Written by Big M

I don’t like this but then again…

The laminex desk was completely obscured by files, form guides, stained coffee cups and an overflowing ashtray. There was evidence of a previous avalanche of files onto the floor next to the grey, metal bin, which no one had bothered to tidy up. The black, Bakelite phone jangled impatiently, before a gnarled, nicotine stained hand grabbed up the handset. “Detective Chief Inspector Acker Rogerson speakin’. I’d recognise that voice anywhere…Mervette!” Hysterical laughter was followed by a coughing fit, which subsided with two puffs of Ventolin and a Marlborough Red. Two minutes elapsed before Inspector Rogerson rasped. “Just jokin’, Merv, how are ya?”

Merv didn’t appreciate the joke, so pressed on. “I’m well, but I’ve got a MisPer for you.”

“Why not get the Missing Persons Bureau to chase it up?”

“It’s a cold case. Pole dancer from the nineties. Had a sprog with Foodge. Went the whole nine yards, married, expensive honeymoon, shacked up in Darlo, then she pissed off with the kid. It seems she had joined some cult.” Merv summarised.

“Yeah, I remember. There was a heap of missing sheilas with similar backgrounds. We assumed they’d all fucked off somewhere and drank the communal Kool-Aid on the way to joining Halle’s comet, or some such thing. Why has Foodge developed a sudden interest? Has there been contact from the Mother Ship?”

“Dunno, somehow came up in conversation.” Merv didn’t really want to discuss Foodge’s penchant for the Scouts. “You know he’s shacked up here with Granny who knows nothing about this?”

“It’s common knowledge, old son. I wouldn’t wanna be in his skin if she finds out. I’ll tell you what I’ll do. I’ll go through the old files and cross-reference the with other states, Feds and Foreign Affairs. I’ll get back to youz.”

“Thanks, mate.” Merv went back to his pint of Granny’s IPA.

Rogerson dropped the handset back onto its cradle. “Fuck, fuck, fucketty, fuck. Prepare for the shit storm, lads.”

I’m a fuckwit brought to you by Maccas


Meanwhile, Foodge had returned to the apartment in Darlinghurst. He found absolutely nothing, mainly because the owner had slammed the door in his face. He went around all of the strip clubs but everyone refused to talk. Bear in mind he was widely regarded as a defector. He then tried check on their joint bank account but couldn’t find the Bank of NSW. Eventually he stumbled into Westpac where the teller couldn’t work out what to do with his Passbook. He eventually initiated an inquiry into a ‘no longer active account’, which could take weeks or months.


Meanwhile at a private member’s room in an exclusive ‘Gentleman’s Club.

“Boss, didja see that Foodge has started sniffing around the clubs?”


“Howdja know?”

“Just received a call from a well known, or, should I say, well paid copper.”

“Oh, right, well, woddle we do?”

“About one tenth of fuck all.”

“Why, won’t Foodge be onto us?”

“Foodge is the least successful Pee Eye in Sydney, and an even worse barrister. In the entire history of the Pigs Arms he’s photographed an MP climbing out his boyfriend’s window, and got that dimwit Manne orff an exposure charge. Threat level zero.”

I’m a priest, trust me…except if I have something to say, which I don’t unless my legal team says so