BOAR THE THIRTEENTH
by The Boar
Gidday.
Well, I'm back again, for better or worse.
Firstly, some answers to your questions and comments...
Cricky: thanks for the kind words. Yes, a lot of the motorcycling brothers don't like cops, but if you've read my earlier works you will understand that cops are just a reflection of our entire society. Unfortunately there is good and bad in society; same with the cops. I would love to say that we enforce the Sydney Swans rule (NO DICKHEADS), but that is clearly not the case.
Mick: "sweet and innocent"? Oh please.
Spottedquoll: why do you ask me questions about the NSW RTA? I've got no fucken idea. Having said that if one of the brothers in Victoria wrote down the wrong licence number I would say you'd be pretty safe with that one, as long as you just paid the fine. I don't know about the camera. Did you get a ticket or not? If so, how long ago bearing in mind that I understand NSW drivers get their points back after two years? Sounds to me like you'll be okay. In all seriousness, that site information is probably right. However, don't rely on it as an argument in a legal setting.
Tripletreat: I would refer you to Boar the First. Yes, attitude is everything. It might not stop you getting a ticket, but it just might get you a cheaper one. As for what you wear, well... with apologies to the outlaws, if you're wearing colours in an OMCG then I don't expect you'll receive much joy. Membership of other groups is really a subjective issue for the cop that's stopped you. Same as whether you're a tourer or a boy racer. Having said that if you are riding like a dickhead, and then get off the bike and act like a dickhead, then you will no doubt be treated like a dickhead regardless of what you're wearing or what you're riding.
Boris... my brother Boris who purports that no other Italian bike is worthy of his arse crack except the mighty MV Agusta. Excuses? Well, I'm afraid that after you've heard hundreds, none really make you stand up and take notice. I was always intrigued by the one which goes: "My car's nearly out of petrol, I was rushing to get to the petrol station". I recall one bloke who claimed he was speeding to get home because he was badly in need of a shit. While determining his licence status he farted and the stated need to speed then diminished, and by the smell of him, the need for him to sit back in his car at all may well have then been moot.
I also recall stopping two cars. White trash female (unlicensed) in the front car. Said vehicle unregistered and uninsured, with a two-year-old kid jumping up and down on the back seat unrestrained. The car directly behind was her white trash husband who was pissed and over the limit. When asked why he was driving he said, "I was just making sure she got home okay because she ain't got a licence".
I've heard them all: medical emergencies, deaths in the family (including pets, I might add), running late for a wedding, running late for a funeral. And I used to love those who got out of the car telling me they knew my boss, the commissioner, how s/ he paid my wage, etc. Refer to Boar the First for the outcome of those exchanges. I've actually seen more people who admit to the offence given a caution than those who try and come up with a banal bloody excuse. So there you go.
War story (strange but true):
When I was a young Boar I had cause, with a number of my workmates, to arrest a rather unsavoury critter. He was a rapist. His modus operandi (MO for you wankers that watch CSI) was to lay in wait at night near schools and pre-schools where meetings were held. He would identify a lone female and while she was in the meeting he would flatten one of the tyres on her car. Female then exits and if the opportunity presented itself he would offer to change the tyre for this damsel in distress. Next thing she finds herself smacked up the side of the head and dragged off into the bushes where he would rape her. He was a low, mongrel piece of shit that didn't deserve to breathe the same air as us.
Anyway we caught him and charged him. And, as the law is a blind arse, he was ultimately given bail with conditions. One of those conditions was to report daily to the police station. Failure to do this creates a situation whereby the bail is forfeit and happily results in the baddy's arrest and incarceration in one of Her Majesty's well-appointed motels. This dreg pleaded Not Guilty and complied with his bail so there was little that could be done.
About two weeks before the commencement of the trial old mate (let's call him "Grub", it's easier than assigning him any type of decent identity) finally did a runner. He didn't report on bail for three days in a row and accordingly one of the guys went to the Court House and swore out a warrant for Grub's arrest. He was now a wanted man.
