Andrew turned up the music as the annoying fat bald man in front of him made it obvious he would not cease his tiresome yammering anytime soon.
Pachelbal's Canon In D Major.
Divine.
"Excuse me sir, I really think we need to discuss the new looking at the back rule ahead of the Grand Final. The interpretation could cause some outcry if my boys get it wrong," Jeff pleaded.
Andrew let his eyelids fall and depressed the mute button on the remote to his $2.5m gold plated Bang and Olufsen office sound system. Money well spent.
"Jeff," he said in a tone which I'm sure you can all imagine, "Put it in a memo or get a visit from Sledge. Your choice."
Jeff, who wasn't as dumb as his face or his many new rules suggested, took the hint.
"Very well sire."
The dolt left Andrew's office in the traditional fashion, his tie an impromptu chamois dragging arross the marble a few inches ahead of its owners face as he withdrew with extreme deference.
Andrew made the music return by applying the slightest pressure to the button underneath his thumb. The soaring strings returned. Glorious.
He hated this time of year. The imbeciles that were the great unwashed public cock-a-hoop with their tawdry pastime. Finals, they would shout, it's the FINALS!
Primitives.
As if this weekend wasn't bad enough, there was the Grand Final looming in just over a week's time. God, what a spectacle. Nearly a hundred thousand country-fried rubes gawking in wonder as an FA-18 fighter soared overhead. Yes, idiots, he longed to shout from his royal box, yes, mankind has mastered the feat of controlled flight. 'Tis no wizard's illusion, serfs, there's indeed a man controlling the great silver bird.
Andrew couldn't wait for the hated 'season' to be past so he concentrate on the real business of the year: shafting the pathetic West Melbourne Wombats up to the lucrative Hunter Valley where they belonged. That'd be the last of his KPIs met. Then the Sith Lords on the Commission would give him his promised reward. In both cash and liquid form.
His reverie was unexpectedly disturbed by a lisping banshee with a really shit haircut.
"Andwew!" it cried, "Andwew, good newth!"
Again he silenced the music. He would hear the witch speak.
Caroline was excited, babbling. He wondered if she'd been dining at the Y again.
"Tho Bwendan hath actuwawwy got the tith. And fuck me thidewayths with a thtick, they're wippers!" she enthused.
His expression made it plain she should be concise.
"OK, tho I've got exwuwsive wights to the stowy. I weckon we wun with that until after the thtupid Gwand Fiwnal. That way, you can thtitch up these sthupid Wombats and I can wun that stwaight after. You win, I win, evewybody wins."
"Except the Wombats," he said in that tone of voice he'd been practicing in the mirror that he was sure made him sound like Al Pacino.
"Everybody except the Wombats."
As Andrew fell back into the spell of the music, the magnificent music, Caro was heading to The Era's office in a cab.
As soon as she arrived, she called Sam into her office.
The younger woman splayed herself herself in the chair, chewing gum and occasionaly shoving her hand gruffly down underneath her skirt to scratch herself like a monkey.
"You need to way off on this Bwendan thing. No questionth. This ith stwaight from the top," she ordered.
Sam considered her with ill-disguised contempt.
"You fucken rooting someone again," she spat, more a statement than a question. "You mining some new bitch's seam?"
Caroline had to play this one carefully. Sam had become increasingly unpredictable of late. The hairbrush that sat on her desk was increasingly bloodied every time Caroline walked past. You never knew who'd she'd turn on next.
"Tham, Tham, my cwazy widdle Tham. Pathienth, pathienth, ipetuwouth one. Thometimeth you have to weawise that dithcwetion ith the better part of vawour. Your time will come, that much is thure," she said in the most conciliatory of tones.
Sam stood, pawed at her itchy red raw lady region, and left muttering inaudible imprecations.
Phew, thought Caro to herself. That wath a cwose wun.
Next cab off the rank was that pesky Liam. He always banging on about attention to detail, his ethics, his bullshit integrity stuff. Young bloke wouldn't go far in footy journalism if he kept that up.
"Wiam," she shouted into the phone, "Get your arth in here. I need some wesearch on Bwendan for a piethe I'm doing. Basiceth and thtuff. How many goalth he'th kicked, avewage Dweam Team thcore, who he playeth for, that kind of bowing thit."
The game was afoot.
Thursday, 17 September 2009
Wednesday, 16 September 2009
Kold Feet In Kew
The young Hawthorn supporter sat at his desk in bedroom in Kew and smirked at his effort.
He'd spent literally hours composing a 'witty' post on a football chat site aimed at an online adversary. And now he'd posted it. As he waited for the avalanche of praise that was sure to follow his 'pwning' of his enemy, he rubbed his feet together to dispel the cold.
He wished Mum would let him have socks in his bedroom again, but she was adamant.
"No!" she'd said, "You'll just wank into them and ruin them like you did the other hundreds of pairs we've bought you."
