SoBad
G.O.A.T.
[The story is pure fiction, any resemblance to real life characters is purely accidental.]
Chapter 1
-- Hello dear, I am home!
Retcher walked into the house.
-- Take off your dirty shoes and leave them at the door!
The wife sounded unhappy.
-- What’s the matter, dear?
-- We are in financial trouble. All the rascals are getting hungry. We need to talk.
Phone rings. Larka picks up the phone, briefly speaks, and places the phone on hold.
-- Who is that now?
Retcher inquires anxiously.
- Your old pal Bob Raver. He said some Sydney paper journalist is at his door and wants an interview. Bob said for 500 euros he’ll mention that you’re one of the greatest players of all time.
-- That old fool is getting greedy. Tell him AUS 200 and he unequivocally states that I am the greatest.
Larka consults on the phone.
-- He said USD 250 and he will wear an RF hat at the next champions luncheon.
-- What on Earth? I already told Mike not to give him any more free RF hats.
-- Okay, I’ll tell him to talk to Mike about the hats.
-- Okay. What else?
- The French TD wants a bigger cut to put you into the semi, as usual. And he said you have to pay the chair umpires separately.
-- I don’t care about RG, have you made the deal to replace Olympic Rio slay with fast hardcourts?
-- Yes, the Olympic Committee want quarter mil for the whole thing.
- Who do you think they are? A kind uncle? See if we can pull something through our fake African charities. What good are you, anyway... Two girls, now we have to come up with the dowry!
-- Unless some fool like you comes about...
-- You stupid fat woman, how dare you!
- What a talentless tool, where would you be without me. Couldn’t win a slam last 3 years despite all the bribes.
-- How dare you!
Larka went quiet. Her husband didn’t know that she developed romantic connections with young ATP players who got her addicted to gambling. Every briefcase of cash she took over to the powers that be, she skimmed to support her habits.
[to be continued]
Chapter 1
-- Hello dear, I am home!
Retcher walked into the house.
-- Take off your dirty shoes and leave them at the door!
The wife sounded unhappy.
-- What’s the matter, dear?
-- We are in financial trouble. All the rascals are getting hungry. We need to talk.
Phone rings. Larka picks up the phone, briefly speaks, and places the phone on hold.
-- Who is that now?
Retcher inquires anxiously.
- Your old pal Bob Raver. He said some Sydney paper journalist is at his door and wants an interview. Bob said for 500 euros he’ll mention that you’re one of the greatest players of all time.
-- That old fool is getting greedy. Tell him AUS 200 and he unequivocally states that I am the greatest.
Larka consults on the phone.
-- He said USD 250 and he will wear an RF hat at the next champions luncheon.
-- What on Earth? I already told Mike not to give him any more free RF hats.
-- Okay, I’ll tell him to talk to Mike about the hats.
-- Okay. What else?
- The French TD wants a bigger cut to put you into the semi, as usual. And he said you have to pay the chair umpires separately.
-- I don’t care about RG, have you made the deal to replace Olympic Rio slay with fast hardcourts?
-- Yes, the Olympic Committee want quarter mil for the whole thing.
- Who do you think they are? A kind uncle? See if we can pull something through our fake African charities. What good are you, anyway... Two girls, now we have to come up with the dowry!
-- Unless some fool like you comes about...
-- You stupid fat woman, how dare you!
- What a talentless tool, where would you be without me. Couldn’t win a slam last 3 years despite all the bribes.
-- How dare you!
Larka went quiet. Her husband didn’t know that she developed romantic connections with young ATP players who got her addicted to gambling. Every briefcase of cash she took over to the powers that be, she skimmed to support her habits.
[to be continued]
