The gravel crunched beneath Dean's feet as he walked across the desolate and windswept Alberton carpark toward the figure that waited at the other side, solitary and melancholy.
The wind from the nearby sea was cold and Dean tucked his mullet into the back his jacket for added warmth.
The other figure came to meet him. When they were a few paces away, the taciturn type extended a gnarled hand in greeting.
"Tunnel, good to see ya."
"Yeah nah look, good to see you too Choco," Dean replied.
It was the most either man had said in days.
They walked towards the training rooms in contemplative silence. After a few minutes, Dean spoke, his tone an empty chip packet blowing in maudlin Sunday afternoon ennui.
"How's things around here anyway?" he asked.
Choco looked back at him with a thousand yard stare.
"We're up to our bottom lip in debt, the players hate me and our gameplan is negative and shit," he replied without any discernible emotion.
Dean smiled inwardly as they continued their slow progress. He'd fit right in here.
He took out his phone.
"Just gotta make a quick call Choc," he said.
Choco merely nodded before picking up a stone and throwing it at a crow that had landed ahead of them. It missed.
Dean dialled the number, got a quick answer.
"Mrs Power, yes look its Dean here. I was wondering if Sam was there."
Sunday, 27 September 2009
Friday, 25 September 2009
On The Rampage
There is nothing like the centre of Melbourne on the Friday before the Grand Final. The atmosphere, the team colours in the crowded streets, the sheer electricity about the town.
And this year, the added spectacle of a Mexican standoff between armed police and an enormous enraged beast with a devastating hangover and a taste for human flesh.
The tequila drinking session in the park had left him much the worse for wear. Between, them Fev, Brown, Colin and man beast that used be Stewie Dew had drunk a crate of tequila washed down with a slab each. At one point, Fev had climbed a tree in an attempt to reach an owl's nest he claimed he could see and then got stuck up the tree and the Dewosaurus had had to go up after him and rescue the drunken sot.
It all got a bit messy after that. Browny did the right thing and handcuffed Fev and frogmarched him into a taxi. Colin disappeared muttring something about heading to The Men's Gallery while Danny Four Fingers had long since disappeared with a group of large heavily tattooed men.
Stupefied by drink, the Dewosaurus had wandered the streets before laying his great head on the first flat surface he could find.
Unfortunately for him, it was the steps of Parliament House. He slept until mid morning, oblivious to the crowd that had gathered around him. Upon awakening, he was startled and took flight, seeking shelter from the tumult.
The crowd on Bourke Street parted like the Red Sea as the Dewosaurus rampaged down the tramlines. The noise, the confusion, the incessant dinging of the tram bells and now the blaring sirens all combined to confuse the great beast. The ringing in his ears, the noise, the colour.
He picked up a car and threw it smashing into the plate glass windows of a coffee shop, sending the latte sipper inside scurrying for cover.
The Dewosaurus headed down the Bourke Street hill, unaware that the police had set a trap for him. As he lumbered through the intersection with Exhibition Street, divisional vans screeched to a halt on all four corners. Immediately, policemen took up position, their service revolvers pointed directly at him.
The crowd quickly surged behind the police to encircle the Dewosaurus. He was trapped. He quickly looked left, right, even above him the police helicopter hovered.
He roared at the police but unlike so many times before, they did not flee at his threat. Instead, they held their ground, knuckles wrapped around pistols turning white with determination. One of the policeman was a Geelong supporter and he was itching to get revenge for that third quarter burst last year.
A expectant hush fell over the crowd. The Dewosaurus snorted and pawed at the ground. Would he charge? One last desperate bid for freedom? Surely such a brave but futile act could only be met with a hail of bullets.
Then something magical happened. From out of the crowd came a slight figure, hands outstretched, approached
The Dewosaurus caught its scent. Soft, unthreatening, nothing to be afraid of.
The figure approached the great beast and laid a tiny, womanly hand on his heaving snout.
“Hello. My name is Bryce. What’s yours?”
The beast was confused. Normally he would swipe such a puny thing away, but he felt nothing but peace from this small wisp of a thing. This Bryce was no threat, it carried no malice in its heart.
He would trust Bryce. He sank to his haunches and waited.
Bryce turned to the crowd and from nowhere, slightly tinny mood music appeared:
"Why are we persecuting this poor misunderstood creature? It isn't his fault he is what he is. So he looks a bit different. Don't we all look a bit different, you sir for example, " said Bryce, pointing into the crowd at Luke Hodge, "you look like you've eaten the entire frozen food section at your local Safeway and have a face like a squished tomato, but nobody wants to hunt you down and kill you do they?"
Luke nodded. Bryce was right.
