Chopper Unchopped (32 page)

He put small fish hooks in chunks of meat and then fed them to friend’s dogs. He would inject caustic soda into cartons of milk in his friends’ fridges. He would pour caustic soda into the fish tanks at people’s homes. He would have people’s cars towed away, would call them ambulances when they weren’t sick and would call the cops with tip-offs that his mates were dealing in drugs or harboring escaped convicts.

He was the master of spreading false rumors and stories that wives and girlfriends of mates had VD. He would light small fires when invited to weddings; he pinched a bloke’s widow on the bum at the funeral. He would drop shotgun shells in fires at barbecues just before he left the party. His list of tricks were endless.

He once took an old, 79-year-old senile woman shopping in Richmond and then dumped her. She was lost for 24 hours, wandering the streets. Oh yes, he was a laugh a minute, all right.

When Ray got married he stuck 50-cent pieces to mousetraps so they would sink and placed them in a soapy bubble bath for his new bride. The marriage lasted five weeks.

Now, I felt this was just too much. Ray had a hot tub in his backyard. It was full and he used it daily. Dave the Jew and I had a plan to electrify it to kill Ray.

In the end we just placed three very strong rabbit traps in the bottom. Ray spent three weeks in hospital. He lost four toes — hence the name ‘Six Toes.’

I must say that I liked the bastard. He was funny, but he went too far.

THE best laid plans of mice and men go wrong in the underworld as often as in any other field of endeavor. Nothing can be planned 100 per cent before hand and that relates ten fold when it comes to the clinical science of murder.

I remember that in 1977 I made four separate attempts on the life of one particular fellow. He trusted me and I was one of the few fellows he would let through the front door.

The first time I went around I was about to pull out my sawn- off 12 gauge shotgun and blow his brains out while his back was turned. Just at the wrong moment, the bloody door bell rang. He answered it and there was a young girl collecting for the Lord Mayor’s Appeal. She got a good long look at my face while he went to get some money, so I put it down to experience and went home.

My second attempt found his mother at home with him enjoying tea and cakes. I’ve never been one to break up a happy family, so again I held my fire.

My third attempt was foiled when there was a knock on the door about a minute after I arrived. It was a lady friend of his. The fourth time he just let me in and the phone rang. He answered it and said; ‘Hello. Oh nothing. Chopper’s just called round.’ Little did he know that these words saved his life; my presence in the house had been blurted out to some unknown person at the other end of the line.

I didn’t make any further attempts. The guy was a bloody jinx — either that or a greater power was protecting him. He would never have suspected that on four different occasions sheer dumb luck saved his life.

I will not mention his name as he ended up becoming a bloody good mate of mine and I never had the heart to tell him that I was a hair’s breadth away from killing him.

There wasn’t that much money in it any rate.

THE former British hangman, Albert Pierrepoint, who sent 450 people to their deaths via the rope and the trapdoor, was the true master. For him, hanging was a family tradition and he loved his work.

Albert's Uncle Tom was a hangman for more than 40 years, and his dad was also a dab hand at the art of stretching necks. But Albert Pierrepoint was the master. He was the hangman for 25 years and his speed and skill was equal, if not swifter, than that of his old Uncle Tom.

With 433 men and 17 women to his credit. Albert was a true authority on the topic of the death penalty. After he gave up his work he wrote his autobiography in 1974, and it was a book I greatly enjoyed.

He said that all the condemned men and women that he faced at their final moment convinced him that what he had done had not prevented a single murder. He became a campaigner for the abolition of the death penalty.

But, while Albert believed that he didn't prevent a single murder, he should have remembered that he prevented those he hanged from doing it again. And that's why I believe in capital punishment in some cases. It may not scare others so they don't do it, but it stops those who have been convicted from doing it again. In the case of crimes against children and sex killings, I do believe in the ultimate penalty.

There has been talk of bringing back the rope for killing police or prison officers. What rubbish. In most cases they are armed and able to protect themselves. Why they should rate in the scale of crimes above killing a seven-year-old girl is beyond my powers of reasoning. The weak should be protected: the young, women and the elderly. These are the people who should be protected first. The people who hurt them should be punished the hardest.

In most cases rough and tough coppers and prison officers don't need help. Bring back the rope for those who prey on the weak.

FOR all those Left-wing do gooders who want to ‘love' criminals back to the right track, let me say that as one who knows, they are on the wrong tram. And for those who think that putting crims in jail for 20 years is going to change things — well, they're wrong as well.

I would like to see the re-introduction of the lash as a means of punishment. In most cases, serving time in jail is a stupid waste of time. Sometimes jail may be the only answer but in other cases, the lash could be the alternative.