It hadn't stopped his furious mastubatory habits though. Not with the poster of Lance and Chance at the Big Gay Dance that he had on his wall. He wanked into and onto anything and everything he could. His fish, Max and Bailey had died after a particularly savage session in which he'd tossed a big white floating jizz slick into their tank.
Being outside didn't stop him either. His favourite game when Mum let him play in the park after he'd finished his homework was to go to the sandpit and draw a line through it. Then he'd take a few steps back and see if he could wank across it. It was rather fitting that he did it, even if he was too shit thick and moronic to know it, because in reality, the biggest wank in Melbourne in recent years was the Line In The Sand Game.
Back in his room, he decided he'd wait until he got his first postive reply to his thread from a non-Hawthorn supporter before knocking out his fifteenth and final hand shandy of the day. It was a poor total he knew, most days he cranked out twenty, twenty five tugs without even breaking a sweat, but then, it was hard to get hard being a Hawthorn supporter these days.
The most pathetic premiership defence in living memory. One that ended up in a humiliating defeat by a hated enemny and the widespread ridcule of the football world when the so-called hardman of the side was revealed as a giant loudmouth flog with the backbone of a Portguese Man'o'war. And the humiliation of chasing after a bloke who couldn't even get a game in the North backline with desperation of a lawyer after an ambulance.
He pressed refresh. Still no positive feedback. Just a few supporters from 'flog' clubs taunting him. Ah well, they weren't rich and super-cool and going to win like the next fifty zillion flags like the Mighty Hawkers.
The young poster eased open the door to the passageway that ran by the side of the house. He decided he'd rub a pre-pre bedtime toss out in the backyard. He liked to cum on a gumleaf and eat it as a bedtime snack.
It was the worst - and final - decision of his life. For in his backyard, a hungry Dewosaurus lurked. The great beast had arrived in Melbourne and was hunting Sam, with the aim of devouring her on Grand Final night in a magnificently timed end to his tenure in this world.
The creature leapt upon the Hawthorn poster even before the scrawny youngster could expose his pathetic shrivelled excuse for a dick to the cold night air. The Dewosaurus fed quickly, taking the scant meat from the bones in great gulps before leaving the torn corpse in the backyard and bounding over the fence to find a resting place in which to digest his meal.
Sam's days were numbered, even if she didn't know it.
In the morning, the youthful Hawthorn supporters parents were briefly shocked to find the dismembered body of their son in a bloody heap in the backyard.
"Ah well," they said to each other as they loaded what was left into binbags to take down the tip and dump with the other old shit, "We never really liked the little wanker anyway."
He'd spent literally hours composing a 'witty' post on a football chat site aimed at an online adversary. And now he'd posted it. As he waited for the avalanche of praise that was sure to follow his 'pwning' of his enemy, he rubbed his feet together to dispel the cold.
He wished Mum would let him have socks in his bedroom again, but she was adamant.
"No!" she'd said, "You'll just wank into them and ruin them like you did the other hundreds of pairs we've bought you."
It hadn't stopped his furious mastubatory habits though. Not with the poster of Lance and Chance at the Big Gay Dance that he had on his wall. He wanked into and onto anything and everything he could. His fish, Max and Bailey had died after a particularly savage session in which he'd tossed a big white floating jizz slick into their tank.
Being outside didn't stop him either. His favourite game when Mum let him play in the park after he'd finished his homework was to go to the sandpit and draw a line through it. Then he'd take a few steps back and see if he could wank across it. It was rather fitting that he did it, even if he was too shit thick and moronic to know it, because in reality, the biggest wank in Melbourne in recent years was the Line In The Sand Game.
Back in his room, he decided he'd wait until he got his first postive reply to his thread from a non-Hawthorn supporter before knocking out his fifteenth and final hand shandy of the day. It was a poor total he knew, most days he cranked out twenty, twenty five tugs without even breaking a sweat, but then, it was hard to get hard being a Hawthorn supporter these days.
The most pathetic premiership defence in living memory. One that ended up in a humiliating defeat by a hated enemny and the widespread ridcule of the football world when the so-called hardman of the side was revealed as a giant loudmouth flog with the backbone of a Portguese Man'o'war. And the humiliation of chasing after a bloke who couldn't even get a game in the North backline with desperation of a lawyer after an ambulance.
He pressed refresh. Still no positive feedback. Just a few supporters from 'flog' clubs taunting him. Ah well, they weren't rich and super-cool and going to win like the next fifty zillion flags like the Mighty Hawkers.
The young poster eased open the door to the passageway that ran by the side of the house. He decided he'd rub a pre-pre bedtime toss out in the backyard. He liked to cum on a gumleaf and eat it as a bedtime snack.
It was the worst - and final - decision of his life. For in his backyard, a hungry Dewosaurus lurked. The great beast had arrived in Melbourne and was hunting Sam, with the aim of devouring her on Grand Final night in a magnificently timed end to his tenure in this world.
The creature leapt upon the Hawthorn poster even before the scrawny youngster could expose his pathetic shrivelled excuse for a dick to the cold night air. The Dewosaurus fed quickly, taking the scant meat from the bones in great gulps before leaving the torn corpse in the backyard and bounding over the fence to find a resting place in which to digest his meal.
