I have a muse? Is she cute? With my luck she'll look something like Caroline Wilson......and she's suspended? Did I make her do something bad? This sounds like 50 shades of markfs...
That is preferable to the true horror...
50 SHADES OF BLACK AND WHITE AND BLUE...
Chapter 1
I approached the building with caution, trying not to be intimidated. It was not every day you had an opportunity like this, and I had to make the most of it. Still, it was hard not to let the butterflies take hold. Me, a simple student and aspiring footballer, invited to the inner sanctum of the most hallowed of football clubs. But more than that, invited to interview...Him.
I found it almost impossible not to think of it that way, Him. Capitals and all. He was that...well, he was simply that much of a presence. His aura seeped from under the entrance like an almost palpable force, part charisma, part malice, part zen karate monk, sort of a cross between Manbearpig and Pei Mei from Kill Bill.
My sense of foreboding grew as I was greeted by his impeccable underling, a tall slender woman with strangely oriental features and an impeccable dark bob. She had a hint of French accent, and a larger dollop of French sophistication, like Manu from MKR but sexier though probably less good at galettes. That was a shame, I reflected, because I could ******* kill a galette right now.
"He will see you now."
She smiled and beckoned for me to follow. I did. What else could I do?
His office was imposing, and I had to stand and stare for long silent moments of regret while I adjusted to the darkness. Every wall was plastered in strange artefacts bearing cryptic labels; a small box containing Brad Hardie's self respect, a small vial of Jason Cloke's tears, and over by the bookcase, a book seemingly with no pages. I turned the cover, absentmindedly while I sought some semblance of self control.
Malthouse, a Football Life...things I could have done better.
"Do you like it?"
I turned suddenly, like a kid caught with his hand in the cookie jar, to find Him there. He had come through a small door in the wall, which was cunningly concealed by a bigger than lifesize picture of the man himself looking magisterial. Or constipated, I couldn't quite tell. Now I could see the man himself, up close, and had a chance to compare the two.
Yep...constipated...
“I said…do you like it?”
It didn’t seem like he was going to take no answer for an answer, which was kind of ironic given his press conferences.
“Err…I like the room.”
He nodded, sagely. “Yes. I had it done just the way I like it. My own space, exactly as I desired…”
I pointed to the bookcase. It was full of impressive tomes, leather bound with spines of gold, the titles like a catalogue of the greats of human thought. Nietzshe, Kant, Kardashian. A trend emerged too; Sun Tzu’s Art of war, Marcus Aurelius, Caesar’s Gallic Wars, Patton.
“You like war? Why is that?”
“Why is anyone the way they are? That’s kind of hard to answer. Why do some people like cheese and other people hate it? Do you like cheese?”
“No, I ******* hate cheese.”
“Pity. Sure I cant interest you in some Camembert?”
I decided to change the subject. “So you…err…you’ve read all these?”
He just smiled a sphinxlike smile which is to say he looked like Napoleon had sawn his nose off and he was kind of pissed and then stroked a copy of The Ascent of Man.
“Impressive, aren’t they?”
“Yeah but, have you, like read them?”
“Cost a fortune to get too…”
“Yeah but, have you actually read them or do you just quote selective bits like a first year philosophy major who has just discovered Derrida and wants to bore everyone to death with their own importance?”
“Feel the leather…”
I sighed, a little wistful and did as he asked. It did feel kind of soft and nice too. Not as good as a Sherrin of course…
“So, Mister Steele. You went to a lot of trouble to get this interview.”
“Err, actually its Mister Sidebottom, Steele is my first name and…”
“Like I could give a flying **** Mister Steele. So…you got your chance, in the end…the Earth is Slow but the Ox is patient…and what did you want to talk to me about?”
I let it slide. I guess he was known for his unique and refreshing candour.
“Um…well, its an interview for the school paper and like…”
He smiled again, a sort of Cheshire cat smile, and his eyes bored through me like a stab pass. One day I might just kick with penetration like that, with the sort of coaching I could reliably expect from the richest club in the land…the thought came suddenly, a glorious dream.
I stopped, at least on the outside, but not inside. My inner goddess stirred, and began to do things that are banned in several countries and at least inadvisable in many others. Unless you are on an end of season trip with St Kilda.
“That would be a waste, Mister Steele.”
I swallowed, feeling many things, all of which I should probably list and add as many superfluous adjectives as possible to. But instead I’ll just say icky.
“I have a different plan Mister Steele.”
“Er…Mister Malthouse…”
“Call me Master!”
