“I don’t know David. Perhaps he thinks he can.”
“Well it’s bollocks,” answered Bullion.
Gold watched him direct Ounzt. “Troy, order me another tea while I think.” He shuffled around his desk and turned to Gold. “It’s the same every year. The manager, the players it’s all crap. It’s all their fault.”
“No it’s not David, and you know it,” Gold answered, resolute.
“Yes it is. We give them money and we get nothing but excuses, and the fans blame us. Don’t try to defend them. I know football.”
“I don’t think you realize how hard it is to be successful in football.”
“Oh yes I do. Sixteen years and what do you get? Another year older and deeper in debt… Stan don’t you call me cause I can’t come, I owe my soul to a team from Brum.”
“Shut up,” shouted Gold, pouring himself another gin and juice.
“How did this happen?” asked Bullion, now sitting in his swiveling chair. “Sixteen years I’ve been here, and it’s still the same old shit. I don’t get it.”
“What don’t you get?” asked Gold.
“All of it,” answered Bullion.
“All of what?”
“All of them.”
“All of whom?” asked Gold, pacing up and down Bullion’s office.
“The managers.”
“You mean to tell me you weren’t happy with any of the managers we’ve had here?”
“No,” answered Bullion now spinning in his chair.
“Then for the love of Gold, why didn’t you say something? Every time I mentioned that maybe it’s time to cut ties and get some new blood in, you always said to wait and give them a chance. If you weren’t happy with the personnel why not say something?”
Bullion popped the last of his crispy leek into his mouth. “Because it would have cost money, and I didn’t see the point of having to interview another person for the job.”
Gold looked at him suspiciously. “You’re not going to start that up again are you?”
“What?” Bullion asked.
“You know exactly what I’m on about.”
Bullion shrugged his shoulders. “Dee, if you’re on about me doing a better job? Then yes I could.”
Gold looked at him in amazement. “Don’t start that nonsense again.”
“Why not? It’s true. You know as well as anybody that I could do a better job than the lot we’ve had here,” said Bullion smiling.
Gold shook his head. “You are a delusional man.”
Bullion was now shadow boxing around the room. “And that left back better buck his ideas up as well, or I’ll be putting my name down on the sheet for that position too.”
Gold interjected. “David, I think you’ve said enough about French Fronk already. We don’t need any more bad press, thank you.”
Bullion threw a combination together, “See I’ve still got it.”
Gold ignored him and continued. “I think we should listen to the numbers and let the Germans have him.”
Bullion sat down and nodded. “Twenty-five grand a week isn’t chump change, is it?”
“I think we should let him catch the next plane over there. I mean, we still don’t know if he’s injured or not. Do we?”
“Who wants him anyway?” asked Bullion, flipping his lucky Welsh coin.
“Handover 96.”
Bullion smiled as the leek landed up.
“What’s in it for us?”
“Nothing. His contract’s up at the end of June, if you care to remember, unless we take the option, which we can’t afford.”
“It is?”
“Yes, David.”
“So what’s the bottom line? How much do we get from the deal?”
“Nothing, David.”
“Zip? Zilch?” asked Bullion in disbelief.
Troy nodded. “Nix.”
“Seriously, how is that possible? I thought we knew what we were doing by now?”
“David, we do know what we are doing. We are getting a million plus in wages off our books.”
Bullion picked up an orange from the fruit basket and kept it up on his knee before slotting it through Gold’s legs.
“Nutmeg,” he shouted as he did a lap of honour around his office before celebrating in front of his vivarium.
“Stand up if you love DB. Stand up if you love DB.”
Kingson, his pet frog, was not impressed. He was already standing up waiting to be fed.
“So, there’s a place up front next season?” asked Bullion turning around.
“No, David. There’s no place on the team for you up front or at the back,” said Gold. “So we agree no more Pending Property Sign. All in favor say, ‘sold as is,’” said Gold.
