time, instead of yet another black MAN. But there would never be story of such historic significance as Dingogate.
She felt the tape of the interview she’d done with the dingo in her pocket. Sure, the dingo hadn’t actually spoken to her, more emitted a series of low growls. And to be fair, it wasn’t actually a dingo she’d interviewed, it would be pretty bloody stupid to get that close to wild animal. No, she’d looked into the eyes of a stray dog in a park in Carlton. And its eyes had told her an unbelievable story of pain, exploitation, of fear as the deranged Sheedy chased the dingo round the enclosure, his enormous threatening manhood tumescent in those tight short, uttering all kinds of vile threats and curses.
Tomorrow she would tell the dingo's story and there would be no escaping the truth for Richmond – that it was a club of hate and despair that was the football of equivalent of Nazi Germany, Saddam’s Iraq and the late stage Roman Empire all rolled into one.
Little did Sam know she wasn’t the only one with animals on her mind. Nor did she know that her carefully prepared story would be blown out of the water by an event so shocking, so disturbing that even the most hardened observer would be sickened.
In the abandoned wasteland behind the Zoo, near where derelicts would gather to find a dark place to huddle in their blankets, a lumbering form with number 31 on its back approached the high red brick walls of the popular attraction.
If that drunken old codger Sheedy could get in, then so could he. And get in he would. The hunger was driving him, giving him energy, power. The cries and hoots of the beasts contained within only served to intensify his desire.
He would start with handfuls of frogs from the reptile house, then move onto something bigger, maybe a few fairy penguins before the main course – a camel. This night, he would devour a camel whole.
Tonight Stewart would feast!
The Steadier
Meanwhile, at headquarters, Andrew had just finished his third chocolate éclair of the morning – the pre-brunch éclair, or ‘the steadier’ as he liked to refer to it – when his loyal consigliore Gillon came into the room bearing the daily media monitoring report.
“Um, boss, have you seen the papers today?”
Andrew adjusted his generous rump on the snow leopard upholstered calf skin recliner he liked to repose in of a morning.
“No, Gillon, I haven’t seen the papers. That’s why I pay A BLOODY MORON LIKE YOU TO BRING ME MEDIA MONITORING REPORTS! YOU’RE A MORON AREN’T YOU GILLON? SAY IT! SAY ‘YES SIR MR ANDREW SIR, I’M A MORON!”
The younger man’s bottom lip began to tremble and a tear welled up in his eye.
“Oh for God’s sake don’t cry you pathetic little toad. If you cry I will send you over to listen to that doddering old fool Tim Lane bleating on about why Tasmania needs a footy team. You know when Tasmania will get a footy team? WHEN A WEDGE TAILED EAGLE FLIES OUT OF MY ARSE, THAT’S WHEN!”
Gillon had composed himself by now and let the boss rant a bit more about the conspiracies and injustices that faced him. Why couldn’t people see that a team based in the Solomon Islands was a good idea? Why did people always whinge just because he wanted to remove all physical contact from the game and replace the oval ball with a round one? Why? Why!
“Um, sir,” Gillon begun.
“Yes, speak,” Andrew replied haughtily.
“Um, well, rumour has it that Caro and Rebecca have been conducting a steamy lesbian affair, all of which has been filmed by a TV type. And now I’m hearing that to divert attention from that story, The Era are cooking up a yarn where they are going to accuse Kevin Sheedy of raping a dingo,” said Gillon quickly.
Andrew leaned back into his chair and steepled his fingers. He hadn’t seen that coming, that was for sure. But that didn’t mean there weren’t opportunities there. There was always an opportunity. His mind began to race, weighing up the various options, settling the ledgers, reading the play.
Gillon stood nervously.
“Leave me now Gillon. Go and play with your dick in the carpark or whatever it is you do with your days. I must think now,” Andrew said in a low whisper.
Gillon obeyed, bowing so low his tie touched the Italian marble floor as he left.
“Very good Your Excellency.”
To act immediately would be to act in haste, Andrew thought. And to act in haste is to risk waste. To risk fear.
The words of his favourite philosopher, the one whose wisdom guided his stewardship of the great game of Australian Rules football, echoed in his mind.
