Don’t you hate it when you’re in the boot of a Mercedes, in a container, on the back of a truck, and somebody bangs on the side of the container, and you bang back, thinking it’s your saviour when in fact it’s a policeman?
Don’t you just hate it when that happens? That ruins you’re whole damn day.
Was it just me who was excited, when old mate, the alleged escapee drug king who two weeks before had cut off his ankle tracking gizmo and bolted, tossing away a $4 million home in Sydney, finally got nabbed again on the Queensland / New South Wales border during the week?
Or were there others smiling smugly, knowing that there’d been another jolt, however small, to the apparently endless supply of the illicit drugs and illegal substances that are ruining the lives of so many young impressionable teenagers across the country?
Please tell me you were dancing on the inside? Watching old mate in his freshly laundered olive green prison kit, sans shoes, being ushered out onto the Coolangatta tarmac, in preparation for his extradition “flight of shame” back to Sydney. Back to the Big House.
By crikey I was excited. I may or may not have even high-fived myself. Thank goodness the kids didn’t witness the celebration It would have just been another cause for ridicule. And trust me, they don’t need any more.
Seriously, even without an “up close and personal” experience, I absolutely loathe these “alleged” drug lords.
Anytime I see news footage of an alleged major bust, showcasing giant bundles of alleged cash and drugs, followed by blurred out faces, being led past alleged luxury cars and into paddy wagons, that same self-congratulatory urge resurfaces. An involuntary little fist pump.
These people are dead set bottom feeders, the grime and slime that lives between the bathroom tiles. They’re not just criminals, they’re arrogant criminals. So ostentatious. So “blingy”. If that’s not a word, it should be.
Instead of privately enjoying their ill-gotten gains in secluded hideaways, they wave their wealth under the nose of the parents whose children’s lives they exploited and often ruined, at least temporarily, if not permanently.
And from what I can see, there’s no evidence of any contrition. No acknowledgement that, “Hey, I’m a narcissistic knob that doesn’t know any better. Never had kids of my own, so Bro, can’t tell ya I’m feelin’ ya pain”.
There’s nothing like that. You just see muscled bodies in designer clothes, $800 sunglasses shielding their sinister eyes as they’re ushered off in handcuffs in the direction of the courts, and ultimately, their new “heavily restrictive” residences, hopefully forever. At least until the cows come home.
On a human not personal level, I do my best to empathise with some criminal offenders. Not the paedophiles and the serial sex offenders of course. Irrespective of their life shaping influences, they can rot in hell.
But petty thieves who transgress while trying to feed a a family and a drug habit, or a drug habit and a family, they’re a bit different. They’re acting out of desperation, driven by the instinct for survival and that next addictive hit.
The motives of drug lords and syndicate kings are totally different.
For them it’s all about ego and power and greed, their life of luxury reliant upon the exploitation of others.
Are they singularly responsible for every drug-ruined life, every addict, and the trail of family destruction they inevitably leave behind? Of course not, but they’re the drivers of the locomotive who are pulling the carriages of carnage.
No wonder our hard working police force revels in their demise, when the big breakthrough comes. Outside the sex offenders – the “rock spiders” – the drug king pins are the prize catch.
The same morning I’d watched the cop-cam vision of old mate, being hauled out of the Merc, out of the container, and into police custody, I was driving to work in peak hour traffic. It was impossibly slow, congested, chaotic. Nobody was going anywhere quickly.
And then in my review mirror I saw a car, a flashy, low slung white European job, gurgle down the vacant bus lane, an uninterrupted run of roughly 400m, and when they reached the front of the queue, they cut in. Without even indicating.
My instant thought – there’s somebody else who thinks they’re above the law. Self important, self absorbed. Self obsessed. All the hallmarks of a drug dealer.
Perhaps one day they too will be hit by the karma bus – just like old mate hiding in the Merc, in the container, on the track, at the border, cashing in his “get out of jail free” card at precisely the wrong time.
I love it when that happens.
Simple pleasures I know, but it makes my whole day.Jump to next article