Sam's days were numbered, even if she didn't know it.
In the morning, the youthful Hawthorn supporters parents were briefly shocked to find the dismembered body of their son in a bloody heap in the backyard.
"Ah well," they said to each other as they loaded what was left into binbags to take down the tip and dump with the other old shit, "We never really liked the little wanker anyway."
Can A Leopard Change Its Spots?
Wow, thought Rebecca as she watched Caroline weaving her way through the busy city cafe. A few months ago I didn't even know who you were. And now, so much has happened.
She and Caro had embarked on a torrid affair that had been exposed in the media threatening her relationship with Chris. Said relationship had continued to dwindle after Mr Pratt went to the great Competition Commission hearing in the sky. There'd the whole disaster of that witch Sam trying to have her killed by a zoo keeper angered because poor old Stewie Dew, who had regressed into a pre-human state, had gone on a rampage and eaten all his animals.
Then the Dewosaurus had gone completley wild and eaten Alan Didak. And just when you thought everything had finally calmed down, with the Dewosaurus safely captured and sent to a farm in South Australia, Brendan and his newfound desire for boobs had come into her life. You couldn't make it up. It was like some weird satire, but only real.
Rebecca glanced over at Brendan, who was wearing a black satin shirt with the top buttons undone to show to advantage his new and undeniably impressive assets.
"Are you ready? Remember, just let me do the talking," she said.
Caroline arrived at the table and sat down with a swish.
"Webecca," she said briskly before assessing Brendan. "Nithe tiths, Brendan," she said.
"I appreciate you're probably very busy at this time of year, so we'll keep it quick," Rebecca began, "Brendan is going to have a tough time bringing the club and the footy public onside to his new choice of ... lifestyle. We need your help to break the story in a positive way."
"What'th in it for me," Caroline said, still looking directly at Brendan's magnificent chebs, which were straining against his shirt with what looked like actual force, as if they were determined to display their glory to the entire world.
"You get completely exclusive rights to the story. Nobody else gets anything. It's all yours. But there's something else."
"Yeth, what?" Caroline asked frostily. Rebecca could tell she was entranced by Brendan's new dirty pillows. She couldn't blame her.
"You have to call Sam off. That talentless little witch, all she does is beat up bullshit stories with a creepy sex angle into something far beyond what they actually are. I mean, jeez, how did she even get a job in journalism anyway? Is her dad the boss or something?"
"Yeth, thort of," Caro replied distantly.
"Anyway, that's the deal. You do the story and make sure that horrible little freak stays well away. How's that sound?"
Caro paused a moment before reaching over and opening another of Brendan's shirt buttons, revealing another few inches of perfectly formed cleavage. She slowly ran her finger down the crevice of pleasure.
"Actuwawy," she purred, "There might thomething elthe I want too ..."
She and Caro had embarked on a torrid affair that had been exposed in the media threatening her relationship with Chris. Said relationship had continued to dwindle after Mr Pratt went to the great Competition Commission hearing in the sky. There'd the whole disaster of that witch Sam trying to have her killed by a zoo keeper angered because poor old Stewie Dew, who had regressed into a pre-human state, had gone on a rampage and eaten all his animals.
Then the Dewosaurus had gone completley wild and eaten Alan Didak. And just when you thought everything had finally calmed down, with the Dewosaurus safely captured and sent to a farm in South Australia, Brendan and his newfound desire for boobs had come into her life. You couldn't make it up. It was like some weird satire, but only real.
Rebecca glanced over at Brendan, who was wearing a black satin shirt with the top buttons undone to show to advantage his new and undeniably impressive assets.
"Are you ready? Remember, just let me do the talking," she said.
Caroline arrived at the table and sat down with a swish.
"Webecca," she said briskly before assessing Brendan. "Nithe tiths, Brendan," she said.
"I appreciate you're probably very busy at this time of year, so we'll keep it quick," Rebecca began, "Brendan is going to have a tough time bringing the club and the footy public onside to his new choice of ... lifestyle. We need your help to break the story in a positive way."
"What'th in it for me," Caroline said, still looking directly at Brendan's magnificent chebs, which were straining against his shirt with what looked like actual force, as if they were determined to display their glory to the entire world.
"You get completely exclusive rights to the story. Nobody else gets anything. It's all yours. But there's something else."
"Yeth, what?" Caroline asked frostily. Rebecca could tell she was entranced by Brendan's new dirty pillows. She couldn't blame her.
"You have to call Sam off. That talentless little witch, all she does is beat up bullshit stories with a creepy sex angle into something far beyond what they actually are. I mean, jeez, how did she even get a job in journalism anyway? Is her dad the boss or something?"
"Yeth, thort of," Caro replied distantly.
"Anyway, that's the deal. You do the story and make sure that horrible little freak stays well away. How's that sound?"
Caro paused a moment before reaching over and opening another of Brendan's shirt buttons, revealing another few inches of perfectly formed cleavage. She slowly ran her finger down the crevice of pleasure.