"Fear leads to anger; anger leads to hate; hate to suffering and suffering leads to the Dark Side.
He would decide his course of action later in the day. Now though, he would return to his favourite hobby: ripping the last page out of mystery novels then donating them to op shops.
“Um, boss, have you seen the papers today?”
Andrew adjusted his generous rump on the snow leopard upholstered calf skin recliner he liked to repose in of a morning.
“No, Gillon, I haven’t seen the papers. That’s why I pay A BLOODY MORON LIKE YOU TO BRING ME MEDIA MONITORING REPORTS! YOU’RE A MORON AREN’T YOU GILLON? SAY IT! SAY ‘YES SIR MR ANDREW SIR, I’M A MORON!”
The younger man’s bottom lip began to tremble and a tear welled up in his eye.
“Oh for God’s sake don’t cry you pathetic little toad. If you cry I will send you over to listen to that doddering old fool Tim Lane bleating on about why Tasmania needs a footy team. You know when Tasmania will get a footy team? WHEN A WEDGE TAILED EAGLE FLIES OUT OF MY ARSE, THAT’S WHEN!”
Gillon had composed himself by now and let the boss rant a bit more about the conspiracies and injustices that faced him. Why couldn’t people see that a team based in the Solomon Islands was a good idea? Why did people always whinge just because he wanted to remove all physical contact from the game and replace the oval ball with a round one? Why? Why!
“Um, sir,” Gillon begun.
“Yes, speak,” Andrew replied haughtily.
“Um, well, rumour has it that Caro and Rebecca have been conducting a steamy lesbian affair, all of which has been filmed by a TV type. And now I’m hearing that to divert attention from that story, The Era are cooking up a yarn where they are going to accuse Kevin Sheedy of raping a dingo,” said Gillon quickly.
Andrew leaned back into his chair and steepled his fingers. He hadn’t seen that coming, that was for sure. But that didn’t mean there weren’t opportunities there. There was always an opportunity. His mind began to race, weighing up the various options, settling the ledgers, reading the play.
Gillon stood nervously.
“Leave me now Gillon. Go and play with your dick in the carpark or whatever it is you do with your days. I must think now,” Andrew said in a low whisper.
Gillon obeyed, bowing so low his tie touched the Italian marble floor as he left.
“Very good Your Excellency.”
To act immediately would be to act in haste, Andrew thought. And to act in haste is to risk waste. To risk fear.
The words of his favourite philosopher, the one whose wisdom guided his stewardship of the great game of Australian Rules football, echoed in his mind.
"Fear leads to anger; anger leads to hate; hate to suffering and suffering leads to the Dark Side.
He would decide his course of action later in the day. Now though, he would return to his favourite hobby: ripping the last page out of mystery novels then donating them to op shops.
Sam - hard hitting journalist
Sam had seen a lot of things in her career as a middling journalist for a dying paper reporting on a parochial game played in a city on the edge of a continent at the bottom the world. She could mix it with the big hitters like Seymour Hersh or Jason Burke or Christine Amanpour, she knew that.
For some journalists, it was the low thud of a car bomb in the Baghdad haze that got the adrenalin racing. For others, the thrill of grilling the Prime Minister. But nothing made Sam happier that asking a nervous 19 year old a series of leading questions in the hope he’d blurt out something about his private life.
The scene near the dingo cage was one of chaos. She could see Sheedy, naked except for a pair of tight fitting shorts, handcuffed and propped against a wall. Periodically, like some great enraged beast, he would struggle against his bonds, but without success.
She approached one of the police.
“What’s happened here pal?”
The officer looked her up and down, saw her My Little Pony notebook with pencil poised,
“Nothing much to be honest. The old fella’s been on the sauce for the last few days. We reckon the stress of being around Richmond again has got to him; he’s had some sort of breakdown. It’s like in his mind; it’s the 80s again, like he’s gone back to a time when he was happier. When we got here he was saying he had to stop the dingoes before they took the baby. That’s what he kept shouting. The dingoes are going to take the baby.”
“He wasn’t trying to, you know, be sexual with the dingoes?”
The cop looked at her with a mixture of disgust and derision.
