Hooligans

By Chaz Fenwick

The Metalheads – Heavy metal music, partying, drugs, alcohol and sex are the only things that matter to this subculture of teen misfits. When the hottest rocker chick in town, Trisha Williams, is thrown a 16th birthday bash at her father’s house, things take a turn for the worst. The notorious Westside Gangstas, a criminal gang feared for its ruthless street thuggery, gatecrash the party. A brawl erupts and popular teenager Dayne Hetfield is caught having sex with a gang member’s girlfriend. This begins the cycle of tit for tat violence that turns the streets of urban Sydney into a battleground. Friendships become strained and relationships are broken as the beatings, bloodshed, bombings and murder take their toll on Dayne and his metalhead mates. Yet, neither side is willing to submit to the carnage, and the animosity rages on until only one side is left standing. Note: If you do not like excessive violence and vulgar language than this book isn't for you.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Chaz Fenwick
• Release date: Jan 12, 2015
• ISBN: 9781310995774

Chaz Fenwick

Chaz Fenwick was born May 11, 1980 in the seaside city of Wollongong, New South Wales, Australia. Heavy metal music became his passion when he was introduced to the genre at the age of 15. Metallica’s black album was his first listening experience and he has been hooked ever since. To this day Metallica is still his number one band of choice to the point of obsession. Since discovering heavy metal, he has spent his teenage years partying, playing the bass guitar, writing screenplays and not taking school seriously. In class, he would spend time writing movie scripts inspired by Quentin Tarantino instead of the subjects he was there to learn. Rather than doing homework, he would spend hours learning bass riffs from three of his most influential bass guitarists Steve Harris, Cliff Burton and Jason Newsted. In his 20s he fell into money and into the adult entertainment industry, starting as a web designer for adult models. It opened the door to working on various projects alongside strippers and escorts. He lived for two years in Los Angeles, California, working on television production pilots with varying success (2006–2008). One show, Kiki’s American Adventure, turned into a single season on Playboy TV. In between film shoots he spent his time partying with porn stars on the Sunset Strip getting wasted at the Rainbow and Whiskey A-Go Go. Visa issues forced him back to his home country where he relocated to Noosa Heads in Queensland. This didn’t stop him from travelling extensively to countries like the UK, France, Monaco, Thailand, Cambodia and Russia. It was during his travels that he started planning out a film script called Hooligans with the intention of independently producing a short film or trailer with the ultimate goal of it becoming a TV series or feature film. Those plans were crushed during the time of the euro crisis when he lost everything on the stock market. He currently resides in Surfers Paradise on Queensland’s Gold Coast and has continued his Hooligans story in the form a novel.

Book preview

Hooligans

By Chaz Fenwick

HOOLIGANS:

Copyright © 2015

Chaz Fenwick

ISBN-13:978-1507557556

ISBN-10:1507557558

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods, without the prior written permission of the publisher, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical reviews and certain other non-commercial uses permitted by copyright law.

This is a work of fiction. All of the characters, organizations, and events portrayed in this novel are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.

www.ChazFenwick.com

CONTENTS

Prologue

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

About the Author

PROLOGUE

Not even the hip hop beats from Sari’s headphones could get her mind off this boy she’d never met. What was the attraction? Was it his reputation to beat up guys older than himself? Or was it just because he was popular with the girls at school? She stared blankly trying to figure it out. There were so many rumours and stories circulating about him, it made her more and more curious. He was a metalhead and that was the biggest thing she couldn’t get her head around. Those teens were outcasts; they were supposed to be unpopular.

Yo, snap outta it, hoodrat. Bebe clicked her fingers from side to side in front of Sari’s face.

She flinched and shook away her daydreaming. Huh? What? I’m cool, just lovin’ me beats that’s all. Hoodrat? She didn’t even know what a hoodrat was? In truth she didn’t care much for their gangsta slang, it just sounded so dumb. But that’s how they had to speak, including herself if she wanted to fit into the gang.

Sari sat on the bus stop bench across the road from the shopping mall where she hung with her home-girl trio. They were all strutting around in their little circle, except her. Not much was going down, except for the sun. People were rushing about, pushing and shoving to get past one another, and leaving the area with their arms full of shopping bags.

Sari drew a deep breath and flicked back her hoodie and the headphones from her ears. Stuff this, it’s a Saturday night. Let’s do something other than sit on our butts.

