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About an hour after I posted the first in what is going to be a several part series starring the wife beater, thief, child abuser, fraudster, shit writer, even worse journalist, drug addict, gutter snipe, pansy, criminal, perpetrator of domestic violence and all-round ball-less wonder Grant Stockwell I’m sitting at my desk reading through his thick file of charge sheets when I hear this SMASH! and the sound of glass breaking into a million pieces.

I grab old mate in one hand and even older mate in the other and bolt outside, but the weak-gutted jellyfish who’s hurled the bottle at the window of my terminally ill old Dad’s granny flat at the front of the house has taken the bolt and all I can see is his headlights disappearing into the distance.

Its a bit disappointing really, because I’m fired up and ready to go – f*ck with my father will you c*nt? Ever heard of consequences? Or noticed that I have your home address too? You will, probably on a weekend when I’m visiting one of my judge mates in Sydney or Wellington, or a Federal Politician mate or three in Canberra – and not having a wife beater’s head in front of me to smash like a watermelon is a real let down.

Never mind though, there’s always tomorrow or the day after or ……. yeah mate, good things come to those who wait and Santa’s all about surprises isn’t he? It’s a real shame that you probably wont enjoy yours but oh well, we all end up getting what we deserve in the end so there’s no point complaining, and can’t you see that sign above the bed near the nurses station?

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Five minutes after the bottle smashes I get a call from a blocked number – it’s about 1.45am at this stage – and the c*nt on the end doesn’t say anything but just breathes heavy.

I abuse the fuck out of the piece of sh*t and describe in detail what I’m going to do to him when I catch up with him, and invite him to come back so I can do it now. I’m deadly serious – this gelded dead man walking just threw a bottle at my cancer stricken dad’s home – but I’m also stringing it out for the requisite time for the QRIC phone tap on my line to pinpoint the caller’s precise location, and I do.

Blocking your number doesn’t do shit when QRIC are listening in because their technology shows caller ID’s regardless, and the camouflaged motion sensor cameras have already picked the bottle chucker’s vehicle up clearly, but I always like to help the police because they help us and so I am just trying to make it easier for them and ensure that the prosecution’s a bird, and with all the evidence just gathered it will be too.

I’m still waiting out the front hoping the gutless prick might try to sneak back when the wife arrives home from picking the kid up from her OP party – 2 is the score, not quite the 1 we were hoping for but not too shabby at all, well done babe you earned it – and of course she doesn’t bat an eyelid at the fact that I am standing out the front with an iron bar in one hand and something automated in the other, because she knows that although I’m a peace loving soul by nature if have to protect my family I will and have and do, and she likes it.

“Who this time?” she asks with a smile, and I tell her, and her smile breaks even wider.

“That maggot who bashes women?” she says with the smile now almost covering her whole face, and instructs me to “Make sure you just put him on the ground, and leave the rest to me”.

The missus is a rape victim and there are two things she hates in this life.

One is violent and/or sexual offenders who direct their fury at their own insignificance and failure at people who are weaker than them. People like child abusers and c*nts who think that they are heroes because they bash or hurt woman and kids.

The other is gutless males who do things like send misguided abusive emails to freelance journalists and then block them on Facebook so they can’t reply, or spineless spit buckets that sneak up in the dark and hurl weapons at old mens walls and then run away when a bloke with far more dangerous weapons in each hand comes flying out from around the back and run straight at their cars.

She’s a super staunch feminist and hater of domestic violence perpetrating creeps out Maggie, but she likes men’s men who will die to keep her safe, and the two concepts are not mutually exclusive despite what the radical brigade might say.

I take a long look around just in case the slug’s hiding in the bushes or the neighbours yard, but no luck. Maggie’s disappointed, but you can’t have fun every day of your life and besides, the sound of bones breaking might wake the neighbor and he starts early on Saturdays now he’s working in the Armed Offenders Squad.

We go inside the house and phone rings again, and of course its old heavy breathing Harry calling from a blocked number again. I tell him that he’s got a heart the size of a pea and reiterate my earlier invitation to come back for a wee chat, but the c*nt on the other end is still not talking and the next at Cheltenham is about to jump so I just burst out laughing and tell him to say hello to Mr Dowie, then I laugh like a loon and abuse him for being such a stupid c*nt that he didn’t even know that my phone was hot.

I don’t mind the police tap on this occasion. There’s a major criminal investigation into race fixing going on and by virtue of the analysis of the fixes published on my website I’m one of the prime sources of police information, so of course my dog and bone is going to be hotter than an Oodnadatta summer’s day.

If that small inconvenience and violation of my privacy is the price that has to be paid to clean up racing then its a small one and I’m willing to cough, and besides, with all the weak-arse intended to be tough threats I’m copping at the moment due to my exclusive exposures it doesn’t hurt to have the police listening in and instantly tracing the identities of the sicko-sexo slimebag knee-wobblers who claim they are going to kill and maim me as I laugh at them down the phone and advise them strongly not to miss.

It makes for an eventful Friday doesn’t it sportsfans, but you wouldn’t be dead for quids.

Or disgraced, down and out and unemployable.

Ain’t that the truth Grant Stockwell you woman bashing piece of sh*t.

You’ll get yours son, and I’ll be choosing the courses off the a-la-carte menu.

Hope you don’t mind them cold though tough guy.

My favorite dish is always best served up that way, and its the diners not knowing when the meal is coming that makes swallowing it with your sour medicine so much more exciting.

Boom boom.

Crack.

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