“SNIPERS KILL THREE BIKER GANGSTERS
OUTSIDE JO’BURG NIGHT CLUB”
(Newspaper Headlines all over South Africa early 80′s )
“Styles- shoot him! Shoot the Warlord!”
This is the actual BACK cover of the printed book
This is the actual FRONT cover of the printed book
Johnny’s voice ripped across the street to me; behind him, through the crowd, I saw the German’s pale face. The beast stirred within me as I clenched my hands and moved towards Peter Grote. I hated his guts and now I could finally settle our score.
As Johnny reached me, he grabbed my gun out of its side holster, spun around, and pulled off a shot, but by then I had seen that familiar silver shotgun in our former Warlord’s hands, and he was raising it up to shoot, a move I’d seen him make dozens of times before during our target practices, he never missed.
At the sight of the shotgun my training took over and instinctively I screamed at Johnny,
“Dive, bra, dive this guy looks like he’s going to shoot!” and dived under the nearest car myself.
All around me I could hear the heavy roar of hunting rifle, shotgun and small arms fire; it felt like I was back in the Angolan bush. Those few seconds felt like a lifetime. It is one of the most nerve-racking experiences in life to be shot at from all sides, all the worse if you are unarmed. A real-life nightmare, it’s like being tossed around by a wave, you’re helpless and disorientated… deep inside your spirit you know that death is in the air, its long black talons searching to rip you down into the gaping jaws of a fiery Hell.
I could hear the ricochet of bullets on the pavement and tar; I lay under the vehicle, my muscles tensed, any minute now I expected to feel the familiar warm sting of lead tearing into my flesh.
Then silence. I smelled bitter cordite and felt the ringing in my deafened ears. Far off in the distance I heard women scream, one after another. Turning my head, I saw Johnny Law’s outstretched gloved hand still clutching my gun just a metre from my face. In shock, I called to my brother:
“Johnny…hey boet are you okay?” But he didn’t move at all. “No No No No No!!!” I screamed in blunt denial.
I staggered up, slipping in the thick, black blood that was still forming a puddle around his body and my boots. I was ice cold. Johnny’s head had been virtually blown off, and I was covered in blood and other stuff.
Alex lay on his back, a gaping wound in his chest, his unseeing eyes still open in shock.
Rashid Khan sprawled lifelessly on the tarmac.
I howled at the top of my lungs, pain and anger erupting from deep within my soul, as I felt the beast rise up in me. I saw a ‘Panting Panty Rider’ walking out of the Club and flew into him like a demented demon. Too late, the cops arrived with sirens blaring, jumping out of their vans, beating up Breeds, Stepchildren and Chapter 13 gang members with batons, shotgun butts and handcuffs. There were dozens all over me and I tried to fight back, but with my hands cuffed I was virtually kicked into the van and lost a rib in the battle.
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The cops finally let me out of their van where I’d been raging and banging for the last couple of hours while they did their ‘investigations’. I went to one of our safe-houses to see a brother known as The Hermit. I sat down and took the joint he offered, took some deep hits and washed it down with Jack Daniels. As the red hot poker hit my throat, I closed my eyes, and tried to piece together the fragments of the picture, backtracking from my knock on the Hermit’s door…
The entire incident was surreal; it felt like I was in a nightmare and coming down from a bad acid trip. But it was real – it had happened, I knew, because Johnny Law’s brains were still spattered all over my leathers and denims. Even while holding the newspaper in my hand I noticed blood, pieces of bone, and chunks of grey matter splashed onto my gloves, clothes, and hair; it was everywhere, even in my mouth. I couldn’t get myself to go wash it off; it was a part of my brother, and our outlaw code required blood for blood! The Hermit was staring intently at me, eyes full of questions and anger. He had gotten out his Uzi and sawn-off shotgun, donned his Special Forces beret and bullet-proof vest, ready for war. A war that had been brewing a long time against a splinter group of ours called “The Flying Brothers” (known to us as “The Panty Riders”). They were some ex-Breeds that had revolted and left the Club with our former Warlord, the crazy German with Nazi blood coursing through his veins.
I started analysing the events from a tactical point of view; the conclusions I reached were so absurd and shocking they couldn’t be true. I remembered my uneasiness during the entire evening; my soldier’s instinct kept ringing alarm bells. Why was my brother Breed (known as the Irishman) doing his best to get me drunk and mad? Why were the lights outside the Club so much brighter than usual, and why were they shining onto the street, lighting us up like actors on a stage? All the coloured lights had been removed and replaced by spotlights; it was a perfect ambush setting. I remember looking up at the roof a few times during the night, but it had been too dark to see anything.
I was to find out much later that three rifles with telescopic sights had been trained on me all the time. The German had given the order to take me out first, because I was always the one to start the ‘kill-clock’ (precursor to a CSW Club Sanctioned War). But now I’m wondering where my Bulldog is (38 Special). The last time I saw it, it was disappearing into the crowd!
We also found out later that crooked cops at the highest level had combined with various other gangs that night to set up the execution ambush.
The ‘Special Branch’ unit of Apartheid South Africa had been ‘investigating’ us Bikers as Communists connected to the then banned ANC (African National Congress) now the Goverment. Which to us was a load of bullshit, we were just Bikers kicking against their system!
READ DAVES TESTIMONY UNDER: THE ‘Testimony TAB’
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