"Can't we all look into our hearts and find a little bit of room for Stewie? He might be hideously ugly on the outside, but on the inside, he's just a normal person with feelings like the rest of us."
The music that had appeared from nowhere now switched to soaring strings. Morgan Freeman walked out of the crowd and shook Bryce's hand. Together they embraced the Dewosaurus who shook his mane appreciatively.
The police lowered their guns and the commanding officer came over.
"Great speech there Marc"
"I'm Bryce"
"Whatever. Tell you what, we've give this bastard a ten minute headstart, after that, all bets are off."
The policeman who's 'Geelong Gay Premiers' tatoo was visible through his light blue shirt nodded grimly.
"OK," said Bryce, "That sounds fair."
The Dewosaurus was about to head through the crowd, who were stroking him appreciatively and beginning to chant his name, when a hideous screech broke the bonhomie.
Looking for all the world like one of Macbeth's witches, Sam's hateful thin reedy voice was heard:
"NO! NO! KILL IT! KILL IT! KILL THE PIG! KILL PIGGY!"
The Dewosaurus, recognising danger, went immediately into combat mode. He sparng hundreds of feet into the air in a single mighty bound. He stuck his landing on top of a skyscraper like a gymnast and emitted a deathly roar that was heard as far away as Melbourne's new training ground in Orbost.
Where the Dewosaurus had been so close to perhaps regaining some humanity, now Sam's appearance had driven him once more back into his animal side.
"Why," asked Bryce of Sam, "Why do you have to ruin everything good in footy with your bullshit childish talentless fucking know nothing seedy death and sex obssesed crap, you monstrous witch?"
Sam merely cackled in reply, before raking Bryce's face with her claws and scampering off down a laneway.
The amusement over, the crowd began to depart home and get a skinful before the Grand Final tomorrow.
Once they had all filtered away, a single melancholic figure was left in the middle of the empty streets, yellowing autumnal leaves gusting around him while hot salty tears ran down his cheeks.
It was Luke Hodge.
"I'm not fat," he sniffed.
"I'm just big boned"
And this year, the added spectacle of a Mexican standoff between armed police and an enormous enraged beast with a devastating hangover and a taste for human flesh.
The tequila drinking session in the park had left him much the worse for wear. Between, them Fev, Brown, Colin and man beast that used be Stewie Dew had drunk a crate of tequila washed down with a slab each. At one point, Fev had climbed a tree in an attempt to reach an owl's nest he claimed he could see and then got stuck up the tree and the Dewosaurus had had to go up after him and rescue the drunken sot.
It all got a bit messy after that. Browny did the right thing and handcuffed Fev and frogmarched him into a taxi. Colin disappeared muttring something about heading to The Men's Gallery while Danny Four Fingers had long since disappeared with a group of large heavily tattooed men.
Stupefied by drink, the Dewosaurus had wandered the streets before laying his great head on the first flat surface he could find.
Unfortunately for him, it was the steps of Parliament House. He slept until mid morning, oblivious to the crowd that had gathered around him. Upon awakening, he was startled and took flight, seeking shelter from the tumult.
The crowd on Bourke Street parted like the Red Sea as the Dewosaurus rampaged down the tramlines. The noise, the confusion, the incessant dinging of the tram bells and now the blaring sirens all combined to confuse the great beast. The ringing in his ears, the noise, the colour.
He picked up a car and threw it smashing into the plate glass windows of a coffee shop, sending the latte sipper inside scurrying for cover.
The Dewosaurus headed down the Bourke Street hill, unaware that the police had set a trap for him. As he lumbered through the intersection with Exhibition Street, divisional vans screeched to a halt on all four corners. Immediately, policemen took up position, their service revolvers pointed directly at him.
The crowd quickly surged behind the police to encircle the Dewosaurus. He was trapped. He quickly looked left, right, even above him the police helicopter hovered.
He roared at the police but unlike so many times before, they did not flee at his threat. Instead, they held their ground, knuckles wrapped around pistols turning white with determination. One of the policeman was a Geelong supporter and he was itching to get revenge for that third quarter burst last year.
A expectant hush fell over the crowd. The Dewosaurus snorted and pawed at the ground. Would he charge? One last desperate bid for freedom? Surely such a brave but futile act could only be met with a hail of bullets.
Then something magical happened. From out of the crowd came a slight figure, hands outstretched, approached
The Dewosaurus caught its scent. Soft, unthreatening, nothing to be afraid of.
The figure approached the great beast and laid a tiny, womanly hand on his heaving snout.
“Hello. My name is Bryce. What’s yours?”