“Aye,” said Troy.
Bullion sat back down and affirmed his fate. “Aye. So is that it? Meeting over?”
“No, David. We have only just begun. We have several agendas to complete.”
“Like what?”
Gold raised his gin and juice and took a sip. “A lot of supporters have been asking for a clock.”
“What? Why on earth do they need a clock?” asked Bullion.
“Because there’s a clock at pretty much every ground. We used to have one until the refurbishment,” said Gold.
“We did?”
“Yes. We took the old score board down and never replaced it.”
Bullion walked around his desk and propped himself up on it.
“So how much will that cost?”
Gold looked at Troy for the details.
“Erm… I don’t know the final number but it isn’t going to cost that much, south of ten grand and done locally. It’s only three feet tall, so I doubt it’ll be much more than that.”
“More money. These so-called supporters never stop, do they? We want this, we want that, sign this player. I can see why clubs go into administration so easily listening to these idiots. Well, it won’t happen at my club.”
The tea lady knocked on the door. “Can I come in?”
“Of course, Gladys. You’re the only one who brings me sunshine and never asks for anything in return.”
She smiled and placed the refill tea on Bullion’s snail-racing coaster and waited.
“Good. A dark sand colour, fresh to the nose, and hot to the immediate palate, with an eye-catching mature, cylindrical King Richard. Gladys you’ve surpassed your excellence again.”
He crunched down into his new beverage. “Bloody good. Bloody good. I don’t know why you two don’t start your mornings off with one of these. Do you know one leek can give you forty-five percent of your daily-recommended dose of vitamin K? It would help get rid of those dark circles under your eyes Dee.”
Gold took no notice and asked Troy what the next topic on the agenda was.
“Hold on a minute! We haven’t decided who the clock will be named after,” objected Bullion.
“It already has a name,” answered Gold.
“The David Bullion clock?”
“No, David. It’s going to be named The Jeff Haul Clock. You should know the second commandment, David. ‘You shall not make yourself an idol, whether in the form of anything that is in the heaven above or that is in the water under The Ar.’”
“I sometimes wonder why I work with you Dee. You never throw me a bone even when I go out on a limb for you.”
Gold nodded to Troy to continue the meeting.
“Next on, the proposal for the upcoming season is how to win and hold the family season ticket holder.”
“Oh, right, that old chestnut. Let me guess… and the winner is… lower prices and kids for a quid, like the former owners tried?”
Gold smiled. “By Jove, David, that’s the best suggestion you’ve made since we bought this place.”
“Erm… obviously I was joking. You don’t think for one second I’m for that, do you?”
“Why not? We are dropping down a division: the standard will be lower, why not the prices? We’ll have t
o cut our cloth accordingly, and let some more players leave and sign some loans and frees, but I like it… I like it a lot.”
“This meeting is out of order, motion to strike my last comment from the record,” said Bullion.
Troy Ounzt waited for Dee Gold’s direction.
“No David. We have to look long-term and try and get the masses back, all in favour, say aye.”
“I won’t say shit. That idea will be the kiss of death for this club. They’ll bloody expect it all the time. No, no, no! I won’t have it.”
“Then what do you recommend?” asked Gold, leaning forward into Bullion’s face.
David Bullion knew when to back away and not stoke Dee Gold’s psychopathic urges. And arguing the toss wasn’t going to get him down to the track any time soon, was it?
Troy never got between the two of them when they were confrontational but had an idea.
“If I could be so bold as to counsel a compromise? How about we freeze prices for this year and the next, regardless of what division we are in?”
“You are worth your weight, Troy Ounzt. What a splendid idea! What do you say David?”
“Oh sure, give the house away! After all, it’s not your money, is it Troy?”
Gold interjected again and smiled. “All in favor. Say aye.”
He eyeballed Bullion.
“Alright aye. Is that it? Now can I go?”
