“To what do I owe the pleasure,” I asked the pair, as I reached for my broom, “at midnight on a Tuesday?”

I swept the shards of broken glass into a neat little pile beneath my bedroom window, while the guests untied their harnesses and caught their breath.

Two abseiling ropes were hanging in through my broken window, where they had entered moments earlier with a crash and an airhorn. A look of pure exhilaration was etched into Stuey’s face. Aaron took both of the harnesses and calmly tossed them into my laundry pile.

“We need to talk.”

I gulped. The last time anyone from olilolo had needed to talk I lost a week of my life, and a lawnmower.

“About that favour you owe us,” added Stu, lowering his voice and his trousers. He exited the room.

Aaron approached me with a reassuring gesture. “Don’t worry about Stu, he just drank fifteen bottles of ginger beer. Now, we’re here to discuss that agreement we made, during our last visit…”

He winked at me. I’m sure he thought he’d explained everything just splendidly, but I still had some questions. From the hallway came a loud ‘thunk!‘ and a low grumble, of which I could make out the words: “… the fuck is the toilet… this crappy house…”

“I’m sure our agreement was watertight,” I said, turning my attention back to Aaron, “but do you want to run it by me one more time? Just so we’re definitely on the same page.”

The sound of a man falling was followed by several loud cries in the stairwell.

“If you do for us a tiny big favour,” shrugged Aaron, “we’ll give back your lawn mower.”

“Ah,” I said. “So it was more of a ransom than an agreement?”

“Yes, exactly – we’re in agreement!”

I sighed. “What would you like me to do?”

Aaron chuckled. “Walk and talk, David, walk and talk.”

He led me down the hallway toward the stairwell, striding confidently with his shoulders back, apparently quite happy with his new found control of the situation.

“Here, let me get this,” I offered, reaching for the light switch.

“Nah, we’re good,” he boasted. “What’s good enough for Stuey is good enough for – hup!”

He slipped on the top stair and crashed down to the bottom floor amid a series of painful groans.

“That may be so,” I replied, stepping down carefully in the dark, “But I wouldn’t drink fifteen bottles of… what was it? Ginger beer? Just because Stu did.”

“Make that sixteen!” slurred a voice from the kitchen. Stuey pawed at the walls until a light finally came on. “Man, I’m so wasted…”

Aaron lay at the base of the stairs in a sorry pile, one arm spread wildly to the side.

“So am I…” he groaned, moving slightly from side to side in an ill-fated attempt to wriggle onto his belly.

“You’re not wasted,” I said, extending my hand to help him. “You’ve just fallen on your back.”

Aaron swung his free hand at mine, muttering “low five”, and missed by about ten inches.

“Well,” he continued, “every time someone has called me ‘wasted’, I was on the ground. So I’m pretty sure I know a thing or two about it.”

Stu nodded in agreement.

“You know I don’t own any ginger beer,” I said, pointing at his glass.

He took another sip. “Then what am I drinking?”

“I had some lemonade in the fridge,” I sighed. “Did you end up finding the toilet?”

“Sure. I found something.”

I shook my head and took a seat. This was going to take a while.

“So we need you to write an article for olilolo,” Stu said, taking a seat beside me. Aaron grunted his agreement from the floor.

“You see, our traffic is a little bit on the low side,” explained Stu, “and we haven’t been updating quite as much.”

“Well, low by our standards,” said Aaron.

“And the world’s,” I added. “So, do you have any ideas for me to write about?”

Stu looked at me for several seconds. A confused frown grew slowly across his face. “If we had the ideas, don’t you think we’d be writing about them ourselves?”

“I can’t say I do, but let’s give you the benefit of the doubt. Can I write about technology?”

Stu thought for a moment. “That’s… not really our thing. We’re usually more about comedy… comedy involving genitals.”

“How about politics?”

“No, see, that doesn’t satisfy the genital quota.”

“Well, I’m out of ideas,” I shrugged. “Guess you’ll have to find someone else, hey?”

Aaron groaned loudly for half a minute as he heaved himself up onto his feet. “No you don’t! Don’t give up on us that easily!”

“Oh, I… probably will,” I said.

Aaron dusted himself off and grabbed a sandwich from my fridge. “Look!” he exclaimed in a muffled voice, as he bit into the bread. “There’s a reason we came to you in the first place.”

“Well, not first,” chimed in Stu. “We did ask Mikey and Pete first, but they weren’t dumb enough to get roped into this olilolo business.”

“Exactly!” cried Aaron, gesturing toward Stu and then turning back to me: “You can be the smart one! Get involved with this olilolo business!”

I took a second to process this information.

“Well you make an interesting case, and it feels like you were trying to gain momentum with that argument for a second, so how about this: I’ll write an article, but I get to write about whatever I want. And you have to publish it no matter what.”

Aaron continued to eat thoughtfully on the stolen sandwich, while Stu looked at his feet silently. A few moments passed.

“Stu, are… you awake?” I asked. He jolted as if electrocuted and leapt to his feet, clutching his heart.

“Good god! Sorry, David,” he breathed heavily, “I have this thing where I fall asleep sometimes.”

“Oh, I’ve heard of that. What is it, necrolepsy? No, necrophilia.”

“Well, that too.”

“How about you?” I said, turning to Aaron. “Do we have a deal?”

Aaron shook his head and pointed to his sandwich. “Sorry Dave, I didn’t hear you. I have this thing where I can’t chew and listen at the same time.”

“Okay,” I replied. “I’ve never heard of that one.”

“Yeah, neither have I,” shrugged Aaron. “My doctor told me what it was called, but I was eating at the time.”

He took another bite.

“This is going to be difficult,” I muttered. “Stu, can I write this article or not? You have to publish whatever I write.”

He began to snore. I swore.

“This sandwich tastes funny,” commented Aaron. I tried to work out if he had finished his bite.

