Victimless Crime
victimless
crime
faction
MICK PACHOLLI
Copyright May 2001
CHAPTER 1
E and I had been working together for about five months.
You wouldn't call it a partnership - more co-operative entrepreneurs - although, if you had asked either of us what we did, the answer would be that we provide a public service, not unlike s.p. bookmaking or sly grog, over-coming unworkable statutes. A thankless job but someone was going to do it...
We complemented each other. E was a green man, whereas my contacts mainly provided a smorgasbord of imports - all types of hash, hash oil, Buddha sticks and a variety of South American and African combustibles. We did a lot of product swapping providing our customers a varied selection of illicit, euphoric delights.
The local grass was rarely great, no-one really knew what a mature female hooch plant looked like in the mid-seventies, although the Greeks produced some amazing seedless dope (sinse was unheard of), but the Italians - neither knew nor did they give a shit. Theirs was usually seeded, stalky, leafy, brittle-dry or a mixture of the aforementioned, it had never interested me.
But...It appeared Customs was doing a great job in the Autumn of '76 and very little quality pot was reaching our shores, and E asked if I could raise the cash to do a run to Adelaide with him, to take half each of a hundred pounds of heads that the wogs reckon was pretty shit-hot.
1 -------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
E reckons that if I wanted in on this mid-west connection of his we would be using my car and I'd be bringing the shit back on my own. I was not to talk business, he'd have it under control - bit of a big-head ol' E, but it was his trip so that was cool.
Trepidation crept into my head. I wasn't the paranoid type, but the idea of driving four hundred odd miles with one hundred elbows in the boot of my recently acquired Euro mobile took a bit of mind-wrap. After sussing out a few of the dealers I worked with, the money was no problem, Melbourne had never been so dry, the phone wouldn't stop ringing, people were screaming for a choof - so I thought .....Fuck it, let's go!
The next two days were spent chasing people around, picking up cash. Pounds were only one hundred and fifty dollars a piece, so selling at two hundred, I only had to sell forty up front to pick up the bag price, a bit of pocket money for the trip, and ten pounds for myself to chop up for a couple of bag dealers I knew - and lots of free choof - the prime directive!
E's mate in Adelaide had lined everything up for Thursday night. My new girl, Vivien, stayed the night before to help me sort and count the money, eat food, drink wine and share body fluids. She was my 'older woman', by about seven years. We'd met through friends in a band I was managing, Flash Annie and the Floyd Boys.
She was loud and pushy but gravity hadn't played havoc with her yet, plus she was smart and a rampant sex fiend - bikie-chic, biker chick. Turned out to be mad as a cut snake down the line - but that's another tale.
We were up at seven-thirty. Viv knocked up a bit of brekkie and coffee which I scoffed. I arranged to drop in on her on the way back from the run to celebrate a success in the usual manner - sex, drugs and champagne. She said she would try to organize a surprise for my return.
2 -----------------------------------------------------
My mustard coloured Renault 12 was relatively non-descipt. I figured if I stayed within the road rules there would be enough idiots on the road to attract the filth's attention. I made a call to E before leaving and he was ready to go as soon as I arrived at his gate. Pumped, thoughts both positive and negative racing around my head, using my skull as a velodrome, we were off. After our initial animated greetings E nestled his head in between the door window and the highback seat and excused himself as he slipped into unconciousness.
By the time we'd hit the outskirts of Melbourne I was in cruise mode. A Roy Buchanan tape,'That's What I Am Here For' , was the first one to come to hand as I groped in the glove-box and provided a very apt musical background - I miss that man. Into the third song E was back with us, I had cranked it up to about eight and the windows were vibrating. He didn't look too happy so I reached into my shirt pocket and chucked him a big lump of Afghani hash,some papers and a packet of Albany, motioning with my left fingers for him to roll a joint. That put a smile on his dial. Poking a hole in the air with his left digit finger, and giving me a look a drunken magician would give as he prepared to pull his rabbit, he reached behind me into his bag and extracted a bottle of tequila, then back again for a lemon and a packet of salt.