Crimes of lightweight violence, from common assault to grievous bodily harm could be punished with a dozen or so cuts with the lash. I could have handled that instead of a few minor prison sentences.

Some of the young crims around do jail time too easily, and some drug dealers are well looked after on the inside. I think that a few cuts with the lash could add some dash to some of the wimps about and make men of them.

Things are getting too soft and easy all around. We need to get some discipline and backbone back into Australia. We need to bring the strap and the cane back into the school system, and the lash back into the prison system.

A nice bit of sharp pain clears the mind and cleanses the soul. I personally see the lash as a bloody good character builder. If you can't hang them, lash them and if you can't lash them, bash them.

Speaking of which, there is not enough bashing going on in police stations in these modern and enlightened times. The limp-wristed approach seems to be the order of the day.

The old ‘toss the bastard down the stairs' type of police questioning seems to be a dying art. Now it is ‘can I get you a cup of tea, sir, and I am sorry to bother you when you must be busy' approach. The old telephone book over the back of the head 50 or 100 times, the baton over the knee caps, the loaded gun in the mouth and a good kicking seems to be almost a thing of the past.

I can remember the old lines: ‘He attacked us, your Honor, so 12 of us were forced to restrain him.' I mean, where has it all gone? Police questioning is no longer the fun it used to be. How are young offenders to be taught correct respect for law and order without the aid of a sound flogging?

Police questioning has become, to be frank, quite boring. The bleeding hearts have won the day. Greenies in the bush, and Lefties in the city. What the hell has happened to us?

The tough approach at least produced tougher crooks, not like today. When police questioned via the use of fist, boot and baton, it produced a tough, hard breed of stand-up criminal.

I believe the soft approach toward the criminal of today is creating a weak, cowardly, limp-wristed, evil-minded, treacherous sort of snake-like crim. They behave more like spoilt, wilful chidren than hard crims.

The criminal of today, is, in my opinion, powder puff scum. Whereas a tough crim will not pick on the weak, the scum prey only on the weak.

ONE of the prettiest girls I have ever seen was Pauline, a glamorous dancer who drove men to distraction.

She was a stripper who could send men crazy with her moves, but she got into heroin in a big way. She turned into a faded beauty working in Fitzroy Street, St Kilda, as a $60 whore.

Whenever I saw Pauline she was sporting a busted lip, black eye or a bruised face. She was constantly being bashed, raped and robbed for her hard-earned money or the drugs she needed.

I felt sorry for her, and regularly stopped to speak to her. She used to like the people of Fitzroy Street to see me chatting with her. She used to use my name to protect her. It did help her out, but not with some of her clients.

I once saw her walking towards me, ‘smacked’ off her face, in a torn-up tee-shirt, a pair of tiny shorts that nearly cut her in half and a pair of spiky high heels.

She still had a body on her and a dancer’s walk, more a strut than a walk. Her face was swollen and black and she had black, red and blue welts from her ankles to her bum and all over her body. You could see all this as she was wearing so little.

She had been thrashed with a man’s leather belt by two men who had picked her up. This pair of vermin had taken her to a motel room, given her a hit of heroin, then doubled up on her and belted her for nearly an hour, just for fun. At the end, they took the money out of her purse. They had also smashed her false teeth and busted her ear drum. There she was, toothless, half dead, with a broken nose and beaten black and blue.

What could I, or anyone, do for her? Her arms were like dart boards, with needle marks scarring them up and down. She would offer me free sex and I would politely refuse. I didn’t want to screw her, or bash her or rape her. And she just wanted someone to talk to.

She thought I was her friend. I wasn’t. She was just a pathetic street animal and I felt sorry for her, the way you feel sorry for a lost dog.

She would talk about the old days and the past when she was a beautiful dancer. She would talk about the friends she used to have and how she was going to get on a methadone program and pull her life into gear.

She would say that if she had a guy like me to look after her she would be as right as rain. She would talk about her clients and how the police would arrest her and toss her in the cells with the drunks.

I would not have touched her without the protection of rubber gloves, a stainless steel condom and a bucket of Dettol. But after a chat with me she would walk away, swinging her hips, then she would take the stance with her long legs apart on the street. Within no time at all, a car would pull up and the driver would invite her in.

The last time I saw her she had stepped on a nail and the wound looked septic to me. She walked with a limp in her high heels. She was still without her teeth and was full of VD and had not been able to get to the clinic. She had sores on her arms from the needles. Even then, she still had the legs of a dancer, but she had the face of the street gutter junkie.

