Free Enforcer by Caesar Campbell, Donna Campbell Page B

brothers and you could feel your blood turning hot. There was that buzz you got when you were outnumbered and you were fighting together for your club. There were baseball bats, knives, chains, the whole lot, and then someone would yell out the club name. You’d hear it again and could feel your blood getting hotter. You’d start swinging harder and harder.
    I’d dropped the three blokes and was helping Roach up when suddenly there were six or seven more blokes charging down the park towards me. As they got near I grabbed Roach by the belt and the shoulder and threw him at their legs like a bowling ball. They tumbled back and I started smashing into them with the padlock and chain. Then someone yelled that the coppers were coming, and in an instant the fight broke up. Members from each club returned to their own little campsites as the cops appeared and started giving everyone a hard time.
    We decided we’d hit the road. But while I was rounding up the old ladies I ran into four detectives and they started quizzing me about the club: How many people were in the Comancheros? Who was the president? Who was the sergeant?
    ‘Get fucked.’
    Apparently they didn’t like my answer because they handcuffed me, and with two Ds gripping my arms, the senior bloke in the safari suit started whacking me in the guts. ‘Come on, tell me what I want to know.’
    ‘Get fucked.’
    He continued whacking away, until one of the Ds yelled out, ‘His club’s coming.’
    I looked over my shoulder and there were six Comos coming down the park. The senior D gave me one final whack, right in the nuts, before they uncuffed me and went screaming out of the park.
    Well, after that whack to the nuts, I saw stars, but I stayed on my feet and managed to walk back to my bike.
    I was pretty crook for the next few days. I missed a club meeting. We had a run to Wisemans Ferry coming up the following weekend so Snoddy, who I’d become good mates with since our first meeting at the club party, rang and asked me how I was feeling.
    ‘I’m pissing blood.’
    ‘Just stay there and don’t worry about the run,’ he said. ‘I’ll have a word to Jock.’
    Next thing I got a call from Jock. ‘Caesar, you stay at home, mate. Don’t worry about the run.’
    The blokes left on the run on the Saturday morning, but come Saturday afternoon I felt weak about not being there. I was all strapped up so I thought, Fuck it. I got my bike out, kicked her over and headed to Wisemans Ferry, about seventy kilometres away.
    Halfway there I felt this wet, warm sensation like I’d pissed my pants. I pulled over to find I was bleeding. I took off my shirt and stuffed it down the front of my jeans.
    When I turned up at Wisemans Ferry the first one to see me was Shadow. I obviously looked like shit because straightaway he asked me what was wrong. I told him I was bleeding, so the rest of the club gathered round. They were walking into people’s backyards and grabbing towels off washing lines. I had towels stuck down the front of my jeans and on the seat of my bike. Shadow and Wack followed me home and put my bike away. I ended up in Western Suburbs Hospital where they told me I had a ruptured groin from where the copper had hit me. I spent the next week in bed.
     
    O UTSIDE OF my brothers, the best bluers in the club were Davo and Sheepskin. Davo was a happy-go-lucky bloke with curly blond hair and a ginger beard who loved riding his bike. Me and him became good mates. Sheepskin had joined the club not long before me so we used to hang round together a fair bit and he’d invite me to his place for tea. I never asked Sheepskin where his nickname came from, but nearly the whole time I knew him he wore a sheepskin vest, so it might’ve come from that. One day when I was up at Sheepskin’s place he went to get something out of a cupboard, and when he opened the door the shelves were just lined with trophy after trophy from karate tournaments. He’d done a lot of martial