You know, abducting and torturing marketing execs might seem like a psychopathic thing to do – especially when it was over what the prosecution termed ‘a few lousy footy jumpers.’ But it’s the principle of the thing I argued during the trial (and still do.) It was about taking a stand for something I care deeply for – that and listening to the voices in my head.
Just as it states in the trial’s transcripts, I abducted exec number 1 right out the front of his house. He lived in this Toorak mansion with his trophy wife and three kids. The whole set up was saccharinely idyllic – the type I once dreamed of being a part of before I realized my calling lay elsewhere. They even had a dog; a big husky. Though in my dreams I had it as a pair of Rottweilers: one called Hannibal and the other called Norman. Uh-huh, just like the serial killers, and no prizes for guessing, they’re kind of heroes of mine.
I abducted exec number 1 in broad daylight, and I tell you, it was no mean feat. What with passers by and all that morning traffic, I stood a good chance of being detected. On top of that, I’m not much of a morning person, so I had to fight off a real case of the grumps all the way through it. Like, bounding and gagging abductees is hard work anytime, let alone when you’ve got the ‘Mondays.’ But then again, with my melancholia, I’m fighting the ‘Mondays’ Monday through Sunday. And especially Mondays. And especially in the morning. And especially when I’m abducting.
My choice of Chloroform is FairlieArrow©. It’s a new brand. I find that it’s fast acting – to be sure, the abducted person doesn’t now what hit them. I also love the playfulness of the manufacturer in coming up with a name like that. It’s like naming a bullet Rambo© or SteveMcQueen©. Or branding arsenic TheBorgias©. Pfff, Marketers: at least some times they get things right.
The minute I got exec number 1 into my purpose built dungeon, I had him on the rack. “So,” I said, “what have you got to say for yourself?” He looked at me in terror. “Don’t kill me,” he begged: “Please don’t kill me.” “Kill,” I laughed, “I’m not gonna kill you. Pff, you’re not worth killing. You’re not even worth the energy explaining that you’re not worth killing. Nor are you worth the energy explaining explaining shit to you.” I then noticed that my brilliant mind was getting him in a tangle so I got back to business (but not before twitching a couple of times, and not before rubbing my temples in a really creepy way over how many other times my brilliant mind had got people in a tangle, as well as rubbing them over how everyone I’ve ever known has been unable to recognize my genius, especially my father, who never loved me, even though he told me many times he did.) “Anyway,” I added (sill rubbing (and twitching!)), “the jumpers: what have you got to say about the jumpers?” “The jumpers?” he answered all confused. “What jumpers?” His obliviousness angered me so I tightened the rack. “Ahhhh,” he screamed. “What jumpers,” I said disgusted. “The only jumpers that matter, damn it: AFL jumpers. The jumpers that you’ve cheapened with your clash strips. The jumpers your company systematically ruins; the jumpers your company desecrates. That’s what jumpers.” At this point, I noticed that his expression morphed into one where his terror was now matched by his bewilderment. Also in the mix was a diagnosis that I was out of my mind. This particularly angered me. “You just don’t get it do you? Like you marketing people just don’t ever get it. You take beautiful things and you ruin them. I mean, you planted this seed that the modern game needed clash strips and you seduced the clubs with the promise of merchandising dollars and Sim Sala Bim, whores that they are, they all went for it hearts in arseholes. And where did that leave us? In Shitsville, that’s where. In a place where clash strips are marketed to the tastes of 6 to 12 year olds and the tastes of discerning adults are forsaken. Coz that’s what happens doesn’t it? You test these abominations with kids and the most popular designs are the ones you go with. Like, because of your slavish worship of the dollar, we discerning adults have to now put up with a game that has no regard for aesthetics. We classic strip loving adults have to put up with the perceptions of 6 to 12 years olds, which are better suited to dressing the Wiggles, or Justine Beiber, or Justin Beiber in the Wiggles, or any of other combination of that like. We tasteful footy loving adults have to suffer all that. And now you look at me like I’ve lost my mind; like I’m the one with the problem. Well, let me tell you something Mr Mister: you’re the one with the problem; you’re the one who’s in a world of shit. And not just coz you’re now on a rack; not just coz you’re imprisoned in a dungeon. No, not coz of that you f&%*. No, it’s coz your soul is in a dungeon: a dungeon sealed off with greed, avarice and gluttony. A dungeon where the Wiggles and Justin Beiber play 24 seven. A dungeon when clash strips decorate the walls and are worn by trolls. Trolls who guard it fiercely. Trolls who all look like Barry Hall – and that’s Barry Hall in a mood; coz these Barry Hall trolls hate being in dressed in clash strips. And they—-” It was then that he cried, “HELP, PLEASE HELP!” and this interruption so angered me that I tightened the rack before ranting and raving some more; but really crazily this time.
That evening, I served my guest a meal consisting of Four and Twenty and anemic looking hot dogs. I took out $30 from his wallet and said, “That’s the Etihad price for a pie and a frankfurter these days. Take it or leave it.” I then said, “And oh, I wonder who’s idea it was to serve up really shitty food at ridiculously exorbitant prices? Could it have been a Marketers? Hmmmmmmmmm.”
On day 2 of the abduction, I was so inspired by the Justin Beiber / Wiggles thing the day before, I set up a ghetto blaster right near the rack and played their muzak until the batteries corroded. LOL, you should have seen the agonized expression on his face when I made my way into the dungeon that evening. He looked exactly the way I did the day Brisbane unveiled their paddle pop lion guernsey.
Day 3 of the abduction I made him apologize for the every infuriatingly abominable clash strip. The blue Hawthorn strip with the brown and gold diamonds, the brown Footscray strip, The M&M’s baby blue one, the overbearing birds of prey that swoop on West Coast, Adelaide’s and Hawthorns strips whenever they’re whoring for merchandising dollars. I also made him apologize for insulting everyone’s intelligence over these strips being necessary for this TV age and that the game is a better spectacle for them. I then made him eat another Hot Dog, which I charged him $14 for. I then slept very soundly that night.
On day 4 I went to a BBQ’s at my neighbors. He served up ribs and kept patting me on the back over what a great guy I was. “Like, it’s a dead giveaway that you’ve got big testicles,” he kept laughing. “A dead giveaway.” Hmm, who’d have thought we’d have our very own Charles Ramsey in Australia, hey?
Later that afternoon, I thought it was time to add to my work, so I abducted exec number 2: the one who marketed the merits of Meatloaf singing in a Grand final. “And now it’s time to get medieval,” I raved, purposefully driving us home: “now it’s time to right the wrongest of wrongs.”
To be continued …. Or maybe not