“Can you hear me?” I asked. He continued to chew. “How about now?”

He looked up.

“Okay, here’s how it is,” I said. “First of all, I’m pretty sure Stu urinated in the fridge and forgot straight away. His glass of lemonade looked a lot more like ginger beer than I’m comfortable with.”

Aaron went in for another bite.

“No, you idiot!” I cried. “He probably pissed on that too. That’s my point.”

I don’t think Aaron really understood what was happening, but he placed the sandwich down on the coffee table reluctantly.

“Secondly,” I continued, “is he aware that ginger beer isn’t even alcoholic?”

“Oh, it’s just the… what’s it called? Placenta effect?”

“Placebo.”

“No, that’s a band. God, I can’t believe we were going to ask you to write an article!” he laughed. “You don’t know anything about pop culture!”

“You already did ask me,” I reminded him, “and I think I would like to write that article after all.”

Stuey groaned suddenly, waking and rising from his seat.

“Typical!” he growled, turning on me. “We finally start running a successful website, and look who wants in on the bandwagon!”

He picked up the sandwich from the coffee table and bit into it furiously.

“Okay,” I said, “If you don’t want me to write an article, that’s fine.”

“Finally we’re on the same page,” spat Aaron, shaking his head in disapproval.

“But can I please have my lawn mower back?”

Stu and Aaron looked at one another. They seemed to be communicating silently. Finally they turned their gaze toward me. Stu ate the last of my sandwich with a frown, and Aaron raised his nose and declared: “Not on my watch.”

And with that, they turned and exited from my house.

———————————————————————

Simple Genius: A Casual Conversation with Doyle.

When five of the worlds wittiest and most amusing writers banded together to create the Greatest Blog on Earth, that blog wasn’t olilolo.

olilolo is known to the masses as a blogging website aimed to distract the public from their otherwise sad and meaningless lives. We’re regaled with tales of drunken strippers sleeping with pythons in their bed chamber, conspiracy theories concerning Big Brother harbouring Schapelle Corby and even the taboo of intra-family marriage.

The site, established in 2005 to much fanfare, is owned and run by five unique writers; The men known only as Doyle, Disco Stu, Ben, Bruce and Yongas. While Doyle and Disco Stu are the most frequent bloggers, the three other members of olilolo have been known to post a cheeky blog from time to time. Ben usually opts to post rants about his most recent brush with the authorities, Bruce reminisces about his love for cream and Yongas has beautiful thighs.

As Stu was in the middle of his November Challenge, I caught up with Mr Doyle at the olilolo Tower to uncover the success secrets of the olilolo family.

I arrived at the tower early; after passing a burnt out and still smouldering BMW convertible in the parking lot on the way to the tower. I was feeling a little disturbed, but still eager to finally see where the olilolo comedic magic took place. I was greeted half-heartedly at reception by a dishevelled looking assistant. Her clothes were slightly crumpled and singed. On her chest there was a lopsided badge that read ‘Alendra’. She wore the worn, slightly crazed expression of someone who has had too much coffee and not enough sleep.

“I’m here for an 11am appointment with Mr Doyle” I said. She sighed wearily, and gestured for me to sit down before she grabbed a towel hanging from her office chair and entered a nearby open office. The unhinged door rested against the door frame. From within the room I heard muffled voices and splashing water. When she reappeared she gave me an apologetic smile, shrugged and said “He’s ready to see you now.”

When I entered the office I was confronted with a scene for which I was not ready. The room smelt strongly of alcohol and feet. Mr Doyle was wearing nothing but a towel, as he lounged lazily in a blow-up pool in the middle of his office. In one hand he was holding an olilolo coffee mug that had been duct taped together; it was then taped securely to his hand. The other hand gestured me forward.

I moved toward a vacant seat in a corner but Mr Doyle shook his head and hiccoughed “No, no, please.” He patted his lap disturbingly. “There’s room in the pool!” I ignored his kind offer and took the spare seat anyway; I looked into Mr Doyle’s blood shot eyes, swallowed the lunch which was threatening to make a reappearance, and began the interview:

Thank you for your time today Mr Doyle. You’re a notoriously hard man to get an interview with, and we appreciate the chance to give our readers an insight into your genius. My pleasure. So, what’s your secret to writing a really great blog? Well that’s a tough question. I guess the best way is to know what your reader wants. Who is your audience? What do they like? Don’t like? Give them a little piece of themselves every day – a little snippet of happiness in an otherwise bad day.

That’s a lovely way to think about your work.

What? My work? No, I just fart out whatever shit pops into my head; usually after my deadlines, and with little recollection of it later. I don’t really care about my readers. The blog solely serves as my outlet for my various rants and disjointed thoughts. The doctors said without it they’d probably have to increase the medication.

Oh, well where do you get your inspiration?

Probably the medication, but also just things I see in everyday life. People that annoy me. TV ads that annoy me. Children that annoy me. Products that annoy me. Weather patterns that annoy me.

Okay, well let’s shift focus a little. How did olilolo begin?

Well it’s not a well known fact but the five of us; Stu, Yongas, Ben, Bruce and I; all went to high school together. We’d spend our lunch times talking crap about the impending zombie apocalypse, Ben’s crazy conspiracy theories and Yongas’ gorgeous thighs. They were good times. So as adults we decided to try to recapture those moments, and sure make a little cash out of it. Which advertisers wouldn’t want to pay to be associated with all this?

He gestured to his surroundings, and then towards his crotch. The look on his face showed he wasn’t being funny.

Tell me a little bit about your fellow olilolo’lians and their roles. Well first there’s Stu, current Managing-Director, who most people know quite well from the press. Less well known though is Yongas, Online Artistic Director.

What does olilolo use an artist for?