Now in those days, the Boar was a happily married man with one Young Boar. I had the requisite mortgage and was working about three jobs to make ends meet. One of the Boar's family treats was to go to Pizza Hut (this was a long time ago) and, to put it in perspective, it was around the time when they had 15 minutes to provide the pizza or you would get it for free. Lo and behold, the pizza didn't arrive in time, so the Boar's family feasted on free pizza, and the money budgeted for the meal was spent by Mr and Mrs Boar on some chateau cardboard and fine ale. So by the time I waddled my fat arse out of the restaurant, holding Young Boar's hand to await Mrs Boar, I was replete and content.
Then I saw Grub. And Grub saw me.
I can remember it like it was yesterday. Grub was walking towards me carrying a plastic bag with a bottle of lemonade and a loaf of bread. He was wearing (and this will definitely give my age away) a Millers press-stud western shirt and a pair of blue stubby shorts. He even had a knob of devon in the back pocket of the stubby shorts.
It was like time stood still. Grub kept on walking and pretending (poorly) he hadn't seen me. I was trying to push Young Boar up the stairs out of harm's way while pretending (poorly) I hadn't seen Grub. Young Boar (who was about four at the time) wasn't helping the cause by shouting in that piercing voice that four-year-olds possess, "Dad, stop pushing me! Why are you pushing me up the stairs?!"
My plan was simple. As Grub walked past me I would give him the best right hook king-hit that I could throw and then arrest him.
Before I go on there is always a bit of a kerfuffle about cops buying into things when they're off duty. I didn't have a gun, I didn't have handcuffs or a baton. I didn't have a radio. But what I did have was an intense hatred of this rapist piece of shit and the resolute belief that putting all the bullshit aside, it was my job, on or off duty, to get shitbags like Grub off the street.
I managed to get Young Boar up a couple of steps, amidst protestations, and let Grub walk past me. He was still pretending (poorly) that he didn't recognise me. And at the last second I changed my strategy.
I shouldn't have.
Instead of king-hitting Grub, once he presented his back, I decided to pull him backwards on his arse and ground and pound him.
Trouble was that Grub was as tense as a coiled spring and when I used both hands to grab the back of his shirt around the shoulder blade area he took off like a dog shot up the arse. Two things then happened. Firstly, I pulled two great big handfuls of his shirt clean out, literally ripped them out like they were nothing.
And secondly, his take-off speed pulled me over onto my face.
Did I mention it had been raining and the ground was wet? Did I mention I was wearing a pair of gay white trousers, a lemon coloured T-shirt and fancy white shoes, all at the direction of Mrs Boar who was trying to keep me trendy, and that these were absolutely no good for chasing and arresting felons? Did I mention that when he took off I blew a gasket?
The foot chase was on. Young Boar was yelling out, "Hey, Dad, where are you going?" Mrs Boar was still inside Pizza Hut paying the bill and apparently, as I wasn't around to witness this, Young Boar went inside and declared that "Daddy's chasing a bad man up the street". The long suffering Mrs Boar (this was not the first time I'd done shit like this), whose eyes were no doubt rolling back in her head, asked to use the phone so as to ring the police who were working to come to the aid of her idiot husband.
Meanwhile I had missile lock on old Grub. However, with a belly full of pizza and beer my ability to put in the long ones had diminished somewhat. Grub had been living in the bush (from all appearances), was barefoot and homeless fit. His cardio-capacity far exceeded mine. If I could get him in a phone box, and start him fighting in a heavier weight division I would have backed myself.
I was asking Grub to surrender. "Come back here, you rapist cunt, I am going to fucking kill you!"
Upon reflection I suppose to stop at that request would have been asking for trouble so no one could excuse Grub for ignoring me.
