Spartan
Brownlow Medallist
Nico jizzed in Swifta's locks.
WCE (Worst Conspiracy Ever): A Creative Piece
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Nico jizzed in Swifta's locks.
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haha Love it...
Can't wait to collect all the parts when finished and re-read it in all it's glory.
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I reckon the finished copy should be uploaded and then throw the link in a tweet with the tripod tagged. Or did shuey delete his twitter?
Carbine Chaos
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Shuey and Scooter pulled themselves off the ground, brushing off the dirt that had enveloped their clothes.
“Hey, Shue! Ready for the game tonight?”
Shuey spun around to see a familiar face staring at him from the side fence. It was Murray Newman, young Eagles draftee. Now this didn’t make sense. How could it be that such a rookie could own property in such a prestigious part of Perth?
“Muzza? What the hell are…”
He stopped in mid-sentence as he looked past Newman into the front yards of all the houses along the street. The pattern of wealthy Eagles was continuing, it seemed. In the house after Newman’s, Brad Sheppard lay half-naked, soaking up the rays and getting a tan, possibly in an attempt to look like Andrew Carazzo. Next to Sheppard’s abode, Jacob Brennan sat out the front of his mansion playing Fantasy Warquest on his twenty-four inch laptop. Even further down the street, Patrick McGinnity was making sweet love to an older looking lady amongst the sweet smelling roses and dandelions that crept around his rustic outdoor setting.
Our hero turned to Scooter, who looked just as confused as he did. “They been handing out Visy contracts or something?”
Shuey shook his head in amazement…and perhaps a bit of jealousy. He loved the club…he’d play for free if he had too…something seemed a little unfair about these remunerations. What the hell was going on?
Just as his thoughts were turning to those of anger, he was distracted by a glimmer of light reflecting into his eyes from across the road, on top of the high rise apartment block. Straining his eyes, he could see what he most feared. The sniper was back. Remaining calm, he turned to Scooter with a slight smile on his face.
“Scooter…don’t panic. But there’s a dirty sniper on the roof…and he’s aiming right at us.”
Fortunately, Scooter wasn’t quick enough to put two and two together straight away. Remaining perfectly still, he leaned over to his friend subtly as to whisper in his ear. “Then why aren’t we running?”
“Because Beau isn’t really sick today.”
Up on the roof of the apartment block, the sniper raised the gun to his eye-level and once again put Shuey in his cross-hairs. “There is no West Coast defender to save you this time…”
“I wouldn’t bet on it.”
The sniper had no time to react. Beau Waters, cape and all, flew across the roof and smashed straight into him with a clean hip and shoulder that was so powerful that the windows of the building all shook, and even made Brennan look up from his game for a split second. The sniper stumbled, unable to control his balance. Much like Leigh Adams, the man couldn’t take it. After a wobble, he fell right off the side of the building, heading to the ground faster than Ash Smith after a new pair of jeans. Just as it seemed that the man was doomed, he crashed into the top of a conveniently parked truck. Feathers flew into the air, eventually falling to the ground with more elegance than Naitanui after taking a pack mark.
Shuey, Scooter and Waters walked to the front cab of the truck and looked in. Staring back at them was Josh Kennedy, pointing to the back of the truck with a grin plastered all over his face. “Birds of a feather…”
Scooter returned the grin. “…are Emus.”
TO BE CONTINUED...
“Hey, Shue! Ready for the game tonight?”
Shuey spun around to see a familiar face staring at him from the side fence. It was Murray Newman, young Eagles draftee. Now this didn’t make sense. How could it be that such a rookie could own property in such a prestigious part of Perth?
“Muzza? What the hell are…”
He stopped in mid-sentence as he looked past Newman into the front yards of all the houses along the street. The pattern of wealthy Eagles was continuing, it seemed. In the house after Newman’s, Brad Sheppard lay half-naked, soaking up the rays and getting a tan, possibly in an attempt to look like Andrew Carazzo. Next to Sheppard’s abode, Jacob Brennan sat out the front of his mansion playing Fantasy Warquest on his twenty-four inch laptop. Even further down the street, Patrick McGinnity was making sweet love to an older looking lady amongst the sweet smelling roses and dandelions that crept around his rustic outdoor setting.
Our hero turned to Scooter, who looked just as confused as he did. “They been handing out Visy contracts or something?”
