BOAR THE TENTH
by The Boar
Gidday fellow bike riders. I've been slack again because I've got a new addition to the family... a Gixxer thou', K6 model. Previously was riding an Aprilia RSVR 04. I'd forgotten how well the Japs do big fast bikes. Accordingly I have been putting a few k's under her wheels, getting used to what the big girl does and just bonding. I presume there are riders out there that still bond with their bikes, isn't there?
Anyway, okay the HWP in car video raises it's ugly head again. Klink, you are always trying to find a loop hole... I like that. In short the resolution for the rear camera is the same as the front camera (or so I'm told). So in other words doing a runner from head on will probably end in the same result, you winning the battle but not the war! (Nothing worse than thinking you're riding like Rossi getting away from a big old Ford shitbox and upon arriving home finding the happy smiling faces of the entire HWP shift waiting for you!).
The resolution is quite good and apparently they have some new fangled, fancy program that makes an ants arse look as big as a buffalo's bum. I'm no computer nerd, I just know it works. Test the information at your own risk.
Righto, in the absence of any reasonable question (or even unreasonable ones), I suppose I'm going to have to tell you another yarn.
Today I'm going to tell about the most vicious, unforgiving, pig headed, unreasonable, totally indiscriminate police officer I've ever worked with. Well there's actually quite a few and they are all dogs. Actually, they are dogs, German Shepherd and Rottweilers. And, let me be perfectly clear about this, they are definitely not man's best friend.
I don't know much about the history of the canine brotherhood in the cops. All I know is that during my thirty years I have seen them do some horrible things to criminals and cops alike. Don't let anyone tell you they're like Rin Tin Tin. Bullshit, they are slobbering evil minded arseholes that take a perverse delight in chomping on anyone, anytime, anywhere. In fact I reckon I've seen more cops bitten than crooks.
And above all else, I loved them.
There is no greater sight than when one of the pan lickers arcs up at someone who is not on your side. Crowds, big men, big women, regardless of race they are just fearless.
Sometimes however, they're just not that smart.
Some of you may remember than in my younger days I played around with the TRG and other tactical groups. We were used to arrest bad guys, real bad guys. One little war story indicates clearly what happens when things go wrong.
Our tactical group had been lined up to arrest a baddie named Herman (not his real name of course). Now Herman was a prolific car thief, break and enter merchant, motorcycle thief (hang the prick!), and druggie. How we got involved is that he was a renowned escape artist. On foot or in/on any type of vehicle he NEVER gave up. You had to be sitting on top of him strangling the prick before he cried 'uncle', and even then as soon as you relaxed, even for a second he was off again. On the last occasion he was arrested they managed to trap him in a bogan's villa (caravan) at which stage he produced one large army bayonet and tried to turn the young bloke arresting him into a canoe! This time he was going to be met with the elite, and any of this stabbing nonsense was going to result in a very firm smack.
Now Herman lived like a bit of a hermit in a series of old sheds and a lean-to. His most recent mode of travel was unknown although it was expected to be a stolen motorcycle (trail bike). He was living in the bush about ten kays out of town so we mounted up an operation to grab him for his most recent string of offences. An integral part of this operation was the use of the police dog. We specifically asked for the meanest, baddest motherfucker than was farting Pal in the kennel.
They sent us a dog called Fagan.
Now Fagan was a German Shepherd, a big totally black yellow eyed psychopath that had bitten everyone with a vowel in their name. His handler 'Billy' was a great bloke and took his job very seriously. The plan was that if we didn't get Herman in his sleeping bag (makes running a bit hard), or trap him in a building, then clearly he would be running. No one that I know runs faster than an angry dog (not for extended periods anyway and I accept you might have that initial spurt of adrenaline that gets you off to a good start, but soon after... chomp, chomp, chomp!) In all the plan was simple, achievable and relevant to the circumstances, nothing should go wrong. (Yeah, right!)
The rest of us were going in bush mode. That means the army camouflage gear, full face paint and a totally covert approach just before first light. No need for long arms on this job (no smartarse, not long fucking arms, machine guns and/or shotguns). Side arms were sufficient. We also wore a lighter model bullet/stab resistant vest.
We got dropped off about three kays from the site and made our way in, arriving just before first light. Herman's camp was lit by a campfire, there was an old transistor radio playing and a billy was coming to the boil on the fire. Trouble was, there was no Herman. We moved in through the camp and couldn't find him. Clearly he'd been there earlier, but how long had he been gone and how long before he returned was anyone's guess. The billy coming to the boil suggested he wasn't that far away so we were just deciding to fall back into the scrub when we heard the 'rinnnggg, rinngggg' of a rapidly approaching two stroke.
Fuck, the arsehole must have been out doing a break and enter for some milk for the tea?
Five of us, plus Fagan, fucked off into the nearest bush we could find.
Now a couple of things should have been going in our favour. He should have been night blind from the headlight on the bike (although there was too much light to really take advantage of that issue) and his hearing shouldn't be right on the money due to the absence of baffles on the bike. Depending on where he pulled up depended on who grabbed him first.
You guessed it, he pulled up right near me.
He was wearing an open face helmet (fucked if I know why he'd bother seeing the bike was stolen, he had no licence, and the bike was unregistered).
Now Herman was the quintessential druggie house breaking arsehole. He stunk like a pole cat, rarely if ever showered and wore the same clothes for months at a time. All in all he looked just like the grub he was.
As he dismounted I pounced. Well, actually I kind of rushed as fast as my fat little legs would carry me. He took off like a dog shot up the arse. I have never seen a human being take off like that before or since.
The foot race was on.
I was politely calling on him to stop(?!). He was ignoring those requests.
