The Truth about Plugger's Comeback.

[Sly]

A few months ago, I was out for a drink at {CENSORED} and who should I run into but Plugger?

Having had a few too many and being filled with an anger for the ages, I grabbed-up my beer and joined Plugger at his table. I sat myself down before he had a chance to protest and thrust my hand forward, taking his own and pumping it in a handshake.

"Great career," I said.

He seemed a bit bemused, but he said, "Thanks."

"I mean, you don't have a Premiership, but you have the Goalkicking record, don't you?" I went on. "It's unimportant that you won't be remembered in any glorious fashion, but as a fat {CENSORED} with a short-temper prone to acts of stupid, unjustifiable violence."

"Hey, look, buddy," he responded, but that's where I cut him off.

"Buddy?" I shot back. "This is a funny time to remember your manners. Did you also remember them when you cannoned your elbow into Peter Caven's nose, caving-in his face? In fact, did you remember them at any period throughout any of your inglorious reports?"

"Look, I think you better leave," he said. I could see his eyes blazing, and he was barely managing to restrain himself from killing me.

"Leave? Or what? You'll eat me?" I stirred him. "Or maybe you'll huff and you'll puff and you blow the {CENSORED} house down - that's if you can find it over your grotesquely distened paunch and aren't distracted by the nearest food-source."

He shot to his feet, simultaneously grabbing me by the scruff of my neck and lifting me so I was standing upon my tiptoes.

But to understand my motivation somewhat better, what we require is a FLASHBACK TO 20 HOURS EARLIER.

I was sitting at a table with the other fellows. We were just about to plan what we were going to do, and as something of a warm-up, I was telling them my interpretation of a Madonna song. I was saying, "Like a Virgin is all about a girl who digs a guy with a big
dick. The whole song is a metaphor for big dicks..."

Wait, hang on. That wasn't me. That was the beginning of Reservoir Dogs.

Let me try that again.

FLASHBACK 20 HOURS... FLASHBACK 20 HOURS... FLASHBACK 20 HOURS...

I was sitting in the van outside the same venue, knowing that Plugger would be emerging at any time. It was past-midnight and the streets were deserted.

Momentarily, I saw Plugger stagger out of the bar. He was in disgusting shape. But stature aside, he was also inebriated.

I moved to the back compartment of the van and opened the doors, throwing out a pie I'd latched onto a bit of fishing-twine, so that it landed in front of Plugger. When he saw it, he pounced, like a kitten on a ball of wool.

However, I pulled on the twine, pulling the pie all the way back toward the van. Plugger followed it all the way. When he'd reached the van one of my conspirators, named Elvis, hit Plugger over the head with a wet handbag. (Elvis was a Geelong supporter).


Plugger fell unconscious, and we eased him into the back of the van.

Some hours later, we had him in the laboratory where I happily cut at the underside of Plugger's belly (beyond his line of vision) with a pair of garden shears.

Elvis handed me the sticks of TNT and I proceeded to shove them into Plugger's intestines. I must have got a good 3 or 4...or even 5... hundred sticks of dynamite in there.

I sewed him-up and we got him back in the van and drove him back to the {CENSORED} where we'd picked him up, dumping him in the parking-lot. We then sprayed him in sugar. When he woke up, he'd think he'd drank himself into a stupor and gorged himself in a sugar-spree, before finally passing out.

As we were driving away, Elvis was berating me. "This plan's madness," he said. "Even in the Locker Rooms, there's no guarantee you'd take them all out."

Yes, you see, here was my plan: lacing Plugger's intestines with TNT so that when he exploded, I could take out the entire Sydney Team.

"There's no time they're all together in the Locker Rooms," Elvis went on. "Except maybe after a match when they're singing a Club Song - if they get to win. But you don't want that."

"No," I admitted.

"Pre-game, Half-time, they're all spread out," Elvis continued. "Some of them are on massage-tables, others are in the spa. Even in the huddles there's usually a few stragglers..." He trailed off, then insisted, "There's just no way you'll get them all together."

"There is one way."

"How?" Elvis asked.

"When they're all in the Forward-pocket."

"Why would all the players be in the Forward-pocket?"

"As soon as Collingwood move forward, all the Swans players rush back and congest in the Forward-pocket," I told him. "Even the benchmen run on. Nobody notices. But I know. And in that instinct..." I mimicked the sound of an explosion.

"You're mad," Elvis hissed.

"Am I?" I asked. "Or am I the last sane man left on the planet? It seems to me people are hypocritical. The Americans can wage a War on Terrorism but I can't wage a War on Fat. So here's three words for you, Elvis: Get over it. And when you've done that, you know what you can do for me?"

"What?" Elvis asked.

"Get over it some more."

Elvis fell quiet.

END OF FLASHBACK... END OF FLASHBACK... END OF FLASHBACK...

So here I was, being held by the scruff of the neck, Plugger ready to kill me. The idea was to bait him into a comeback. It was the only way I could take the Swans and the fat {CENSORED} out at the same time.

"Don't take your frustrations out on me," I told him. "I'm not to blame for your donut-obsession, or for the fact that had you not been so bloated, had you provided better leadership, had you been more consistent, you may have led either of your Teams - St. Kilda or the Swans - to a Premiership."

"Shut up!" he snapped at me.

"Why? You know why we didn't pick you up down at Collingwood, don't you? We had the dough, but we didn't have the dough - if you get what I mean."

"Shut up!"

"Come on, cheer up, fat-boy. Just because of the three leading goal-kickers you're the only one without a Premiership Medallion, it's nothing to be angry at me about."

"SHUT UP!"

And then I said to him what I'd said to Elvis. "Here's three words for you, Plugger: Get over it. And when you've done that, you know what you can do for me?"

"What?" Plugger asked.

"Get over it some more. Because there's no way a comeback..."

"Comeback?" A dim light went on in his eyes.

"...with the Swans..."

"With the Swans?" His face seemed to brighten.

"...could ever present you a hope to net a Premiership."

"A Premiership...?" He was stupefied. His grip on me loosened and I slipped away. "That's what I'll do," he said. "I'll come back for the Swans and go for a Premiership!"

I picked up a chair and whacked him across the back, sending him sprawling to his knees. Then I whacked him over the head, knocking him to the floor. I whaked him one last time so that he was rendered unconscious. It wasn't part of the plan, but it was something to do.

So there you have it - the actual reason Plugger made a comeback.

And if at some point in 2002 he explodes, taking all the flooding Swans with it, now you'll know why.




S.
The Last Remaining Bad Guy.
The Incandescent One.

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