Not entirely sure, but he always seems flat-out like a lizard drinking, so we’re getting our money’s worth. Bruce, well he’s IT-Support Manager. While Ben is semi-retired and is performing motorbike tricks in a travelling circus.

So, in your opinion, who is the best blogger from olilolo?

He took a long drink from his hand-cup.

I hate to say it, but probably Stu. He actually seems to want people to like his articles. He spends time on them. He researches. He spell-checks and proof reads his work before submitting it. The guy’s a fool. I just don’t understand him.

What is this underlying competitiveness between you and Stu about? Is there any bad blood between the two of you?

Ha! No, there’s no bad blood between Stu and I. We’re just two naturally competitive people; like two brothers competing for mother’s attention. He’s a little jealous that I’m a better person than him in every way, and he tried to compensate for that by driving BMWs and harassing everything with a set of tits.

A BMW? Is it a convertible? There’s a burnt out BMW in your car park and…

Ha-ha!

He slapped his leg in genuine glee.

Yeah, that’s the third one this week. It’s a joke we have. He understands really; it’s been going on for a few weeks. It all started as just putting a potato in his exhaust pipe…

His voice trailed off, and he looked into the middle distance.

Wow, it really escalated to arson quite quickly. Oh well, it doesn’t matter. Our work insurance covers it and he’ll have another one here by the end of the day.

Um, but… Okay, well if you and Disco Stu were to have a ‘blog war’ who would win?

Stu. I don’t have time for blog-wars. I have scotch to sample, and pubs to attend.

Let’s change tack completely for awhile. Have you ever seen Yongas’s thighs? Are they as beautiful as he described? Drool seems to trickle down Doyle’s chin at this question. Seen them? Ha! I’ve tasted them. Finest flesh known to man they are. I’m not gay but I’d turn in a second for one of those pale bags of love-meat. They’re 100% heterosexual of course. There was an unfortunate incident with one of Yongas’ ex-lovers once. Can’t blame the girl. They ooze masculine’ness, like beer and porn and indecent assault.

You’ve mentioned you’re not gay but we at Stallions have heard the rumours circulating in the press that you believe Health Ledger is sexy and often fantasize about rubbing honey all over him. Do you have anything to say to this allegation? Did you ever date Health Ledger?

Look the man has passed on and I don’t think it’s considerate to his family to be spreading, or fuelling such rumours.

Of course. On the topic of relationships, did Stu really end up marrying his sister in a desperate bid for publicity and readers?

No, of course not. That’s illegal… in this country anyway. There may have been an unfortunate incident involving too much alcohol, and a case of mistaken identity… or was that the movie Eurotrip? I dunno but at the end of the day the courts didn’t prove a thing.

This question comes from one of our readers, Mr R. Murdoch. It’s a hypothetical: It’s your birthday, and olilolo has made you a nice cake…

Wouldn’t happen.

It’s hypothetical, Mr Doyle. Now you’re delighted that your colleagues have been so kind as to give you a cake.

I wouldn’t be.

You blow out your candles and cut a big slice, but in the excitement you touch the bottom. You’re shocked, but you know you’re going to have to kiss one of them.

What? Piss off!

Who do you choose?

Kiss them? These people are lucky I don’t kiss them repeatedly… with my foot.

Just choose one!

Never!

I sighed with the sort of weariness one rarely gets working for an exclusive, blue-blooded magazine such as Stallions.

Fine. Well if you could kick one member of the olilolo team in the face who would it be?

Myself. With that sort of flexibility there’d be all sorts of kinky stuff you could do.

Again he gestured towards his crotch.

I think that’s all I have time for. Thanks again for providing the time for the interview, and allowing us an insight into your… unique abilities. Is there anything else you would like to say to our readers?

Just this.

I left the room as Mr Doyle started to dance; gesticulating in an erotic way. While I was glad to leave, I would never forget my visit.

J. Drenikow. 2010
———————————————————————

olilolo is a world renowned, online web-corporation with its head office based in Brisbane, Australia. They have established themselves as the largest purveyors of satire and humour of the finest quality. You can find them online at http://www.olilolo.com.

This is a story about a man. A real man. A man like no other….

I flick my cigarette…

The cabbie is not pleased, he does not stop screaming. The butt collided with his left ear. He has ear lobes like Ghandi’s thong. He doesn’t appreciate when I point this out between his painful wails.

For some reason the man makes me get out, refusing to go any further. I’d flogged the donkey dry, his services rendered useless. Miles from my ‘dwelling’, I continue to stumble.

After completing my studies at the “Derek Zoolander Center For Kids Who Can’t Read Good And Wanna Learn To Do Other Stuff Good Too”; with an open mind and knowing that there’s more to life than just being really, really, really ridiculously good looking; I went travelling.

I saw all kinds of fashion traits, freaks and style gurus from all round. The world was my oyster and I was keen to establish my own sense of style and direction as I wondered through the streets of other worlds.

I look at my watch. Half-past Five in the afternoon?

Is that right… Have I lost a day? I’m so confused now, but I truck on. I would murder every last Panda Bear into extinction for an Aussie meat pie at this stage. God am I hungry.

I pause to take in my surroundings. I don’t even know if I’m going the right way. Where am I? Half-past Five? Is that right? What the fuck have I been doing? I look from left to right. I’m a coiled spring ready to explode at any second, nothing makes sense.

Suddenly something catches my eye; there’s a big glass window up ahead. There’s a skull in it. Completely lost, gathering my nerve I move forward to explore.

Its a Tattoo Parlour. I giggle like a schoolgirl. Pure evil thoughts course through my veins.

Before I’ve even realised it, I’ve walked in. Inside there is your usual kinda tattooists covered from head to toe in the form of human art. The place is new and it has a certain class: polished wooden floors, a large black leather sofa couch and statues of all sorts. “Is that a real baby in that jar?” I wonder aloud as I hover towards the ‘desk’. Buzzing with excitement I ask if they have any appointment. “When?” they ask dryly. My response was prompt with a short “NOW”. Their instant reaction was a simple and conceded ‘no… but you’re more than welcome to make a booking. Sir‘. Sir my arse, I’m going elsewhere.

