THIS ARTICLE WAS BY A FEMALE STAFF WRITER WHO WISHED TO REMAIN ANONYMOUS.
As the acting editor of Sneaky at the time of publishing, I spent several days with her working through the prose and making the story flow, as well as writing all the best jokes. (Of course!)
It was astonishing how many people rushed to the defence of a man who, reading the article again now, in today's climate would be utterly indefensible. How times change.
 
A few months ago, I had the absolute (mis) fortune of spending the night with one of Australia’s most prominent, and widely known barristers. Even if you’re not a law student studying one of his colourful cases, it’s still very likely that you’ve heard about the infamous man who I’ll refer to only as Mr. Wolf.
The sole purpose of my night with Mr Wolf was to meet with him, accompanied by a photographer, and write a profile about the character he actively chooses to portray to the public, as well as attempting to find out more about the man underneath those thick layers of leathery skin.
Considering the debaucherous tales ld about this infamous old lech, the evening began tamely enough.
The first five hours flew by in an uneventful blur of smoke, flashing lights, and spread legs. We began at a strip club in the CBD, where Wolfy had a private dance from a leggy blonde called ‘Lucy.’ I stood in the corner of the small black room watching, awkwardly.
We left for an establishment called the ‘Suckatorium’, some glory holes, a sex shop, and then an underground brothel filled with sad women, crying men, an angry bartender, and our famous barrister, who sat at the bar boredly flicking through Tinder on the hunt for a ‘sexy young girl for a threesome’.
Up until this point, I was fine. Admittedly, I was a little frustrated that Mr. Wolf was refusing to answer my questions with anything that could be considered a ‘real’ response, but I was fine nonetheless. I’m not shy, and I was happy hanging around in the background watching the story unfold.
It wasn’t until, after leaving the brothel at two in the morning and saying goodbye to the photographer, that I watch Mr. Wolf attempt to eat a burrito, and shit starts to get real.
On the walk towards his apartment, I start to notice the massive juxtaposition between his mind and his body. While he can talk a massive game, I came to learn that in actuality that’s all it really is – talk.
Keeping pace slowly alongside this limping, shuffling old man, I took in the trench-coated figure that is Mr. Wolf. Intimidatingly tall and broad, he casts an air of dominance and power that almost completely vanishes as you watch him struggle to move.
Reaching his enormous, opulent glass front door, I said my goodbyes and turned to leave.
“Wait! I have something upstairs that could be really interesting for the article. It will only take two minutes to come and have a look, then you can leave”.
Okay. My gut was telling me it probably wasn’t a good idea to enter his, in the Wolf’s own words, ‘lair’. But because I had finished up a few hours earlier than expected, and several people knew my exact whereabouts, I thought ‘fuck it, two minutes.’
I should have trusted my gut.
Compared to the rest of the luxurious building, his apartment seemed completely out of place. Small and cramped, there was no kitchen, papers scattered everywhere, cockroaches crawling across every surface, and mountains of pill bottles in every corner.
Two radios on opposite sides of the room were blasting two completely different genres of music that blurred into one torturous song. Opening his fridge to grab a bottle of water, I caught a glimpse inside – only a few slices of cheese, and an empty bottle of milk occupied the lonely shelves.
I wandered over to the balcony to take in the view, and if I’m honest, to put some distance between Mr. Wolf and myself.
The sound of something rattling made me turn back towards him. He was opening pill bottles and emptying a few from each into his hand before downing them and moving onto the next.  He would have ingested around thirty pills of different colours, shapes, and sizes.
He began swaying ever so slightly and drooping his head as he tried abnormally hard to get words out, and by this point, my gut was doing little flips as I picked up my bag and jacket to get the fuck out of the Wolf’s lair.
“Why don’t you ever call me? Why don’t you ever talk to me anymore? I don’t know how to please you. I don’t know what I can do to make you happy”.