"Actuwawy," she purred, "There might thomething elthe I want too ..."
Friday, 11 September 2009
Today Wasn't A Good Day
Chris really wasn't having a good day.
First, he'd gone to his favourite overpriced earthenware emporium in North Carlton to purchase a new Mongolian lentil pot after he'd found his old one unaccountably smashed in the bin at home.
He'd driven out there and gone into the shop and after carefully selecting one for its environmental credentials (he chose one that had been flown first class from Addis Ababa to ensure the clay was still warm from the kiln when it reached the shop) he'd gone up to counter to pay for it only to realise he'd left his wallet at home.
No matter. He shopped here regularly and anyway, he was Chris Judd, known and admired for his honesty and strength of character. Surely the hippy bloke who ran the store would let him take the bowl and pop back later to pay for it once he'd gone home and grabbed his wallet.
But no. He wouldn't.
Chris was genuinely puzzled.
"Come on mate, don't you know who I am? I'm Chris Judd! Everyone knows I'm a good guy, honest and reliable, devoting literally minutes every week to my work as an Environmental Ambassador for Visy, one of Australia's best loved companies!" he pleaded.
"I don't care if you are Harold fucking Holt risen from your watery grave to announce the second coming of Christ mate," the hippy had spat, "You're not walking out of here with that bowl unless you give me $175."
The hippy grabbed the bowl for emphasis. Chris turned and left.
Things got worse when he got back to the Prius. He started and almost immediately, the pretend car died in the arse. He saw it had no fuel left. And obviously, he had no money to go and buy any.
No bother he thought. I got a high ENTER! I'll think of something. Ten minutes later he'd finally worked it out. He'd get a cab home, then run in and get his wallet and pay the bloke.
Unfortunately for Chris, his taxi driver, a new arrival from East Africa, although an intelligent man, hadn't really fully grasped the complexities of Australian life and the idea that what happened on a footy field would generally stay there.
So when Chris opened the door to his taxi, all the poor bloke saw was the savage from the television who had been trying to steal the other man's eyes, probably to use in some witchdoctery.
"No, warlock!" he had cried, "Take not my eyes!" before pulling out and speeding away, leaving Chris standing dumbfounded by the side of the road.
Luckily the driver of the next cab in the rank was a Carlton supporting ex crim who had shared a cell with Jason Moran in Port Philip, who happily took Chris home.
"You ever need any of this mate," the driver had said, tapping his nose suggestively, "Or your root some bitch on the sly and she says she's gunna go to the papers and you need her shut up, you just call me. Oh yeah, and if the club needs to wash some 'extra' salary stuff through the old meter here, always happy to help"
When Chris walked in, it just got worse. There was Rebecca standing putting a bra on Fev, who clearly, quite clearly, had got the breast implants he'd been talking about put in.
"Uh, hi babes," he said.
"Hello Chris," Rebecca said sharply, "I'm just helping Brendan here."
Fev just grinned like a big idiot, and nodded his head in a silent hello, which only caused his magnificent breasts to jiggle in way Chris found alarmingly alluring.
Chris picked his wallet up off the bench. Headed back outside. He needed to clear his head. He needed to get that danged lentil pot and collect the car. He hailed another cab and headed back over to North Carlton.
Once he'd gone Rebecca gently slipped one hand inside the cup of Brendan's bra and weighed the specatcular fake mammary, squeezing gently.
"This bra is a nice fit," she ssaid.
"You know what we need to do, Brendan? We need to get on the front foot with this. If that horrible little freakazoid Sam gets to you first, she'll twist this into something its not. We need to tell your side of the story. Come on, Caroline owes me one or two, we're going to make sure this plays right."
First, he'd gone to his favourite overpriced earthenware emporium in North Carlton to purchase a new Mongolian lentil pot after he'd found his old one unaccountably smashed in the bin at home.
He'd driven out there and gone into the shop and after carefully selecting one for its environmental credentials (he chose one that had been flown first class from Addis Ababa to ensure the clay was still warm from the kiln when it reached the shop) he'd gone up to counter to pay for it only to realise he'd left his wallet at home.
No matter. He shopped here regularly and anyway, he was Chris Judd, known and admired for his honesty and strength of character. Surely the hippy bloke who ran the store would let him take the bowl and pop back later to pay for it once he'd gone home and grabbed his wallet.
But no. He wouldn't.
Chris was genuinely puzzled.
"Come on mate, don't you know who I am? I'm Chris Judd! Everyone knows I'm a good guy, honest and reliable, devoting literally minutes every week to my work as an Environmental Ambassador for Visy, one of Australia's best loved companies!" he pleaded.
"I don't care if you are Harold fucking Holt risen from your watery grave to announce the second coming of Christ mate," the hippy had spat, "You're not walking out of here with that bowl unless you give me $175."
The hippy grabbed the bowl for emphasis. Chris turned and left.
Things got worse when he got back to the Prius. He started and almost immediately, the pretend car died in the arse. He saw it had no fuel left. And obviously, he had no money to go and buy any.