“What? No. Geez, the old blokes had a pretty rough time of it lately but rooting a dingo? Nah, nah, you’re barking up the wrong tree there.”
Sam walked away and was about to phone her newsdesk to let them know the story.
Just as she put the phone to her ear, it rang. She looked at the screen. Caroline.
“Caroline! Where are you?”
“Shhhhh, not tho loud,” Caroline said down the line. “Go over near the monkey enclothure, I’ll thee you there.”
Sam followed the signs and arrived in a heavily wooded part of the zoo complex, the hoots and jabbering of caged primates filling the air.
“Over here, thith way Tham,” she heard Caroline whisper urgently.
The frond of a fern waved. Sam went over and saw Caroline crouched behind it.
“Thith hath to be quick. I’m in hiding. We need to kill thith Webecca thtory. I need you to help me.”
“Of course Caroline, I’ll do what a can,” Sam said, relieved to see her mentor.
“Thith Theedy thtuff, I need you to thex it up, thay you have a thource that thays he actually wath trying to thcrew the dingoeth. Turn it into a animal wighth itthue. Call into question Wichmond’th attitude to animalth. Call up one of those animal wighth nutterth and get them to thay they shouldn’t be allowed to uthe the tiger as their mathcot any more.”
“OK. I’ll see what I can do boss,” Sam said.
“You’re the betht Tham,” said Caroline, retreating into her jungle redoubt.
Sam made sure she was out of earshot of any police before she rang the newsdesk.
“Yep, hi it's Sam. Look, this is a big winner, this is big stuff. Cops are trying to hose the story down but I’ve got a source that says Sheedy was up to no good with those poor defenceless dingoes. I want the front page. I’m going splash on this,” she said.
Two hours later and Sam stared contedly at the lead paragraph she had crafted for the story - Dingogate as she was referring to it in her own mind.
“Former Essendon coach Kevin Sheedy was today arrested by police on suspicion of attempting to rape a dingo after the Richmond figure embarked on a terrifying drunken rampage at the Melbourne Zoo.
"Although no schoolchildren were present at the time, hundreds of children visit the zoo every day, any of whom could have been attacked, and possibly eaten, by the crazed Sheedy.
“Sheedy, who is understood to be wanted for questioning by The Hague over possible involvement in the Rwandan genocide, has a long association with canines like the dingo, having owned dogs as pets previously. The fate of these previous victims is not yet known.
“Sheedy’s arrest throws into a harsh light Richmond’s attitude to animal welfare. A spokesperson for the animal rights movement Roar!, Mr Ren T’Aquote, said the club should be stripped of the right to use a tiger as its mascot and all players on the list forced to donate half their income to the Lost Dog’s Home."
For some journalists, it was the low thud of a car bomb in the Baghdad haze that got the adrenalin racing. For others, the thrill of grilling the Prime Minister. But nothing made Sam happier that asking a nervous 19 year old a series of leading questions in the hope he’d blurt out something about his private life.
The scene near the dingo cage was one of chaos. She could see Sheedy, naked except for a pair of tight fitting shorts, handcuffed and propped against a wall. Periodically, like some great enraged beast, he would struggle against his bonds, but without success.
She approached one of the police.
“What’s happened here pal?”
The officer looked her up and down, saw her My Little Pony notebook with pencil poised,
“Nothing much to be honest. The old fella’s been on the sauce for the last few days. We reckon the stress of being around Richmond again has got to him; he’s had some sort of breakdown. It’s like in his mind; it’s the 80s again, like he’s gone back to a time when he was happier. When we got here he was saying he had to stop the dingoes before they took the baby. That’s what he kept shouting. The dingoes are going to take the baby.”
“He wasn’t trying to, you know, be sexual with the dingoes?”
The cop looked at her with a mixture of disgust and derision.
“What? No. Geez, the old blokes had a pretty rough time of it lately but rooting a dingo? Nah, nah, you’re barking up the wrong tree there.”
Sam walked away and was about to phone her newsdesk to let them know the story.
Just as she put the phone to her ear, it rang. She looked at the screen. Caroline.
“Caroline! Where are you?”