His voice flowed through me like honey, probably Manuka honey with a mix of redgum actually or something, but spicier, thick, luxurious, aching, throbbing, and assorted other nouns, verbs and or adjectives thrown at the page like a monkey flinging faeces. I swallowed again.
“M…master…”
He beamed, and I felt it again. My inner goddess, though this time she was dancing, probably some horrendous shit like the Macarena. I just hoped to **** it wasn’t dwarf twerking.
“That is so much better, Mister Steele. I have been watching you. For a long time. I know everything about you, every kick, every handball, everything…”
Now I felt stripped naked, and not in a good way either like mooning that girls boarding school after the grand final, a bad naked. It was so wrong, but holy hell it felt…erotic.
Erotic?!?!?!
I stuttered in my shock. “W…what do you mean…isn’t that a bit, stalkerish?!”
“We call it scouting. Dekker is really good at it, though I still think he needs to up the obsessive compulsive a bit. He refused to go through your rubbish, stupid bastard. He will never have a career in media afterwards at this rate. Still, we know a lot about you Mister Steele…what makes you a good footballer, what makes you tick…and other things, beside…transgressive things…”
My inner goddess was dancing again. But this time it was to K-Pop. That was never a good sign.
“Not…”
“Yes. I know you like walking on the wild side Mister Steele…”
“But, I only did it that once.”
“Mister Steele, once you have listened to Bruce McAvaney talk about Cyril Rioli, even once, it’s only a short ride to Hell.”
I hung my head. He was right of course. It felt so wrong…and yet…
“Would it surprise you to learn that I got you in here so in could interview you, not the other way around?”
Now I was shocked. And stunned, piqued, astonished, dismayed, aghast, awestruck…
“Would you like mine?” he handed me his thesaurus.
“Hey flabbergasted! That’s a good one!”
Suddenly I saw a red flash heading towards me and I reached out instinctively. It was a Sherrin.
“I see you are good at handling…balls…”
“Yes, my ball handling is very good…”
He nodded, as if he knew all along. “Yes, I know you like the feel of leather…and balls. Did I mention balls?”
“Err..yeah…”
“Yes, that is good. Are you ready for more though, Mister Steele?”
“More than bad Benny Hill double entendres?”
“Or single entendres. Yes, more…like this…”
I gasped. Now he had my attention. Not to mention the attention of my inner goddess who was struck silent, like someone reciting a list of reasons not to drop James Brayshaw off a cliff.
I stared. It was amazing. Incredible. Awe inspiring…
“I want you to become well acquainted, on first name terms if you will, with my favorite and most cherished part of my being. I’m very attached to this.”
“I can tell Master Malthouse…”
“So…show me what you’ve got.”
I had no idea what to do. I’d never done something like this before, and it was so big, throbbing, needy…
“Stroke it Mister Steele.”
I swallowed. “Um…you’re…the best?”
“Harder! An ego this big doesn’t just stroke itself!”
“Um…you’re the master coach…innovative…successful…”
“Harder!”
“Ahh…****, can I have that thesaurus again?”
He looked disappointed, and I knew I had failed a test, but not the whole subject. He put his ego away again, which given its size was an impressive effort and required an ingenious use of hydraulics. It was still there though, I could feel it.
“Its ok Mister Steele. I can teach you…I am a master at that too, did I tell you? One preseason, two at the most, and you will give ego fellatio as good as Daisy.”
“Errr thanks…”
“So Mister Steele, do you want to come and be one of…My Boys?”
My inner goddess sang in triumph, in a lilting, pleasant voice vaguely reminiscent of Celine Dion going down on a waterbuffalo, which is to say her normal voice.
“Oh Master Malthouse…that is my most cherished ambition…”
“Good Mister Steele. I am going to take you to places you never imagined. If you can overcome your self respect…”
He reached into a drawer, and pulled out two items, items I would become familiar with, that would bind me to my Master . I watched in fear and longing as they made an appearance. Surprise made me speak without being asked.
“Um…I don’t remember reading about nipple clamps in the collective bargaining agreement…”
He seemed surprised. “What, these? Oh, I just wear those while I dictate my memoirs…no, this is the instrument of your subjection Mister Steele…one simple, effective, and flexible instrument, for your master to make you his slave…”
I stared at it, such a seemingly innocuous object, and yet also the gateway to a new world of unspeakable degradation and yet also awakening. My inner goddess was doing a time trial now, so she had already lapped Brodie Grundy twice.
Standard AFL Player Contract
“Welcome to your new life Mister Steele…My Boy. Always one of…My Boys…”
"So....are you sure I cant get you some cheese?"