What ya thinking girl? Ya got somethin’ better on ya mind? Bebe asked.

Yeah, I reckon I do. There’s this guy all the skanks at school drool over. I wanna check him out. They never shut up about him. His …

WTF girl, Aliya cut her off, wobbling her head left to right. What you mean check him out? Ya not talking about that Het guy again are ya? He ain’t no Westside boy, he ain’t gangsta. You’re hip hop, he’s metal, what’s up with that? Those grubs don’t even wash. Yuck.

Word! Bebe high-fived the dark skinned ghetto girl in agreement.

Yeah but he’s supposed to be awesome on guitar? Sari gave a brash smile.

She did like guys that played guitar despite her whole hip hop persona. Then she realised what she had just blurted out of her mouth and slapped her forehead. Damn! Shut your dumb mouth Sari, you’re askin’ for a beat down. And that was what she thought she was going to get when Aliya loomed over her. She could also feel Bebe behind her, breathing down the back of her neck.

Ewww, that’s gross, girl. Are you fuckin’ trippin’, seriously? Aliya grabbed Sari’s chin.

No! Girls, wait! I got invited to some chick’s party yesterday. That Het dude will be there; there’s gonna be free alcohol … Sari stretched the truth a little; she had overheard a guy in class inviting other friends. But again, she let her Het infatuation slip off the tongue.

You best stop right there chicky or you’ll get a mouth full of fist. Aliya whipped up her fist right in front of Sari’s nose. "You got rocks in ya head or what? Starting to wonder ‘bout you. You a fucking Westside bitch now; ya Dee’s bitch. How you gonna go explaining this one to ya man. He’d flip the fuck out. We can’t hang with dudes other than them; those the rules. We should all know that, you should know that."

No! Please, let me talk! Think quick Sari. Girls! I was trying to say we should stake out the party, we should get our boys to gate crash it; let’s pick a fight with those metalheads, she said without taking a breath. She tried to distance her nose from Aliya’s fist but Bebe just shoved her head back towards it.

Aliya stepped back, folding her arms. She analysed Sari for the moment. Sounds like a plan blondie.

I know, right, Sari agreed with a nervous giggle. She put the hoodie back over her head and looked to the pavement to try and hide her relief, taking a huge breath. When she looked back up, Aliya was still staring at her but with a villainous smile.

An even better plan is we get our boys to break every bone in that Het fucker’s body. Sounds cool, huh. She twirled her finger around her afro hair and spat out her chewing gum at Sari’s feet.

Sari’s mouth dropped open. Huh, wha? … but, no. I mean, yeah, sure, cool, whatev’s.

Bebe put her arm around the little blonde recruit and spoke into her ear. Ya don’t sound too keen on that idea, baby girl, what’s the matter?

No, no, nothing, it sounds fuckin’ ace! Sari shot back with a fake smile. All she wanted was a night out without having someone beat up.

Yeah, girlfriend, you know it. Aliya gave the white girl a Westside gangsta handshake but even that was a fumble.

The three girls sniggered at her.

Sonya, who barely ever said a word, clapped her hands to get their attention. Yo bitches, this our bus. She waved down their ride which pulled up in front of them.

Sari waited for Bebe and Sonya to enter first as the bus doors hissed open.

I can’t handle this anymore, I want out! So sick of being intimidated, sick of being threatened by everyone. I’m so over it, this is crap. I thought this gang shit would be cool. Even my own boyfriend treats me like some cheap scrag. There has to be a way out, there just has to be. Maybe I could just do a runner when those bitches get on the bus. Sari looked both ways up the street but before she could decide which way to run she got pushed in the back.

C’mon missy, we don’t got all day; move your white girl arse onto the damn bus. Aliya shoved her onward and Sari complied.

CHAPTER ONE

Dick Ed Terrace? What the fuck? Simmo laughed as he read out loud.

The graffitied street sign above his head dripped with fresh red spray paint. His two mates seemed like miles ahead of him, waiting for the straggling drunk to catch up. They threw empty beer bottles high up into the air to dodge them on their way down. Heads, heads, heads, they called out, and cheered and whistled each time the glass shattered on the bitumen, waking up the neighbourhood dogs.

Hordes of party goers traversed the suburban district all evening. Simmo had guessed that simply by the trail of bottles littering the footpath. He hoped it would lead them in the right direction but the haggard young man still gazed onward with the look of a confused lost child.