She was so well-known as a health risk in St Kilda she had to find a new patch and was working in Footscray. She had ulcers inside her mouth and was catering for the perverted sex trade for $25 a go. She was sleeping in Salvation Army clothing bins.

She was a walking public toilet. Heroin was her only reason for living.

Pauline was the saddest human sight I had ever seen. But what of the human scum who used her, the sexual sickies? What a wonderful world we live in.

Pauline was a terrible example of the living dead, a heroin whore, a pathetic waste of life. Is she still alive?

It would be a mercy if she wasn’t.

RANDY Mandy was a tall (5′9″) blonde with a body that was put together by the devil in a wet dream. She was all legs and boobs. When she filled out official forms she gave her occupation as ‘sword swallower’. I like a girl with a sense of humor.

She was never involved in prostitution, but she did work part time as a stripper and erotic dancer.

She was also a dab hand as a double agent, doing big favors and passing info from one side to the other. She slept with both the cops and the crooks.

Her main boyfriend was a big, bent Victorian detective I will call … but then again, perhaps I won’t. But she had plenty of others — and a lot more who wanted to get in the queue. She had boyfriends in both the Federal and Victorian forces, and a host of admirers in the criminal world.

Mandy was never trusted, but she was far too good-looking to kill or arrest. She had policemen paying her rent — and crims buying her clothes. She had top of the range jewellery, and if she ever wanted drugs, for recreational use, she would be provided with them.

She could get what she wanted from either side. She would put on strip shows at police bucks’ nights or turn up to orgies at some top crims’ homes.

She is about six years older than me and looks about ten years younger. She is terrified of violence, but fascinated and drawn to violent men.

When she was 38 she had an 18-year-old boyfriend, more a lackey than a companion. He was the errand boy, the house maid. I once called in to visit her. She greeted me at the door wearing nothing but a pair of stiletto high heels and a smile that took my breath away. I walked into the room, armed to the teeth, to warn her there was a police car outside. She put her fingers to her lips and said ‘shh, he’s asleep,’ as the policeman slept like a baby in the next room. She was an energetic girl.

She was a crime groupie, fascinated with the criminal and the police world. Women with her unique physical and mental makeup are as rare as diamonds – and cause just as much trouble. But Mandy herself floated unharmed like a butterfly in a world where many other women have died.

Mad Charlie, the man who in the 1970s stood over the massage industry, was quite smitten with Mandy. He was like a little kid in her company, being ever so polite and correct. It was almost like a courtship and quite funny to see. The monster of a 1000 massage parlors hopelessly in love with a lady, who in her high heels, looked down on Charlie as if he was a schoolboy.

He spent a small fortune on assorted presents, but the competition was too hot. She had more engagement rings than the local pawn shop. When he found out the truth of her police contacts, his heart hardened. Many people believe that Mad Charlie was shot over a woman.

Charlie’s luck in love was always bad. His bodyguard, ‘Big Mick’ was also in love with Mandy, so it was a no-win situation.

For Mandy there is a happy ending. She is now living in a state of relaxed retirement in a Melbourne suburb with a young boyfriend. She no longer sees men from either world. However, I am told that should a face from the past drop in, she has far too kind a heart to turn away a man in distress.

This lady has caused men to be bashed, stabbed, shot, sent to prison and murdered. Yet, through it all, she has been untouchable, proving that physical and sexual charm can cripple the mind, heart and common sense of any man, be he copper or crook.

I know men who have gone to see Mandy with every intention of killing her, only to end up totally in love and lust. She was a unique classic, a freak.

The only person who nearly turned Mandy into a born-again virgin and a candidate for the nunnery was that old mad drug dealer, Scottish Steve.

Steve had arranged to sell Mandy to some Arabic seamen from a merchant ship bound for North Africa. They were prepared to pay $5000 as they could re-sell her when they got to Africa.

It was a close call for Mandy, as Scottish Steve was convinced that she was some form of witch with evil powers and was trying to put a spell on him. Now, Scottish Steve was as mad as a bath tub full of rattle snakes. She went to see him in tears. I do not know what took place in Scottish Steve’s Ascot Vale home, but when she emerged, all was forgiven.

Steve announced that Mandy had been cleansed of all sin and that she was really a good girl at heart.

The mind boggles as to how she talked her way out of that one. Oh well, we all use the weapons that God gave us. Ha, ha.

WHILE Mandy was the top of the range in the crime groupie stakes, a sex legend, there was another girl who, on the strength of her outrageous behavior, was known wide and far in the 1970s.

She was a big girl, with long black hair and gypsy looks, which might be why they called her Midnight. She could fight like a man and was more violent than most.

