Chopper Unchopped (37 page)

MAD Micky Marlow, or Micky Saunders, as he is also known, has been a good, loyal friend foØr many years.

We are, indeed, an odd couple. He is a quiet, polite fellow and a man of non-violence unless, of course, it is a matter of business.

He was born in NSW, and why he lives in Tasmania is a bit of a puzzle. He has friends on the mainland such as Peter Clune, the armed robber, and the Russell Street Bomber, Craig Minogue, who he still keeps in touch with.

Micky worked on the Melbourne waterfront in the late 1970s for a while and did a short stint in Pentridge, not that such things should be held against him. While a guest in Her Majesty’s prison he had a run-in with the late Shane Goodfellow.

For reasons that I have never been able to work out, police seem to think Micky is some sort of a tank man, a safe cracker involved in criminal activity. ‘Foul gossip and slander’ is my reply to this sort of baseless allegation.

Some members of the Launceston CIB seem to believe that Mad Micky was the last person to see local criminal identity Tony Tanner alive. Tony vanished and his body has never been found. When I returned to Tassie in November 1991, the head of the CIB asked me if I had any knowledge of the Tanner mystery and of Micky’s alleged involvement.

My answer has always been the same: Micky is too nice a fellow to be involved in such a thing. Besides, I have heard rumors that Tanner was seen drinking in a Williamstown pub, months after he vanished from Tassie.

I met Tanner in 1987 and I found him to be a disagreeable fellow with the sort of personality that is prone to suicide. The suicide factor should not, in my opinion, be ignored.

Micky is something of the local playboy and many an attractive girl has been overwhelmed by his charms. He is also a fearless punter. He once lost $13,000 in just on one hour of drunken madness at the greyhounds. We play some rather foul practical jokes on each other and our methods and styles are very different.

Mad Micky is, and always will be, a loyal friend whose friendship I value. He is a thinker who will not act in haste, whereas I like to strike while the soldering iron is hot, so to speak.

At times Micky is so laid back I’d think he was in a coma. But when he moves, he moves with purpose. He has a secretive and paranoid way about him and he is always talking in a special semi-code. He is convinced that he is being followed or that his phone is being bugged.

He also has a cleanliness fetish. He is the only man I know who will spend an hour in the shower, dry himself off, and then wash his bloody hands.

Mad Micky had a falling out with my old mate, Sid Collins, and warned me that Collins was treacherous. But I thought I knew better, only to find out that Micky was correct.

Micky’s motto of ‘Never plead guilty’ has still found him inside Risdon Jail on a few occasions over the years, but he now lives a life which has little to do with crime, other than to socialize with a few old crooks.

He is a mate and a loyal friend and has stuck on my side in spite of popular opinion. While I don’t say it to his face, I am grateful for his support and friendship and I am sorry for putting holes in my manners in the name of scallywag comedy, much at poor Micky’s expense.

A few crims could learn from Micky. He doesn’t give people up in police stations, doesn’t talk out of school and, in matters of business, is a cool-headed chap to have on your side.

Dave the Jew met Micky after the Collins shooting and both of them got on in a friendly manner, which I found strange as The Jew hates people even to see him, let alone know who he is. I have never heard The Jew say a good word about anyone since the death of Cowboy Johnny.

As anybody who read
Chopper From The Inside
knows. The Jew grew up with me and Cowboy Johnny in Prahran. He is from a wealthy family and went to Wesley College but he would have to be one of the most dangerous men in Australia. If he decides someone has to go on the missing list, that is it. He will quietly hunt them down, and then they are no more. I am always glad to know that Dave is on my side.

He is blood loyal and cold blooded. He wanted to help me with my problems in Tassie by getting rid of a few people. I told him that was not the way to go. The coppers must have heard something because they sure as hell hid away some of their witnesses in case they developed a Jewish Problem.

Micky, on the other hand, was puzzled by The Jew. He was surprised that such an ordinary looking fellow, such a polite and gentle person, could really have such a lethal reputation.

Dave the Jew and Mad Micky have one thing in common. They are both puzzles. Complex people always are.

In 1987 Micky and myself became involved in a few matters that I am unable to write about, but let me say that Micky has been there for me when it counted. In 1987 he came to Melbourne and I introduced him to the mad drug dealer from the west of Melbourne, Scottish Steve.

It was a moment of some comedy. Before the conversation Steve suggested that we put all our guns on the table and Micky was amazed to see so many weapons plonked out in front of him.

At our second meeting at Steve’s Ascot Vale house, or the house of horrors, as it was known, I witnessed the strangest conversation, with Scottish Steve talking in complete speed-ravaged, paranoid riddles and Mad Micky talking in his unique sort of code.

I was totally lost and the other two were no better. Each man left the meeting convinced the other was quite mad.

A MAN I admire greatly is G. Gordon Liddy of Watergate fame. In my view he stood for truth, justice and the American way . . . his own version of it, any way.

In some ways I condemn the Americanization of Australia. But the Yanks have given the world some real heroes, and to me, Mr Liddy is one of the greatest. He represents strength in a man, and is prepared to bend and break a few rules, and bones, to get the job done in the name of the common good.

