Sam never did forgive his parents for raising him in Applecross. In his mind, he was the sort of fancyman that deserved to grace the leafy burbs of the west. An A5 Kobe steak that was forced to marinate with the Coles’ rissoles of southern plebbery.
To compensate, he shined up his veneer of affluence extra thick and he made sure everyone copped a big wad of his delusions – right to the back of their throats. No one was spared from his wrath as he tried to sneak into the elite gala of life in an unconvincing novelty tuxedo shirt.
One of his classic acts of wannabe-cunnery was overindulging at The Raffles. On a particularly sloppy Sunday night he was asked to leave because he was swaying like an old mate in a TAB trance, “All alright pal, time to go”.
He thrust the entry-level swiss on his wrist in the face of the bouncer, “my watch is worth more than you earn in a year, mate”. Perhaps a slight overvaluation of the $1.2K timepiece. In response the bouncer swats his arm out of his face, “my uncle will sue the shit out of you ape brains”.
Not likely. His uncle earns a good crust as a low-mid tier conveyancing lawyer. Hardly the sort of swinging-legal-dick that strikes terror into the hearts of western suburbs bouncers who hear these threats. At least those silver-spoon-scrotes are direct offspring of the supposed harbingers of unemployment.
Like an entitled-shit-for-brains, he decides to up the ante on his show of strength. He gets in his second hand BMW 3 series and revs up a storm until the bouncers notice him, “enjoy driving home in your Commodores you poorcunts!”
He barely even gets a glance from the Applecross cougars who wouldn’t be caught dead at a booze-bus in anything less than their beloved 7 series. By this stage, Sam is fuming. Why will no one respect his wealth!
Not to worry, he has the medicine. He swerves his way to Maccas to get a late-night feed however he has ulterior motives. He orders extra so he has enough to throw against the wall and floor on his departure. The thought that a minimum wage worker will have to clean up after him gives him a powerful stiffy.“Get a real job”, he scoffs as he leaves.
The following day, he decides to host a little get-together at the Applecross property he is kinda caretaking for his folks while they figure out if they want to sell. Not even wealthy enough to get bought an investment property, the SHAME. Of course, this doesn’t stop him from discussing the property like it’s his. Don’t be fuckin’ silly now.
A mate suggests they grab some meat to cook up on the BBQ, “let’s just pop down to Woolies”. Toby almost spits his Stella out onto his parent’s faux-shag rug. “Woolies? Um, how about we just buy our meat from the petrol station? Or better yet, how about Red Dot?”.
His mate realises the gravity of his mistake as Sam goes into an ego-tail-spin at the mere suggestion. A massive shit-eating grin comes over his face, “we’ll take the beamer down to the Boatshed, best meat there”. Ah yes, the desperate trip to Cottesloe to help sell yourself the lies that keep you from crying into your pillow at night.