Free Hits and Memories: Chopper 2 by Mark Brandon "Chopper" Read Page A

unnecessarily, censored from telling the full story. Now all can be revealed.
    It seemed that some people thought the true story was a touch distasteful, and should not be told in full. Needless to say I disagree most strongly.
    What really happened that day was that there were some very tough men in that pub, many of whom were friends of Pauly. So when I got him on the ground my troubles weren’t necessarily over. I looked at the man on the ground and I looked at the mob around me, and the thought struck me I had better do something to show that his mates should keep out of it, then and forever.
    I bent down and, quick as lightning, popped his eye out and dropped it in a glass of beer. I then drank the lot in front of the crowd. Pauly’s mates all went different shades of green but it didn’t seem to worry him, as he was out cold.
    I didn’t feel guilty about it, after all Pauly was left with one perfectly good eye, more than enough for him. He was a violent and bloody criminal who had spilt more than his fair share of innocent blood over the years — so please, don’t feel sorry for him.
    In fact. I recall the incident with some fondness, because I believe that the swallowing of an eye was a first in the annals of blood and guts brawling in Australia.
    Okay, it’s not exactly like climbing Everest, but it is a record of some sort. I remember downing the beer in two gulps. The eye went down like a bantam’s egg. I didn’t blink, and neither did it.
    After all, it is quite socially acceptable to have a snack with one’s predinner drinks.
    To me violence was an art, and I was the artist.
    *
    THIS is a story I was never going to tell. It explains why I have such a deep-seated hatred of the parasites who sell drugs.
    The truth is I have a real fear of putting needles in my arm because I myself was the victim of a set up which very nearly killed me. Apart from the time when I was abducted at gunpoint and forced to dig my own grave, and when I had my guts carved open in Pentridge by Jimmy Loughnan, it’s probably the closest I have come to death. And I’ll never forget it . . . or forgive the treacherous vermin that betrayed me.
    Years ago, during a very low time in my life at H Division, I was depressed and not in a well state of mind. It was then that I was talked into trying heroin by a few of the boys in the division.
    They were all telling me it was great and would help me through my troubles. How was I to know that it was a plot to kill me. They put a full gram of heroin into a spoon, plus some acid out of the H Division fire extinguisher, mixed it up and filled the needle. I held out my arm, and the deadly mixture went into my blood. But, for some unknown reason, I survived. I was big, I was strong and lucky. And I sometimes wonder if Somebody up there was looking after me, because I have had more than my fair share of escapes from death.
    Afterwards, they called me ‘Rasputin the mad monk’ behind my back. Mad is right. When I recovered, I was as mad as a cut tiger snake, and I handed out punishment in no uncertain terms. But I was so ashamed of myself for being such a stupid fool that I vowed to punish drug dealers whenever I had the chance. I now distrust and despise drugs and the scum involved.
    If I had wished at any time in the last 20 years to go into the heroin trade I could have done so very easily. I know who to call, who to speak to, who to rob and who to kill. I could fly to Melbourne and lay my hands on two to four kilos of Chinese White with little or no fuss. Maybe one or two men shot, but no real damage done. I then could have that bagged up into one ounce lots. I could make a million bucks in a month. And I could kill or cripple anyone who threatened my trade. No-one who knows me doubts that.
    If I wanted to go into the amphetamine trade. I could fly to Melbourne and rob a factory with no great trouble. The same with grass. I could march a major grower out to his crop and cut 30 pounds of top