Before I came to live in Bali I was aware of Mad’s antics. I’d heard how he got a young Balinese girl pregnant then publicly dumped her. She had then tried to kill the baby by drinking Draino and almost died. I’d heard how he had leapt across a two-storey balcony onto another balcony, then hung by his hands above the road and threatened to kill himself, and how he’d pleaded poor and borrowed money from locals then refused to return it. Apparently Mad also had a habit of attacking people from behind when he felt slighted and Bintang bottles were his weapons of choice—perhaps he learned this trick from his friend Ankle?
Mad’s problems with my family started after he purchased an apartment from our company. When everything had been signed over and paid for he employed a real-estate company to manage and rent the room. Our company no longer had any rights to the apartment nor received rental equity from the apartment.
Mad first attacked the manager of the apartment complex. He demanded money in excess of what his room had earned in rental and when it wasn’t forthcoming he punched and slapped the manager.
This happened on more than one occasion. The manager was a small man about half Mad’s size and he was scared to retaliate. He eventually stopped taking Mad’s phone calls and he took to disappearing whenever Mad arrived in Bali.
I was not privy to the books, as this was a separately owned company, but the manager informed me that there was a shortfall between what Mad demanded and what the apartment took in rental. This was a messy situation but it had nothing to do with members of our company or the company itself.
Unfortunately, when Mad could no longer find the owner of the management company he came after us.
At any opportunity Mad would slander members of our company. He would force his way into our office and interrupt business meetings or he would scream abuse and carry on like a lunatic when he came across a member of my family in public. Mad performed these petty acts of terrorism at the most inappropriate of times, and business meetings with potential clients were never fun when he was in town.
No matter how many times it was explained to Mad, he could not fathom that his issues had nothing to do with our company. This had a bad effect on business, but our policy was to ignore him and hope that he went away. Mad didn’t.
Mad came to see all the members of our company and all the members of my family as persecutors in some evil fantasy where he was the victim. He has had run-ins with most of my family, and what follows are my personal experiences.
My first confrontation with Mad happened in the Bounty Nightclub. I was having a drink with a friend when I spotted Mad pointing me out to the nightclub security, it is a common belief in Bali that club security can be paid to attack a person so I suspected that Mad may have been attempting to set me up.
Luckily the friend I was drinking with was a large guy and a skilled kick boxer. I knew he would back me up if trouble started. This gave me some comfort and I decided to ignore Mad and enjoy my night out. I also figured that if I did nothing wrong the security would have no excuse to cause me trouble.
Mad spent most of the night standing in the corner watching me. It seemed every time I looked over he was glaring or pointing. Eventually it started to wear a bit thin. Mad has a reputation as a person who attacks from behind and I didn’t want to get sucker punched when I walked to the toilet. I decided my best course of action was to confront Mad and ask if there was a problem.
Later I would learn that this is one of Mad’s intimidation tactics—to this day he stands across the road from my office and stares, it is pathetic and annoying.
Mad didn’t like me approaching; he tensed up when I walked over. I could tell my presence made him uncomfortable. This was strange to me. Although he’d had problems with members of my family and our company, Mad and I had never had any real confrontation.
I walked up to Mad and as I got close I saw him pull a bottle off the table and place it on the seat next to him. “Listen mate, I saw you pointing at me before. Is there something wrong?” I asked.
Mad screwed up his face and levelled a finger at me. “Your brother’s company owes me money. I know you’re involved.”
I was drinking from a Bintang bottle. I lifted the bottle and took a mouthful; I wanted him to notice that I was prepared. “You’ve been told before mate, your problems have nothing to do with us. We do not collect fees from you and we do not rent out your apartment.”
Mad slammed his hand down on the table. He leant forward and glared at me. “You lie like the rest of them. You’re all a bunch of liars,” he accused.
I knew people had taken the time to explain the situation to Mad in the past and I did not want to ruin my night so I decided to let things be. “Look mate, think what you want. Your apartment has nothing to do with me, OK?”
I made to leave but I kept facing him. I edged sideways through the crowd. I didn’t want to turn my back on him. He pulled his bottle from under the table and pointed it at me. “I will get you,” he mouthed, as I moved away. I was a tired of Mad’s antics. I had never done anything that would have deserved him “getting me”—I wasn’t even involved in the company when he made his original deal.
I was worried that he would charge through the crowd with the bottle so I stepped back towards the table. I knew the safest place for me was face to face with him. I placed my bottle on his table and looked him in the eyes. “How are you going to get me?” I asked. “Are you going to use that?” I glanced at the bottle in Mad’s hand.
He thought for a second, then relaxed his grip and placed his bottle down. “I don’t need that, I have a gun. I will blow your head off,” he said, and smiled.
The comment seemed absurd and I laughed. “Fuck off! You don’t have a gun.”
