(Listen to Payton L. Inkletter read this story)
Backyard Grave Fears Held for Kerry O'Brien
It’s been weeks since the ABC’s king of current affairs has been sighted, leading to justifiable concerns that Mr Kerry O’Brien – ‘Kezza’ to his mates – has fallen victim to foul play.
Federal Police have contacted Payton L. Inkletter and requested that he cooperate with their investigations; Commissioner Tony Negus hastened to scotch rumours that Mr Inkletter is a bear of interest: “Mr Inkletter wouldn’t hurt a spitfire caterpillar, it’s just that he has long established a flair for working out what’s really going on, you know, a kind of body language sleuth.”
Ms Polly ‘By Golly’ Whodunnit, crime reporter for the Sydney Morning Feral, asked Commissioner Negus “How does it feel to be on a case this big, but three days into your new position?”
“I’m shit scared, er… sorry, I’m very nervous, truth be told,” the Commissioner candidly admitted, adding “it’s by far the biggest case I’ve been involved in over my past 27 years with the AFP.” He wiped the sweat from his brow with an Apprehended Violence Order, and went on, “Look, I wish Mistah O’Brien would just turn up, in one piece, and looking ten years younger, you know, like he always does every year when he takes his extended leave.”
Ms Whodunnit jumped in “Oh, by the way sir, what do you think of all this plastic surgery the great television journalist and presenter indulges in?”
“Oh, is that so, well look, you’ve given us another lead, you know, what with the drugs and scalpels and pointy things those dudes use,” Commissioner Negus replied.
Beginning to get on a roll, helped by the relative and uncharacteristic reserve of the assembled press pack (possibly due to the mysterious and carefully timed flood of incoming Twitters to their mobiles and Blackberries from what appeared to be a couple of ABC presenters) at this specially convened conference outside the ABC’s studios in Ultimo, Ms Whodunnit braved this next question: “Sir, could Malcolm Turnbull have an insider here in Ultimo, a kind of super cool Godwin Grech with a motive, you know, who’d even take the esteemed presenter out?”
“What, just because Mistah O’Brien bludgeoned Mr Turnbull in that bristling interview back on the 10th of August? Ummm, well now that you mention it, Turnbull does have a motive… thanks, we’ll follow that one up.” The Commissioner jotted something down in his notebook. “Any ideas on who the mole could be, Ms Whodunnit?”
“Well yes sir, I do.” She leaned forward and whispered “Rafael Epstein.”
“Rafael Epstein!!” the Commissioner bellowed at the top of his voice, spraying the front two rows of reporters, a performance Sir Les Patterson would have admired. “He wouldn’t step on a snail.”
“He would if it helped him get the Lateline program,” Ms Whodunnit pushed on.
“Fair crack of the whip Ms Whodunnit! We’re here talking about The 7.30 Report, its presenter, or more strictly, its lack thereof,” the Commissioner rolled his eyes. “What’s Lateline got to do with it? What’s that sexy chick’s name who runs it from Wednesdays on, you know, the red head? She segues on to that elegant bird who’s on straight after her.”
The formerly occupied press scrabble suddenly took note, and, like one of those perfectly choreographed impossibly thick and fast schools of fish, began texting Sex Discrimination Commissioner Elizabeth Broderick.
“I’m glad you asked Commissioner Negus,” Ms Whodunnit replied, “coz it’s those two women who I think you should be having a long cup of tea with next, making sure you’ve got two pairs of handcuffs jangling near your belly and whatever hangs from it!” Her colleagues let out a loud HURRAY! in a unison matching their synchronised texting of earlier.
“Now now little missy dear,” the Commissioner dug himself deeper, “you don’t have to be rude. But what are those broads’ names?”
“I’ll ignore those last denominators sir, but I’ll give you the names you’re after,” Ms Whodunnit paused for effect, flicked the next page in her notebook over, and held up two pictures, slowly turning 360 degrees. The gasps were long and threatened to hyperventilate their owners. “Leigh Sales and Ali Moore!”
“One minute you’re blaming The Rafster, now you’re trying to frame Ali Sales and Leigh Moore, you’ve got something wrong with you, dollface!” the Commissioner frowned, adding “Have you got your period?”