“No, David. We are losing our fan base at a record speed and we need to arrest the slide. Do you have any other ideas how we can stop this startling descent?”
“No, Dee. I don’t. Maybe Troy can come up with another brilliant one?”
“We could listen to the fans more and improve our PR strategy?”
Bullion walked back over to his vivarium and peered into it.
“Oh, right. That makes sense: throw an ordinary share in there as well, why don’t you? Soon we’ll have nothing left. Why did I hire you again?”
“You hired him because it was his idea to buy this wonderful club for a snip, and I think we can all agree we haven’t done too badly financially since ownership,”
Gold answered, fingering one of the gold chains around his neck.
“Yes, Dee. Life is beautiful and rosy! Why stop there? Heck, give them ten percent off the club shop on all purchases,”
Bullion mocked in response.
Gold clapped and laughed hysterically. “You are on form today! Perfect! Why didn’t we think of that before?”
He put his arm around Troy. “We’ve been asleep at the wheel! This is the man with his foot on the gas. David, I bow to your superior wisdom.”
“I know,” said Troy. “That’s why I’ve followed him everywhere he goes.”
Bullion stared at his reflection in the glass of the vivarium and watched them cavorting, devoid of their camaraderie.
“Alright. Enough! If we can settle down and get back to the matter in hand. If I agree to all these outrageous demands, are we done?”
He waited for the two of them to stop chuckling before walking towards the door.
“Do you have anything else for today, Troy?” asked Gold.
“No, I think we have covered all that was hoped for this morning. It’s a lot of work to do, to implement, but a good day. Therefore, I, Troy Ounzt, Secretary of Bitominge City Football Club, do hereby close the board meeting and today’s business.”
“Good. Now bugger off out of my office, so I can feed Kingson and be on my way to the track,” He said holding the door.
“Bye,” said Gold.
“I’ll get the minutes typed up and will forward them to your e-mail accounts by day’s end,” Troy answered collecting his belongings.
CHAPTER TWO
KINGSON
Bullion closed the door and went over to his vivarium and stood on a chair. He fished about in the tank and stroked his pet bullfrog. Frenchy was on his rock, basking under the heat lamp. He opened one eye to greet his noisy owner and sat still and waited for him to lift his four-pound body out and hopefully feed him some tasty treats.
Bullion was four feet seven inches, an inch too tall to be a snail jockey and a midget in the rest of the world until he stood on his money.
He was a Goliath when he did that, and he did it a lot. He was addicted to money and its power. He used to say finding a penny on the floor was like getting an electric shock: it jolts you with life and leaves you with a warm tingly feeling.
Frenchy the African bullfrog didn’t care how tall he was. He just knew he hand fed him tasty treats—succulent, wingless blue bottles followed by ice cool water splashed on his back. Life wasn’t the African swamp he grew up in, but it wasn’t bad either, even if the scenery never changed except on match days when all hell seemed to break loose.
On a personal note, a big mama frog wouldn’t be a bad addition, but communications with his owner were strained at best, and they hadn’t really gotten off the subject of flies and water.
As he said to the toad that fateful night after licking her back, “Damn that’s some good shit.” And then a net goes over him and he’s carted off half way around the world to end up next to some leather couch in some midget’s office—nice office, mind, but an indoor environment all the same. Oh well, better make the most of it, lie back, open mouth, and think of dear old swampy. “Oye Bulla, not that one. That’s a bit too blue.”
David Bullion’s African bullfrog wasn’t the aggressive type. He didn’t need to be. He used to say, “all will come to he who waits,” and, in many ways, he was right. He tried to make the best of whatever environment he was in. The midget had taken to calling him Frenchy, which was a little annoying, to say the least, as his christened name was Kingson Lily Pad, and he spoke Bush and English with a heavy click—not French. Kingson was the son of the King of the Lily Pad Nation from Lake Mweru in Zambia and spoke the Queen’s English—something his owner wouldn’t know a thing about.