While the Lefty bleeding hearts of the world may condemn people like Liddy, who are they anyway? Just a pack of namby pamby nancy boys, waving their limp wrists at real men. They vomit their Lefty verbal crap, condemning anybody who has shown a bit of dash out in the real world.

G. Gordon Liddy had the capacity for blind loyalty. He was a robot soldier of the Nixon administration and did not fall to his knees in tears when the shit hit the fan. He said simply that a man should not extricate himself from a difficulty at the expense of his associates. I admire him greatly.

He was arrested over Watergate and stayed staunch through the lot. He was one of the few who didn’t give anyone up. At one stage he was prepared to go and stand on an identified street corner so that he could be knocked because Watergate had failed and he was in charge. I would have thought a poor reference from the President would have been sufficient punishment, but old Gordie was made of stern stuff.

It is the way Liddy handles fear that I admire most. It’s pretty well known that when he was a kid he was frightened of rats . . . so he caught one and ate it to beat his fear. Thank goodness he wasn’t frightened of elephants.

To show his strength of mind Liddy would put his wrist over a lit candle until you could smell the flesh burn. He is one tough man, all right. When he was locked up over Watergate a lot of black prisoners yelled out that they were going to get him. But on his way to the shower yard he started singing some old Nazi battle songs. They all decided to leave the old crazy whitey alone after that.

Liddy went on to have his own radio program. I personally think he would make a great President. Mind you, you’d never know if he was going to wreck international relations by serving rat at the White House.

ONE of the greatest Australians now alive is the Victorian RSL President Mr Bruce Ruxton. While many people see him as a figure of some comedy, in years to come when he is in his grave, Australians will say, ‘shit, old Bruce was right.’

I have yet to disagree with a word he has said, and while a lot of Australians see the RSL as of little or no importance, it just goes to show what short memories people have.

Regarding the topic of immigration, come the day when Australia is facing the threat of a war, think about who will fight to defend the country and who will want to leave these shores as quickly as they came.

It is not hard to see that Australia is in deep trouble, from within and from without — and the ‘She’s sweet’ attitude won’t work any more. Instead of laughing at what men like Mr Ruxton have to say, we should be paying attention.

Think about it. Australia is filling up with people who have escaped one war or another and when our turn comes, they will escape from Australia just as fast.

My personal arsenal is my protection against the day this country is invaded, and I truly believe that day will come. When it does come, it’s grab your guns and head for the hills time. No invading army can defeat a nation if the people of that nation are well armed and want to fight for freedom.

I’ve got enough heavy duty firepower and ammo stored away to hold off a small army for three months. I believe that when Australia is invaded, those who are not prepared will die . . . but the buggers won’t get me without a fight.

When I was a kid, like most boys, I would pretend to be out in the wild west and I would practise with my sixguns. Well, they reckon that all men are boys at heart and, in this area. I have never left my boyhood.

I will always be a devoted enemy of the anti-gun lobby. A disarmed population is a helpless population and I believe that this slow but sure move to disarm the people of Australia is a dangerous thing. A move that the people of this country will one day regret.

I will never surrender my guns.

YOU don’t have to be Einstein to realise that I am a great admirer of personal courage in anybody — although I don’t hand out too many wraps. And one man I greatly admire is the heavyweight boxer, Joe Bugner. Some smartarse Pommy sports journalist once wrote that Joe looked like a Greek statue, but had fewer moves. To that I would just like to say that the hardest things most sports writers have ever punched is a typewriter — and even then most of them lose.

As far as I am concerned ‘Aussie Joe’ was the hardest fighter I have seen in the ring — not because of his boxing ability, but because he was a human punching bag who refused to lie down.

Big Joe had more blind courage than a pit bull terrier on speed. He had the brain of a scientific boxer with the heart of a slugging brawler. He seemed to punch his way nearly to the top, then get stage fright on the big night.

I really believe Joe could have been champion of the world. I won and lost a lot of money betting on Big Joe and I’d still bet that on a good day he could still go the distance with any heavyweight in the world.

He will be remembered as the heavyweight who didn’t win the big one, but in my opinion he could have done it, because no-one ever beat him. They may have won the fight, but they never really beat him where it counts: in his mind.

In the blind courage and sheer guts department, he will always be the real champ. Some smartarses in Australia and Britain used to bag him, but never to his face, mind you. They wouldn’t be game enough for that.

I have the view that Joe was sometimes too nice in the ring. If only he had used a few more uppercuts, throat and neck punches, he could have killed his way to the title.

I suspect he was the victim of poor advice, training and management in his early career. A lot of trainers are fantastic at showing the little blokes what to do, but are lost when they get to train a heavyweight.

I know how I would have handled Joe’s training. My strategy would have been not to fight to win by a knockout or a TKO: we would fight to kill.

Forget about spilling your own blood, or the points your opponent might get, and aim for the side of the neck, uppercut with the left, then try to smash his windpipe and snap his neck. Corpses don’t win fights.

Think murder, because it is legal in the ring. And at least if you don’t kill him, you’ll win the fight.

Aussie Joe could have done it. He had more guts than God. He will always be my boxing hero.

I think I would have been a great boxing trainer. Any pug who beat my boy would be running a big chance of copping a double barrel in the car park.