Shuey shook his head in amazement…and perhaps a bit of jealousy. He loved the club…he’d play for free if he had too…something seemed a little unfair about these remunerations. What the hell was going on?
Just as his thoughts were turning to those of anger, he was distracted by a glimmer of light reflecting into his eyes from across the road, on top of the high rise apartment block. Straining his eyes, he could see what he most feared. The sniper was back. Remaining calm, he turned to Scooter with a slight smile on his face.
“Scooter…don’t panic. But there’s a dirty sniper on the roof…and he’s aiming right at us.”
Fortunately, Scooter wasn’t quick enough to put two and two together straight away. Remaining perfectly still, he leaned over to his friend subtly as to whisper in his ear. “Then why aren’t we running?”
“Because Beau isn’t really sick today.”
Up on the roof of the apartment block, the sniper raised the gun to his eye-level and once again put Shuey in his cross-hairs. “There is no West Coast defender to save you this time…”
“I wouldn’t bet on it.”
The sniper had no time to react. Beau Waters, cape and all, flew across the roof and smashed straight into him with a clean hip and shoulder that was so powerful that the windows of the building all shook, and even made Brennan look up from his game for a split second. The sniper stumbled, unable to control his balance. Much like Leigh Adams, the man couldn’t take it. After a wobble, he fell right off the side of the building, heading to the ground faster than Ash Smith after a new pair of jeans. Just as it seemed that the man was doomed, he crashed into the top of a conveniently parked truck. Feathers flew into the air, eventually falling to the ground with more elegance than Naitanui after taking a pack mark.
Shuey, Scooter and Waters walked to the front cab of the truck and looked in. Staring back at them was Josh Kennedy, pointing to the back of the truck with a grin plastered all over his face. “Birds of a feather…”
Scooter returned the grin. “…are Emus.”
TO BE CONTINUED...
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Carbine Chaos
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The Sniper is one of the Scott Brothers for sure!
SinkingDeeper
Senior List
Who just fist pumped?
Beau! epic!
Forgot the cape!An artists interpretation of the scene.
uuuuum wow? Since when were you so epic at photoshop quinz?
Better?
Rooftop "heights" pun intended?
Carbine Chaos
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Carbine Chaos
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The four players slowly made their way to the back of the truck, hopping up onto the tail-gate to peer in at their prisoner. Small droplets of blood, presumably from the fall, were making their way through the blue and white fabric of the North Melbourne jumper, even touching the number 7 on his back ever so slightly.
“Jack Ziebell?”
Ziebell rolled over with a groan to look at his captors. How had it come to this? It had started so innocently; a fair bump on Aaron Joseph…an innocent man being given a four-week sentence. He was halfway through his time when he had a visitor; Master Brent Harvey. He had convinced Ziebell to convert to the dark side; to use the anger of the injustice to become an actual sniper. The rest was history…as Shuey should have been now…
The target leaned forward and grabbed Ziebell by the collar, lifting him out of the truck and slamming him against the cold steel. “Who sent you?”
The sweat on Ziebell’s brow began to flow faster as the man weighed up his options. Harvey had taught him the code…a code that had to be followed at all times. He was in this far too deep now anyway. If he didn’t do it, they would. He slowly began to reach for his front pocket.
Kennedy tip toed forward and grabbed his hand. “Hey…easy on the trigger…”
Ziebell stared back at the power forward. “I’m just getting my contract, OK? That has all the details you need.”
Shuey nodded, and Kennedy reluctantly released the hand. In a flash, Ziebell pulled out a little tablet, on which the words ‘In Case of Port Trade’ were engraved. He quickly threw the tablet into his mouth and Andrew Swallow’d. His eyes rolled up into his head, and an odd foam began to pour out of his mouth. After a few convulsions, he lay still in Kennedy’s hulking arms; normally a safe place. But Ziebell was safe no more.
Waters crossed his arms; he was used to violence. “Should have gone to Gold Coast when you had the chance.”
Kennedy was a little more compassionate. “He’s in a better place now.”
Waters laughed. “Sure…not North Mebourne.”
Shuey ignored the banter and leaned in, noticing a piece of paper sticking out of Ziebell’s pocket. Pulling it out and flipping it over, he found that it was a ticket for that night’s match at Subiaco Oval…West Coast Eagles vs. St. Kilda.
“What is it, Shue?”
Shuey looked up to see Scooter looking curiously at the ticket. “A ticket to tonight’s game…”
“…and what is that on the back?”