The beast was confused. Normally he would swipe such a puny thing away, but he felt nothing but peace from this small wisp of a thing. This Bryce was no threat, it carried no malice in its heart.
He would trust Bryce. He sank to his haunches and waited.
Bryce turned to the crowd and from nowhere, slightly tinny mood music appeared:
"Why are we persecuting this poor misunderstood creature? It isn't his fault he is what he is. So he looks a bit different. Don't we all look a bit different, you sir for example, " said Bryce, pointing into the crowd at Luke Hodge, "you look like you've eaten the entire frozen food section at your local Safeway and have a face like a squished tomato, but nobody wants to hunt you down and kill you do they?"
Luke nodded. Bryce was right.
"Can't we all look into our hearts and find a little bit of room for Stewie? He might be hideously ugly on the outside, but on the inside, he's just a normal person with feelings like the rest of us."
The music that had appeared from nowhere now switched to soaring strings. Morgan Freeman walked out of the crowd and shook Bryce's hand. Together they embraced the Dewosaurus who shook his mane appreciatively.
The police lowered their guns and the commanding officer came over.
"Great speech there Marc"
"I'm Bryce"
"Whatever. Tell you what, we've give this bastard a ten minute headstart, after that, all bets are off."
The policeman who's 'Geelong Gay Premiers' tatoo was visible through his light blue shirt nodded grimly.
"OK," said Bryce, "That sounds fair."
The Dewosaurus was about to head through the crowd, who were stroking him appreciatively and beginning to chant his name, when a hideous screech broke the bonhomie.
Looking for all the world like one of Macbeth's witches, Sam's hateful thin reedy voice was heard:
"NO! NO! KILL IT! KILL IT! KILL THE PIG! KILL PIGGY!"
The Dewosaurus, recognising danger, went immediately into combat mode. He sparng hundreds of feet into the air in a single mighty bound. He stuck his landing on top of a skyscraper like a gymnast and emitted a deathly roar that was heard as far away as Melbourne's new training ground in Orbost.
Where the Dewosaurus had been so close to perhaps regaining some humanity, now Sam's appearance had driven him once more back into his animal side.
"Why," asked Bryce of Sam, "Why do you have to ruin everything good in footy with your bullshit childish talentless fucking know nothing seedy death and sex obssesed crap, you monstrous witch?"
Sam merely cackled in reply, before raking Bryce's face with her claws and scampering off down a laneway.
The amusement over, the crowd began to depart home and get a skinful before the Grand Final tomorrow.
Once they had all filtered away, a single melancholic figure was left in the middle of the empty streets, yellowing autumnal leaves gusting around him while hot salty tears ran down his cheeks.
It was Luke Hodge.
"I'm not fat," he sniffed.
"I'm just big boned"
Thursday, 24 September 2009
Drinking With The Dewosaurus
The great beast stirred in its hidey hole.
"Ya shure itsh him," slurred Brendan as the group gathered round the form that lay prone in the deepest bushes in the Exhibition Gardens.
"Could fucken just be a binny or something. We fucken should fucken set him on fire and see what happens," the shaven headed, newly be-titted hoon continued.
Browny turned around.
"Fucken turn it fucken up mate. You've fucken caused enough fucken trouble as it fucken is."
The big bloke from South Warnambool had a point.
The media had only caught the briefest taste of Brendan's antics on Brownlow night. The spewing off the balcony, the harrassment of other guests, the horrendous acapella version of DJ Otzi, all these paled into insignificance compared to what he got up to once the Dewosaurus search party had set off into the haze of a million Crownies to try and get a few gargles into their mate Stewie.
Within minutes he'd bought a Big Mac and had rooted it, to graphic conclusion, against a tram stop, to the horror of those watching. Then, when the tram had arrived, he'd repeatedly charged it front on, headbutting the windscreen and shouting maniacally 'Look at me! Look at me! I'm Graham Polak!"
Then, as they reached the Gardens, where Brown had a sixth sense that the Dewosaurus would be lurking, Brendan used the turn of pace that made him so hard to stop on the lead to pursue and quickly capture a possum that had been foraging for seeds and nuts on the floodlit grass.
The other players looked on apprehensively as Brendan examined the terrified creature.
"Fucken don't worry, I'm not gunna hurt it," he said, with a look of indignation that anybody would even consider such a thing. Instead he carefully tucked the marsupial deep within the vast chasm of his cleavage, leaving only its small grey head poking out.
Back at the beast's lair, Brendan continued to agitate to be allowed to assualt the sleeping form in some fashion.
"Fucken look mate, leave the fucken brainy shit to fucken Browny," said Colin. "You'll fucken just fucken fuck it up."
The others ushered Brendan away as Brown leant down to the huge form and waved a bottle of tequila under its nose.
