‘NOW, if they had a “shoot a drug-dealer in the eye competition”, I am sure I would win the gold.’
*
‘ONE drug dealer I killed – as a matter of fact, he died of shock halfway through a knee-capping – had bragged of overdosing about 50 prostitutes and junkies over a ten-year period in the western suburbs. How could his death be classed as murder?’
*
‘I’M no murderer … I’m a garbage disposal expert.’
*
‘SHOOT a terrorist and they give you the keys to the city. Shoot a drug dealer who is killing our kids for money and you get eight years. At least the terrorist believes in what he is doing.’
*
‘I FIND the selling of drugs to be a girlish, limp-wristed way to earn one’s living. It is the wimp’s way to gain wealth and power. Why should I steal or deal drugs when I can simply rob the drug seller?’
*
‘THERE are two main reasons why I target drug dealers. First, they are the ones with the big money. One is hardly going to make a big profit from kidnapping and torturing men who pinch washing machines for a living, so it’s simply a matter of logical economics.’
*
‘I DON’T know why Sydney crooks don’t stick to what they know best, pimping for whores and selling drugs to kids. Every time you see a Sydney crook on television, he is either lying in the street after being killed by an imported Melbourne hitman, or giving Crown evidence against some poor bastard.’
*
‘I HAVE been described as a monster, but what sort of monster am I supposed to be?
I am a monster who has never hurt a woman, a child or an old person. The general public screams for the blood of child killers and child sex offenders, but when Chopper Read bashes or stabs one of these vermin, the courts turn on me and call me a danger to the public.
The general public screams for the blood of drug dealers, but when I put a blowtorch to the feet of a few drug peddlers, and shoot a few more, the courts declare me the dangerous one. I am a monster who has not turned his hand to an innocent member of the general public, except for the time I attacked Judge Martin, and even then we ended up writing to each other. He forgave me for what I did and I still feel bad about it.
The courts say that the people I have hurt are members of the public and should be protected. Hang on; I thought the public was meant to be protected from sex offenders and drug pushers.
Yet, when I spill a little of their blood, suddenly this lot of vermin are promoted to general public class. Are members of the criminal underworld really members of the general public?
Should they be protected? Do they deserve the same rights as the rest of the community? Or is the truth that they have chosen a path in a dog-eat-dog world, so they should cop what they get and not whinge about it?
Justice Cox, in Tassie, said that it appeared that all my violence had been directed towards members of the criminal underworld, and then declared me a danger to the public.
Now, call me a social buffoon, but what is what and who is whom?
A drug dealer is either an enemy of the public or a member of the public. He cannot be both. The whole argument is nonsensical to me. I am ‘a danger to the public’ because I have shot, killed and tortured a few members of the criminal world.
If that’s not Irish logic, I’m a Dutchman. You may as well charge rat catchers with being kidnappers as far as I’m concerned.’
‘While Eddy was lying in the freezer for five days waiting for disposal, me and the Jew did another two other jobs of work. Busy, busy, busy. Ha, ha, ha.’
*
Fast Eddy got grabbed on a Friday night,
He dies on Sunday lunch,
I didn’t use much violence,
I didn’t kick or punch,
But we had some fun before he died,
Yes we had some fun,
Played a game called knee cap,
Knee cap nail gun,
I had to keep Eddy fresh,
He spent five days in a fridge,
Until I could arrange his funeral,
Under the West Gate Bridge,
Fast Eddy had a heap of gold,
And every ounce of it I sold,
Eddy had a heap of dash,
But not enough to keep his cash,
He made it all from selling dope,
But in the end, he had no hope,
His mother wonders where Eddy is,
She cries and feels blue,
But don’t cry dear, this is just a poem,
And poems are rarely true.
*
‘WHEN I look back on the jellybeans I have shot, stabbed, bashed, iron-barred, axed, knee-capped, toe-cut, blowtorched, killed, and generally upended, I look at it like this: If I hadn’t done it, then somebody else would have. I am not the only lion in the jungle, but I am the only one with no ears and a smiling face.’
*
‘THEY’RE like taxis. If you miss one, another will be along shortly. And they both smell bad, too.’
*
‘THE crims today come from quite affluent backgrounds. It’s shocking when you think about it. There is no excuse for some of them being inside. Some of them have matriculated and some have been to university. It’s drugs that have got them here, you understand.’
*
‘PEOPLE want me to be Dirty Harry, cleaning up the world like a vigilante. I never said I was a hero. I robbed drug dealers because they had cash and couldn’t complain. Steal your second-hand Commodore and you’ll go to the cops. Steal twenty grand from a drug dealer and he keeps quiet. You do the sums.’