Long Post: Bike Thief Justice Article from Performance Bikes Sept 88
paulh
A True Article apparently
Soon to be added to my Website..
http://www.users.bigpond.com/abadonn
paulh
Worth a read
===================================================
It's 2:14am in a carpark in suburban England and four blokes in an old van are
fed up. Rambo, Tyson, Stan and Whacko Jacko - as they'll be known have waited
four and a half hours, watching a solitary red Triumph T595 parked under the
yellow glow of a streetlight.
That's too long to watch a motorbike do nothing. The reward should have come
about two hours ago, but no luck so far. It's beginning to look like another
no-score night; another waste of time, and it'll be the fourth in a row without
action. Sod this for a game of soldiers.
Jacko, curled up in a back corner of the van, begins to snore softly. How can he
go to sleep at a time like this? I'm nervous as hell, waiting for the police to
arrest us, or for a gang to jump us, for pain and injury and imprisonment and
death. My nerves are strung out on caffeine, nicotine and lack of sleep, yet at
the same time I'm bored rigid with waiting. This is the most dangerous thing
I've ever done and I'm bored.
Rambo, in the driver's seat, whispers a few words of frustration between
clenched teeth, careful not to wake his colleague. His face is a flat,
emotionless mask, eyes glinting in the light of his Marlboro.
Awww... come on you little fuckers...'
He fills me in on exactly who it is we're waiting for.
'There's a gang of kids working round here, linked to some blokes in Newcastle
who they sell the bikes on to. We know about them coz our client had his bike
nicked from just down the road three weeks ago, and Jacko had his stolen not far
from here a year back. We hate these little toe-rags.'
Stan chimes in: 'That bike's been parked in the same spot for a week and we've
seen sweet fuck-all. It's the most frustrating thing about what we do. This is
our last night. We'll have to pack it in after this. We'll only get paid half,
but the worst thing is we won't catch the bastards.'
As they speak, Tyson gazes steadily into the old Merc's rear view mirror. I
can't believe how calm these guys are. The only sounds in the cabin are Hoist's
Planet Suite playing quietly on Classic FM and the occasional shuffle of feet
and click of cigarette lighters.
The bike is parked in the middle of a large carpark near a housing estate, where
thefts are common night and day. It's a notorious local hot-spot. The van is
about 15 yards from the bike, lurking in the shadows cast by the arch of a
bridge. It's a carefully chosen location and is positioned in such a way as to
be invisible to any passers by, including police. The last thing the boys want
is police intervention. The police wouldn't like what they do.
Suddenly, Tyson whispers a sharp warning.
'Hsst. We've got a bite. Wake Jacko.'
Now there's movement. Before I've had a chance to lean across and look in the
mirror, Rambo has barged me out of the way and climbed into the back of the van,
grabbing a length of wood from under the seat and his Sylvester Stallone mask
from the dash. Jacko is already awake, rolling over to the other side of the van
and grabbing a truncheon, pulling on his coat. Everything is done smoothly and
silently. The hours of waiting are over.
Peering into the mirror, I can see a dark, hooded shape sloping around in the
shadows near the bike. He leans down across the seat and rocks the machine
forward slightly, testing for an alarm. Then he fiddles around near the steering
lock. There is no doubt about his intention. At that moment, Tyson, Rambo, Stan
and Jacko explode from the van and sprint toward the culprit. He only manages
five steps before he's mown down in a windmill of flailing fists...
It started, as these things often do, with a phone call.
'Wanna story? There's a bunch of blokes round here who get their own back on
bike tealeaves. They parka bike up as bait, then wait in a van until someone
tries to have it away. Then they jump out and kick fuck out of 'im...'
Sounded good to me.
'Gets better, mate,' the caller continued. 'They're for hire. For a fee, you can
get 'em to come round and stake-out your area, if you've got a problem...'
A meeting was arranged with the anonymous caller - whom we now know as Jacko -
and I was sent along as the stooge. Cheers. I felt like I should be carrying a
briefcase full of unmarked US dollars, or be wired from head to toe with an FBI
spook whispering in my earpiece. Or maybe it would all be a waste of time...
But Jacko appeared at the meeting point promptly, answering his description,
which was simply, 'I'm a big bloke. You'll know me when you see me.'
And he was. Twenty stone wide, six feet tall, gigantic forearms plastered with
tattoos. He had short hair, piercing blue eyes, and his thick neck and head
formed a huge Howitzer shell above his broad shoulders. This was a man you would
never, ever fuck with. He was wearing a short-sleeved shirt, tie and trousers. I
expected a biker: he was driving a Ford Mondeo.
We ordered two Big Mac Meals and took a plastic booth near the kiddies' play
area.
So, what's the story?
"Me and three mates lay a trap, park a bike up, then beat the shit out of anyone
trying to steal it. It started off as pure revenge, but more and more people
found out and we started getting paid to do jobs.'
What sparked it off?