"Stewie, Stewie mate, that you? Come and have a fucken drink mate!" he cajoled.
The creature stirred. Brown kept the bottle under its nose like a dose of smelling salts.
"Carn Stewie, have a few shandies for old times sake. Its just me and Col and Fev and that. Nobody's gunna hurt ya. Just a few drinks."
First one red eye opened, the another. Brown drew back carefully as the Dewosaurus awoke from its slumber. He then reached forward and carefully placed the tequila bottle in its paw.
Slowly, the creature came to. He dimly recognised Brown from the old days. More importantly, he sensed no threat. And what was this in his paw? It smelt strong and familiar.
He put the bottle to his lips. Ah yes, he recalled what this potion was. He drained the bottle in fell swig.
"That's the fucken spirit Stewie," enthused Brown, indicating that the others should pass him another bottle. "Get this one into ya Stewie."
The Dewosaurus tanned the second bottle. This, he remembered how much he liked this. He let out a friendly Chewbacca type growl to indicate he meant no harm. On hearing this, the others came forward and gave him pats on the back and the like.
"Fucken good to see you Stewie mate, fucken ace."
And so it came to pass that Brendan, Jono Brown, Colin and the Dewosaurus all hit the piss together in a central Melbourne park.
Nothing bad could come of that surely.
TODAY'S POST BROUGHT TO YOU BY BEER!
I LIKE BEER! SEE BELOW TO DONATE TO THE BEER FUND!
"Ya shure itsh him," slurred Brendan as the group gathered round the form that lay prone in the deepest bushes in the Exhibition Gardens.
"Could fucken just be a binny or something. We fucken should fucken set him on fire and see what happens," the shaven headed, newly be-titted hoon continued.
Browny turned around.
"Fucken turn it fucken up mate. You've fucken caused enough fucken trouble as it fucken is."
The big bloke from South Warnambool had a point.
The media had only caught the briefest taste of Brendan's antics on Brownlow night. The spewing off the balcony, the harrassment of other guests, the horrendous acapella version of DJ Otzi, all these paled into insignificance compared to what he got up to once the Dewosaurus search party had set off into the haze of a million Crownies to try and get a few gargles into their mate Stewie.
Within minutes he'd bought a Big Mac and had rooted it, to graphic conclusion, against a tram stop, to the horror of those watching. Then, when the tram had arrived, he'd repeatedly charged it front on, headbutting the windscreen and shouting maniacally 'Look at me! Look at me! I'm Graham Polak!"
Then, as they reached the Gardens, where Brown had a sixth sense that the Dewosaurus would be lurking, Brendan used the turn of pace that made him so hard to stop on the lead to pursue and quickly capture a possum that had been foraging for seeds and nuts on the floodlit grass.
The other players looked on apprehensively as Brendan examined the terrified creature.
"Fucken don't worry, I'm not gunna hurt it," he said, with a look of indignation that anybody would even consider such a thing. Instead he carefully tucked the marsupial deep within the vast chasm of his cleavage, leaving only its small grey head poking out.
Back at the beast's lair, Brendan continued to agitate to be allowed to assualt the sleeping form in some fashion.
"Fucken look mate, leave the fucken brainy shit to fucken Browny," said Colin. "You'll fucken just fucken fuck it up."
The others ushered Brendan away as Brown leant down to the huge form and waved a bottle of tequila under its nose.
"Stewie, Stewie mate, that you? Come and have a fucken drink mate!" he cajoled.
The creature stirred. Brown kept the bottle under its nose like a dose of smelling salts.
"Carn Stewie, have a few shandies for old times sake. Its just me and Col and Fev and that. Nobody's gunna hurt ya. Just a few drinks."
First one red eye opened, the another. Brown drew back carefully as the Dewosaurus awoke from its slumber. He then reached forward and carefully placed the tequila bottle in its paw.
Slowly, the creature came to. He dimly recognised Brown from the old days. More importantly, he sensed no threat. And what was this in his paw? It smelt strong and familiar.
He put the bottle to his lips. Ah yes, he recalled what this potion was. He drained the bottle in fell swig.
"That's the fucken spirit Stewie," enthused Brown, indicating that the others should pass him another bottle. "Get this one into ya Stewie."
The Dewosaurus tanned the second bottle. This, he remembered how much he liked this. He let out a friendly Chewbacca type growl to indicate he meant no harm. On hearing this, the others came forward and gave him pats on the back and the like.
"Fucken good to see you Stewie mate, fucken ace."
And so it came to pass that Brendan, Jono Brown, Colin and the Dewosaurus all hit the piss together in a central Melbourne park.