“Shhhhh, not tho loud,” Caroline said down the line. “Go over near the monkey enclothure, I’ll thee you there.”
Sam followed the signs and arrived in a heavily wooded part of the zoo complex, the hoots and jabbering of caged primates filling the air.
“Over here, thith way Tham,” she heard Caroline whisper urgently.
The frond of a fern waved. Sam went over and saw Caroline crouched behind it.
“Thith hath to be quick. I’m in hiding. We need to kill thith Webecca thtory. I need you to help me.”
“Of course Caroline, I’ll do what a can,” Sam said, relieved to see her mentor.
“Thith Theedy thtuff, I need you to thex it up, thay you have a thource that thays he actually wath trying to thcrew the dingoeth. Turn it into a animal wighth itthue. Call into question Wichmond’th attitude to animalth. Call up one of those animal wighth nutterth and get them to thay they shouldn’t be allowed to uthe the tiger as their mathcot any more.”
“OK. I’ll see what I can do boss,” Sam said.
“You’re the betht Tham,” said Caroline, retreating into her jungle redoubt.
Sam made sure she was out of earshot of any police before she rang the newsdesk.
“Yep, hi it's Sam. Look, this is a big winner, this is big stuff. Cops are trying to hose the story down but I’ve got a source that says Sheedy was up to no good with those poor defenceless dingoes. I want the front page. I’m going splash on this,” she said.
Two hours later and Sam stared contedly at the lead paragraph she had crafted for the story - Dingogate as she was referring to it in her own mind.
“Former Essendon coach Kevin Sheedy was today arrested by police on suspicion of attempting to rape a dingo after the Richmond figure embarked on a terrifying drunken rampage at the Melbourne Zoo.
"Although no schoolchildren were present at the time, hundreds of children visit the zoo every day, any of whom could have been attacked, and possibly eaten, by the crazed Sheedy.
“Sheedy, who is understood to be wanted for questioning by The Hague over possible involvement in the Rwandan genocide, has a long association with canines like the dingo, having owned dogs as pets previously. The fate of these previous victims is not yet known.
“Sheedy’s arrest throws into a harsh light Richmond’s attitude to animal welfare. A spokesperson for the animal rights movement Roar!, Mr Ren T’Aquote, said the club should be stripped of the right to use a tiger as its mascot and all players on the list forced to donate half their income to the Lost Dog’s Home."
Betrayed!
Three days later and Rebecca was extending Caroline’s appointments into her lunchbreak. The sheer joy of lying back in the examination chair and feeling Caroline working away at her most intimate parts, Caroline inside her, Caroline’s gentle, teasing touch taking her to levels of pleasure she didn’t know existed.
She peaked for the third time that morning and ran her hands through Caroline’s magnificent scarlet locks as the older woman carefully licked away the last drops of Rebecca’s femininity. She thought to herself that life could not get any better.
Maybe she didn’t need Chris for physical pleasures. She still loved him and she still loved their lifestyle. Maybe she could have two lives, one with Caroline and one with Chris.
Sadly though, it would never be. For unbeknownst to the Sapphic couple, their love, a love that dare not speak its name, had been compromised. A cleaner had realised what was happening and informed illustrious broadcaster named Craig.
The journalist, revered for his attention to detail and rigour in ensuring accuracy, had stolen into the hospital in the dead of night and placed a hidden camera in Rebecca’s office which had been recording every moment of their wanton trysts.
“Geez, look at that,” his producer said when Craig had shown him the first footage, “Caro’s going at it like a dog with a bag of Maccas. I’m gunna knock one out over this right now.”
True to his word, the producer disappeared into the bathroom and while he found release from the tension the video had wrought, Craig merely watched dispassionately at the two woman locked in carnal embrace.
The plan was formed. The news tomorrow would be dominated with this most unexpected and fascinating of scandals.
She peaked for the third time that morning and ran her hands through Caroline’s magnificent scarlet locks as the older woman carefully licked away the last drops of Rebecca’s femininity. She thought to herself that life could not get any better.
Maybe she didn’t need Chris for physical pleasures. She still loved him and she still loved their lifestyle. Maybe she could have two lives, one with Caroline and one with Chris.
