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I- Veni, Vidi, Visy (I Came, I Saw, I Cheated)
It had been a productive morning for The Friends of West Coast Society. We agreed upon how best to return the wings (#returnthewings), argued over who was the best ‘Jones’ to represent the club (#teamchad), and placed a few friendly wagers on the upcoming game. The lunch, however, had some distinctly unusual moments. Ian Dargie had caused the waitress a lot of distress after she described the tea as having a ‘cinnamon-type’ flavour, and quickstraw berated her for not updating the cost of the bill regularly enough. Even Big Tones disappeared halfway through for what he insisted “wasn’t training”, but his moustache fell off as he hurried out and with no sign of the sore back he was talking about the other week.
I personally had found the waitress quite nice- she called me Mr Quinz, and complimented everything we ordered. She even mentioned some places she liked around the area, and kept trying to convince us to order bacon. As we got up to leave, she stopped us, mentioning that she had overheard our conversation about Carlton and West Coast, and wanted us to look at a book she had found, which seemed to foretell the history of the two clubs. Intrigued, we agreed to read through it, and below is an excerpt of what was an incredible account.
Chapter XIXVVIX, in which our Hero ventures further Down than any man before Him, to the depths of the Earth and the Ninth circle of Hell, where the treacherously fraudulent are Punished, and what He Found there.
Swift and his companion, the renowned scholar Luke Darcy, had continued their journey towards the centre of Hell. The closer they got to Victoria, the stranger and more dangerous their mission had proven. Now, they stepped into the centre circle itself, the region known as Juddeccä. Swift, with the piercing vision and speed of thought that defined him, spotted a figure towering over AFL house. The emperor of the despondent kingdom, so towering up from the ice, was indeed Andrew the Defiler.
Darcy had not liked the way he went about it, and they decided to peer from a distance at the beast, who (or whom?) towered over his surroundings, and cast a demonic shadow over them all. Many creatures they had passed and sights they had seen on their journey, from the offsite medical clinic used by Essendon, to the goat pen where the MRP held rituals to determine from the Gods the fates of the accused. But no sight had filled them with such terror and loathing as what now lay before them.
“This man is an elite force of evil if ever I’ve seen one”, said Darcy.
“Say that again?” murmured Swift, but got nothing but a scowl in return. They crept closer, under the cover of the convenient media puff pieces and injunction notices that littered the area, until they could move no further. Here it was that they heard trumpets playing, saw lines scratched on the ground, RE THE N VY BLU , and got a clear look at the fate of the treacherous. The demon had three heads, each of which was devouring a man wearing a navy blue shirt. Swift turned to Darcy for an explanation.
“There are three brave men up there” whispered the scholar, with tears in his eyes, “who are destined to be forever punished for their sins. On the left is Marc Murphy, one who betrays his father.” And Swift saw that it was so, as even while being devoured he managed to throw his head back to accentuate contact.
“On the right is Mick Malthouse, traitor of team and club.” Swift nodded, having knowledge of the once great coach.
“And in the centre, the man for whom this region is named. They call him Juddas, traitor of faith and conscience. Chris Judd is elite at being brave, and you can see how he has attempted to gouge the eyes of his tormentor even now”. With that the scholar fell silent, for once having nothing more to say.
Beside them stood records of history, and portents of the future. A sign below a mighty statue, that was crumbled and worn, read “CARLTON 1897-1995- Vini, Vidi, Visy”. Around it were premiership trophies, dusty and dull, some buried in the sand.
It was to the right of that though, near another statue where the sound of the trumpets failed to reach, that bore the words “CARLTON 1995-“. Under that, a box stood, and written on it the words “In Case of Premiership, Break Cardboard”. Nothing beside remains. Round the decay of that colossal wreck, boundless and bare the lone and level sands stretch far away.
Eagles by 77.
I- Veni, Vidi, Visy (I Came, I Saw, I Cheated)
It had been a productive morning for The Friends of West Coast Society. We agreed upon how best to return the wings (#returnthewings), argued over who was the best ‘Jones’ to represent the club (#teamchad), and placed a few friendly wagers on the upcoming game. The lunch, however, had some distinctly unusual moments. Ian Dargie had caused the waitress a lot of distress after she described the tea as having a ‘cinnamon-type’ flavour, and quickstraw berated her for not updating the cost of the bill regularly enough. Even Big Tones disappeared halfway through for what he insisted “wasn’t training”, but his moustache fell off as he hurried out and with no sign of the sore back he was talking about the other week.
I personally had found the waitress quite nice- she called me Mr Quinz, and complimented everything we ordered. She even mentioned some places she liked around the area, and kept trying to convince us to order bacon. As we got up to leave, she stopped us, mentioning that she had overheard our conversation about Carlton and West Coast, and wanted us to look at a book she had found, which seemed to foretell the history of the two clubs. Intrigued, we agreed to read through it, and below is an excerpt of what was an incredible account.
Chapter XIXVVIX, in which our Hero ventures further Down than any man before Him, to the depths of the Earth and the Ninth circle of Hell, where the treacherously fraudulent are Punished, and what He Found there.
Swift and his companion, the renowned scholar Luke Darcy, had continued their journey towards the centre of Hell. The closer they got to Victoria, the stranger and more dangerous their mission had proven. Now, they stepped into the centre circle itself, the region known as Juddeccä. Swift, with the piercing vision and speed of thought that defined him, spotted a figure towering over AFL house. The emperor of the despondent kingdom, so towering up from the ice, was indeed Andrew the Defiler.
Darcy had not liked the way he went about it, and they decided to peer from a distance at the beast, who (or whom?) towered over his surroundings, and cast a demonic shadow over them all. Many creatures they had passed and sights they had seen on their journey, from the offsite medical clinic used by Essendon, to the goat pen where the MRP held rituals to determine from the Gods the fates of the accused. But no sight had filled them with such terror and loathing as what now lay before them.
“This man is an elite force of evil if ever I’ve seen one”, said Darcy.
“Say that again?” murmured Swift, but got nothing but a scowl in return. They crept closer, under the cover of the convenient media puff pieces and injunction notices that littered the area, until they could move no further. Here it was that they heard trumpets playing, saw lines scratched on the ground, RE THE N VY BLU , and got a clear look at the fate of the treacherous. The demon had three heads, each of which was devouring a man wearing a navy blue shirt. Swift turned to Darcy for an explanation.
“There are three brave men up there” whispered the scholar, with tears in his eyes, “who are destined to be forever punished for their sins. On the left is Marc Murphy, one who betrays his father.” And Swift saw that it was so, as even while being devoured he managed to throw his head back to accentuate contact.
“On the right is Mick Malthouse, traitor of team and club.” Swift nodded, having knowledge of the once great coach.
“And in the centre, the man for whom this region is named. They call him Juddas, traitor of faith and conscience. Chris Judd is elite at being brave, and you can see how he has attempted to gouge the eyes of his tormentor even now”. With that the scholar fell silent, for once having nothing more to say.
Beside them stood records of history, and portents of the future. A sign below a mighty statue, that was crumbled and worn, read “CARLTON 1897-1995- Vini, Vidi, Visy”. Around it were premiership trophies, dusty and dull, some buried in the sand.
It was to the right of that though, near another statue where the sound of the trumpets failed to reach, that bore the words “CARLTON 1995-“. Under that, a box stood, and written on it the words “In Case of Premiership, Break Cardboard”. Nothing beside remains. Round the decay of that colossal wreck, boundless and bare the lone and level sands stretch far away.
Eagles by 77.
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