Nothing bad could come of that surely.
TODAY'S POST BROUGHT TO YOU BY BEER!
I LIKE BEER! SEE BELOW TO DONATE TO THE BEER FUND!
Monday, 21 September 2009
Foiled Again!
“It’s bloody bullshit babes,” Chris fumed, punching the dashboard of the Prius with frustration.
“What’s the bloody prematurely balding shit ever done anyway? And bloody Murphy and Bryce, stealing all my votes, they better make themselves scarce next time I’m about.”
Rebecca knew better than to interrupt Chris when he was in full self-righteous mode. She remembered with a shudder the time she’d innocently asked him why it was so important to separate the various plastics into their respective piles for the recycling. By the time he’d finished the slide show depicting the bloated corpses of tsunami victims, she’d regretted ever even mentioning it. And she still didn’t have an answer.
Chris was still moaning away – “none of his touches should count, his Dad was a gun at footy, mine wasn’t” – when they pulled up at the lights.
A group of hoons in a hotted up car pumping awful commercial trance music pulled up beside them. The hoons eyed up Rebecca, who was still in her stylish yet tasteful gown. One wound down the passenger side window.
“Hey gorgeous, me n the boys are going down to Flaming Moe’s in Bentleigh. Me mates Stevie and Joey here wanna know if you fancy a spit roast on the way down?” he leered.
Luckily the lights changed and the hoons sped off, cackling like rednecks with a freshly captured college boy.
Chris continued his rant as they headed down Chapel Street towards their fashionable apartment:
“When I came over here, Mr Pratt promised me he’d buy me … er, er, I’d win … a Brownlow at least every second year. And what have I got since I arrived? Bloody nothing. Bugger all.”
Rebecca turned right into their street and pulled up at the appointed complex.
“Oh jeez, I’m sorry babes, it’s not your fault, I shouldn’t take it out on you,” he said apologetically.
She smiled at him. He might be colossally thick and have a vastly over inflated sense of his own relevance in the greater scheme of things, but his heart was in the right place.
“Tell you what babes, it’s been a long night and I need to chill out a bit. Why don’t you head up to bed and I’ll check my emails. Leo must have replied by now. That’ll cheer me up. Maybe I’ll even get on the blower and have a chat with him.”
Chris had recently seen Leonardo Di Caprio’s monumentally shit rip off of An Inconvenient Truth – The Eleventh Hour – and had gotten it into his head that he and Di Caprio should become mates. A bromance he’d taken to calling it.
“It makes perfect sense babes, I mean we’re both young affluent guys with a really keen sense of environmental justice. It’d be great, we’d hang out and go for bike rides and talk about our ideas for wind power and stuff.”
To this end, Chris had instructed his ‘people’ to get in touch with Di Caprio’s agent and set up some ‘face time’.
Rebecca didn’t have the heart to tell him that Leonardo Di Caprio had probably never even heard of Aussie Rules, let alone one of its most fraudulently overrated exponents. She was glad of the chance to sneak off to bed early. She’d had a few glasses of wine with Brendan early in the evening – he looked stunning in his spaghetti strap number that showed if his new assets to the finest advantage – and had had to ease up as she was driving, leaving her feeling a bit groggy and washed out.
She’d just about fallen asleep when she was startled by Chris shouting and what sounded suspiciously like a Mongolian lentil pot hitting a black slate floor with great force.
She went downstairs.
“What was that,” she asked. Chris had his head in his hands. When he raised his eyes, she could see tears forming.
“Look,” he sniffed, “Look at this.”
There was an email open on his laptop. She read it.
“Dear Mr Chudd,
Leo would like to thank you for your interest in his upcoming movie [INSERT NAME OF MOVIE HERE] . Leo has asked me to let you know that due to the volume of mail he receives, he sadly cannot respond to each message personally.
However, if you click here, Leo would like to invite you to become part of the Di Caprio Community by donating $US10 (All Major Cards Accepted) to his favoured sustainability project [ISENRT NAME OF CURRENT PROJECT HERE]
Yours with most awesome wishes,
Summer Stryker-Macgyver
Head of External Engagement Processes
Rebecca looked at Chris fondly. The poor big stupid bugger. He tried his hardest, that much was taken as read. In fact, she couldn’t think of a bigger try hard on the face of the planet.
“Come up to bed babes,” she said, gently massaging his shoulder, “Who needs stupid Leonardo Di Caprio anyway?”
As they slept, with Chris enduring an uneasy slumber, back in the great gambling den by the river, a council of war had formed.
Composed of those gents best placed to manage the effect of drinking enough piss in one night as the good people of Belfast in their entirety get through in a week, the brave band had convened to pursue a singular goal.