Sadly though, it would never be. For unbeknownst to the Sapphic couple, their love, a love that dare not speak its name, had been compromised. A cleaner had realised what was happening and informed illustrious broadcaster named Craig.
The journalist, revered for his attention to detail and rigour in ensuring accuracy, had stolen into the hospital in the dead of night and placed a hidden camera in Rebecca’s office which had been recording every moment of their wanton trysts.
“Geez, look at that,” his producer said when Craig had shown him the first footage, “Caro’s going at it like a dog with a bag of Maccas. I’m gunna knock one out over this right now.”
True to his word, the producer disappeared into the bathroom and while he found release from the tension the video had wrought, Craig merely watched dispassionately at the two woman locked in carnal embrace.
The plan was formed. The news tomorrow would be dominated with this most unexpected and fascinating of scandals.
There'th nothing physicawy wrong with you ...
“What seems to be the problem Caroline?” Rebecca asked.
The woman was older and seemed vaguely familiar, like an old school teacher you didn’t like that you’d keep running into at the supermarket.
“Wew, I had bwatheth for while to cowwect some dental iwweguwawities and they made me lithp a bit. But the bwatheth have been off for weekth now and the lithp still hathn’t gone away,”
“I’m sure something can be done Caroline, if you I‘d just like to lean back and relax, I’ll just need to have a look in the old wordhole.”
The woman looked at her in a faintly patronizing way.
“You don’t wecognise me do you?”
“Should I?”
“I know your boyfriend. Haven’t you theen me on TV? Or wead my hard-hitting columnth in the paper? Or lithened to my inthightful views on the wadio?”
Rebecca looked at her again. She really did recognise the face, but just couldn’t place it.
“I’m sure all that is lovely Caroline, now if you just open up and say ahhh, I’ll need to shine the torch down your throat to see if there’s anything physically wrong with you.”
“There’th nothing phisicawy wrong with you,” Caroline said directly, meeting Rebecca’s gaze with hungry eyes.
“I beg your pardon?”
“I'm just thaying you’re a vewy attwactive young woman Webecca. Is that tho bad?”
Rebecca was flustered. It was a long time since someone had complimented her so directly, so passionately.
Sure, she got the guys on the building sites who would wolf whistle at her, and the blokes in the clubs who would drunkenly slobber over her, but this was different.
There was an electricity in the room.
As she stared into the enormous cavern that was Caroline’s mouth, she felt a hand brushing lightly against her leg. The woman was touching her. And it felt alright. In fact, it felt good. She knew she should say something, move it away, but she didn’t.
Then the suddenly the light that was illuminating the vast dark space inside Caroline’s mouth disappeared. The batteries on the torch had failed.
“Sorry Caroline, I just need to change the batteries on this,” she said.
As she moved away, she felt the hand that had been stroking her leg move upwards, higher, toward more sensual areas.
“I’ll be wight here waiting for you,” the older woman replied.
Inside the stationery cupboard, Rebecca took a moment. She ran a hand over her compact yet firm bosom. She felt so alive, she felt so electric. She hadn't felt like this in months, a year. She could do it right now. She could take the step. She could live a bloody little.
The woman was older and seemed vaguely familiar, like an old school teacher you didn’t like that you’d keep running into at the supermarket.
“Wew, I had bwatheth for while to cowwect some dental iwweguwawities and they made me lithp a bit. But the bwatheth have been off for weekth now and the lithp still hathn’t gone away,”
“I’m sure something can be done Caroline, if you I‘d just like to lean back and relax, I’ll just need to have a look in the old wordhole.”
The woman looked at her in a faintly patronizing way.
“You don’t wecognise me do you?”
“Should I?”
“I know your boyfriend. Haven’t you theen me on TV? Or wead my hard-hitting columnth in the paper? Or lithened to my inthightful views on the wadio?”
Rebecca looked at her again. She really did recognise the face, but just couldn’t place it.
“I’m sure all that is lovely Caroline, now if you just open up and say ahhh, I’ll need to shine the torch down your throat to see if there’s anything physically wrong with you.”
“There’th nothing phisicawy wrong with you,” Caroline said directly, meeting Rebecca’s gaze with hungry eyes.