Oi! This better be the right fuckin’ street! he gasped to his mates. Thought you said this’d be a 10 minute walk? Screw this exercise bullshit. I could’ve flogged a car. You lazy pricks ain’t the ones lugging around this damn case of piss. This shit weighs a fuckin’ tonne.

He threw down the beer carton onto the nearest stationary vehicle and tore out another stubby from the cardboard package. Desperate for a quick breather, the long-haired youth rubbed, twisted and turned his aching shoulder to shake out the numbness.

Cappa spun around. It would’ve been 10 if we didn’t take the wrong fucking turn. Open ya useless ears, can’t ya hear the fuckin’ party up ahead? Stop whinging ya gronk. He gave Simmo a smartass look and pulled on his own earlobe.

A full 30 minutes of walking was not something to which Simmo was accustomed. His wasted condition did not make it any easier – beer before grass you’re on your arse; he broke that cardinal rule all the time. This night was no exception.

The boys whipped up as much howling noise as their vocal cords could handle. Mate, c’mon, Wally urged. Ya worse than an old fogey.

Hurry the fuck up, there’s chicks waitin’ to be fucked. Cappa had a serious tone to his voice.

Give me a frigging minute! Simmo rasped back with his hoarse throat.

He stopped to get his bearings under a flickering streetlight. All he could make out was an endless steep uphill road that faded off into the darkness. The idea of walking another step up that damn hill made him shudder. The sweat pissed from his forehead faster than a drunk breaking the seal.

Wally was unwilling to wait for either of the dawdlers, and jogged ahead barefoot in a drunken stupor, his light backpack strapped over his shoulders. The youngest at 16 years, he leapt up onto a car parked along the gutter. In an effort to stir up the neighbourhood, he let out a drawn out Coooooeeee that echoed up the street. The only response was the barking of a few dogs. Metal up your fucking arses! Six, six, six! Yeah!

He looked around and shrugged. Oh well, he muttered. The neighbourhood still slept despite the amount of noise that must have already wandered the footpath. Nobody came out to tell them to shut up which was what he was hoping.

Wal ya crazy motherfucker; you rock! Cappa roared.

Simmo backed up those words with a cheer. Wally jumped across one rooftop to the next, two cars in a row, leaving behind stomping dints. Still, their disturbance was nothing compared to the commotion further up the road.

Simmo scrunched his blurred eyesight toward the noise, refocusing on the surrounding environment. Wow, are you for real? Open your useless eyes. Fuckin’ ritzy houses everywhere; seriously we’re dead set in the wrong street.

He scratched at his head confused. C’mon, I doubt Het’s ex lives around yuppie wannabes. I’d bet money on it. His hazel eyes nearly popped out of their sockets. He had never bothered to venture into this middle class area before, resentful of their comfortable lifestyles.

How about you bet the rest of that booze instead? Cappa did not wait for an answer, annoyed with Simmo’s sluggish stride. C’mon ya pisshead! I just wanna get to this damn party for fucksake. I need a fuckin’ chick. He turned around to face the sweat fouled boy, waving him on to lift the knees. He took two strides backwards before going arse over head, thanks to a lengthy deep crack spread across the cement pavement.

Eldest of the three, Cappa sported long brown curly hair, a leather vest and black jeans. He wore a Pantera band shirt that he never seemed to take off despite spilt beer stains. Oddly enough, Simmo was the one often thought to be the oldest as the self-indulgent partying lifestyle caught up with him. The lines on his face deepened with clamorous laughter at the lanky boy laid out at his feet. Cappa picked himself up and continued on as if nothing had happened.

The excessive noise of thrashing heavy metal music and drunken banter gave Wally cause to sprint towards the driveway of the rowdy venue. Fired up, Cappa jogged along with Simmo, weighed down by his beer case, patch covered trench coat and lead-footed black boots.

Is this Trish’s fucking house? … Bullshit! No way, it’s a fuckin’ monster! Wally pointed wildly at it like an over-excited fan going to his first concert. The massive property was practically a mansion to these street lads.

Yep, this is it. The spoiled little fuckin’ rich bitch. Cappa rolled his eyes back. His whole demeanour changed upon hearing the name of Trish. His enthusiasm waned.

Wally’s short attention span turned to the teenagers passed out on the lawn. He watched with hilarity at two other boys barely 14 years of age vomiting their guts up. The three party guests showered the helpless with mocking laughter until the stink of vile spew hit them. They retreated up the driveway with their fingers pegged to their nostrils.