This always works, turns out all of a sudden some guy called ‘Diamond Jack’ has cancelled. What a convenience.

They politely ask for my piece and what I’d like done. Crap, I haven’t thought this far ahead. Then it hits me!

A nest! Two swallows flying in perfect unison just above my ‘Hoo-Hoo Grub’, protecting my eggs. The equation is right and it all fits. Something that can now identify me in a naked line up.

‘Yeah that’s him officer. That’s the guy that flashed me. The one with the birds. Oh god I cant take this! What a monster…’ (sobs) ‘He was 5 foot 7, dark short hair and had Two swallows above his penis. I saw it clear as day’

Two birds?

A nest?

Is it a symbolic piece about protecting the balance of the family? Two parents watching over their children? Or is it just a sick joke from some weird guy… this weird guy trying to start a weird craze? You decide my friend…. I propose we start a new trend! The early bird catches the worm after all.

Next time someone asks whether you spit or swallow, you think about my birds in all there glory, flying high and proud. As Dave Chapelle once put it, “should I save up to get Botox on my balls so they can be smooth as eggs?” Now that would complete the nest nicely.

Indeed It’s been a while since I last wasted “some” of your “precious”, “precious life”.

So here I go again (great song by the way!) Recently as my ‘friends’ know, I’ve left for the UK once again. My quest for the unthinkable, the unimaginable. Something a man like myself would never encounter in his worthless and pathetic life.

LOVE!

Yep! That’s it my friends: Love. Such an amazing thing and I am very blessed to have finally found its true meaning / feeling.

Over a year ago I met a woman like no other, just like me. Minus the Penis. She farts in my face while my mouth is open, the occasional ‘Hitler.’ (Oxford Concise Dictionary: ‘Hitler’ – To smear faeces in an unfashionable way on to one others top lip).

You know how it is. Love and all.

Anyway. I’ve not yet decided which way I’m going to head or which emotions I’m going to convey in this blog. My first initial though was pure and utter bitterness. As when you read on you will find out.

Arse head.

But it seems not even I, a 3 foot Black Midget with no legs in a wheel chair can escape the clause of being a funny man. Me, myself am not funny. Oh no, don’t misunderstand what I’m trying to say. The insatiable events that occur in my life are hilarious and by any means you will not be laughing with me but at me.

Disembarking from Australia this time I had two great friends accompany me to the airport. I can tell you right now it was fucken nice to have them there. I never used to be a man of many emotions, but it seems as I grow and since I’ve met my one and only. Smurfette (not actual name). I’ve also grown some Smurfin feelings. But yes I admit it was nice to see these criminals before I left (conjugal visits I believe they’re called).

The plane journey was one from hell.

On the plus side, I didn’t die and or shit myself from the 27 excruciating hours of not being able to masturbate. Alright, I kid. I pumped out 3 knuckle children… into other passengers open mouths while they slept.

Once again not true. But could you imagine the mayhem that would ensue if I had! Like a Dingo in a kindergarten. Ha ha.

The following events are true and may lead you to bleed out from all orifices or orifi.

I get off the plane (after watching the sunset in Australia, New Zealand, Sunrise in Los Angeles and UK). Bearing in mind I’ve already had a 2 year working Visa for the UK and returning after 3 months. Which is very, very naughty!

Only to be greeted by the crankiest looking bearded woman they had at customs that morning. As I stood in the cue I assessed the customs staff. As one does. Watching, analysing seeing which one as to avoid… Hopefully. I pick two of the crankiest and ugliest motherfuckers out and hope as not to get sent to either. Out of six, my chances are looking ok. Everyone is full. The furthest cranky pants receives a new passenger, I’m set. The curly haired bitch to my right is nearly done, she doesn’t look cranky. She actually looks quite pleasant. Hurry the fuck up, I think to myself as the bearded lady on my left is toe to toe with Curly. “HURRY THE FUCK UP!”… Shit I actually said that one. I get some strange looks. “NEXT” screams the cranky bearded woman. I cant believe my luck.

Play it cool.

“How are ya mate?” I say in my bestest, cheeriest Aussie accent I can muster after 27 hours in hell. She just looks at me… With her good eye mind you. The silence is killing me. She flips another page of my passport and gives me the old cock-eye again.

I’m starting to freak. The most precious thing in my life is upstairs waiting for me. Smurfette (not actual name), I love you.

Finally the beast stirs. “What are you doing back so soon?” I don’t understand the creature’s wails.

I ask it to repeat: “WHAT are YOU doing back so soon?” She / he spat that time… a lot. I was mesmerized by it and missed the harsh yelping like noises it was making. I daren’t ask again. Do I?

“Look, I’m sorry. It’s been a long flight and I’m tired can you please say that again a bit slower?”

“You don’t think I’m tired Mr. Brown?” She mutters back.

My wits don’t elude me though. Its only half 9 in the morning. Fucken lazy cold blooded bitch.

To be honest I cant really indulge the rest of the story just in case. But it followed with the words “I should be in my right mind Mr Brown to put you on the next return flight…” yada yada freakin yada! One and a half hours later after, the Bearded Lizard has spoken to the High Commissioner twice. Not once but twice. Demanded bank statements, called my girlfriend who was upstairs waiting for me. Then finally decide to let me through.

Hallelujah! Seriously one of the scariest moments in my life. There were defiantly loggerneck Turtles in my pants.

* * *

Disco Stu yawned. It was just another day on the job.

He turned and looked at me. I frowned.

“What?” he asked, from the back seat of my car.