“Fucken Shtewie turned into a fucken fucken dinosaur or fucken whatever,” slurred Big Jono Brown.
“Nah, fucken Yeti or fucken Shashquatch or shome shit,” replied Colin, who had taken the loss of his friend Alan to the fanged jaws of the Dewosaurus only months earlier with admirable good humour.
“You fucken know what I fucken fucken reckon we should fucken do?” offered Danny ‘Four Fingers’ Chick, who had only turned up at the gig for the craic (geddit?).
Nah what, asked the assembled brains trust, which included Brendan, who lay back with his eyes closed, gently massaging his own breasts.
“We should fucken go fucken find fucken Shtewie” the missing digited dodgemaster continued, “Get some piss into him.”
There was a silence.
“Best fucken idea I’ve heard all night,” pronounced Brown, “Let’s get some fucken travellers and fucken do it.”
The motley crew headed out into the night, clutching bottles of tequila, determined to locate their old mate the Dewosaurus.
“What’s the bloody prematurely balding shit ever done anyway? And bloody Murphy and Bryce, stealing all my votes, they better make themselves scarce next time I’m about.”
Rebecca knew better than to interrupt Chris when he was in full self-righteous mode. She remembered with a shudder the time she’d innocently asked him why it was so important to separate the various plastics into their respective piles for the recycling. By the time he’d finished the slide show depicting the bloated corpses of tsunami victims, she’d regretted ever even mentioning it. And she still didn’t have an answer.
Chris was still moaning away – “none of his touches should count, his Dad was a gun at footy, mine wasn’t” – when they pulled up at the lights.
A group of hoons in a hotted up car pumping awful commercial trance music pulled up beside them. The hoons eyed up Rebecca, who was still in her stylish yet tasteful gown. One wound down the passenger side window.
“Hey gorgeous, me n the boys are going down to Flaming Moe’s in Bentleigh. Me mates Stevie and Joey here wanna know if you fancy a spit roast on the way down?” he leered.
Luckily the lights changed and the hoons sped off, cackling like rednecks with a freshly captured college boy.
Chris continued his rant as they headed down Chapel Street towards their fashionable apartment:
“When I came over here, Mr Pratt promised me he’d buy me … er, er, I’d win … a Brownlow at least every second year. And what have I got since I arrived? Bloody nothing. Bugger all.”
Rebecca turned right into their street and pulled up at the appointed complex.
“Oh jeez, I’m sorry babes, it’s not your fault, I shouldn’t take it out on you,” he said apologetically.
She smiled at him. He might be colossally thick and have a vastly over inflated sense of his own relevance in the greater scheme of things, but his heart was in the right place.
“Tell you what babes, it’s been a long night and I need to chill out a bit. Why don’t you head up to bed and I’ll check my emails. Leo must have replied by now. That’ll cheer me up. Maybe I’ll even get on the blower and have a chat with him.”
Chris had recently seen Leonardo Di Caprio’s monumentally shit rip off of An Inconvenient Truth – The Eleventh Hour – and had gotten it into his head that he and Di Caprio should become mates. A bromance he’d taken to calling it.
“It makes perfect sense babes, I mean we’re both young affluent guys with a really keen sense of environmental justice. It’d be great, we’d hang out and go for bike rides and talk about our ideas for wind power and stuff.”
To this end, Chris had instructed his ‘people’ to get in touch with Di Caprio’s agent and set up some ‘face time’.
Rebecca didn’t have the heart to tell him that Leonardo Di Caprio had probably never even heard of Aussie Rules, let alone one of its most fraudulently overrated exponents. She was glad of the chance to sneak off to bed early. She’d had a few glasses of wine with Brendan early in the evening – he looked stunning in his spaghetti strap number that showed if his new assets to the finest advantage – and had had to ease up as she was driving, leaving her feeling a bit groggy and washed out.
She’d just about fallen asleep when she was startled by Chris shouting and what sounded suspiciously like a Mongolian lentil pot hitting a black slate floor with great force.
She went downstairs.
“What was that,” she asked. Chris had his head in his hands. When he raised his eyes, she could see tears forming.
“Look,” he sniffed, “Look at this.”
There was an email open on his laptop. She read it.
“Dear Mr Chudd,
Leo would like to thank you for your interest in his upcoming movie [INSERT NAME OF MOVIE HERE] . Leo has asked me to let you know that due to the volume of mail he receives, he sadly cannot respond to each message personally.