No bother he thought. I got a high ENTER! I'll think of something. Ten minutes later he'd finally worked it out. He'd get a cab home, then run in and get his wallet and pay the bloke.
Unfortunately for Chris, his taxi driver, a new arrival from East Africa, although an intelligent man, hadn't really fully grasped the complexities of Australian life and the idea that what happened on a footy field would generally stay there.
So when Chris opened the door to his taxi, all the poor bloke saw was the savage from the television who had been trying to steal the other man's eyes, probably to use in some witchdoctery.
"No, warlock!" he had cried, "Take not my eyes!" before pulling out and speeding away, leaving Chris standing dumbfounded by the side of the road.
Luckily the driver of the next cab in the rank was a Carlton supporting ex crim who had shared a cell with Jason Moran in Port Philip, who happily took Chris home.
"You ever need any of this mate," the driver had said, tapping his nose suggestively, "Or your root some bitch on the sly and she says she's gunna go to the papers and you need her shut up, you just call me. Oh yeah, and if the club needs to wash some 'extra' salary stuff through the old meter here, always happy to help"
When Chris walked in, it just got worse. There was Rebecca standing putting a bra on Fev, who clearly, quite clearly, had got the breast implants he'd been talking about put in.
"Uh, hi babes," he said.
"Hello Chris," Rebecca said sharply, "I'm just helping Brendan here."
Fev just grinned like a big idiot, and nodded his head in a silent hello, which only caused his magnificent breasts to jiggle in way Chris found alarmingly alluring.
Chris picked his wallet up off the bench. Headed back outside. He needed to clear his head. He needed to get that danged lentil pot and collect the car. He hailed another cab and headed back over to North Carlton.
Once he'd gone Rebecca gently slipped one hand inside the cup of Brendan's bra and weighed the specatcular fake mammary, squeezing gently.
"This bra is a nice fit," she ssaid.
"You know what we need to do, Brendan? We need to get on the front foot with this. If that horrible little freakazoid Sam gets to you first, she'll twist this into something its not. We need to tell your side of the story. Come on, Caroline owes me one or two, we're going to make sure this plays right."
Wednesday, 9 September 2009
A Bright Future
"Just imagine it, Josh," the oleaginous Hawthorn recruiter whispered in the good hearted but thick as shit young man's ear.
"You and Buddy Love out on the dancefloor at clubs, doing choreographed dance moves to the latest hot 40 hits, youse will be beating the chicks off with a stick with a picture of Jarryd Roughead on it," Wormtongue continued.
Josh adjusted his pose ever so slightly so he could get a better view of his reflection in the shiny wood surface of the cafe they were sitting in.
"And there's the money Josh. The lovely beautiful money we get from two-headed Tassie taxpayers and desperate souls who steal from their kids piggybanks for one last pokie hit. A million bucks mate. Do you know how much that is?"
Josh shook his head slowly.
"It's ten times a hundred thousand dollars and a hundred thousand dollars is fifty times fity thousand dollars. And you know how many tightly fitting shirts you could buy with fifty thousand bucks? A million."
Josh took all this in. Slowly. Very slowly. It all sounded so attractive, so brilliant. But he just wasn't sure how it would work.
"But how can you afford to give me all that money when you have Buddy and Roughy and Juniour and Hodge and all those guys?" he asked, one of the more pertinent questions he ever had.
"Oh don't you worry your pretty little head about that," Wormtongue soothed, "We'll sort all that out. Now just go and publicly demand a trade so we can try and drastically reduce your cost at the trade table in an no way typically doggish Hawthorn act."
On the other side of the city, a far more gentle and loving scene was unfolding.
Brendan, who had had never liked the base frivolity and grotesque drunkness of Mad Monday, had taken the opportunity to have his long awaited breast implant operation. Now, the glorious globes, modelled exactly on those of Scarlett Johannson, sat proudly on this chest.
"Let me see them," asked Rebecca, who had been his constant companion throughout the fraught process.
Brendan took of his shirt slowly and Rebecca felt herself begin to melt. With a toss of his bald head, he allowed his shirt to fall to the ground and stood there in his silicon magnificence.
Rebecca rose and walked over to him. Gently, she cupped Brendan's magnificent tits. He sighed gently.
"Can you feel that," she asked. He nodded.
"We just need to see if you've retained nipple sensation," she purred.
She began to lick around the aeorolia, in a soft circular motion, gently kneading his other breast with left hand. Her pace quickened and she softly bit the rapidly rising nipple. And then, at last, she threw caution to the wind and buried her face deep into Miss Brendina Fevolina's s brand new, enormous set of fake of tits.
"You and Buddy Love out on the dancefloor at clubs, doing choreographed dance moves to the latest hot 40 hits, youse will be beating the chicks off with a stick with a picture of Jarryd Roughead on it," Wormtongue continued.
Josh adjusted his pose ever so slightly so he could get a better view of his reflection in the shiny wood surface of the cafe they were sitting in.
