Enforcer by Caesar Campbell, Donna Campbell Page A

take on an outlaw club, you’re taking on blokes that have been stabbed, hit over the head with baseball bats and bricks, had glasses shoved in their face, had five or six blokes kick the shit out of them, and they’ve still got up to carry on. So to an outlaw biker, a fight against a bunch of footballers is nothing. The footy players soon learnt that, because they were standing there like Mr Goody-Goody with their fists up and all of a sudden there was a bunch of blokes standing in front of them with broken glasses and broken pool cues.
    The footy players headed for the door, but unfortunately John Boy had been glassed in the hand by this big red-headed bloke. The blood was pissing out and we couldn’t stop the bleeding so me and two of the Comancheros got him up to emergency at Western Suburbs Hospital.
    They stitched him up and gave him a few shots, but we could hear the sirens coming so we grabbed John Boy and got out of there.
     
    A S I GOT to know John Boy and the Comancheros better, they started inviting me over to their pub on Victoria Road, Ermington. It’s not a small thing for one club to invite another club member to drink with them – especially as I would rock up in my Gladiator colours. Then, after three or four visits to their pub, I was even more surprised when John Boy invited me to a Comanchero club party. Apparently it was a first for them.
    The Comos didn’t have a clubhouse, so the party was at a member’s house, on the corner of Liverpool Road and Frederick Street in Ashfield. John Boy filled me in on a few things beforehand. ‘When you meet the club, don’t go off the deep end if you get snubbed by one of our members, Snoddy. He’s a bit standoffish. That’s just Snoddy, but I know what you’re like, and I don’t want a punch-up going on soon as you walk in the door.’
    As usual I rode in wearing my colours. There were a dozen or so Comos there, and, as it turned out, the first one over besides John Boy was Snoddy. He walked straight up and put out his hand: ‘I’ve heard a lot about you.’ We shook hands and spent the next half-hour looking over each other’s bikes. Snoddy was a quiet bloke, but intense. I met a few of their nominees, too. My mate Roach was there, having left the Phoenix to join the Comos. Then John Boy came over and said, ‘Jock wants to talk to you.’ Jock was William ‘Jock’ Ross, the famously militaristic president of the Comancheros.
    John Boy took me into the garage and introduced me to the thick-set bloke with a hard Glaswegian brogue and Coke-bottle glasses magnifying his ice-blue eyes. Jock told me about his life in the army and how he used to be a sergeant in the SAS. Hard-core stories of being dropped behind the lines in Malaya, and cutting off people’s heads. He told me he was a black belt in karate and that he had books on Napoleon, Hitler and Genghis Khan. His favourite was Sun Tzu’s The Art of War . He said he hadn’t wanted to leave the SAS but his captain gave him orders that he thought endangered his men. He belted the captain and got kicked out of the army. He also told me how tight the club was; there were only thirteen of them and they were real close.
    We spent about an hour talking. I had to admit he had some staunch blokes in the club, some good bluers, and they did seem to be a close club. But I suspected Jock might be the type who could only talk a good fight.
     
    T HE G LADIATORS were going great guns, but building the club up was near impossible with my brothers enforcing the rule that any new nominees had to be able to fight. We’d got up to twelve members but I couldn’t see it going any further. We were at the Venus Room one night and we had this nominee called Turk. He was a bouncer from the Texas Tavern and he had a glass eye. This night he was giving Bull a bit of cheek, so Bull put it on him and went whack . Well Turk’s eye popped out, flew across the bar and rolled onto the floor. With the dim lighting, the eye lying