Like a North Korean military parade march, the press mob frantically texted off again to Elizabeth Broderick, except for one of them, a scruffy fellow with a three day stubble, who called out “Commissioner, there’s method in Ms Whodunnit’s madness. Those pictures are straight from that sleuthhound Payton L. Inkletter’s website, Fool’s Paradise – Infinity on a Shoestring, and I’ve been following his reasoning as well as my colleague in the frock. You do need to speak to Ms Sales and Ms Moore.”
“And where have you crawled out from sonny boy?” came the response from beneath the hat.
“I’m Chuck ‘Knuckledustah’ Itwozzuntmee, underworld correspondent for The New York Grimes.”
“Okay buster, spill your guts. What’s in it for the dames? – turning Mistah O’Brien into cray bait. And what’s lovely Raffy got to with it? Pray tell, I’m all ears.” The Commissioner did an exaggerated yawn.
“Listen carefully then butterfly chop,” Mr Itwozzuntmee said, “those two fillies have been the anchors on The 7.30 Report for two or three weeks now, charming audiences, and not a word, no mention, of the great Kezza himself. Don’t you find that curious?”
Commissioner Negus drolly replied “Barnacles ahoy! Time to pull anchor! Maybe ah do, maybe ah don’t, maybe ah will, maybe ah won’t.”
“Did you know that Rafael Epstein is to star in the lead role in the 2012 Bond film, ‘The Neutron That Balded Me’?” Itwozzuntmee pressed on.
“Oh dear me, I confess I didn’t!” Negus yawned the louder.
“And that Epstein wears a Beretta 418 concealed on his person every day, drinks Vespers, grain vodka only?” The New York Grimes reporter thumped his flagon.
“Good god man! Is there a punch line? I haven’t got all day!” the Commissioner’s well manicured fingers doing a fair rendition of a Rachmaninoff solo piece.
“I’ll speak slowly, and I’ll say it only once, you uppity overly decorated snout,” the street wise reporter said, taking a swig, “those sweet ‘harmless ladies’, Muuzzz’s Moore and Sales, they don’t like going home so late, they’d rather be home in time to watch Spicks and Specks, cuddled up with their squeezes, they’re running short of vartarmurn lurv, so these chic chicks strike a deal, they’re gonna share The 7.30 Report between ’em. Only one problem, a big red one: Kezza the Great, that hoary old buffalo, he’s been running that outfit since ninety five, he’s got his imprint all over that joint, he ain’t goin’ nowhere.”
Itwozzuntmee pulled a trademark green pen out of his pocket for effect, to the astonishment of those old enough to remember, and kept it in his right hand as he continued: “So these girls get to thinking, ‘We’ve heard Raffles lament that he’s always on the wrong side of the screen for Lateline, and how he would like nothing more than to kill the program every night at eleven and retire to the well equipped private bar of Mr O’Brien’s back of the Green Room, and smoke, drink, and woo and canoodle the lap dancers till dawn. Let’s offer him the gig, on condition he does a little something for us.’”
You could have heard a pin drop. Spitting his plug of baccy at the feet of the Commissioner, and imbibing a chaser from the flagon, the street hardened reporter kept going, with “That little something is: ‘Raffybabs, the gig you’ve always wanted is yours, just take Mistah O’Brien out.’ Within twenty four hours no-one’s seen hide nor hair of O’Brien’s arse. And there’s one less slug in Epstein’s Beretta.” He blew imaginary smoke from the ‘barrel’ of that green pen.
Jaws were dropping… “If I was you Commissioner, I’d have that little chat to those girls, and send a team of ground penetrating radar operating snouts to comb the backyards of both those ‘bootylicious babes’, as I’m sure you call them, and don’t be surprised to find half of O’Brien at each of them!”
The gaggle of reporters, after getting over the shock, began to create one fine hubbub, scrambling for their vehicles, their mobiles, their gooseberries or whatever they’re called, the commotion was not poetry in motion, more like a riot in locomotion. Ms Whodunnit shouted “Those Twitters, they were sent by Sales and
“Mind your language bitch, or you’ll be spending the night in the can!” Negus hollered, while he was packing up his paraphernalia.
Editor’s note: If there are any developments to this horrifying scenario, I’ll post them here…
+paytontedwithlove+
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