We weren't overly concerned about the police. There was no drink/drive hysteria and the local country coppers along the highway weren't looking for, or expecting to find car loads of pot. E rolled a three paper joint, lit it and simultaneously rolled down his window and turned the music down. Handing me the number, E asked for my knife, which I removed from it's scabard, ever present on my belt, and passed it over - it was more a fashion statement than a weapon, and he proceeded to chop the lemon into sixths.
Ah, the old tequila ritual - lick, sip, suck! E opened the bottle, flipped the lid over between his left thumb and digit, poured a shot,
3
----------------------------------------------------------------------------------
wedged the bottle in his crotch, then grabbing the salt, poured a little mound into the webbing of same, quickly licking, sculling, wincing and rapidly sucking the lemon to kill the taste of the tequila. He shuddered,eyes watering and asked if I would like to partake.
Three shots, two joints and four hours later we hit Bordertown. As we cruised in for a petrol stop E was explaining how he'd spoken to his mate last night, and things weren't going down until tomorrow afternoon. He must have been biding his time to drop this one on me, I'd made arrangements back in Melbourne with the guys that fronted up with the money to catch up with them.
As I started to grumble I noticed a public phone on the roadside, just past the garage. I threw him the keys and asked him to fill her up while I rang homebase. A Kiwi mate of mine, Greg, shared the house, so I gave him a ring to fill him in on the changed circumstances. He'd be able to placate the boys for me. I tried Viv - no answer - then I remembered that she would be at work, I'd have to try her later. As I strolled back to the car I realised that we were past the half way point.....I chilled - so far the journey had been a hoot. E was looking pretty sheepish as I approached the car, he'd paid the bill - cool - so I let him off the hook.
Apparently E's mate, Danny, had assured us of a bed and a feed. His wife and kid were away for the night so we'd be able to relax and have a few pipes. Now that time constraints had relaxed we slipped back into convivial conversation, then, bang, the munchies hit, my arsehole felt like it was racing up my throat to eat my tongue! E ageed it was time for a feed, so we pulled up outside the first pub we came across, a quarter of a mile down the road. A large plate of dusky flathead in beer batter, with chips and salad - it
4
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------
barely hit the sides going down, but certainly did the job. .............MTC
crime
faction
MICK PACHOLLI
Copyright May 2001
CHAPTER 1
E and I had been working together for about five months.
You wouldn't call it a partnership - more co-operative entrepreneurs - although, if you had asked either of us what we did, the answer would be that we provide a public service, not unlike s.p. bookmaking or sly grog, over-coming unworkable statutes. A thankless job but someone was going to do it...
We complemented each other. E was a green man, whereas my contacts mainly provided a smorgasbord of imports - all types of hash, hash oil, Buddha sticks and a variety of South American and African combustibles. We did a lot of product swapping providing our customers a varied selection of illicit, euphoric delights.
The local grass was rarely great, no-one really knew what a mature female hooch plant looked like in the mid-seventies, although the Greeks produced some amazing seedless dope (sinse was unheard of), but the Italians - neither knew nor did they give a shit. Theirs was usually seeded, stalky, leafy, brittle-dry or a mixture of the aforementioned, it had never interested me.
But...It appeared Customs was doing a great job in the Autumn of '76 and very little quality pot was reaching our shores, and E asked if I could raise the cash to do a run to Adelaide with him, to take half each of a hundred pounds of heads that the wogs reckon was pretty shit-hot.
1 -------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
E reckons that if I wanted in on this mid-west connection of his we would be using my car and I'd be bringing the shit back on my own. I was not to talk business, he'd have it under control - bit of a big-head ol' E, but it was his trip so that was cool.
Trepidation crept into my head. I wasn't the paranoid type, but the idea of driving four hundred odd miles with one hundred elbows in the boot of my recently acquired Euro mobile took a bit of mind-wrap. After sussing out a few of the dealers I worked with, the money was no problem, Melbourne had never been so dry, the phone wouldn't stop ringing, people were screaming for a choof - so I thought .....Fuck it, let's go!
The next two days were spent chasing people around, picking up cash. Pounds were only one hundred and fifty dollars a piece, so selling at two hundred, I only had to sell forty up front to pick up the bag price, a bit of pocket money for the trip, and ten pounds for myself to chop up for a couple of bag dealers I knew - and lots of free choof - the prime directive!