“You’re a slob,” I said, from the front. “And there’s a bucket of hot wings on your stomach!”

Disco Stu had climbed into my car for a nap, and had been sleeping there without my knowledge for an hour. In his defense, the bucket of hot wings was mine, along with the other rubbish on the back seat.

“Sorry about that, Mauso,” said Stu, brushing aside the trash. “I just needed to hide from Doyle for a while.”

“Why?” I asked.

“There’s a secret entrance to the basement of olilolo headquarters,” he explained. “Doyle uses it to smuggle in alcohol, and I use it to smuggle out…”

He stopped.

“Well, I use it too.” he finished simply. “Anyway, we happened to be using it at the same time this morning, and we ran into each other…”

“Say no more,” I replied. “Each man, caught red-handed by his oppressor.”

My cell phone rang.

“Mauso,” said the caller, “It’s Abacus here. I’ve just heard back from Phil.”

I lowered my voice, so that Stu would not hear our conversation. After all, I still suspected him to be a mole, planted by our rival touch football team – The Monsters.

“Who is Phil?” I asked.

“Phil is our mole inside The Monsters,” explained Abacus. “But they’re keeping him out of the loop. All he knows is that they have a mole on our team, and that the mole’s been in contact all day.”

“But Stu’s been sleeping in the back seat of my car,” I replied. “He wasn’t in contact with anybody.”

“Then he can’t be the mole. We need to start looking at the other team members.”

“Who does that leave?” I asked.

“Well, there are the girls on the team,” suggested Abacus.

I laughed. “A female mole? Girls can’t lie.”

“I’m not sure that’s accur-”

“Look Abacus,” I interjected. “I know girls. I know them like the back of my hand. They are flawless.”

“That’s a naive and idealis-”

“Enough!” I commanded. “Who else?”

“There’s Yongas,” suggested Abacus.

“I don’t know,” I mused, rubbing my chin in thought. “He doesn’t seem the type.”

“How do you mean?”

“He has beautiful thighs…”

“Really?”

“Yeah. They make a swooshing sound.”

“Are you sure that’s not just the pants?”

“No pants required,” I replied.

“But what does this have to do with his loyalty?”

“Oh, I just don’t think a man with beautiful thighs would betray us.”

“Why not?”

“I don’t know. I mean, I know it doesn’t make sense, but that’s just how I feel.”

“I don’t think-”

“You’re right, it’s illogical. But think about it. Don’t argue, just tell me: do you think a man with beautiful thighs would be a traitor?”

There was a long pause, as Abacus considered this question. Eventually, he replied:

“… No.”

“Exactly. Plus, Yongas taught us how to do a Defensive Wacky Wallace Switch Move. I doubt he’d be the traitor, anyway.”

“… What?”

* * *

It had come down to this. The last member of the Olilolo Sasquatches. The mole.

My own brother.

“Lachlan!” I roared, storming into his room.

“What are you doing in my house?!?” he snapped.

“It’s not your house,” I reminded him. “And I live here.”

“What do you want?”

“Tell me what you’ve been doing today,” I said accusingly.

“Why should I tell you?”

“Because I’m your broth-”

“Why should I tell you,” he continued, “when I can show you.”

He turned to his computer and clicked on a link. A youtube video entitled “Frisbee Fun” began to load.

“So… you’ve been working on this all day?” I asked.

“Yep,” he smiled proudly.

“And you definitely haven’t been selling Sasquatch secrets to the opposition?”

“No,” he frowned angrily. “And get out of my house!”

* * *

“David, where have you been?” asked my coworker, Sara, when I returned to the office. “Justin needs your report immediately or he’ll fire you! Probably.”

I walked over to my desk, picked up the report, strolled into Justin’s office, and placed the report on his desk.

“Thanks Dave,” said Justin.

“No problems,” I replied.

Done.

“When did you have time to write that report?” demanded Sara, as I grabbed my coat.

“Wrote it last month,” I muttered. “The miracles of not procrastinating.”

“Wow. This is so unexpected.”

“Yeah, I decided to give time management a go.”

“And?”

“Not a fan, to be honest.”

“But it bought you enough spare time to solve a mystery, right?”

“Yeah, that didn’t really pan out either,” I replied. “There’s a mole on our team, and I still don’t know who it is.”

“Are you sure there’s even a mole? Because that seems kind of stupid.”

I shook my head. “You just don’t get sports.”

“Maybe you should be looking at your worst player,” she continued. “Because if I were sending someone undercover, I wouldn’t want to sacrifice a good player.”

But, I thought to myself, I’m the worst player!

“You just don’t get sports,” I repeated. “We’ll win. Mole or not, I swear to you here and now that we will win this game!”

* * *

The teams walked onto the field.

The Olilolo Sasquatches were led by their fearless captain, Aaron Doyle. He directed his team members to their positions, ready for battle.

The Monsters were led by a tall, athletic man with a fiercely competitive streak. We had played The Monsters many times before, and we recognised all of their players. But this was the man we truly hated.

“Mark up your players!” the captain spat at his players. The voice seemed hauntingly familiar. “Arise, Monsters! For this is our hour of glory! Tonight, we destroy The Sasquatches!”

The Monsters let out a communal roar.

Doyle now turned to us, and began:

“Give me an S!” he commanded.

“S!” we yelled.

“Give me an A!”

“A!”

“Give me a SQUATCH!”

“SQUATCH!”

“What does it spell?”

“SASSIE POWER!!!!”

Disco Stu let out an almighty Sasquatch Roar, drowning out any other sounds within a four mile radius, and killing two birds flying directly overhead.

The referee blew the whistle. It was on.

* * *

Every move we made, every tactic we tried, and every single strategy…

The Monsters had an answer. They responded to our attacks with a rock-solid defense. They cut through our lines with unimaginable fury. They dominated every moment of the game; every last second.