“I beg your pardon?”
“I'm just thaying you’re a vewy attwactive young woman Webecca. Is that tho bad?”
Rebecca was flustered. It was a long time since someone had complimented her so directly, so passionately.
Sure, she got the guys on the building sites who would wolf whistle at her, and the blokes in the clubs who would drunkenly slobber over her, but this was different.
There was an electricity in the room.
As she stared into the enormous cavern that was Caroline’s mouth, she felt a hand brushing lightly against her leg. The woman was touching her. And it felt alright. In fact, it felt good. She knew she should say something, move it away, but she didn’t.
Then the suddenly the light that was illuminating the vast dark space inside Caroline’s mouth disappeared. The batteries on the torch had failed.
“Sorry Caroline, I just need to change the batteries on this,” she said.
As she moved away, she felt the hand that had been stroking her leg move upwards, higher, toward more sensual areas.
“I’ll be wight here waiting for you,” the older woman replied.
Inside the stationery cupboard, Rebecca took a moment. She ran a hand over her compact yet firm bosom. She felt so alive, she felt so electric. She hadn't felt like this in months, a year. She could do it right now. She could take the step. She could live a bloody little.
Mith Twigwey?
The man’s brow furrowed with effort as he tried his simple best to follow her lead.
“Come on Daryn, repeat it after me. Presti. Pre-sti”
“P-p-p-p-p .. ces-ces-ces … pi!”, the unfortunate man finally spluttered.
Why were so many of her patients at the remedial English ward Collingwood supporters?
.
“No, come on, one more time, just believe in yourself Daryn. Pre-sti … now say this bit quickly … giacomo!”
“Pres-pres-pres … ti … jacumo!”
The imbecile looked up at her with a huge smile on his face.
“Well done, Daryn! I think that’s been our best session yet,” she said encouragingly.
In reality, she was thanking her lucky stars – and she had a few – that she had only one more appointment for the day. She promised herself she’d hit the shops on Chapel Street after work, maybe put that stunning $1299 LBD she’d seen on Chris’s plastic. That was about the only thing of his that was reliably rigid these days.
“M-m-m-m-m … R-r-r-r-Rebecca … w-w-w-w-would you g-g-g-g … go out … with m-m-m-me one day?” Daryn spluttered.
She got this a lot and knew how to deal with it.
“Oh Daryn, thanks so much, that’s a lovely offer but I already have a boyfriend, you know that.”
Daryn trudged dejectedly out the door. As Rebecca waited for her next patient to come in, she found herself wondering about the size of Daryn’s manhood.
He was a little rough around the edges, but with a few of the $499 facial toning makeovers she got from Tyneece at the salon, he’d scrub up alright. He was young, had a nice body, and he’d certainly appreciate what a good thing he had in her. The hottest girl in Melbourne. No, scratch that, Victoria. Australia even. Oceania. The Southern Hemisphere! No, not the Southern hemisphere, there was probably some Argentinian bitch with big tits who was hotter than her. But Oceania anyway.
Before her reverie could continue any further, there was a light knock the door.
“Mith Twigwey?”
“Come in,” Rebecca replied.
She looked at the patient details. A woman called Caroline.
“Come on Daryn, repeat it after me. Presti. Pre-sti”
“P-p-p-p-p .. ces-ces-ces … pi!”, the unfortunate man finally spluttered.
Why were so many of her patients at the remedial English ward Collingwood supporters?
.
“No, come on, one more time, just believe in yourself Daryn. Pre-sti … now say this bit quickly … giacomo!”
“Pres-pres-pres … ti … jacumo!”
The imbecile looked up at her with a huge smile on his face.
“Well done, Daryn! I think that’s been our best session yet,” she said encouragingly.
In reality, she was thanking her lucky stars – and she had a few – that she had only one more appointment for the day. She promised herself she’d hit the shops on Chapel Street after work, maybe put that stunning $1299 LBD she’d seen on Chris’s plastic. That was about the only thing of his that was reliably rigid these days.
“M-m-m-m-m … R-r-r-r-Rebecca … w-w-w-w-would you g-g-g-g … go out … with m-m-m-me one day?” Daryn spluttered.
