The Last Melbourne Cup – preview

book preview of The Last Melbourne Cup by Lawrie Jordan


 


PAPERBACK
BOOKS
 THE
LAST MELBOURNE CUP 

What
if…
The mighty Phar Lap was secretly cloned and brought back to life?
What if
…
The Champion’s creators were sadistically murdered and Phar Lap fell into the
worst possible hands?
What if…
They tried to ring Phar Lap into the 2003 Melbourne 
Cup?

Odds on it would make one helluva story!

From blistering start to heart-pounding finish, The Last Melbourne Cup is
just that.
A page-turning yarn about sheer greed, raw violence and unbridled sex;
a cool cop hot on the trail of a cold-blooded killer:
and the unstoppable Phar lap in the race that will stop a nation…in its
tracks!
 

In Store Price: $AU22.95 $NZD26.50

Online Price:   $AU21.95 $NZD25.50

ISBN:

1 920699 163

Format: Paperback

Number of pages:
254


Genre:
Fiction Crime/Thriller


 

Author: Lawrie
Jordan


Imprint: Zeus

Publisher: Zeus Publications

Date Published: November 2002

Language: English

HOME PAGE

 

About the
AUTHOR
 

 

Lawrie Jordan, 47, was born and lives in Brisbane. 

He is an advertising Copywriter and has worked at
various international ad agencies in Brisbane and London. 

He is currently Creative Director at a Brisbane
advertising agency, and has developed campaigns for Queensland Tourism,
Woolworths and the TAB. 

In 1994, Lawrie was named the Brisbane Advertising
Club’s “Ad Person of the Year”. 

He has won numerous advertising awards for press ads,
radio commercials and direct response communications. 

Lawrie has traveled extensively throughout Britain
and Europe. 

In 2000, he took a 12-month sabbatical and traveled
around Australia with his wife Lynda and their two sons, Tom and Joe. 

He is a self-confessed “mug punter” who gets to
the track regularly and the TAB religiously. 

The Last
Melbourne Cup

is Lawrie’s first novel.
 

 

Read a sample:

Foreword

I
was having a quiet pint and a punt with my oldest brother Bill a few years ago
at our local Pub Tab and the conversation turned to sports heroes from different
eras. I recall asking him if he thought Bradman would have been able to handle
the sheer pace of a Denis Lillie or a Jeff Thompson. Unfortunately I don’t
recall Bill’s answer to that one.

However
I do remember – quite vividly – where this line of thinking led to.

“What
about Phar Lap?” I said.
“How do you think he’d go against the likes of Sunline?”

“Mate,
cream always rises” he replied, ” a champion like that would simply
rise to the occasion. He pissed on his peers then, he’d do exactly the same
thing now.”

Which
got me thinking…Wow, imagine if we could bring Phar
Lap
back!

The
more I thought about it, the more I wanted it to happen.

And
it has.

I
hope you enjoy reading “The Last Melbourne Cup” as much as I enjoyed
writing it.
 

PS. I did do a lot of research before writing this, my
first novel. But remember, it’s not a history book, a textbook on cloning or a
horseracing manual…it’s just a bloody great yarn (even if I do say so myself).
So please take my blending of fact and fiction with a large grain of salt, put
any mistakes down to ‘artist licence’ and never let the facts get in the way of
a good story!

 

C
h a p t e r   1

  

Tuesday, 6  November,
2001

The rat was cheesed off.

He
was starving after several days stuck in a stainless steel toolbox, during which
time all he’d had to eat – reluctantly yet ravenously – was his beloved tail.

He was also dying of thirst, having recycled as much
of his own vile piss as he could stomach, but above all else he was totally
cheesed off.

How
could he, with his gutter rat cunning, have fallen for any trap set by those
despised humans?

Ugh! The very
thought of the filthy creatures made his skin crawl.

Yet
– think of the devils and they’re sure to appear – now came the unmistakable
sound of human activity. A door opening, closing and bolting shut; fluorescent
lights kicking in; footsteps on floorboards
(three sets…no, wait, four)
; raised
voices; the scrape of furniture being rearranged; ripping noises then (most interestingly) a thumping thud, a muffled cry of pain, a cruel
laugh and finally a brief silence.