'Three of us had our bikes nicked in the space of a month. Then Tyson's went a
month later, and the law did nothing. So we got together to sort it out for
ourselves. It's mad round here - probably just as bad anywhere else. 1 reckon
every PB reader has either had his bike nicked, or knows someone who has.
'We used Rambo's van and did our first stake-out about eight months ago. We
parked Stan's Triumph outside a mate's house in a side street, then parked the
van behind it and waited. Simple, really. We made sure it was a fairly quiet,
looked at escape routes for us and the thieves, got everything just so and
waited. On the first night a couple of kids tried it on.
'We'd only waited a couple of hours. Couldn't believe it. Got one of the
bastards and dragged him in the van. Gave him a kicking.'
What do you do to them?
'Nothing permanent. We can handle ourselves - we know how to hurt someone
without seriously doing them in. It's all about control. If 1 hit someone, 1
might crack a few ribs at worst, but they'll know they've been hit.
The fear of it is worse than the actual pain. The surprise is bad enough. Most
of 'em have been duffed over in their lives, but they won't have been caught
nicking a bike, then dragged into a van by four blokes wearing full-face masks.
We teach 'em a lesson.'
So can a paying client come on a stake-out?
'No. Too risky. Too unpredictable. Someone might pull a gun or a knife or the
law might nab us and then you've got real fuckin' trouble. Anyway, it can be
three or four nights in a row. When you explain it, people back out: mostly,
they just help us with choosing locations and reccying the job before.'
So will you let a journalist come on a job and see what happens?
'Yeah, why not?'
There is a distinct noise made by a human knee tearing, halfway between a deep
'pop' and a sharp 'crack'. It's loud enough to pass through the windows of the
van and it makes my flesh crawl. Even after being kicked in the head and torso,
punched in the face and dragged with iron fists across the tarmac, the bike
thief is still putting up a struggle and someone has twisted his leg to calm him
down. It's an over-vigorous action and the thiefs screams are now being muffled
by Jacko's hands, one over the mouth, one around the neck.
They drag him to the van. I look through the doorway between cabin and load area
to see three of the guys hold the thief up for Stan to give him one almighty
backhander across the head. The Stan Laurel mask fixes its lifeless grin on me
through the shadows as Stan buries a rock-hard fist into the thief's stomach. He
punches him again, and again, then whispers something into his ear before
pushing him back into the van. The rear doors are closed and the beating begins
in earnest. There are muffled obscenities, grunted rather than spoken, as the
thief is thrown from one side to the other, legs flailing in the semi-dark. It
soon gets very hot in there; a stifling, humid heat.
'You fuck.'
Bang.
'You fucken stealing it, eh?'
Bang.
'You fucken trying it?'
Bang, bang.
Shit.'
Bang.
The thief is defiant at first, swearing back at his assailants, trying to strike
out with his arms, but his screams are soon cut short by a throat hold. He
hasn't got a chance. Soon the brat begins whimpering and begging as he takes hit
after hit, mostly to the body, occasionally to the face.
The noise inside the van is unbearable: I'm sure the police will arrive at any
moment, but it must be muffled from the outside. It suddenly occurs to me that
they've probably soundproofed the interior...
The batons and weapons aren't used herem punishment is administered by fist and
foot. Then the activity slows down, and one of the beaters moves his rubber face
close to the thief s and whispers something like, 'You tell your fucking friends
about this, alright?'
Then there's another hit which sparks more violence. Shapes flit around in the
enclosed space, lit only by the street light passing through the van's
windscreen, giving me fleeting glimpses of Stan Laurel, Mike Tyson, John Rambo
and Michael Jackson, moving left and right in a random dance, faces unmoving.
What must be only three or four minutes seems to go on for years. They make it
last, they make it hurt, and they end it abruptly. Stan grabs the now bloodied
and lifeless culprit by the neck and dumps him in the street before pulling on a
full face helmet. His Triumph starts first time and so does the van as Rambo
takes the wheel. The bike blasts off into the night and the van rolls behind it
at a steady 30mph. I look back and see the thief dragging himself off the path
and into an alleyway. Justice, no matter how violent, is done.
We drive to the motorway services where I've left my car. Jacko and Tyson sit in
the back, propped up against the walls, smoking. Rambo sits unmoving at the
wheel, driving smoothly and slowly. There are a few brief words about the knee
mistake, and Jacko reckons he's seen the thief before somewhere. But there's
nothing much to say, certainly nothing to celebrate. More than anything, as the
adrenalin slowly seeps away, we become dog tired. At the services, we meet Stan
inside and sit around drinking coffee. I mumble a question: do they think it
will stop that kid doing it again? They ponder this for a .moment, before Jacko
answers:
'No, not really. They're so fucking stupid. Maybe, sometimes, it stops them, but
that's not the aim. We're just doing something we need to do. Call it revenge,
call it getting even, call it what you like. When we all had our bikes nicked,
we couldn't believe how fucked-up we felt about it, so we thought we'd take the
law into our own hands. It felt so good the first time, we did it again. And
again.'