Now the town where we were at the time had one hill. One very big mountainous hill. That hill was located just near the fine Pizza Hut establishment. Grub ran straight up the hill with me thundering after him. The mechanics of running up a very steep hill, with adrenaline leaking out of my ears and a belly full of pizza and beer is quite complex. In summary, it just doesn't work and ultimately something had to give. It was the pizza and beer, all over the front of my formerly lemon-coloured shirt.
Between chunders I was continually yelling for Grub to stop. Grub jumped a fence (I ran through it), Not surprisingly, the workmen were looking wide-eyed and slack-jawed, but before any action could be taken we were gone. I suppose you could liken the chase to a rhino chasing an antelope. I wasn't the antelope.
Grub jumped another fence and I found us running through an arcade back onto the same street. At least we had managed a small period of 'downhill' during this time. As it later turned out, the workmen and the people in the arcade worked out that something was amiss also rang the local police station to report the (mismatched) foot chase. I was later told that there was consternation building at the station as no one could work out what the fuck was going on!
Once we hit the street we were confronted with stationary traffic at a major set of traffic lights. Grub had rat-cunning. He knew I was running out of puff, that I was cranky, and that I was definitely not built to turn corners. So he began to run in and out of the stationary cars making me follow him. I couldn't take the chance and stay on one side of the stationary vehicles, I had to follow him and God knows it was knocking me up. I knew my race was done and I heaped curses upon Grub, his family and ancestors.
Grub ran off through the intersection, sans plastic bag and knob of devon I might add, and was now showing how good distance runners deal with front rowers.
My heart rate was 200. My blood pressure was off the chart. My lungs were aching as were my legs. I had wasted an entire feed of pizza. Now I was really cranky.
There was a Commodore parked at the head of the stationary traffic with a young bloke driving. I pulled my badge out of my pocket, ripped open the passenger door and introduced myself, and informed the young fella I was commandeering his car, albeit with him as driver. I explained that Grub was wanted for rape and to get off after the bastard.
The young bloke's eyes lit up and a steely resolve appeared upon his chin line. He slammed the Commodore into first and dropped the best burnout through a red light I have ever seen. The chase was back on.
Grub had now taken a right, and was heading towards the railway line. I explained my strategy to the young Commodore driver.
"Mate, what I want you to do is get right up near him. If he's on the road go as close as you can and I am going to bowl him over with the door of your car. If he's on the footpath try and put me close and I will chase him again, but for fuck's sake stay with us because I'm rooted."
"No worries, mate", was the casual reply.
The young Commodore driver, I might actually call him Brockie from now on, took that right-hand bend like the legend. Fuck me, the little bastard could drive. He was bearing down on Grub, who was on the footpath, like an Exocet missile. At that stage I started to fear for my safety because (I thought) it was clear we were going too fast to stop. I cracked the door ready to exit and said, "Mate, any chance we could slow down just a bit so I don't get fucking creamed when I try to get out?"
No response, just the best four wheel skid I have ever seen that put me right next to Grub. The chase was on again. This time, however, I had the momentum (from being thrown from a moving vehicle). After a short chase I got hold of the prick in the middle of a pedestrian crossing. Shortly thereafter I was sitting straddled across Grub's chest, his arms pinned by my knees, my fists pistoning into his block head. Shortly, he surrendered unconditionally.
But it wasn't over yet. I was knocked up and needed help. Just then I saw a pistol appear over my right shoulder and point at Grubs head. Thank fuck, I thought, cops. Then I glanced at the weapon and realised, to my horror, that it wasn't a weapon issued to my organisation. I looked back over my shoulder at a pimple-faced, bespectacled young man and said, "Mate, are you in the job?"
"No, I'm a jewellery courier," he replied.
"For fuck's sake, put that gun away before you shoot him, me or someone else".
Shortly after that, the cavalry arrived en masse. Their attendance would have been aided by the last emergency call from the public about a man with a gun holding two men at bay. You can imagine the response.
Anyway the moral of the story is don't be a rapist and don't make me waste my free lunch.
Grub pleaded guilty at trial and got eight years gaol. Hope 'Bubba' fucked him in the arse.