However, if you click here, Leo would like to invite you to become part of the Di Caprio Community by donating $US10 (All Major Cards Accepted) to his favoured sustainability project [ISENRT NAME OF CURRENT PROJECT HERE]
Yours with most awesome wishes,
Summer Stryker-Macgyver
Head of External Engagement Processes
Rebecca looked at Chris fondly. The poor big stupid bugger. He tried his hardest, that much was taken as read. In fact, she couldn’t think of a bigger try hard on the face of the planet.
“Come up to bed babes,” she said, gently massaging his shoulder, “Who needs stupid Leonardo Di Caprio anyway?”
As they slept, with Chris enduring an uneasy slumber, back in the great gambling den by the river, a council of war had formed.
Composed of those gents best placed to manage the effect of drinking enough piss in one night as the good people of Belfast in their entirety get through in a week, the brave band had convened to pursue a singular goal.
“Fucken Shtewie turned into a fucken fucken dinosaur or fucken whatever,” slurred Big Jono Brown.
“Nah, fucken Yeti or fucken Shashquatch or shome shit,” replied Colin, who had taken the loss of his friend Alan to the fanged jaws of the Dewosaurus only months earlier with admirable good humour.
“You fucken know what I fucken fucken reckon we should fucken do?” offered Danny ‘Four Fingers’ Chick, who had only turned up at the gig for the craic (geddit?).
Nah what, asked the assembled brains trust, which included Brendan, who lay back with his eyes closed, gently massaging his own breasts.
“We should fucken go fucken find fucken Shtewie” the missing digited dodgemaster continued, “Get some piss into him.”
There was a silence.
“Best fucken idea I’ve heard all night,” pronounced Brown, “Let’s get some fucken travellers and fucken do it.”
The motley crew headed out into the night, clutching bottles of tequila, determined to locate their old mate the Dewosaurus.
Saturday, 19 September 2009
What A Game!
The headlights from the enormous convoy of stolen early 90s model Commodores heading back west after the Dogs had shit the bed - again - in a preliminary final bathed Caro in a sickly yellow light as she worked late in her office on the CBD periphery.
She was putting the final touches on her Brendina splash. For all the flak she copped, Caro certainly worked hard at her craft. Some days, she was in the office for a whole two hours.
Her steely concentration was broken by the ever-annoying Liam bursting through the door.
"What a game!" he said with boyish exuberance, "What a bloody game. How many inches on the front page boss? I've got great react quotes from Rocket, Bob Murphy spilt his guts to me in the rooms. And the St Kilda guys were great, gave me loads."
"You're not getting the fwont page," Caroline snapped.
"What," Liam asked with thinly disguised disbelief, "We're not going on the preliminary final result on the front page of the next day's paper."
"Yeth, Wiam, that'th wight. People can get the thilly old thcores from anywhere. They can only get my inthightful and touching thtowy about Bwendan'th thtwuggle for accethpanth in this cwuel cwuel world from The Ewa"
She put her head back down. Liam tried one more time.
"But, boss, I really think ..."
She waved him away.
"Wiam, go and wite up your copy. We'll find a few inches for your widdle match weport."
With a sigh, Liam did exactly that. Two hours later, once he'd filed, he trudged over to the lift to head home for a cold beer and an empty bed.
Just as he got in the lift, he heard Sam cry out, asking him to the hold the lift. Ah fuck it, he couldn't be bothered with that weirdo tonight. He'd had enough. He pressed the ground floor button.
Just as the doors were almost closed, a scaly claw shot between them. Then another. Liam watched with unmitigated terror as Sam forced the doors open using super-human strength, like something out of Terminator 2.
She prised them apart and entered the small steel cubicle.
"Thanks for holding the lift Liam," she spat aggressively.
A silence developed, one Liam prayed would hold. But sadly, it didn't.
"You shouldn't disrespect the boss like that Liam," Sam said.
"Like what," Liam asked.
Sam moved quick as flash, pinned him up against the wall, her forearm across his throat.
"You know what I mean!" she hissed, her tongue flickering back and forth like a reptile testing the wind.
Another beat passed. She kept him pinned against the wall.
"Wanna fuck some time?"
Liam was saved by the lift reaching the ground floor and flinging its doors open.
Sam released him with a look that said - sometime soon, oh yes we will, whether you like it or not.
As Liam headed to the nearest bar for a quick beer to steady his nerves after his encounter, Sam headed home, walking through the park.
She liked walking home through the Exhibition Gardens and the other Melbourne parks. Sometimes you got some pretty hot action around the public toilets.
Tonight though, there was nothing. She kicked a twig contemptously as she went. it would have to be the hairbrush again.
Little did she know that as she went through the dark, the Dewosaurus was tracking her. For such a great beast, it could make itself quiet and all but invisible when it wanted to.
It followed her until she reached her home. It recorded the exact route she had taken then crept off to sleep.