I saw one of the other team angling from a different side of the camp. This bloke was a very good footballer and I had no doubt old Herman was about to get the stiff arm coathanger of the century.
Wrong again.
This team member running through the long grass did not see the thigh high fence that soon brought him to a sudden somersaulting stop. Not to worry, Boar was still in hot foot pursuit, and considering we were running on a slight down hill slope, momentum was acting in my favour. (I weighed probably twice what skinny old Herman weighed).
Next I see another team member angling from the other side and he wasn't too shabby at footy either. No long grass in his way, just a few logs that could be cleared on the run. This foot chase was soon coming to an end.
As this team member jumped one of the logs however there was no way that he could see the dead cow in his landing zone. Right up to his fucking thighs with that glorious explosion of gas, maggots and slime all over him. My last sight of him was falling over and dragging the carcass with him. Fuck, the stink!
Then salvation, those magic words...
"Boar? DOG!"
Now we are all trained that when you hear that call you better stop running and get yourself face down on the ground because old rover, in this case Fagan, was generally trained to chase and BITE the prick that was running. In other words never, ever, ever get in between the baddie and the dog, or the dog and the handler.
I have hit the ground like I'd been pole axed and felt Fagan at full tilt run straight over the top of me. I could smell his putrid breath, the heat that was emanating from him. I could only imagine his yellow eyes with one single eyebrow as he was in missile lock. Old Herman's arse was going to look like mince meat any second.
I immediately got to my feet and began to run, this time with Billy the handler. Not that I wanted to see bloodshed of course (bullshit), only to effect the arrest once Fagan had finished feeding. All I expected to be left would be a shin bone and a bit of Herman's eyebrow by the time Fagan finished with him.
The dog homed in on Herman, closing the gap, missile lock acquired and jumped.
What the??..?
He didn't jump once, he kept jumping, AROUND Herman, and yapping like a fucking poodle. Jumping up and down with a happy look on his stupid fucking canine mug. I swear he was playing a game with him while he was running.
I suggested to Billy that his dog was not performing quite to the requisite level
"BILLY WHAT THE FUCK IS THE GO WITH FAGAN? HE'S PLAYING WITH THE CUNT!!!!"
Billy screamed the attack command (no I'm not telling you what that was).
Fagan ran back to Billy, and launched himself again. He again looked the business and I could only hope that...
Again Fagan made with the family cocker spaniel impersonation. Christ I could have brought my mothers Pekinese and got a better result than this shit, at least I could have thrown the dog at his head or something.
He was playing with him, again, playing with him.
"WHAT'S THE GO BILLY, HAS FAGAN GONE FUCKING MELLOW ON US, HAVE YOU HAD HIM SMOKING DOPE BEFORE A JOB? FUCK ME!!!!!"
Now Billy and I were both screaming the attack command. Fagan wasn't having a bar of it. Clearly his new friend was much more interesting than doing his job.
Then we reached a five strand bar wire fence. Herman cleared it with little effort. Fagan stopped, looked at the fence and then I swear he turned back to look at Billy as if asking him to lift him over!
Well, that had just about done me by then. I barrelled over the fence at which stage another aberration occurred. Herman stopped.
Herman not only stopped, but turned and began to charge at me.
Now I was dealing with something that I could understand. No obvious weapons in hand, Herman presented little trouble to a pissed off Boar and in short order I had upended him and was sitting on his chest pinning his arms to the ground.
It was then that I was shot in the back by a huge calibre weapon.
Well, no not actually shot, I was hit in a full blooded attack by a stupid fucking police dog. Fagan had turned traitor and seeing as though I was now belting shit out of his playmate he suddenly remembered all his training. He sunk his jaws into my back. Luckily I was wearing that vest otherwise I'd reckon the old Boar would have a rear door about the size of a watermelon in the middle of my back.
He was shaking me like a rag doll and all I was trying to do was get out my pistol out and slot the fucker right between the eyes. Billy was screaming the release code. Fagan the dumb arsehole didn't remember that particular command that day either.
Ultimately Billy dragged Fagan off and I dragged Herman off.
When all the dust had settled I spoke with Billy about what had happened. He couldn't explain it and I had never seen a police dog behave like that before.
The story doesn't end there.
Some weeks later another tactical job was planned to execute a search warrant on an outlaw's hotel.
It was a drug related warrant and it was essential that entry was quick. Generally the patrons would throw their gear on the floor and proving 'possession' to the requisite level was difficult to say the least. To minimise the opportunity of seeing us coming the plan called for a rapid foot movement (run like fuck), from a drop off point through a small shopping arcade and to the pub. The entire contingent of cops were travelling in a large coach and we had rehearsed de-bussing numerous times to increase our speed.
We also had a police dog with us... yep, Fagan.
Only this time it wasn't the Fagan that I remembered. I don't know what had happened to him but he was clearly insane! It was like having a psychopath on the bus. He was that bad he had to have his own seat as no one, not even Billy, could sit with him. Comparing Fagan's demeanour with his most recent performance you would not think that they were the same dog. No dope smoking this time, I think he'd been eating angel dust!
Billy put him on a fair sized lead and when we ran through the shopping centre Fagan's feet lost purchase on the shiny floor. He was slipping and sliding in an arc snapping and growling at all the startled shoppers who were falling over themselves (and their trolleys) trying to get out of this clearly rabid animal's way.
Suffice to say when he entered the pub no one was worrying about throwing their gear, they were worrying about climbing on top of the bar trying to get away from the mad prick.
He was never allowed to do school visits again. Too likely he would have eaten someone's little darling. Overall I think Fagan has passed away now. I hoped they never bred from him. I'd be frightened to think there was another one out there somewhere.