Let’s fucking party! Wally rallied.

The triad burst through the front door to make a grand entrance. With barely any walking space, Cappa pushed between his mates. He sculled down a bottle of beer in one mouthful, which impressed nobody. The house was jam packed full of riotous teens moshing and head banging about the place.

Wow! Cappa’s eyes widened. There were so many young girls stoned and drunk that he was sure he’d be getting laid, guaranteed. They were all so hammered and having a raging time that nobody gave a shit about the pigsty of a lounge room. The sofa and chairs were trampled and torn from everyone jumping all over them. One older guy was even spraying graffiti on the walls with a spray can. Band names like Painside, Disturbed and Dungeon were scribbled all over the room. Other kids were throwing each other at the walls just for the hell of it, cracking open the plasterboard. Trampled bongs and spilt alcohol covered one end of the carpet to the other. Muddy footprints formed a sludge over the floor that was once a perfect cream white.

Tanked chicks danced on a coffee table, spraying their cheap wine everywhere. Metallica’s song Whiplash blasted from the stereo system, keeping the party goers psyched. The teenage crowd paid no attention to the boys’ entrance, fully mesmerised by the hype of the guitar shredding tune. Wally lived for these nights; he had nothing else. Belonging to the Metalhead sub-culture gave him a family. That song, the album – he absorbed those blitzing guitars and screaming vocals. Heavy metal music – he lived and breathed it. His life revolved around it like all metalheads at the party.

Everyone in the room had one thing in common. They all had the same dress code of trashy clothes which varied depending on their own affiliated metal sub-genre. The one piece of clothing that was mandatory was the black t-shirt featuring the emblem of their favourite band. They all wore their shirts proudly like a badge of honour.

Awesome, this party’s fucking raging, yeeeah! Wally moshed with a wild swing of the head and threw himself at the other teenagers.

The underage girls showed off with their dirty dance moves, delivering Simmo a good perve. Loving his awed attention, a freckled teen blew him a kiss.

Check out these chicks, Simmo yelled above the ruckus. Bet ya I’m gonna pick up tonight. He fist pumped the air.

Ha! You couldn’t chat up a fuckin’ blow-up doll, Cappa shot back, playing it cool in an act to appear the front man. He swivelled his arm around Simmo’s shoulder and gave the girls a sly wink.

When was the last time you picked up ya fucking smart arse; fucking never! Simmo shoved off the bony arm and pushed him away. Wing men these mates were not.

The chaotic atmosphere hyped Wally to mosh harder and faster, his long black hair spinning in every direction. The Koori threw himself around them to break the tension between his buddies. I tell ya what. If them homeboys even think about trashing this party, I’m gonna be one cut blackfella. This fucking bash rocks! Best party I’ve been to in ages.

Fuck’em Wally, who gives a shit, Cappa said. It’s fuckin’ Saturday night, party night! I’m here to get smashed. Let’s trash this place! He sculled down another beer and discarded the empty bottle on the floor. Then someone pulled him into the mosh to head bang and thrash away.

One of the drunken girls dancing on the broken sofa skipped off and stumbled into a plump unwashed boy with a beer in hand. The split-end redhead with bushy mutton chops helped her stabilise. Heya, sweet Amber, is that a mirror in your pocket? Coz I can see myself in your pants.

Yuck! Get away from me you fat freak. Will you stop following me around, you fucking stink. Amber cringed from his putrid odour. She squeezed past him to avoid any form of body contact to take her leave.

Chubs’ face wore a goofy grin from ear to ear as he shrugged aside the rejection. His peers nicknamed him Chubs for the obvious reason of being overweight.

# # #

Only 10 minutes away, five hotted-up sports cars sped up a motorway. They zigzagged from lane to lane, racing bumper to bumper. Their vehicles vibrated with the thunderous bass sound of hip-hop, rap and techno. The lead car screeched its tyres and turned sharply off the roadway, with the rest following. A tricked out Honda Civic surged ahead of the pack. The driver was a Lebanese male nicknamed Dee. His white passenger awarded himself the alias of Massive, which did not match his thin appearance. Both guys dressed in similar brand basketball singlets and Kepper pants. These were the homeboy gangs that Wally feared. This group, in particular, wore predominantly orange and red colours to identify their crib.

