- Apr 10, 2011
- 982
- 2,134
- AFL Club
- Melbourne
The day dawned bright and clear. Taking a long, deep breath in through his nose as he swung his legs out of bed, Kevin Shady stared out the window at the world outside.
"Aaaaah", he sighed, comfortable in the knowledge that everyone else - everyone out there - was just not quite as special or important as him. Today, he knew, was going to be a good day. He was expecting a delivery this morning, a most important delivery. He would fidget by the door, like a disobedient beagle desperate to run outside to smell the butt of another dog, eagerly awaiting the arrival of his Judas Priest ticket.
As Kev waited impatiently by the door, Mrs Shady called from the kitchen.
"Would you like a coffee, love?"
Kev was too engrossed in his own self-importance to notice. "I was brilliant that day", he was muttering to himself, "they thought they were interviewing ME! Ha! But I showed them! Hahahaha! I was interviewing them! Haha! And then I told everyone about it in the press, because that's what humble, excellent people like me do!! Tell everyone about how humble and excellent they are! HAHAHAH!"
"Here's your coffee, love".
Kev barely noticed Mrs Shady as he supped at his coffee. He could hear the faint beep of a reversing courier truck cutting through the sound of the city's morning bustle.
He couldn't contain himself. He ran outside, a trail of spilt coffee splashing out behind him. He dashed to the end of the driveway, his heart aflutter with anticipation. He reached the front fence. He looked left. He looked right. He became more agitated with every passing moment. Where was the courier!? A man approached on the footpath.
"Stop, adoring underling, for I am gracing you with my presence", he demanded.
Distracted by an absorbing discussion between Paul Vautin and Matthew Johns about Sonny Bill Williams latest performance in his headphones, the man wandered past unaware.
"Oh, the fans. They just love me," said Shady with a proud smile, "They consider me a father figure in this town". Crossing the road ahead, a young lad of about ten was walking to school.
"Have you seen a courier van, young fella?" chirped Shady.
"Nah mate. Sorry" said the young man, expertly performing flick passes to his friend beside him, the white, blue and green Gilbert-brand ball spinning neatly as it flew between them.
"Kids these days are so precise with their handballs," chuckled Shady to himself, "obviously they're picking up the skills quickly from watching my charges each week down at SKODA". The second kid was dressed in the light blue jumper and familiar number 15 of Shady protege Israel Folau. "Goodness me, I've made an absolute star of that boy," gushed Shady, "he must be so grateful of me!"
So engrossed in his own humble excellence, Shady had nearly forgotten his purpose for leaving the house that morning. It was most definitely nothing to do with the onset of dementia, of that he was certain. He was snapped out of his peaceful trance by that familiar sound, the BEEP, BEEP, BEEP of a reversing courier van!
As he barely avoided being run over by the imposing red Australia Post van, Shady ran expectantly up to the driver's door.
"F***in' Jesus Christ, what the f*** are you doing in the middle of the road, you old coot!?" exclaimed the driver.
"The fans are always so excited to see me!" thought Shady.
"Anyway, here's your registered mail, so sign here and f*** off."
"And they ALWAYS want an autograph!" he giggled to himself.
His hands shook with anticipation (and Parkinsons disease, probably) as he struggled to prize open the cardboard envelope. He couldn't contain his glee when he saw what was contained within.
JUDAS!
PRIEST!
So excited was he to be holding the most prized ticket in all the land, he forgot to remove the receipt from the parcel as he threw it in the bin. No matter. Shady was a man in raptures, so excited to be the bearer of the ticket. THE ticket! Judas!! The price tag, for him, was immaterial, a reminder of past decisions no longer requiring consideration. And so into the bin it went, a simple piece of thermo-printed paper, displaying nothing but a number, an integer, a measure of quantity… Nothing of concern to Shady. Just a number.
Six.
Million.
Dollars.
"Aaaaah", he sighed, comfortable in the knowledge that everyone else - everyone out there - was just not quite as special or important as him. Today, he knew, was going to be a good day. He was expecting a delivery this morning, a most important delivery. He would fidget by the door, like a disobedient beagle desperate to run outside to smell the butt of another dog, eagerly awaiting the arrival of his Judas Priest ticket.
As Kev waited impatiently by the door, Mrs Shady called from the kitchen.
"Would you like a coffee, love?"
Kev was too engrossed in his own self-importance to notice. "I was brilliant that day", he was muttering to himself, "they thought they were interviewing ME! Ha! But I showed them! Hahahaha! I was interviewing them! Haha! And then I told everyone about it in the press, because that's what humble, excellent people like me do!! Tell everyone about how humble and excellent they are! HAHAHAH!"
"Here's your coffee, love".
Kev barely noticed Mrs Shady as he supped at his coffee. He could hear the faint beep of a reversing courier truck cutting through the sound of the city's morning bustle.
He couldn't contain himself. He ran outside, a trail of spilt coffee splashing out behind him. He dashed to the end of the driveway, his heart aflutter with anticipation. He reached the front fence. He looked left. He looked right. He became more agitated with every passing moment. Where was the courier!? A man approached on the footpath.
"Stop, adoring underling, for I am gracing you with my presence", he demanded.
Distracted by an absorbing discussion between Paul Vautin and Matthew Johns about Sonny Bill Williams latest performance in his headphones, the man wandered past unaware.
"Oh, the fans. They just love me," said Shady with a proud smile, "They consider me a father figure in this town". Crossing the road ahead, a young lad of about ten was walking to school.
"Have you seen a courier van, young fella?" chirped Shady.
"Nah mate. Sorry" said the young man, expertly performing flick passes to his friend beside him, the white, blue and green Gilbert-brand ball spinning neatly as it flew between them.
"Kids these days are so precise with their handballs," chuckled Shady to himself, "obviously they're picking up the skills quickly from watching my charges each week down at SKODA". The second kid was dressed in the light blue jumper and familiar number 15 of Shady protege Israel Folau. "Goodness me, I've made an absolute star of that boy," gushed Shady, "he must be so grateful of me!"
So engrossed in his own humble excellence, Shady had nearly forgotten his purpose for leaving the house that morning. It was most definitely nothing to do with the onset of dementia, of that he was certain. He was snapped out of his peaceful trance by that familiar sound, the BEEP, BEEP, BEEP of a reversing courier van!
As he barely avoided being run over by the imposing red Australia Post van, Shady ran expectantly up to the driver's door.
"F***in' Jesus Christ, what the f*** are you doing in the middle of the road, you old coot!?" exclaimed the driver.
"The fans are always so excited to see me!" thought Shady.
"Anyway, here's your registered mail, so sign here and f*** off."
"And they ALWAYS want an autograph!" he giggled to himself.
His hands shook with anticipation (and Parkinsons disease, probably) as he struggled to prize open the cardboard envelope. He couldn't contain his glee when he saw what was contained within.
JUDAS!
PRIEST!
So excited was he to be holding the most prized ticket in all the land, he forgot to remove the receipt from the parcel as he threw it in the bin. No matter. Shady was a man in raptures, so excited to be the bearer of the ticket. THE ticket! Judas!! The price tag, for him, was immaterial, a reminder of past decisions no longer requiring consideration. And so into the bin it went, a simple piece of thermo-printed paper, displaying nothing but a number, an integer, a measure of quantity… Nothing of concern to Shady. Just a number.
Six.
Million.
Dollars.