The half-time siren blared.

“Sassies!” yelled Doyle, waving at our team. We congregated around him, hands on knees, panting.

“The pizza slice attack isn’t working!” cried Stu.

“I know,” said Doyle. “It should have worked, but they were ready for it.”

(The ‘pizza slice attack’, as it is known in the touch football world, is so named because of the V-shape configuration of the attacking players.)

“It’s the mole!” I shouted, pointing my finger arbitrarily from one team member to the next. “It’s the fucking mole! We’d be winning if it weren’t for them!”

“And the Defensive Burger Block,” said Lachlan. “How did they get past it? We practiced it for weeks!”

“I know,” replied Doyle. “We were banking on that Burger Block.”

“It’s the mole!” I repeated. “It has to be.”

“Whatever the case, we’re a team,” announced Aaron. “And the only way we can win this game is by pulling together. We cannot stand around and blame each other.”

He stared pointedly in my direction.

“You’re right,” I replied, “There comes a time when every Sasquatch needs to take responsibility for his own game. That time is now.”

“Sassie Power!” cried Stu.

“SASSIE POWER!” yelled Yongas.

“SASSIE POWER!” we roared, in unison, as a team.

And we ran back onto the field for the second half.

* * *

We fought hard. We fought strong. We banded together as a team. We were a force of pure Sasquatch.

We lost.

The opposition knew all our moves. They tore Yongas to shreds when he attempted a Wacky Wallace Switch Move. Nothing could have prepared us.

“Damn it!” I yelled, kicking at the grass after the full-time siren. I looked around me to find nothing but broken men. Doyle lay face-down in the mud. Disco Stu sat, crying, into his arms. Yongas was admiring his thighs, albeit sadly.

“They knew our every last move!” I continued.

“Settle down, Mauso,” said Doyle, getting to his feet. “It’s not like we would have won anyway. They were just too good.”

“You don’t know that!” I snapped. “They looked pretty fucking average to me!”

“Yes,” said Doyle, “that’s my point. And we are well, well below that level of play.”

I contemplated this for a moment. The other members of the team had turned to face us.

“Just let it go,” said Yongas, patting me on the shoulder. “Let it go.”

As difficult as it was to let it go, I realised that the game was over, and nothing could change that fact. Maybe we’d never know who the mole truly was.

Perhaps, I considered, it would remain A Sasquatch Mystery forever.

* * *

As we walked towards our cars, nought but a broken man, I sighed.

“After all the work Abacus did obtaining information for us,” I told Stu. “And now… I feel as though I let him down.”

Stu turned to face me.

“Who?”

“You know, Abacus.”

“Who is Abacus?”

“I don’t know,” I shrugged. “I thought you knew him.”

“Is this the guy who told you there was a mole on our team?”

“Yeah,” I said. And then the truth dawned on me. “I didn’t think I knew an Abacus! But he seemed to know me, so I just went along with it.”

“Mauso, you idiot!” cried Disco Stu. “What did you tell him?”

The full realisation of it all hit me. I was the mole.

The captain of the opposition approached us. “Did someone just say ‘Abacus’?”

And that’s when I realised why the captain’s voice was so hauntingly familiar.

He burst into laughter.

“You’re Mauso, I take it!” he crowed, between laughs. “Oh man!”

He slapped me on the back, and fell into a prolonged fit of arrogant laughter. Wiping a tear from his eye, he continued.

“So I call you this afternoon, just to fuck with your head. I tell you there’s a traitor on your team-” he paused again for laughter. “And then you interrogated everyone on your own team!”

I stood there, hanging my head in shame.

“And on top of that!” he jeered, “You even told me about all of your team’s moves. The pizza slice attack; the burger block; the switch move. Holy shit, dude. I didn’t even plan that. I can’t… believe…”

And he was away, again, with the laughter.

“You know Abacus isn’t even a real name!” he finished, clutching his sides as he departed, tears of mirth streaming down his cheeks.

I stood there, silently, as the realisation of it all sunk in.

Stu stared at me.

Aaron stared at me.

Yongas stared at me.

Lachlan stared at me.

Someone spoke.

“You are such… a fucking… idiot.”

I don’t know which one of them said it. I was studying my feet.

* * *

Unfortunately, the Olilolo Sasquatches decided to take the “blame someone” approach, rather than the whole “pulling together” concept, which had been so popular at half time.

That ‘someone’ was me.

After the game, we drove to Wacky Wallace’s Fast Food Restaurant for dinner. As I sat at the end of the table on my own, quietly munching on a hamburger, I got to thinking.

How did ‘Abacus’ get my information? How did he know my phone number, for example?

The only information provided to each team is the name of their opposition. And yet, he seemed to know an awful lot about me and olilolo.

There was only one explanation: someone inside the Sasquatches had given away my details. There was a traitor on the team.

“Who was it?!” I shouted, waving my french fries angrily at my team members. “One of you sold me out! Someone had to give Abacus that information! WHO WAS IT?”

Stu rolled his eyes. “Not this again.”

Lachlan shook his head, silently.

Yongas laughed at me.

Doyle shifted uncomfortably in his seat.

“You fucking snake!” I spat. “Doyle! I knew it was you! From the very start!”

“In my defense,” he said, “All they wanted was your phone number.”

“What did he pay you?” I demanded. “Money? Chocolate? Booze?”

“Actually,” replied Doyle, “he gave us a year’s worth of coupons to Wacky Wallace’s. That meal you’re eating right now is free thanks to Abacus.”

I continued chewing my french fry, deep in thought.

“And besides,” continued Aaron, “we were going to lose anyway.”

“That’s a good point,” I nodded, taking a slurp from my Coca Cola. “After all, they defeated us 15 points to 1.”

“That is a pretty convincing win,” agreed Stu. Yongas nodded.

I continued to eat my burger. Everything was going to be okay.