She got this a lot and knew how to deal with it.
“Oh Daryn, thanks so much, that’s a lovely offer but I already have a boyfriend, you know that.”
Daryn trudged dejectedly out the door. As Rebecca waited for her next patient to come in, she found herself wondering about the size of Daryn’s manhood.
He was a little rough around the edges, but with a few of the $499 facial toning makeovers she got from Tyneece at the salon, he’d scrub up alright. He was young, had a nice body, and he’d certainly appreciate what a good thing he had in her. The hottest girl in Melbourne. No, scratch that, Victoria. Australia even. Oceania. The Southern Hemisphere! No, not the Southern hemisphere, there was probably some Argentinian bitch with big tits who was hotter than her. But Oceania anyway.
Before her reverie could continue any further, there was a light knock the door.
“Mith Twigwey?”
“Come in,” Rebecca replied.
She looked at the patient details. A woman called Caroline.
Rebecca's Journey
Rebecca was wearing only the flimsiest of negligees and a pair of tiny Visy Industries edible paper underpants as she stole up behind Chris and let her lissom arm fall down his rugged chest.
“I’ve got an hour or so before work Chrissy,” she whispered into his ear.
“Any idea how we could fill it?”
“Dunno about you babes, but I’ve got to pop down to the recycling centre and drop these bags off, then Mr Pratt wants me in his office quick sticks. Seems there’s been some sort of spill in the executive bathroom and they need it sorted.”
Chris grinned like a big Labrador dog as he brandished the David Jones exclusive $299ethical waste management disposal bucket. Where did all those brown paper bags come from anyway, Rebecca wondered.
She sighed as his Prius pulled out of the driveway of their smart Prahran apartment.
It hadn’t been like this in Perth. Back out west, Chris couldn’t get enough of her. Night after night, they’d enjoyed each others pleasures until they fell spent on the $559 Egyptian cotton sheets she’d picked up on special in Peppi Grove one afternoon.
Occasionally, he’d get her so worked up, so ready, so his, that she’d let him do what he liked to call the ‘midfield rotation’.
But now in Melbourne, things had changed. It was all Mr Pratt this, Mr Pratt that. She couldn’t remember the last time they’d made love until the sun came up. She couldn’t remember the last time they’d made love full stop.
She glanced at the $2799 18 carat diamond encrusted gold inlay watch she’d snaffled in Dubai last summer and saw it was almost 11AM.
Time for another taxing three hour shift at the Alfred pursuing her calling as a speech therapist.
She tore the paper underpants off and threw them in the bin and put on some something sturdier to prepare her for the day ahead.
Little did she know what the day had in store.
“I’ve got an hour or so before work Chrissy,” she whispered into his ear.
“Any idea how we could fill it?”
“Dunno about you babes, but I’ve got to pop down to the recycling centre and drop these bags off, then Mr Pratt wants me in his office quick sticks. Seems there’s been some sort of spill in the executive bathroom and they need it sorted.”
Chris grinned like a big Labrador dog as he brandished the David Jones exclusive $299ethical waste management disposal bucket. Where did all those brown paper bags come from anyway, Rebecca wondered.
She sighed as his Prius pulled out of the driveway of their smart Prahran apartment.
It hadn’t been like this in Perth. Back out west, Chris couldn’t get enough of her. Night after night, they’d enjoyed each others pleasures until they fell spent on the $559 Egyptian cotton sheets she’d picked up on special in Peppi Grove one afternoon.
Occasionally, he’d get her so worked up, so ready, so his, that she’d let him do what he liked to call the ‘midfield rotation’.
But now in Melbourne, things had changed. It was all Mr Pratt this, Mr Pratt that. She couldn’t remember the last time they’d made love until the sun came up. She couldn’t remember the last time they’d made love full stop.
She glanced at the $2799 18 carat diamond encrusted gold inlay watch she’d snaffled in Dubai last summer and saw it was almost 11AM.
Time for another taxing three hour shift at the Alfred pursuing her calling as a speech therapist.
She tore the paper underpants off and threw them in the bin and put on some something sturdier to prepare her for the day ahead.
Little did she know what the day had in store.
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