He made himself larger by filling up his love sack with air so Bullion couldn’t wrestle him out. Kingson croaked at him and smiled as Bullion panted on retrieving him from the vivarium.
“You’re a puffy French frog today, aren’t you?” said Bullion, rolling the words off his tongue.
Kingson carried on smiling and snapped his mouth wide open to show him he had nothing in it. “For goodness’ sake, my dearchap, what does one have to do to get served in this establishment? Hurry up and be a good sport,” pleaded Kingson keenly.
He had a sleepless night thinking about cane toads and one in particular.
“Come on my misbegotten little friend let’s move the show along shall we?”
Bullion stuck his hand in a jar full of flies and wriggling maggots and pulled out an unfortunate inhabitant by the thorax.
“Look what I’ve got for you Frenchy,” Bullion offered in a deep Welsh accent.
Kingson swallowed and opened his mouth in one motion.
Bullion’s phone rang; he put the frog back in his tank and poured the jar’s contents carefully into it and closed the lid quickly.
“Hello. David speaking.”
Bullion carried on his conversation and watched his bullfrog bat and parry fly after fly into his mouth with delight. He marveled at the size of his outstretched palms, likening him to a robust Pat Jennings in his heyday.
“That’s as maybe but we paid his wages for two years while he was injured and that’s all the thanks we get? Some loyalty!”
Kingson dived down for a huge horsefly coming straight at him. It curled up into the shape of a ball and squirmed past under his body, he looked behind in despair.
“Frenchy’s busy this morning,” thought Bullion as he answered the man on the other end of the phone.
“Well, I’m not happy about this. I have a Pending Property Sign that’s been wrapped up in cotton wool for the last two years leaving for free Willie McClay? And your only answer is, ‘What’s the problem Jimmy?’ How about two and a half bloody million over that period?”
There was a sil
ence on the phone.
“Well?”
“Well what?”
“It amazes me that whenever you want to do a deal and move a player, you call nonstop but when I need to get something you don’t return my calls and you take the player’s stance and force his agenda?”
“He’s my client,” responded McClay.
“So am I,” answered Bullion.
There was another silence. “Answer the bloody question,” ranted Bullion.
“I thought it was a statement not a question. I work for the player, not you. What am I supposed to do? Besides, if you let the deal go ahead, it can be done and dusted and off your bottom line by the weekend. David, you have to like that for expedience.”
Bullion swallowed on the words as Frenchy puffed out his vast vocal muscles and let out a contented belch and settled back under his heat lamp.
“I couldn’t have put it better myself Frenchy.”
“What’s that?” asked McClay.
“Oh nothing, Willie. My frog thinks you’re full of it.”
He checked his watch and conceded this battle to McClay. “If I agree to your terms and let this one slide, what do you have up your sleeve to appease me?”
“I’ve got a player whose last name sounds like a lightbulb manufacturing company that scored twenty-four goals last season in the championship that might be available on a free.”
Bullion drawled as he heard the word Lightbulb “You know my weakness. Don’t you, McClay? How much a week?”
“What you’re paying the property sign.”
“Could you get him a bit cheaper? That really would be a coup and show the Golds.”
“Did you have a bad board meeting recently?”
“Yes just.”
“How bad?”
“Let’s put it this way: I let my money bow to the moral principals of Dee, and Troy and took a beating for it.”
“Sounds terrible.”
“It was a massacre for my pocket, but this deal you mentioned really would put the ball firmly back in my possession. So to speak.”
“Arf arf, you are a rotter Bully. Remind me to buy you a tax free night’s stay at the Al Qasr.”
“Who is it then?”
“He’s player of the season with both club and supporters and top scorer.”
“Get him for five less a week, and you’ve got a deal.”
“There’s a couple of clubs that would like him and don’t know yet of his availability, so that’s not going to happen, but I will throw in a week’s stay at the Al Qasr tax free if you like.”
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