The end.

Except for one tiny flaw: Disco Stu was a traitor.

You see, my name is Mauso elMaco. And I am a member of the olilolo Sasquatches, a casual touch football team who plays on Wednesday evenings.

The competition is fierce. And I suspected Disco Stu of selling secrets to our arch-enemies, a ferocious team called The Monsters.

From Stu’s computer, I learned that the man was a burden on his company. The only profitable department of olilolo was the blossoming ‘stationary supplies’ department, headed up by Aaron Doyle.

In Stu’s cupboard, I found shocking evidence of his sordid life: a paper mache dong, three comically oversized pimp hats, and a solid golden crown. It was awesome.

As I headed towards the exit, I passed his computer one more time. I decided to take a final look. Leaning back in his chair and unzipping my fly, I clicked on a folder labeled ‘strippers’.

And that’s when I discovered something truly shocking. This was the only folder on Stu’s computer devoid of porn.

There were literally hundreds of spreadsheets, most of them password-protected. I had nearly overlooked this folder. The man had flooded his computer with porn to hide his true agenda.

I discovered that Disco Stu was involved with the operation of a nearby strip club called “Stuey’s Strippers”. He appeared to be the sole owner and manager of the strip club.

This was his real business, I realised. He was not loyal to olilolo. He was a scheming, devious bastard. And I was on to him.

I strode purposefully from his house, leapt into my sports car, and saluted the still-gyrating hips of Scarlett Johansson as I zoomed out of the driveway.

* * *

I roared along the streets of Oliloloville at three times the legal limit.

“Abacus!” I shouted into my cell phone. “Disco Stu owns a strip club called Stuey’s Strippers!“

“He does?” replied Abacus, excitedly. “Where is it?”

“Not far from here!” I yelled, competing with the roar of the motor. “No one at olilolo knows about it! He’s been operating in secret.”

“How could that be?” asked Abacus.

“He works in the field,” I explained. “They can’t keep track of him all the time. My bet is that he runs his business when he should be working for olilolo.”

“Is that why the blog isn’t as successful as it should be?”

“Exactly!” I exclaimed. “He’s been taking everyone for a ride.”

“Get back to me when you have more,” said Abacus.

“I’m on it.”

* * *

Stuey’s Strippers was located three blocks from a shopping mall, and two hundred metres from a church. It was opposite a school.

The queue was thirty metres long.

Men of all ages were lining up for a glimpse of Stuey’s Strippers. It was 2pm in the afternoon.

Amongst the crowd, I spotted a group of school students, some tattooed women, and an old man dressed in black robes. There was a father taking his ten year old son to see the show.

The crowd shuffled slowly into the club, each person paying the hefty cover charge without complaint.

On the main floor of Stuey’s Strippers, six dazzling stages were illuminated by an array of lights. As “The Final Countdown” began to play, a dozen gorgeous ladies emerged from behind the curtains.

It was inspirational.

But I was here on official Sasquatch business.

“I need to speak to your boss,” I told the barmaid, sliding a $50 note across the counter. If experience had taught me anything, everyone could be bribed.

She led me along a corridor and down a flight of stairs. I continued to the main office.

“I’m here to see Stu,” I told the guard, handing him a six-pack of Stu’s beer. He was a tall, muscular mountain of a man, with a permanent scowl slashed across his face.

The guard sneered and shook his head, snatching the bribe from my hands nonetheless.

“Stu’s not in today.”

“Then why is the light on in his office?” I asked.

The guard shrugged. He stared at me menacingly with a look that said: we’re done here.

“We’re done here,” he added.

We stared into each other’s eyes violently. Only one man would walk away from this confrontation victorious.

I whipped the air horn from my belt and detonated it.

The sound bomb shattered each bottle in the six-pack. Beer sprayed in every direction. I grabbed a shard of glass and held it against the man’s throat.

If experience had taught me anything, everyone could be bribed. And if they couldn’t, they could always be threatened.

Leaning in close to the man’s face, I whispered: “We’re not done here.”

* * *

It turns out the man was being honest. Stu wasn’t in today. I felt kind of bad about that, so I bought the guy another six pack.

“It’s okay,” he mumbled sadly. “I just wish the beer hadn’t gone everywhere. This was my favourite outfit.”

“I still think you look great,” I replied, optimistically.

“You really mean it?”

“Yeah,” I smiled. “I really do.”

The man didn’t look great, but I had not time for a lengthy discussion. The game against the The Monsters was just hours away.

“So,” I asked casually, “who’s in charge when Stu isn’t here?”

“Well, there’s a roster,” replied the guard. “Stu is here an awful lot, but sometimes headquarters sends out Aaron Doyle.”

“Aaron Doyle?” I gasped. “Headquarters… you mean olilolo? They know about this strip club?”

The guard laughed. “They run it. It’s the only thing that earns them any money.”

“But I thought… they sell pencils and staplers…”

The guard laughed even harder.

“I don’t know what they call it on paper,” he chortled. “But this brothel is the real money maker.”

And there it was. The truth at last. olilolo was just a fancy brothel, posing as a stationary supplies company… posing as a blog website.

“Oh,” added the guard. “And they also have a niche in industrial-strength protractors.”

* * *

“So let me get this straight,” said Abacus. “Stuey’s Strippers is an illegal brothel?”

“Yes,” I replied, “which is why they fudge the books.”

I roared along the streets of Oliloloville at four times the legal limit. Time was running out, and I still had no hard evidence to prove Stu was the mole.

“By attributing their profits to pencil sales?” asked Abacus.

“I… really don’t know,” I sighed. “I guess so.”

“That’s stupid.”

“I know,” I said. “It really, really is.”

* * *

I squealed to a halt in front of olilolo Headquarters. This is where Disco Stu had to be. I was back at square one.

The obese security guard came running over toward me.