He started mumbling sentences at me as his eyes turned into slits, and his head fell lower and lower.
Without warning he began grabbing at his belt and pants. They dropped to the floor revealing liver spotted legs that looked as if the meat was coming off the bone. I could only wonder how the fuck he was even standing up.
He swayed back and forth clumsily while unbuttoning his shirt and throwing it to the chair, missing it, and hitting a lamp.
Fuck. Fuck. Fuck.  My mind was scrambling for escape routes.
With his pants still around his ankles, he began to shuffle along the floor towards his bedroom, his clawed little hands and slumped posture reminding me of a hairy Mr Burns.
“Flowlow mer”, he said in pill-talk, which I translated to, ‘follow me’. He jiggled his hand slightly and made some gargling noises.
Now, I understand that Mr. Wolf is an old man with health problems. It’s not unusual for a man of his age, and condition, to be burdened with the occasional bout of chronic flatulence.
So, while what happened next shouldn’t have really been shocking, the fear I was already experiencing had made me pretty hysterical, and I couldn’t help but find the entire situation at once hilarious and terrifying.
As Wolfy continued on his pantless trek to the bedroom, each step forward produced a new noise. The farts seemed to just fall out of him, like hot dogs sliding off a conveyor belt. It sounded like balloons filled with jelly being dropped onto concrete.
He crossed the room and sat down on his bed facing away from me. Hunching over, he began grabbing at something out of sight on the floor and after a few long seconds he produced a dildo of impressive size.
“Have you ever seen one of these before?”
“I don’t want to answer that, Mr. Wolf.”
“Have you ever touched one of these before?”
“Again, I… I don’t want to answer that”.
Without glancing up or even opening his eyes, he began slapping his fingers on the buttons of the dildo, trying embarrassingly hard to turn it on.
As the dildo sprang to life, it slipped from his hand and fell beside the bed, buzzing on the floor. Still hunched over, he half raised his cow-skin arm to point towards his bookcase.
“See that bottle of oil over there? Grab it. I want you to rub oil all over my legs”.
“Yeahhhhhh… I’m not doing that”.
“I’ve been at the gym, I need oil rubbed on my legs or else I’ll be sore”.
“You’re a grown man, you can do it yourself.“
“DO IT”.
And with that, he fell back on the bed and passed out.
“Mr. Wolf?”
Fuck. He wasn’t moving and I couldn’t see if his chest is going up or down.
Fuuuuck.
Different scenarios begin flashing through my mind. Calling the ambulance, him being pronounced dead, somehow being charged with the murder of the infamous Mr. Wolf.
I shake him, and he wakes up – immediately sitting upright and with what I can only describe as muscle memory he reaches over to the bottle, empties it into his hand, and begins oiling up his chicken bone legs.
“Please – just do my chest, and stomach. Just rub oil on my back. Please. I can’t do it myself.”
“Mr. Wolf. How do I unlock your door? Tell me how to get out”.
He starts to oil up his chest anyway, the dildo still vibrating on the ground next to him, the wet farts still slipping out of him like horrifying little invisible eggs. Mr Wolf is an old chicken, laying farty eggs all over the fucking house.
The anxiety and fear is bubbling up in me. He makes a sudden movement forward and flops to his knees on the ground.
“Just one kiss and you can go. Please. I’m begging you. I just want human contact. Please”.
He crawls forward, and his knees crack on the floor. I see my opportunity to make a break for it. I run to the door, flipping knobs until it falls open and I bolt out.
Shaking, I run down the hall to the elevator and begin pressing the button like crazy, convinced that somehow he’ll  figure out how his body works again and follow me.
It takes forever to get down, but as soon as the doors pop open I slam my hand on the big green ‘OPEN’ button, push the glass doors, and explode out into the early morning air.
And that was that. I’d gone into the lair of the Wolf and all I’d found was an oily old chicken, stuffed with pills and farting everywhere.
Back to Top