He would strike in a week. On Grand Final day, the time when the Dewosaurus did all his best work.
She was putting the final touches on her Brendina splash. For all the flak she copped, Caro certainly worked hard at her craft. Some days, she was in the office for a whole two hours.
Her steely concentration was broken by the ever-annoying Liam bursting through the door.
"What a game!" he said with boyish exuberance, "What a bloody game. How many inches on the front page boss? I've got great react quotes from Rocket, Bob Murphy spilt his guts to me in the rooms. And the St Kilda guys were great, gave me loads."
"You're not getting the fwont page," Caroline snapped.
"What," Liam asked with thinly disguised disbelief, "We're not going on the preliminary final result on the front page of the next day's paper."
"Yeth, Wiam, that'th wight. People can get the thilly old thcores from anywhere. They can only get my inthightful and touching thtowy about Bwendan'th thtwuggle for accethpanth in this cwuel cwuel world from The Ewa"
She put her head back down. Liam tried one more time.
"But, boss, I really think ..."
She waved him away.
"Wiam, go and wite up your copy. We'll find a few inches for your widdle match weport."
With a sigh, Liam did exactly that. Two hours later, once he'd filed, he trudged over to the lift to head home for a cold beer and an empty bed.
Just as he got in the lift, he heard Sam cry out, asking him to the hold the lift. Ah fuck it, he couldn't be bothered with that weirdo tonight. He'd had enough. He pressed the ground floor button.
Just as the doors were almost closed, a scaly claw shot between them. Then another. Liam watched with unmitigated terror as Sam forced the doors open using super-human strength, like something out of Terminator 2.
She prised them apart and entered the small steel cubicle.
"Thanks for holding the lift Liam," she spat aggressively.
A silence developed, one Liam prayed would hold. But sadly, it didn't.
"You shouldn't disrespect the boss like that Liam," Sam said.
"Like what," Liam asked.
Sam moved quick as flash, pinned him up against the wall, her forearm across his throat.
"You know what I mean!" she hissed, her tongue flickering back and forth like a reptile testing the wind.
Another beat passed. She kept him pinned against the wall.
"Wanna fuck some time?"
Liam was saved by the lift reaching the ground floor and flinging its doors open.
Sam released him with a look that said - sometime soon, oh yes we will, whether you like it or not.
As Liam headed to the nearest bar for a quick beer to steady his nerves after his encounter, Sam headed home, walking through the park.
She liked walking home through the Exhibition Gardens and the other Melbourne parks. Sometimes you got some pretty hot action around the public toilets.
Tonight though, there was nothing. She kicked a twig contemptously as she went. it would have to be the hairbrush again.
Little did she know that as she went through the dark, the Dewosaurus was tracking her. For such a great beast, it could make itself quiet and all but invisible when it wanted to.
It followed her until she reached her home. It recorded the exact route she had taken then crept off to sleep.
He would strike in a week. On Grand Final day, the time when the Dewosaurus did all his best work.
Friday, 18 September 2009
The Dewosaurus Revealed!
Artist's Impression of a Dewosaurus on the hunt for manflesh.
Thanks to wwww.themandus.com for the image
Thursday, 17 September 2009
Nothing Like A Pint
Ever fancied buying the bloke who writes this disturbed shit a beer? Probably not, you've probably been more tempted to inform social services of his madman's screeds.
But if you do want to assist this crazed project along, or simply contribute to my ongoing Caro sex scene writing counselling bills, you can click below to MAKE A DIFFERENCE by chucking in an Aussie Dollar (other currencies probably work too, have a shot) denominated donation.
BUT WAIT!
This isn't just any ordinary Internet scam. There's some totally reassuring details below to absorb:
- Even if only a few of you demonstrate basic human kindness, I'll keep writing this stuff anyway. I'll only put this up for a few days.
- You get complete unlimited access to the entire Rebecca's Journey and The Amazing Transformation Of Miss Brendina Fevolina archives!
- You can rest assured that the HTML involved in this post has strained the very limited sinews of my computer ability. If you are concerned that by donating to PayPal below, I'll somehow have access to your details, well, even if there is some chink in their security, it'll be some crafty 17 year old Belorussian who figures it out, not a slowcoach like me.
- AND FINALLY! If a few bucks turn up, I'm going to do the right thing and do what Krudd asks and reinvest in the business. Competitively-priced Dewosaurus themed merchandise here we come. T-shirts, mouse mats, coffee cups. And with Christmas coming up ... can you afford not to?
SO DO THE RIGHT THING AND ONCE YOU HAVE, SEE THE NEXT POST DOWN FOR THE NEW BIT!
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