They thought they were Gods. On top of the world. Three footballers from St. Kilda football club were having drinks at a bar in Crown Casino’s VIP section. It was a Thursday night. It was on season too, and I think they were playing on Saturday. Should a Herald Sun journalist have entered this corrupt den of luxury and sin, these boys would probably have made the back page. ST KILDA DISGRACE it would read. An article about alcoholism would follow. Some people in my quarters would find that hilarious. A Centrelink recipient, a welfare cheat, a dole bludger; who drops out of high school and starts getting drunk every single night of the week – that’s not news. That’s what’s forgotten. It does not matter. Because it’s happening everyday, everywhere. But a St. Kilda player who has three beers in the bar on a Thursday, well … he’s asking for trouble.

And the boys tonight are asking for trouble. I watched them from a great distance away, plugging dollar after dollar into the pokie machine, while they drank their drinks at the bar and played Black Jack on the high roller table. A few fans had gathered. Someone took a photograph on his mobile phone, and out of nowhere a Casino attendant grabs him by the scruff of his neck and drags him into the shadows. There are shadows in this casino, people forget. It’s in the shadows that I watched Nicky D and Jared M gamble away 20 grand like it was pocket money. Loose change. A joke to people in my quarter. I think it’s been four years since my account was in the black. Sixty percent rent. Ten percent food. Thirty percent alcohol. It’s the simple equation you can live your life by. As superstars get richer and richer.

Midnight. The crowd is starting to thin out. I see a disappointed look wash over Nicky M’s face. It’s struck the grand hour and he still hasn’t found his slut for the night yet.

“Gotta get a CHALLENGE mate,” Jared M offers so loud it makes it across to me. “Gotta get one who is NASTY.”

Nicky D and Karl W chuckle as they stagger around with their glasses. Another ten minutes go by. Another ten hundred in the casino hole. Things don’t appear to be picking up for them. A couple of the fans have noticed the players are fully intoxicated, and are starting to curse them. Various reasons. Something about someone **** up a goal at last weeks game. Something about a sex scandal in January. In December. In October. November. Come to think of it, the fans look pretty intoxicated too.

One am. Looks like the boys are doing alright after all. There’s a blonde sitting on Nicky D’s lap at the bar. A brunette dancing somewhat pretentiously in front of the thickened crotches of Jared M and Karl W. They don’t look like whores. They look like the equivalent of what these guys would have dated in high school. Of course the boys are in their late twenties now, and these girls are barely nineteen. I guess it answers a few questions about where the girls were when I was nineteen. I guess it answers a few questions about why I started the binge.

One thirty. Late, late, late. The boys are looking to wrap things up. I watch as they grope and molest the girls in a drunken haze. I watch them bite, tongue and squeeze. I watch them whisper. I watch them snarl. Every organ in my body is strained as I watch the sickening display. My teeth lock together so hard my tongue bleeds. The blood flows into the back of my mouth, and glides gently down my throat. I cannot wait for the sudden approach of what is next.

Two am. Car time. They take the limo, and I call a cab. It’s not easy to place myself in the exact position of being able to follow them. Especially not given my own drunkenness; my own haze. But there I am anyway, managing the follow. I figure their destination is somebody’s house. Somebody’s house where the girlfriend isn’t home. Some place with a bed at least. I’ve read all the stories. The group sex. The orgies. The ferocious lustful ****. The footballer has a huge appetite for sexual gratification. For dominance. For depravity. The footballer is the barbarian gladiator of the modern world. The hero of children. The rapist of women. The killer of men.

But tonight we aren’t going to somebody’s house. I guess they’re feeling kinkier. It’s hard to tell. They might actually be feeling with their hearts tonight. For the place that the limo leads us to is none other than the MCG. In other words, Melbourne Cricket Ground. But this is where they play football too. It’s the grand stadium. The pride of Melbourne. Home of football. The limo pulls into the MCG, and a cold sweat rushes down my forehead. I am like a jackal in heat. Like a knife made for killing. The blood and fire of the earth below.

They park. I park. They get out staggering, and singing merry songs. I get out staggering, saying nothing at all. I follow them up the grassy path as they approach the ground. They’re chucking bottles, telling jokes, and singing rhymes. Actually I think that’s the St. Kilda club song they’re singing. I’m not a hundred percent sure. I don’t follow this team.

Just the three drunken boys with their two drunken sluts. Three on two. It’s a rough match up. An onslaught. A turkey shoot. A massacre. Actually, I guess it’s me who’s against the odds. Five to one you have to give me. Five to one I can kill them all before they leave the ground.

The reason I killed was never to make a name for myself. I didn’t want to be known. I didn’t want to be seen. I wanted to come and go in the night, as if the world never knew I was there. This is perhaps a stereotypical misconception about killers. That we killed to become famous. That we killed for a cult following. I know I just wanted to rid the world of every footballer that was ever there. The way I figured it, I’d be doing my country some good.

Somebody. Somewhere.

Some low life, pathetic welfare cheating dole bludger.

Won’t have to eat dinner alone tonight.