E's mate in Adelaide had lined everything up for Thursday night. My new girl, Vivien, stayed the night before to help me sort and count the money, eat food, drink wine and share body fluids. She was my 'older woman', by about seven years. We'd met through friends in a band I was managing, Flash Annie and the Floyd Boys.
She was loud and pushy but gravity hadn't played havoc with her yet, plus she was smart and a rampant sex fiend - bikie-chic, biker chick. Turned out to be mad as a cut snake down the line - but that's another tale.
We were up at seven-thirty. Viv knocked up a bit of brekkie and coffee which I scoffed. I arranged to drop in on her on the way back from the run to celebrate a success in the usual manner - sex, drugs and champagne. She said she would try to organize a surprise for my return.
2 -----------------------------------------------------
My mustard coloured Renault 12 was relatively non-descipt. I figured if I stayed within the road rules there would be enough idiots on the road to attract the filth's attention. I made a call to E before leaving and he was ready to go as soon as I arrived at his gate. Pumped, thoughts both positive and negative racing around my head, using my skull as a velodrome, we were off. After our initial animated greetings E nestled his head in between the door window and the highback seat and excused himself as he slipped into unconciousness.
By the time we'd hit the outskirts of Melbourne I was in cruise mode. A Roy Buchanan tape,'That's What I Am Here For' , was the first one to come to hand as I groped in the glove-box and provided a very apt musical background - I miss that man. Into the third song E was back with us, I had cranked it up to about eight and the windows were vibrating. He didn't look too happy so I reached into my shirt pocket and chucked him a big lump of Afghani hash,some papers and a packet of Albany, motioning with my left fingers for him to roll a joint. That put a smile on his dial. Poking a hole in the air with his left digit finger, and giving me a look a drunken magician would give as he prepared to pull his rabbit, he reached behind me into his bag and extracted a bottle of tequila, then back again for a lemon and a packet of salt.
We weren't overly concerned about the police. There was no drink/drive hysteria and the local country coppers along the highway weren't looking for, or expecting to find car loads of pot. E rolled a three paper joint, lit it and simultaneously rolled down his window and turned the music down. Handing me the number, E asked for my knife, which I removed from it's scabard, ever present on my belt, and passed it over - it was more a fashion statement than a weapon, and he proceeded to chop the lemon into sixths.
Ah, the old tequila ritual - lick, sip, suck! E opened the bottle, flipped the lid over between his left thumb and digit, poured a shot,
3
----------------------------------------------------------------------------------
wedged the bottle in his crotch, then grabbing the salt, poured a little mound into the webbing of same, quickly licking, sculling, wincing and rapidly sucking the lemon to kill the taste of the tequila. He shuddered,eyes watering and asked if I would like to partake.
Three shots, two joints and four hours later we hit Bordertown. As we cruised in for a petrol stop E was explaining how he'd spoken to his mate last night, and things weren't going down until tomorrow afternoon. He must have been biding his time to drop this one on me, I'd made arrangements back in Melbourne with the guys that fronted up with the money to catch up with them.
As I started to grumble I noticed a public phone on the roadside, just past the garage. I threw him the keys and asked him to fill her up while I rang homebase. A Kiwi mate of mine, Greg, shared the house, so I gave him a ring to fill him in on the changed circumstances. He'd be able to placate the boys for me. I tried Viv - no answer - then I remembered that she would be at work, I'd have to try her later. As I strolled back to the car I realised that we were past the half way point.....I chilled - so far the journey had been a hoot. E was looking pretty sheepish as I approached the car, he'd paid the bill - cool - so I let him off the hook.
Apparently E's mate, Danny, had assured us of a bed and a feed. His wife and kid were away for the night so we'd be able to relax and have a few pipes. Now that time constraints had relaxed we slipped back into convivial conversation, then, bang, the munchies hit, my arsehole felt like it was racing up my throat to eat my tongue! E ageed it was time for a feed, so we pulled up outside the first pub we came across, a quarter of a mile down the road. A large plate of dusky flathead in beer batter, with chips and salad - it
4
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------
barely hit the sides going down, but certainly did the job. .............MTC
Comments