There's a long silence before Stan starts talking.
'We're prepared to get nicked for what we do. It's part of the game. But it's
worth the risk. The Feds don't like it, but maybe, just maybe, some of them -
deep down - think it's alright. A lot of our friends like it. Our clients like
it. We like it. That's all that matters.'
He looks out of the window as he speaks.
'We're not proud of what we do, and we wouldn't suggest other people do it. We
don't think we're heroes or vigilantes or shit like that. We're just ordinary
blokes who got fed up having our bikes nicked.'
Jacko has the final word before we part company. He speaks slowly and clearly,
measuring every word.
'We think that what we do is fucking RIGHT. We think it's time somebody fought
back and played by the same rules as those shit-bags. 1 mean, they don't have
rules, so why should we? A good kicking is all these little fuckers understand.
But the law can't dish it out - they know these tossers just walk out of court
every time - so we're going to keep doing it until we've had enough. And that'll
be a long fuckin' time, I'll tell you...'
Dale Porter
paulh wrote in message ...
>An article from the September 1998 issue of Performance Bikes.
>A True Article apparently
>Soon to be added to my Website..
>http://www.users.bigpond.com/abadonn
>
>paulh
>
>
>Worth a read
>===================================================
<SNIPPO>
>The only sounds in the cabin are Hoist's
>Planet Suite playing quietly on Classic FM
**Pedant Mode On**
That would be Holst's Planet Suite I presume?
**Pedant Mode Off**
BTW.....Very appealing story to anyone that has had anything knicked. ;-)
Dale Porter (1992 CBR600 F2)
IRC Nick: _Panther_
ICQ: 3793015
paulh
wrote:
>
><SNIPPO>
>
>>The only sounds in the cabin are Hoist's
>>Planet Suite playing quietly on Classic FM
>
>
>That would be Holst's Planet Suite I presume?
>
>**Pedant Mode Off**
cos its spelt right....
>BTW.....Very appealing story to anyone that has had anything knicked. ;-)
Except they're far too lenient on the toerags....
paulh
Brenden Bertuola
Brenden
900SStealth
paulh <dee...@bigfoot.com> wrote in message
news:vvp8usoj6gs25r3an...@4ax.com...
> An article from the September 1998 issue of Performance Bikes.
>.... 'Wanna story? There's a bunch of blokes round here who get their own
back on
> bike tealeaves. They parka bike up as bait, then wait in a van until
someone....
paulh
thanks..
paulh
On Thu, 12 Oct 2000 09:48:07 +1000, "Brenden Bertuola" <liqu...@bigpond.com>
wrote:
Brenden Bertuola
".....get their own back on bike tealeaves. "
(Which would not be picked up by a spell/grammar checker)
Cheers
Brenden
900SStealth
paulh <dee...@bigfoot.com> wrote in message
news:lhgaus41hok8e6lp0...@4ax.com...
Mike OConnor
It's no Typo.
Tealeaf = Thief (for as long as I can remember[1])
Mike
R100RS
[1] You don't want to know how long that is...
Powderboy
love it! :-)
P
Emu
that nicks stuff
ya know... the filthy lealeaves will grab ya bike and piss off up the frog n
toad on it, the ring all there mate on the dog n bone to brag about it.
the fing is they dont give a frier tuck about where the geeza they half
hitch it from.
Rough translation...
"these dirty thieves will steal ones motorcycle and ride away down the road,
call thier mates on the telephone and they don't give a fu... well i gues
you get the point *grin*
Emu
paulh
wrote:
>No problems Paulh, I just thought it was funny that these guys were going to
>
>".....get their own back on bike tealeaves. "
>
>(Which would not be picked up by a spell/grammar checker)
heehee... ya fell for that one...
I just wanted to get you to say it out loud..
Check your cockney rhyming slang.. you need to watch The Bill more often.
:-)
paulh
Brenden Bertuola
stringing that one together for me, I have spent the day riding through
black spur, lake mountain and back again. :P
-Bastards-
Brenden
900SStealth
Emu <e...@smile.com.au> wrote in message news:39e54...@news.acay.com.au...
Benno
"Fuggen awright - givit to them Cahns"
It would feel good. Love to see it here but out in a small outback town, the
chances of having the rest of the tribe hunt you down is high.
In my case, prevention is better than cure and also having a bike that looks
Harely-like to the ignorant in a town with two outlaw gangs also helps.
^^@++
"those shit-bags. 1 mean, they don't have"
Obviously meant to be I mean...
-Matt
"paulh" <dee...@bigfoot.com> wrote in message
news:lhgaus41hok8e6lp0...@4ax.com...
Mike O'Connor
Emu wrote:
> the fing is they dont give a frier tuck about where the geeza they half
> hitch it from.
"Half Inch"
Get it right, china.
Mike
R100RS
Emu
Gosh... one thinks that you got one there! ...
Toodle pip .. what!
Emu