The tale of Sir Gary (Based on a true story), or, Don't Fuck with Gary!



Late one night, while passing Rex Gorrell’s coach yard, Sir Gary thought it a grand idea to adjourn his journey for a few moments and view the marvellous new vehicles from a more discerning vantage point. “’Tis been a long stroll this evening already,” he said to himself, “I could most certainly use a rest before embarking on the second leg of this most strenuous journey.” Now, one would be forgiven for thinking such a late night adventure quite strange, especially for a man whom earlier that very same day was allowed leave from the small town’s medical hospice. You see, while Sir Gary was trimming the lawns of his estate’s grounds a week earlier, he’d sustained terrible injuries to his foot, and was recommended a lengthy recovery. On this particular evening however, Sir Gary felt spritely, almost himself, and also felt a shiny new coach to be an appropriate reward for such a swift revival.

But Geelong Towne was not the place to be dallying at such a late hour. In fact, it was not uncommon for this town, while law abiding and safe by day, to twist itself into a hellish frenzy by night – the perfect setting for all varieties of questionable characters to lurk and prowl. Thieves, drunkards, homeless men, and hooded teens on bmx bicycles, patrolled this town’s streets after dark, and not even Sir Gary – Geelong Towne’s most sacred goal scoring knight - was safe.

For you see, Sir Gary was not alone in the coach yard. Skulking in the shadows, the vicious Baron Von West Fyans was patiently waiting for an unsuspecting, and innocent character to cross his path. It was currency he needed, and robbery was looming. “It is strange to see another man, in this here neck of these here woods, at such a late hour. What might your business be, Sir?” The Baron’s deep, raspy tone reached inside Sir Gary, chilling him to his very core, and freezing him on the very spot he stood.

Turning, Sir Gary answered bravely, careful not to hint at his nervousness. “I’m in a coach yard, my friend, so I believe it safe to presume I’m in need of a coach; and your business?”

“My business is to rob you. Empty your pockets at once, or I shall be left with no alternative but to empty them on your behalf.” The Baron drew closer, but as he did, his victim’s identity revealed itself.

“Do you not know who I am?” Sir Gary asked in a slightly haughty manner. “I’m Sir Gary, this town’s holy saviour, holder of the Norm Smith medallion, sent from God himself to bestow footballing glory on the people of Geelong Towne. You must certainly have balls the size of boulders to approach me in such a way. If this be the case, then let us duel. If not, then continue on your way, sir. This is my town, swine!”

“Haha!” the Baron quipped. “Your past glories are not enough to alarm me, Sir Crusty Jock. In fact, I believe you are more recently renowned for your narcotic related stupidities, and for your daughter, Lady Natasha, and her troubles with the law. No doubt you recognise me also. I have enjoyed her close company on many occasions, and if you don’t mind me saying so, she is a royal shag of the highest order. You do not frighten me, old man. A duel with you can surely be likened to a walk in the park.”

“You dare insult my family!?” Gary replied angrily; for although the great man had been quite bothered by his daughter’s infamous adventures, she was, after all, his only daughter, and he knew that in many ways Lady Natasha was the way she was because of his own dishonourable deeds.

The Baron took Sir Gary by the scruff, forcing him to the ground. “My foot! My fucking foot!” Sir Gary exclaimed. His injured foot had twisted in the scuffle, rendering our hero disabled.

“Perhaps a few lashings will heal your aching feet,” the Baron suggested, while removing the belt from his torn and unwashed denim pants. With it’s large rusty buckle facing outwards, The Baron whipped at Sir Gary’s head again and again, only ceasing to enquire, “Will you now empty your pockets!?” The villain chuckled as Sir Gary fumbled through his pockets for several minutes, only to reveal a few five cent pieces, and one extremely old and unfashionably oversized Nokia mobile telephone. “Is this all you have!? It seems you are worse off than I, you pathetic has-been.”

With this, Sir Gary fled for the street. Bloody and bruised, he waved down a sympathetic citizen. “Please, inform the police, O kind citizen of Geelong Towne. I have been robbed and beaten.” Expecting his attacker to be in hasty pursuit, Sir Gary turned, and was relieved to observe that the Baron had vanished, gone to the night from which he was violently spawned. The law would find him later that evening, huddled beneath a parked freight coach, whose driver was found enjoying wooden oven gourmet inside Ye Kardinia Café.

The Baron’s trial was short. “In this town,” the judge declared, “you do not touch Sir Gary!” The court’s gallery applauded as though a grand final had been won. “Ye shall be punished accordingly. I sentence you to a lifetime’s employment at Smorgy’s Restaurant, where ye shall clean the filthy troughs from which the scum of this town eat; where you will wait on said scum with a smile, and attend to Sammy the Seal’s repairs as required. This is indeed a fitting punishment for a man, so callous, as to assault the honourable Sir Gary in the town for which he provided so much joy. I speak on behalf of not only this country’s laws and standards, but on behalf on all G-Towners: may you rot at the end on Cunningham Pier!”

Geelong Towne rejoiced at having Sir Gary's honour bestowed once again. Sir Gary, himself, celebrated for 7 days in a Mecure Hotel suite with an underage hooker and a Cats training bag full of narcotics. "It's back to rehab," he thought to himself on the sixth night, "and then I'll join the church again."

Out.