"And there's the money Josh. The lovely beautiful money we get from two-headed Tassie taxpayers and desperate souls who steal from their kids piggybanks for one last pokie hit. A million bucks mate. Do you know how much that is?"
Josh shook his head slowly.
"It's ten times a hundred thousand dollars and a hundred thousand dollars is fifty times fity thousand dollars. And you know how many tightly fitting shirts you could buy with fifty thousand bucks? A million."
Josh took all this in. Slowly. Very slowly. It all sounded so attractive, so brilliant. But he just wasn't sure how it would work.
"But how can you afford to give me all that money when you have Buddy and Roughy and Juniour and Hodge and all those guys?" he asked, one of the more pertinent questions he ever had.
"Oh don't you worry your pretty little head about that," Wormtongue soothed, "We'll sort all that out. Now just go and publicly demand a trade so we can try and drastically reduce your cost at the trade table in an no way typically doggish Hawthorn act."
On the other side of the city, a far more gentle and loving scene was unfolding.
Brendan, who had had never liked the base frivolity and grotesque drunkness of Mad Monday, had taken the opportunity to have his long awaited breast implant operation. Now, the glorious globes, modelled exactly on those of Scarlett Johannson, sat proudly on this chest.
"Let me see them," asked Rebecca, who had been his constant companion throughout the fraught process.
Brendan took of his shirt slowly and Rebecca felt herself begin to melt. With a toss of his bald head, he allowed his shirt to fall to the ground and stood there in his silicon magnificence.
Rebecca rose and walked over to him. Gently, she cupped Brendan's magnificent tits. He sighed gently.
"Can you feel that," she asked. He nodded.
"We just need to see if you've retained nipple sensation," she purred.
She began to lick around the aeorolia, in a soft circular motion, gently kneading his other breast with left hand. Her pace quickened and she softly bit the rapidly rising nipple. And then, at last, she threw caution to the wind and buried her face deep into Miss Brendina Fevolina's s brand new, enormous set of fake of tits.
Saturday, 5 September 2009
Rebecca breathed the gentlest of sighs as she watched Chris' hand rub across the face of that poor Brisbane player, Rizzydizzytellytubbie or whatever he was called.
Funny how Chris couldn't keep his hands off all these other blokes, but barely seemed interested in her.
She slipped her own hand down her banana yellow Juicy Couture trackydaks - even staying in and having a quiet night she was stylish - and let her hand rest on her mound, considering allowing her finger to travel those final few centimetres to what Caroline had so memorably described as her "thpecial thite" during their brief, yet magical affair.
The wisps of her remaining pubic hair tickled gently at the back of her wrist. She had the Chinese character for "opportunity" shaved there just a few days ago, in the hope of enticing Chris into a decent root for once.
But no, no luck. Even as she'd showed it to him, wearing her very best Myer's lingerie ($12.99 the set or just a fiver for the bra, 20 per cent off at the Chaddy shop if you buy something from the food hall) all he'd said was:
"I think they've missed a curl on the final stroke babes. Good calligraphy is so important in Chinese culture, even getting it a little bit wrong can change the whole meaning of the character. I think yours actually says 'devil's hole' now."
Cheers Chris. Thanks for that.
She decided against a girlyflog after all and concentrated on the footy. They showed the replay again and it really didn't look good. Even if he didn't gouge his eyes, he still shouldn't have had his hand there.
Geez, thought Rebecca, I could do with a good gouging. It was Saturday night, her boyfriend was away, she could just hit the clubs, pick up some young stud, fuck him senseless, then come home. But her being who she was, that wasn't possible. She'd be recognised. She suddenly realised she had become trapped, a prisoner of her own fame. She was the Princess Diana of the footy world.
Nah, no one night anonymous root for her. Instead she'd have to wait until tomorrow when Chris returned from Brisbane. Bloody Brisbane. He'd been shocked to learn she wouldn't come up with him.
"But babes, I need you there," he'd moaned.
So tomorrow he'd come back and he'd want a root and she'd lie there like a particularly dispirited starfish left stranded on a slimy rock at a shitty beach while he pumped away on top of her like a big boring jackhammer, counting every bloody stroke in the same tone as the talking clock Telstra used.
It was all just so vanilla. And to make it worse, he'd whinge endlessly about being 'targeted' by the umpires even though everyone in the world knew he always got away with so much more.
God. How depressing. At least she had Brendan's boob job on Monday to look forward to. He might be a big oaf, but he was nice enough and she could see he was genuine in his desire to become a half man, half woman, like that soccer player Fernando Torres.
Then it hit her. An image, a mental picture that instantly got her wetter than a Sunday arvo in Tassie.
Brendan, on her chair in her office, his top half resplendent with large yet firm breasts modelled exactly on Scarlett Johansson's while below, his enormous rigid manhood.
She saw herself astride him, riding him like a Melbourne Cup winner, a man inside her yet beautiful womanly breats in front to caress and nuzzle as if they were those of the great goddess Eros herself. The best of both worlds.