Massive, we gotta get to this fuckin’ metalhead party bro, Dee said with a snarling lip. Me bitch is hangin’ with the scum. She ain’t got me okay to party without me. He thumped the steering wheel of his coupe sports car.

It’s not far from here, bra, Massive sniffed and rubbed his nose, coked out of his brain. Her arse should be in the back seat, ay. Yo, ya better show her who the boss is.

What backseat, dickhead. She should be between me legs, suckin’ me off, Dee demanded.

These fucking chicks bro, Massive rolled his lips, shaking his head, think they have the right to do whatever they want. He mimicked slapping them around to demonstrate how he’d put those bitches in their place.

Ha! Not in our town! Any of the metal fuckers touch me slut, we burn the party to the ground, Dee high-fived Massive. The drivers’ branded sports shoes hammered the accelerator. The Honda turbo charged up the 50-kilometre zone street.

# # #

The house party raged on; the backyard was packed to the max with teenagers. Barely able to move, the crowd brushed up against one another, pushing and shoving. One group of thrashers sat trashed off their faces at an outdoor table covered with marijuana, bongs, mull cake and bottles of booze of all types. The pack included the popular teenager Dayne Hetfield. Beside him was Chucky, his hair spiked with a piercing in his left eyebrow. A Gothic girl named Stacey, in a black corset dress and long jet black dyed hair, sat beside Damon, who also loved anything black. Greened out from the marijuana, her face was planted on the table with Damon sleazily rubbing up her backside. Trish and Tori sat with their arms around each other. Always glued at the hip so much that they were often mistaken for sisters, Trish rested on her BFF’s lap. The two seductive blondes had dyed pink highlights. Influenced by female Los Angeles heavy metal fashion, they adored wearing raunchy clothes that shocked. Trish took the look further with her satanic jewellery. She wore an inverted cross necklace and pentagram rings, though these were only worn to piss off her father.

Boozed up, Trish refocused her hazy vision on the backyard. This party’s getting crazy Het. I love it babes! She didn’t look all that fazed about the number of people who had turned up.

Cheers babe! Het said. He raised his beer in the air and saluted. Enjoy, it’s all for you, sweet sixteen, happy fucking birthday.

Yeah Trish, no need to thank me either. I’ve only spent the past week posting ya bash all over the net, Chucky threw in. He let out a huge breath, flopping back in his chair. Thank fuck she’s not pissed at me, he whispered over to Damon, covering his mouth. He glanced around at the many gate crashers that he was responsible for, then gulped.

Birthday shots! Tori yelled. The group cheered each other and simultaneously took a shot of vodka. The cheap varnish taste awash in Chucky’s mouth was ungodly. He leant over the chair arm and spat it out, repeating a second and third time to clean out the alcohol.

Chucky, you Mumma’s boy! Get that bloody vodka down your hatch, Trish rubbed his hand in jest on the round table.

Yeah toughen the fuck up rich dude, Damon said while trying to overcome his amusement. He was so stoned that just about anything could have made him laugh.

Screw you Damo, Chucky said. We’ve been drinking this cheap shit all fucking day. My liver fucking hates me. He held his churning stomach, finding his own predicament comical as well.

Chubs walked out from the back door and carefully investigated the masses. Amber? Have you seen Amber? he could be heard saying. On the lookout for a brunette Asian girl, he pushed as quickly as possible through a crowd that wouldn’t budge from his path.

Chubs! Het caught a glimpse of his portly friend. Sit your fat arse down and come have a few shots, he insisted, pointing his finger at the empty seat next to him. He swung a vodka bottle around in the opposite hand to grab his attention.

All the others waved him over except Trish, who baulked at the sight of the uncool kid. Never one to turn down an offer of alcohol, Chubs rushed over to the table. Het poured him a shot and Chubs threw it back like water, the giant grin never leaving his face.

What the hell you so happy about? You win lotto or something? Chucky asked.

Amber was feeling me up, man. She wants me. I know it. She’s just playing hard to get but I reckon she’s keen on me, Chubs responded. Blinded in his desperation for the girl, he had mistaken Amber’s stumble against him as a sign of interest.

What? Who? Get with you ... did she have a dick? Het scoffed at the thought. He puffed away at his marijuana spliff and gulped a mouthful of beer.

Damon could not resist joining in on Het’s ribbing. He moved his whispering mouth