Midnight was totally without shame and would put on some of the wildest displays ever seen in Melbourne. She was a famous dirty girl, who mixed with some of the top crims of the 1970s.

She was rock solid in a police station and apart from having an insane sexual reputation, she was considered a solid chick.

The last time I saw her, she was on the way to the doctor with a billiard ball stuck in her bottom, and it was so uncomfortable she couldn’t even read the news. But she was laughing her head off over her predicament, telling me I’d missed a great party.

Midnight was a wild lady, and I use the term lady purely because I am such a polite chap. She was the gangbang queen of Melbourne in the 1970s.

She was without shame and could make a gunman blush with her behavior. And often did.

I HAVE mentioned before that over the years I have received some tragic letters from old grannies and tearful mothers whose sons and daughters have died of drug overdoses.

I understand and sympathize with them, but I also get some weird and wonderful letters from some people who should have been locked up long before me. The assortment of Jesus freaks, bible bashers, violence junkies, murder nuts and other fruitcakes that have contacted me by mail indicates we are not a well country.

Most of this mail has gone in the bin. But the first book has produced a steady flow of mail different to anything I have had before. It is clear to me now that every nut in Australia must end up inside bookshops, because just about every one of them has written to me. They have all come out of hiding, and I wish most of them would crawl back under their rocks.

Most of the letters are full of crap but occasionally you get one from someone worthwhile. One person who has been writing to me for some years is a delightful lady, Jackie. She has become a loyal ‘penfriend’, if you can believe it. She tells me she is the President of the Chopper Read fan club. She even has a tee-shirt confirming the fact.

Well, while I enjoy the joke I would like to tell her not to wear that particular item of clothing in certain less reputable areas of Melbourne because some people might rip it straight off her chest. Perhaps not such a bad idea.

Another girl with obvious literary taste is Karen. She wrote to me to tell me that the cover of the first book would make an excellent tattoo. I took that with a grain of salt. A tongue-in-cheek fan club with a tee shirt is one thing but a tattoo, like herpes, is forever.

Karen is known as the ‘White Dove’. She said I was bigger than Batman. I just hope she never meets my mate ‘The Penguin’.

I had mixed feelings about the tattoo business. To be truthful, I didn’t believe it was true.

When Jackie sent me the photo of herself with the tee shirt I thought ‘this is a chick with a different sense of humor’. But when I saw the pictures of Karen with the book cover illustration tattooed on her back. I realized she was very serious indeed. Obviously, she loved the book.

Receiving mail in prison can be one of the great delights. It really helps break the loneliness. But it can be depressing, too. I get letters from battered wives and frightened women who ask me for advice. Some of the letters are quite sad, and I try to reply with the best advice I can, feeling a little like Dear Abby. Chopper the agony aunt.

One lovely young lady who has written to me is Desiree. She knows that I haven’t any children myself so I am sort of a godfather to her daughter. Gemma, She is a lovely little girl who also writes to me. So when I say the book brought some whackos out of the woodwork, I must admit that not all the letters come from mental patients. But there is no doubt that I am a pin-up boy for the nuts of the world. And do I ever get some mail from them, bless their pointy little heads.

But if someone writes to me in their own blood after cutting off their ears, that’s when I’ll change my name and get plastic surgery.

I have even received mail from blokes who have told me they read the book and thought I looked nice … so could I send them a photo. Bloody Hell. Needless to say, I did not reply. The next thing they will want me to be the May Queen at the Gay Mardi Gras.

When I get letters from people asking me in a roundabout way how to fix their domestic upsets, I scratch my head. Now Chopper Read can be many things to many people, but one thing I will never be is a marriage guidance counsellor. Some people write to ask how much it would cost to fix a problem and I certainly don’t agree with giving quotes on a bit of paper.

Some people have written to me claiming to be related, others have said they were related to me in a former life. One claimed that I appeared in a dream and passed on a special message. I sincerely hope it was ‘get some help, you crazy creep’.

One woman, who signed her name ‘Zandra’, said she was a mystic witch, a mistress of the black arts. She claims that my real name is not Mark Brandon Read but ‘Zeath’ and that I was her warlock brother and that if we both prayed at the same time we could double our mystic powers.

I flushed Zandra’s letter down the toilet. Let’s see her spook her way out of that.

One of the great problems of being in jail is that every nutcase out there knows your address. Let me out.

IN the world of prostitution, standover tactics are part of life. Girls get bashed, robbed and raped. Few complain, as they long ago lost their dignity and pride. Without self-respect, they are victims waiting to happen.