Rebecca's finger shot straight to her pleasure organ and it took only a few twirls until she peaked with a most magnificent orgasm. She kept the thought in her head and her hand down her pants and went for it until continously until two hours later, she lay spent on the couch, panting and almost teary with pure pleasure.
She'd need to get the steam cleaner out and give the cushion covers the once over before Chris got home, such was the musky stench of her vigorous self-love. But no matter, it was worth it. She couldn't wait for Monday.
Across Melbourne, Sam was also having a Saturday night wankathon. But instead of a highly charged erotic fantasy, she was doing it while watching videos of American soldiers abusing detainess at Abu Ghraib.
"Come on," she'd snarl as a rough-hewn Marine from Kentucky instered an electric baton into the anus of a terrified teenage prisoner, "Fucken give it to him harder!"
And with every new depravity, she ran the hairbrush over her own scalded and raw sex parts, trying to force one more black shudder from their tortured depths.
Such was the intensity of her furious masturbation, and the volume of the sickening footage she was watching, that she did not hear the eerie call that drifted across the cold night air.
If she had, she would have done well to pay it heed.
On the very outskirts of the city, where Collingwood players steal in the darkest of nights to tend their ice labs, the Dewosaurus had climbed a telephone pole and emitted the hunting cry of his kind.
Blood will be spilt soon. Sam's blood.
Funny how Chris couldn't keep his hands off all these other blokes, but barely seemed interested in her.
She slipped her own hand down her banana yellow Juicy Couture trackydaks - even staying in and having a quiet night she was stylish - and let her hand rest on her mound, considering allowing her finger to travel those final few centimetres to what Caroline had so memorably described as her "thpecial thite" during their brief, yet magical affair.
The wisps of her remaining pubic hair tickled gently at the back of her wrist. She had the Chinese character for "opportunity" shaved there just a few days ago, in the hope of enticing Chris into a decent root for once.
But no, no luck. Even as she'd showed it to him, wearing her very best Myer's lingerie ($12.99 the set or just a fiver for the bra, 20 per cent off at the Chaddy shop if you buy something from the food hall) all he'd said was:
"I think they've missed a curl on the final stroke babes. Good calligraphy is so important in Chinese culture, even getting it a little bit wrong can change the whole meaning of the character. I think yours actually says 'devil's hole' now."
Cheers Chris. Thanks for that.
She decided against a girlyflog after all and concentrated on the footy. They showed the replay again and it really didn't look good. Even if he didn't gouge his eyes, he still shouldn't have had his hand there.
Geez, thought Rebecca, I could do with a good gouging. It was Saturday night, her boyfriend was away, she could just hit the clubs, pick up some young stud, fuck him senseless, then come home. But her being who she was, that wasn't possible. She'd be recognised. She suddenly realised she had become trapped, a prisoner of her own fame. She was the Princess Diana of the footy world.
Nah, no one night anonymous root for her. Instead she'd have to wait until tomorrow when Chris returned from Brisbane. Bloody Brisbane. He'd been shocked to learn she wouldn't come up with him.
"But babes, I need you there," he'd moaned.
So tomorrow he'd come back and he'd want a root and she'd lie there like a particularly dispirited starfish left stranded on a slimy rock at a shitty beach while he pumped away on top of her like a big boring jackhammer, counting every bloody stroke in the same tone as the talking clock Telstra used.
It was all just so vanilla. And to make it worse, he'd whinge endlessly about being 'targeted' by the umpires even though everyone in the world knew he always got away with so much more.
God. How depressing. At least she had Brendan's boob job on Monday to look forward to. He might be a big oaf, but he was nice enough and she could see he was genuine in his desire to become a half man, half woman, like that soccer player Fernando Torres.
Then it hit her. An image, a mental picture that instantly got her wetter than a Sunday arvo in Tassie.
Brendan, on her chair in her office, his top half resplendent with large yet firm breasts modelled exactly on Scarlett Johansson's while below, his enormous rigid manhood.
She saw herself astride him, riding him like a Melbourne Cup winner, a man inside her yet beautiful womanly breats in front to caress and nuzzle as if they were those of the great goddess Eros herself. The best of both worlds.
Rebecca's finger shot straight to her pleasure organ and it took only a few twirls until she peaked with a most magnificent orgasm. She kept the thought in her head and her hand down her pants and went for it until continously until two hours later, she lay spent on the couch, panting and almost teary with pure pleasure.
She'd need to get the steam cleaner out and give the cushion covers the once over before Chris got home, such was the musky stench of her vigorous self-love. But no matter, it was worth it. She couldn't wait for Monday.
Across Melbourne, Sam was also having a Saturday night wankathon. But instead of a highly charged erotic fantasy, she was doing it while watching videos of American soldiers abusing detainess at Abu Ghraib.
"Come on," she'd snarl as a rough-hewn Marine from Kentucky instered an electric baton into the anus of a terrified teenage prisoner, "Fucken give it to him harder!"
And with every new depravity, she ran the hairbrush over her own scalded and raw sex parts, trying to force one more black shudder from their tortured depths.
