ERROL PARKER | Editor-at-large | Contact
Deverill ‘Wapjohns’ Slacks is under the pump, witnesses say.
Striding headlong through the magic doors at the Betoota Heights Woolworths, the 28-year-old partially blind Old City District Casino croupier couldn’t even find the time to end his seemingly high-stakes phone call before getting out of the car.
“Mate,” he prefixed, reefing a basket from the stack near the entrance.
“Don’t get me fucking started on the cunt. He has to be the dumbest fucking sucked-mango-seed-looking-cunt god has ever put fucking breath in!”
The irate Virgo was shouting this into his smashed iPhone 4S, which he won in a drunken game of Go Fish in 2014.
He was also well within earshot of young mothers, their old-basketball-skinned mothers and their bedwetting offspring.
“Anyway, like I said. I can talk about how many times that gibbering bag of month-old-sun-dried-hummus has shit the bed until the FUCKING cows come home, cunt, but I won’t. Don’t get me started, mate,”
“Yeah, yeah. Yeah. Yeah, yeah, yeah. Nah, fuck him, mate. Yeah, righto then jooga, I’ve gotta run. I’ll speak to you about the dough-banging prick later.”
Mr Slacks then let out a sharp, earth-shattering cough thanks in part by his penchant for unfiltered cigarettes.
After a short moment of contemplation, he filled his basket with a heavily-sweating roast chook, a family-size punnet of pasta salad, a six-pack of white bread rolls, a metric half-kilo of generic-brand margarine and enough smokey BBQ sauce to drown a Shetland pony in.
However, at the self-service checkout, he apparently told the computer that everything was, in fact, 2.3kg of unwashed potatoes.
More to come.