Kennedy pointed at the back of the ticket. Our hero flipped it over in his hand to find a message written on the back in purple crayon.
“John Wilkes Booth?”
Scooter looked up to Shuey for guidance. “What do you suppose it means?”
“It means the Saints aren't the only thing going down at tonight’s game.”
TO BE CONTINUED...
“Jack Ziebell?”
Ziebell rolled over with a groan to look at his captors. How had it come to this? It had started so innocently; a fair bump on Aaron Joseph…an innocent man being given a four-week sentence. He was halfway through his time when he had a visitor; Master Brent Harvey. He had convinced Ziebell to convert to the dark side; to use the anger of the injustice to become an actual sniper. The rest was history…as Shuey should have been now…
The target leaned forward and grabbed Ziebell by the collar, lifting him out of the truck and slamming him against the cold steel. “Who sent you?”
The sweat on Ziebell’s brow began to flow faster as the man weighed up his options. Harvey had taught him the code…a code that had to be followed at all times. He was in this far too deep now anyway. If he didn’t do it, they would. He slowly began to reach for his front pocket.
Kennedy tip toed forward and grabbed his hand. “Hey…easy on the trigger…”
Ziebell stared back at the power forward. “I’m just getting my contract, OK? That has all the details you need.”
Shuey nodded, and Kennedy reluctantly released the hand. In a flash, Ziebell pulled out a little tablet, on which the words ‘In Case of Port Trade’ were engraved. He quickly threw the tablet into his mouth and Andrew Swallow’d. His eyes rolled up into his head, and an odd foam began to pour out of his mouth. After a few convulsions, he lay still in Kennedy’s hulking arms; normally a safe place. But Ziebell was safe no more.
Waters crossed his arms; he was used to violence. “Should have gone to Gold Coast when you had the chance.”
Kennedy was a little more compassionate. “He’s in a better place now.”
Waters laughed. “Sure…not North Mebourne.”
Shuey ignored the banter and leaned in, noticing a piece of paper sticking out of Ziebell’s pocket. Pulling it out and flipping it over, he found that it was a ticket for that night’s match at Subiaco Oval…West Coast Eagles vs. St. Kilda.
“What is it, Shue?”
Shuey looked up to see Scooter looking curiously at the ticket. “A ticket to tonight’s game…”
“…and what is that on the back?”
Kennedy pointed at the back of the ticket. Our hero flipped it over in his hand to find a message written on the back in purple crayon.
“John Wilkes Booth?”
Scooter looked up to Shuey for guidance. “What do you suppose it means?”
“It means the Saints aren't the only thing going down at tonight’s game.”
TO BE CONTINUED...
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wilkes eh?
Forward Press
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Carbine Chaos
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“Sir, I need to see your membership pass. Now.”
Lyon fumbled around in his pocket nervously. Being careful to avoid the revolver he had carefully stashed away, he pulled out the provided membership and handed it to the man with shaking hands. The man looked it over quickly and waved Ross through the gates and into the concrete jungle of Subiaco Oval…not even a look of recognition as he did. Obviously somebody who read the West…
This all seemed too…aggressive. Not his style at all. He’d much prefer to sit behind the play with a few other men and watch the Eagles fall to their own doom. But the mysterious benefactor had been very clear that if Ross truly wanted the Eagles out of the paper, then the beast needed to be killed clean…cut off at the head.
And what better head to kill from the West Coast Eagles than…
A crack of thunder made Ross jump as he slowly made his way through the horde of Eagles’ fans searching for their seats…fools, every last one of them. He was looking for a particular man. While the mysterious alley cat had stipulated that he wanted the mission to be carried out that night, he had never said that it had to be from Lyon’s hands. Now that Ziebell had passed, according to an anonymous text message an hour before, the mission had to be completed by whatever means necessary. If that meant calling in a favour, then so be it.
There he was. Leaning back against the wall, looking directly at Ross. This had to be subtle. Slowly walking towards the man, Lyon brushed against him with the grace and elegance of a Keplar Bradley run down the wing. Walking away, Ross felt his hip pocket with a sigh of relief. The gun was gone, as was the small dollop of cash. The bait had been taken. The responsibility was out of his hands. Turning around, out of nothing more than morbid curiosity, Lyon was unsurprised to find the man had disappeared into the throng of supporters.