Such was the intensity of her furious masturbation, and the volume of the sickening footage she was watching, that she did not hear the eerie call that drifted across the cold night air.
If she had, she would have done well to pay it heed.
On the very outskirts of the city, where Collingwood players steal in the darkest of nights to tend their ice labs, the Dewosaurus had climbed a telephone pole and emitted the hunting cry of his kind.
Blood will be spilt soon. Sam's blood.
Thursday, 3 September 2009
Settling scores
Campbell was a good way down the road when he picked up his mobile phone and dialled his toaster.
"Listen you little Kambrook prick," he whispered in a low menacing tone, "You ever burn my breakfast again, and I'll hit you so hard with the wooden spoon you won't know if its brown or white up ya, ya dog."
He put the phone down, satisfied. Nothing said revenge like issuing threats from a good safe distance from the person/appliance with which you were announcing your grievance.
It was too obvious to simply use the opportunity of them being right there in front of you to do something. Oh no, that wasn't Campbell's style.
He turned on the radio, a form of communication he'd been avoiding for some reason of late. They were talking about the finals. Campbell, like the rest of the Hawthorn Army, were glad they hadn't made them this year. It wasn't in The Plan.
Campbell refelcted on The Plan as he passed the enormous, and still growing, mound of brand new Hawkers jumpers and 'I've Been A Member For Five Minutes' scarves that had mysteriously appeared at Kew Junction.
The Plan was simple. be shit for a few years, luck into a few guns because Richmond were incompetent, then hope the better side would miss simple set shots at crucial stages of the Grand Final. It wasn't complex. The best plans never are. But it worked. For a bit.
The radio blared away as traffic came to a halt. Stupid traffic lights. Once he'd got through them he'd give them a piece of his mind.
Despite it being finals, Gategategate refused to go away. Campbell knew which side he was on. If that big fairy Fevola came near him with a big set of tits, Campbell would show him he meant business, by breaking into Marc Murphy's house and hitting him with a rolling pin as he slept. In a few months time.
While Campbell entertained his Cape Fearesque plots for bloody recvenge, Brendan was just emptying his nutsac over a picture of Gretchen Killeen he'd found in a discarded Now magazine in the carpark at Safeway.
The things some people threw away.
The hormones he'd been taking to prepare him for his boob job the next week had thrown his sex drive all out whack. Normally, he'd been able to get the swimmers out six, seven times a day. And at least two of those in a supermarket carpark.
Now, he was lucky to get three off and this was the first time he'd watered the chip-stained tarmac with little Brendans in two days.
His phone rang. It was Rebecca.
"How are you Brendan, all ready for the big day on Monday?"
"Yeah," he replied contmplatively as he shook the last clinging drops of Coleman Jizzalist juice off his bellend.
"Yeah, I am."
"Listen you little Kambrook prick," he whispered in a low menacing tone, "You ever burn my breakfast again, and I'll hit you so hard with the wooden spoon you won't know if its brown or white up ya, ya dog."
He put the phone down, satisfied. Nothing said revenge like issuing threats from a good safe distance from the person/appliance with which you were announcing your grievance.
It was too obvious to simply use the opportunity of them being right there in front of you to do something. Oh no, that wasn't Campbell's style.
He turned on the radio, a form of communication he'd been avoiding for some reason of late. They were talking about the finals. Campbell, like the rest of the Hawthorn Army, were glad they hadn't made them this year. It wasn't in The Plan.
Campbell refelcted on The Plan as he passed the enormous, and still growing, mound of brand new Hawkers jumpers and 'I've Been A Member For Five Minutes' scarves that had mysteriously appeared at Kew Junction.
The Plan was simple. be shit for a few years, luck into a few guns because Richmond were incompetent, then hope the better side would miss simple set shots at crucial stages of the Grand Final. It wasn't complex. The best plans never are. But it worked. For a bit.
The radio blared away as traffic came to a halt. Stupid traffic lights. Once he'd got through them he'd give them a piece of his mind.
Despite it being finals, Gategategate refused to go away. Campbell knew which side he was on. If that big fairy Fevola came near him with a big set of tits, Campbell would show him he meant business, by breaking into Marc Murphy's house and hitting him with a rolling pin as he slept. In a few months time.
While Campbell entertained his Cape Fearesque plots for bloody recvenge, Brendan was just emptying his nutsac over a picture of Gretchen Killeen he'd found in a discarded Now magazine in the carpark at Safeway.
The things some people threw away.
The hormones he'd been taking to prepare him for his boob job the next week had thrown his sex drive all out whack. Normally, he'd been able to get the swimmers out six, seven times a day. And at least two of those in a supermarket carpark.
Now, he was lucky to get three off and this was the first time he'd watered the chip-stained tarmac with little Brendans in two days.
His phone rang. It was Rebecca.
"How are you Brendan, all ready for the big day on Monday?"
"Yeah," he replied contmplatively as he shook the last clinging drops of Coleman Jizzalist juice off his bellend.
"Yeah, I am."
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