That
silence was soon shattered by the scrunch of his prison door suddenly swinging
opening. This was rapidly echoed by his own raucous screech. After spending so
long in pitch black, the penetrating light pierced his pupils like pinpricks.
Taken by surprise and blinded by the light, he was easy prey for the heavily
tattooed hand that grabbed him by the scruff of his scrawny neck and tossed him,
twisting and turning, into a new cage.

As
the burning in his eyes slowly subsided, the rat realised that this was a
completely different kettle of fish. Gone were the slimy, shiny walls and
shit-stained floor. In their place, rusty metal bars welded tightly together in
a hemi-circle like a small brazier hacked in half. Yet it was the new ‘floor’
that captured the captive’s attention. It was a floor of furless flesh. This
new cage was strapped onto the chest of a living, breathing human!
It only
took the rat a split second to work out that at last there was a way out. He
could gnaw through this floor, feasting as he went, and he wasted no time in
doing so.

Drifting
in and out of consciousness, the human host barely stirred as the rodent sank
its razor-sharp teeth into his bare skin, just to the right of his left nipple,
and tore out a bite sized chunk. On the second chomp however, the sharp pang
brought the man around – only to trigger off a searing new pain in his throbbing
head as he tried in vain to raise it. He was lying down, face up on a cold
marble bench under a blazing spot light.

Squinting
through blurred salty eyes, he looked down at his hairy chest, at first not
quite comprehending the horror he was experiencing. He was being eaten alive by
a giant rat! He screamed as he squirmed as he struggled to sit up, all to no
avail. His arms were pinned to his sides with industrial strength gaffer tape,
as were his legs. Suddenly a shadow fell over him as a large, faintly familiar
face eclipsed the light. Another strip of tape was ripped off the roll and
clamped down hard over his mustachioed mouth, stifling his protest mid-scream
and turning it into a muffled moan.

‘We
could let you yell your lungs out Ron,’ his tormentor said matter-of-factly,
between sips of an iced coffee, ‘No one will hear you here. But I want you to
hear me, OK.’ The big man continued on conversationally as if nothing
were out of the ordinary, as if the prone man with the bleeding head always wore
a rat on his blood soaked chest. 

‘What
you’re wearing is called a Witches Bra. They used to use them in the old days in
the old country to sort out the bitches from the witches.’ He paused long enough
to chuckle at his little rhyme and to make sure his two huge Maori henchmen
standing nearby were doing likewise.  They
were, although one of the men looked like he was genuinely enjoying it much more
than his mate.
 

‘You
see what happens, Ron,’ he continued cheerfully as the rat chewed on, ‘is that
Roland here only has one way out – and that’s to munch and crunch his way out
through your heart and lungs. Maybe your spine too if it gets in the way’. He
hesitated briefly to see if what he’d said had sunken in. From the sheer look of
terror in Ron’s brown, tear-filled eyes, they had. ‘Now I’m going to take your
gag off,’ the smiling face explained, ‘and then I’m going to ask you one simple
question. You spill your guts and I’ll take the ‘wascally wodent’ away,’ he
said, his smirk soon sinking to a sinister sneer, ‘but if you don’t tell me what
I want to know straight away, you’re rat shit. Literally.
Are you ready?’

Ron
nodded wildly and the tape was duly ripped off, along with half of his bushy
grey-black moustache. An involuntary scream left his swollen lips. ‘ARGHHHHHH!!
GET IT OFF! GET THE FUCKING THING OFF, FUCK YOU!!!’ Ron yelled, loud enough to
momentarily startle the still-starving rat and cause it to pause from its feast.
Ron’s torturer sipped his coffee as he waited patiently for the outburst to
abate. 

‘OK,
are you quite finished?’ the cruel face said at last, when scream had turned to
whimper.

‘Right
now. Where…is… Phar Lap?’

                        



 

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