Out Of My Head
Anotorious bikie gang has set up chapters in the top of the south, and police fear a crime wave. The Hornets, named for the buzzing sound of their ‘‘e-machines’’, have been linked to drug trafficking and intimidation in major cities.
‘‘It was only a matter of time and disposable income before they arrived here,’’ said Area Commander (Acting), Inspector Sandy Pepper. ‘‘There have been complaints of them terrorising cafes midmorning with bulk orders of trim-milk lattes and gluten-free slices.
‘‘They are also demanding priority access to the toilets. Blatant standover tactics – or sit-down tactics as the case may be.’’
Pepper said other law-abiding users of cycletracks had reported being harassed by the overtaking gangs, who flashed by frighteningly close and weaving under their power-boost – without so much as the tinkling on a bell as warning.
‘‘You’d swear they were drunk, some of them. Power-drunk.’’
Cafe CCTV footage showed most of the bikies were, in fact, seasoned criminals, said the police chief.
‘‘They keep their faces hidden beneath helmets. Even when they remove them the light glancing off silver hair and bald pates makes identification difficult.’’
The Hornets’ dark, muscular e-bikes also become a threatening marker-post outside eateries, scaring off other customers.
‘‘Some cafes have banned gang-patches. Nothing puts you off your friand like some lumbering hulk – reeking of something you don’t want to explore – barging his way to the counter with ‘Born To Be Mild’ emblazoned across his back.’’
The bikies’ pimped machines were incentivising crime, Pepper added.
‘‘Those things cost a fortune, so you can see why the Hornets need their ill-gotten gains from extortionate property prices.
‘‘Oh, they’re cashed-up, make no mistake. A lot of them spend their time offshore on cruise ships to stay under the tax radar.’’
Pepper said the gangs were enthusiastic about the arrival of medical marijuana, and were longtime users of medical baking soda.
‘‘We also know they’ve been trading in painkillers for decades; swapping them across the baize at bridge clubs; secreting them in the pockets of bowling bags. It makes you sick.’’
Police hands were tied because the Hornets obtained their drugs legally through intimidating soft-hearted GPs.
‘‘And they are a cocky bunch, flashing their Community Services cards to force pharmacists into discounting prices.’’
Informers suggested the Hornets were headquartered in retirement villages, mainly in Stoke and Richmond.
‘‘Bolt-holes,’’ said the exasperated commander. ‘‘They become invisible. We can’t even stake out the ringleaders’ cabins because they all look the same.’’
However, displaying fearless journalism, The Mail followed up a ‘‘drug-deal’’ tip-off and met kingpins ‘Bosch Cassidy and The Sundown Kid’ in the carpark of a shadowy after-hours pharmacy.
‘‘What are you rebelling against?’’ asked.
‘‘Nothin’,’’ Cassidy sneered in his wraparound sunnies and new ‘Leacra’ (leather/Lycra) jacket.
‘‘It’s all sweet,’’ The Kid confirmed. ‘‘Oh, my knees aren’t too flash, if you’re scratchin’ for a headline.’’
‘‘Yeah, and why do they put the lids on peanut butter so tight?’’
The Mail persisted: ‘‘When will this reign of terror end?’’
‘‘I dunno. Tuesday good for you, Sundown?’’ ‘‘We’ll have to run it by the committee, mate.’’
Small world sequels
Two readers have contributed ‘‘small-world’’ tales after the previous column. Lois Morgan of Nelson’s saga weaves together no fewer than four locations:
Leaving Takapuna from visiting my mother in a rest-home there, I hopped onto a shuttle bus to the airport. The driver had just one other customer to pick up, at another rest-home on the North Shore.
We spotted a man beside a suitcase, his arm around a little, frail-looking elderly lady. He hopped aboard and sighed, ‘‘I don’t see my mother often enough. I live in Chicago.’’
‘‘Me neither,’’ I said.
‘‘Where do you live?’’
‘‘Nelson.’’
‘‘I know only one person in Nelson. He’s a nurse; my nephew.’’
The only male nurse I knew in Nelson was the boyfriend of my daughter’s friend, and also the nephew of a Kiwi pal of mine who now lives in Vancouver. I took a long-shot, naming my ex-pat friend.
‘‘She’s my sister!’’ he exclaimed.
‘Swe-ki’ connection
The Mail
Annika Ohlson-Smith’s contribution involves another distant setting, plus ‘‘kwadar’’, the Kiwi ability to locate compatriots anywhere in the world:
In June 1996, Allan and I, newlywed, sat on the roof terrace of my son’s apartment on an island in the Stockholm archipelago having breakfast. Suddenly, Allan said, ‘‘It’s a Kiwi down there.’’ ‘‘What? You’re dreaming.’’
‘‘No, I swear it’s a Kiwi talking.’’
We rushed downstairs and there was a boatbuilder from Auckland, married to a Swedish woman. They had two children and lived in a house that I and my first husband and our son had lived in long ago.
Not only that, his wife’s father had bought his yacht from my father while Dad was working as a salesman at a marina north of Stockholm.
This ‘Swe-wi’ family moved to Auckland a year or so later and we’ve sadly lost contact now.
So, two Swedish women, unbeknown to each other, grow up boating in the Stockholm archipelago, their fathers owning the same brand of yacht (Albin 79). Both marry Kiwi blokes, move to New Zealand and live happily ever after.
There have been complaints of them terrorising cafes midmorning with bulk orders of trim-milk lattes and gluten-free slices.