Turning back around and ducking around a corner, Lyon breathed a little easier. That was, until he spotted another man leaning against a post further up the walkway, flicking a coin casually in his hand, face half-hidden by an eerie shadow. Darcy slowly looked in Ross’s direction and grinned, before pocketing the coin and heading back into the crowd.
Ross’s heart beat so hard it nearly crashed straight through his chest. What the hell was the AFL Investigator doing at the game? According to the media reports…all about the Eagles, of course…Darcy was yet to find anything regarding the murder of Koby Stevens or the shooting of Will Schofield. There was no reason for him to be there tonight. This complicated things greatly.
Taking out his phone, Lyon began to dial a number. He ran down the staircase towards the back of the ground, out of the sight of the general West-reading public. He escaped the stadium just in time to spot the West Coast Eagles team bus pulling into the ground. He saw the target on the bus. Somehow, this comforted him. Looking down to the ground, he was steeled further by a screwed up newspaper with the headlines, “Schofield Brave: Darcy” and “Eagles Dedicating Performance to Fallen Stars” on the front page.
Slipping the phone into his pocket, Lyon understood the risk was worth it. Darcy or no Darcy…this was all ending tonight. Walking back into the crowd, Ross took one last look at the bus. He could swear somebody was looking back…but who? He would never know.
TO BE CONTINUED...
Lyon fumbled around in his pocket nervously. Being careful to avoid the revolver he had carefully stashed away, he pulled out the provided membership and handed it to the man with shaking hands. The man looked it over quickly and waved Ross through the gates and into the concrete jungle of Subiaco Oval…not even a look of recognition as he did. Obviously somebody who read the West…
This all seemed too…aggressive. Not his style at all. He’d much prefer to sit behind the play with a few other men and watch the Eagles fall to their own doom. But the mysterious benefactor had been very clear that if Ross truly wanted the Eagles out of the paper, then the beast needed to be killed clean…cut off at the head.
And what better head to kill from the West Coast Eagles than…
A crack of thunder made Ross jump as he slowly made his way through the horde of Eagles’ fans searching for their seats…fools, every last one of them. He was looking for a particular man. While the mysterious alley cat had stipulated that he wanted the mission to be carried out that night, he had never said that it had to be from Lyon’s hands. Now that Ziebell had passed, according to an anonymous text message an hour before, the mission had to be completed by whatever means necessary. If that meant calling in a favour, then so be it.
There he was. Leaning back against the wall, looking directly at Ross. This had to be subtle. Slowly walking towards the man, Lyon brushed against him with the grace and elegance of a Keplar Bradley run down the wing. Walking away, Ross felt his hip pocket with a sigh of relief. The gun was gone, as was the small dollop of cash. The bait had been taken. The responsibility was out of his hands. Turning around, out of nothing more than morbid curiosity, Lyon was unsurprised to find the man had disappeared into the throng of supporters.
Turning back around and ducking around a corner, Lyon breathed a little easier. That was, until he spotted another man leaning against a post further up the walkway, flicking a coin casually in his hand, face half-hidden by an eerie shadow. Darcy slowly looked in Ross’s direction and grinned, before pocketing the coin and heading back into the crowd.
Ross’s heart beat so hard it nearly crashed straight through his chest. What the hell was the AFL Investigator doing at the game? According to the media reports…all about the Eagles, of course…Darcy was yet to find anything regarding the murder of Koby Stevens or the shooting of Will Schofield. There was no reason for him to be there tonight. This complicated things greatly.
Taking out his phone, Lyon began to dial a number. He ran down the staircase towards the back of the ground, out of the sight of the general West-reading public. He escaped the stadium just in time to spot the West Coast Eagles team bus pulling into the ground. He saw the target on the bus. Somehow, this comforted him. Looking down to the ground, he was steeled further by a screwed up newspaper with the headlines, “Schofield Brave: Darcy” and “Eagles Dedicating Performance to Fallen Stars” on the front page.
Slipping the phone into his pocket, Lyon understood the risk was worth it. Darcy or no Darcy…this was all ending tonight. Walking back into the crowd, Ross took one last look at the bus. He could swear somebody was looking back…but who? He would never know.
TO BE CONTINUED...
Carbine Chaos
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With the story heading into it's final chapters, I'd like to pay tribute to those who have given their lives for this story so far.
EagleCanival
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With the story heading into it's final chapters, I'd like to pay tribute to those who have given their lives for this story so far.
how could you forget
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¿¿BUT IS HE REALLY DEAD??
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