“Mister Mauso!” he waved.

“God damn it,” I muttered under my breath. The man been pestering me for an autograph all day.

“I tried to warn you before you left!” he panted, bending over to catch his breath. “But you ignored me…”

“What is it?” I snapped.

“Earlier, when you were upstairs talking to Aaron Doyle, a man broke into your car!” he exclaimed.

My jaw dropped. “Did you see who it was?!” I demanded.

“No,” he wheezed, “I didn’t. But he climbed into the back window of your car-”

“Why didn’t you stop him!” I cried.

“I was going to!” the man replied. “But then you returned and drove away! With the man still inside your car!“

I froze. Silence filled the air. My heart was racing.

I turned around in my seat, and peered behind me. Right there, curled up in the back seat of my car, lay a man.

Disco Stu.

Staring at me.

* * *

TO BE CONTINUED in A Sasquatch Mystery: Part 5

The man had been leaking our team’s secrets to The Monsters, and he would pay for his treachery. The olilolo Sasquatches were not a forgiving team.

At the gates to Disco Stu’s Estate, two gigantic bronze statues stood either side of the entrance. The statues depicted a naked Scarlett Johansson, which would have been sexy if they weren’t three times my own size.

Before me, a solid metal gate blocked my path.

“Password?” asked the security system, through a dilapidated little speaker box. (I should add that Disco Stu’s Estate was previously a McDonalds drive thru, which he had decided to “pimp out”.)

“Uh…” I replied, thinking rapidly. “Beer?”

“Not enough minerals,” the system replied, rejecting my guess. “Password?”

I continued blindly:

“Disco Stu?”

“Not enough minerals.”

“Sasquatches?”

“Not enough minerals.”

“olilolo?”

“Not enough minerals.”

“GRRRAAAAAAAAAAGH!!” I screamed, punching the stupid little speaker box.

“Not enough minerals.”

I rubbed my temples in frustration, trying to figure out Disco Stu’s password. I needed to get inside his head. After all, he was a man of intellect, of culture, of fine arts, and of politics.

Surely, he would not set his password as something so trivial and vulgar as ‘beer’, or ‘sasquatches’, or…

“Scarlett Johansson?” I guessed, eyeing the speaker box hopefully.

After a brief pause, there came a whirring sound, and then the gates began to slide open.

“YES!” I cried, cheering in triumph and gesturing rudely at the inanimate speaker box. I was in.

As I drove slowly through the opening gates, I peered up at the statues, to discover that their robotic hips had begun to gyrate slowly, in celebration of the correct password.

It was inspirational.

* * *

My cell phone rang as I approached the house.

“Mauso Industries,” I answered, “serving the community since-”

“Shut up, David,” interrupted Sara.

“Oh, hey! Sara!” I exclaimed. “… what do you want?”

“When are you coming back to the office?”

“Look, I’m busy, so…”

“Just give me a time. Two pm? Three?”

“Well, like I said, I’m fairly busy, so…”

“Four?”

“… well, I mean, I was just thinking… maybe I’d just… not.”

“You’re not coming back?”

“Of course I’m coming back!” I laughed. “You have it all wrong.”

“I meant today.”

“No. I’m out for the day.”

Sara sighed. “Justin wants your report on his desk by the afternoon. This is really important, Dav-”

“Look,” I interjected sharply. “I know Justin. I know him like the back of my hand. All it takes-”

“You can’t bribe him with chocolate,” she said. “I’ve tried.”

I ignored her. If experience had taught me anything, everyone could be bribed. And if they couldn’t, they could always be threatened.

I returned to the task at hand, and knocked politely on Stu’s front door.

* * *

The remains of Stu’s door lay strewn upon the floor. I had not wanted to do this, but he’d left me with no choice.

“I know you’re in here, Stu!” I yelled, to the house at large. “And if you’re not, I’m going to steal all your beer.”

No reply. No screams of anguish. No roars of “NOOOO!!!!”. No sobs of “Not the beer!”

The house was empty.

I strode over to Disco Stu’s computer and observed the screensaver.

I moved the mouse to interrupt the screensaver, and encountered a dialog box.

Once again, I needed a password. I started with the classics – ‘olilolo’, ‘sasquatch’, ‘scarlett’ – to no avail. I got this:

God damn it. I needed to get inside his head. But… how?

I looked around me for some clues. Surely it couldn’t be this predictable…

Spiderman?

Kirsten Dunst?

Mary Jane?

I was in.

* * *

It was difficult to find anything of value on Disco Stu’s computer; all I could see was porn.

I managed to unearth a folder, promisingly labeled “Business”. The subfolders were labeled ‘olilolo’, ‘porn’ and ‘strippers’.

Sighing, I looked in the olilolo folder.

What had I expected to find here? Fraud? Corruption? Embezzlement? I don’t know. But fifty celebrity sex tapes?

The man really needed to organize his files.

I opened a spreadsheet documenting olilolo’s financial performance over the past three years. Surprisingly, the business was flourishing. Magnificently.

But it wasn’t because of their website.

Apparently, the company also manufactured stationary. Pencils, rulers and staplers was where the ‘big money’ was at for Olilolo. They also had a niche market in industrial-strength protractors.

Incredible.

Most amazing of all, I discovered, was that Aaron Doyle was the mastermind behind all of this. The man who came in drunk to work every day – and often slept in the board room.

Disco Stu’s department – the Blog – had proven to be only moderately profitable in comparison.

Amazing.

I literally skipped to the kitchen, high on the satisfaction of the knowledge that Stu was the company’s burden.

I considered, momentarily, the thought that the spreadsheet was incorrect. That what happens on paper may not always match the corporate reality.

I dismissed that thought, and stole the beer from Stu’s fridge.

* * *

TO BE CONTINUED in A Sasquatch Mystery: Part 4