Mad didn’t see the funny side of it and his face contorted into an angry grimace. He stood up and leaned across the table and put his face close to mine. “You think I’m joking? I have a gun and I’m going to put a bullet in your head.” He then moved back, placed his hands on his hips and stared at me.
I could see he was serious but I doubted he had a gun. I smiled at him.“You have a gun, do you? Well you know what, you’re a fucking idiot.” I felt the comment was true enough.
Mad didn’t like the idiot part. He flinched at the word, stretched his long arm out and pointed at my temple. “I will put a bullet right there. I will kill you and watch you die.”
I kept my eyes on his in case he did something reckless but I felt like I was dealing with an imbecile. I didn’t know if it was possible to get a gun in Bali but if Mad had one, he was probably stupid enough to use it. “If you have a gun and you are going to shoot me, why don’t you show me the gun?”
I thought this sounded primary school, something one kid may say to another in the playground, but I didn’t know how to react; no one had ever told me they were going to shoot me before. “Put your gun on the table and I will believe you,” I challenged him.
He took his arm back, cradled his chin and thought for a moment. The ultimatum seemed to bamboozle him. “I can’t show you,” he said eventually. “If I bring out the gun, security will take it.”
The reply was equally childish. “So you’re lying then?” I said, and felt like I was involved in an infantile conversation. “I want some proof or I will not believe you.”
Mad shook his head; he seemed frustrated that I couldn’t understand his dilemma. “I can’t show you because the gun is in my motorbike and my motorbike is downstairs. I can’t bring the gun inside because the security will take it,” he explained irritably.
I was sure he was bluffing but I told myself to be careful when I left the club. “Alright, I believe you,” I said, “now that you have given me this information, why don’t you tell me when and where you’re going to shoot me?”
Mad missed my sarcasm. His expression became serious, self-righteous. “I’m going to follow you home one night; you won’t see me and when you least expect it I will shoot you in the head.”
Mad
smiled. He appeared fascinated by his words, and he seemed to marvel at their brilliance like a child who has written his first sentence on a blackboard. “I’m going to shoot you in the head,” he repeated.
Mad’s demeanour unsettled me, he seemed disorientated, not quite there; his obvious insanity set my nerves on edge. I wanted the conversation done with. “You know what you should do?” I asked and waited for him to catch up.
He jerked, gripped the table, and glared at me. “What?” he spat.
“You should walk down to your motorbike, get your gun out and shoot yourself in the head.”
Mad gawked at me wide eyed and vague; I’m sure he thought I’d been taking him seriously. He took a moment to digest this, then stuttered, “You … don’t you … you will …”
I decided to fill in the gaps for him. “I’m serious mate, you’re fucking insane.”
Mad didn’t like the comment. He tensed up and prepared to react. He pushed his chair back and looked around to see if he was being watched.
I didn’t want a confrontation and I remembered Mad had been talking to the security when I’d first arrived. I did the first thing I could think of to defuse the situation. I stepped back and started to dance. Mad seemed flabbergasted. He appeared unsure how he should respond, so he leaned on the table and stared at me in disbelief.
I decided to help him along. I made my hand into the shape of a gun, put it to my head and mimed pulling the trigger while I danced.
Mad gaped at me mystified, he mouthed something that I did not hear then looked around for support. I lowered my arm, placed a hand on my elbow and sighted my pretend weapon. I jerked my hand back and yelled, “Bang, bang!”
Mad looped out and knocked the bottle from his table with a swipe of his hand. He pointed at me and screamed and then kicked over his chair and stormed out of the nightclub. I spent the rest of the night with one eye open in case Mad came back with a gun. He didn’t, but from that night on he hated me.
The next time I came into contact with Mad was after he smashed a Bintang bottle over the head of a friend of mine. I wasn’t present but apparently they’d been involved in an exchange of words in a local pub just off Poppies One in the heart of Kuta. When my friend asked him to step outside and settle it, he refused and my friend made the mistake of turning his back on Mad.
Mad picked up a bottle and slammed it down on my friends head; he delivered him a hard blow that sent him to the floor and left him with a gash in his head that would require fifteen stitches, then he went in for the kill.
Fortunately another friend happened to be watching and took out Mad with a rugby tackle.
The Good Samaritan in this story is all of five feet tall and he weighs about as much as my laptop. His name is Hamish and it was a brave effort on his part. Mad knew both these guys were friends of mine and the next morning Mad came to see me.
This is typical of Mad. One week he is going to shoot you in the head, the next he is your best friend. I guess this is a classic symptom of bipolar disorder.
“Mal, I need to talk to you,” he said when he approached, “what happened last night wasn’t my fault.”
He crouched in front of me. It was early in the morning and I was having a cigarette outside my office. From where I sat I could see three guys sitting in an alfresco restaurant watching us.
I noticed them because you never know when Mad is setting you up, which may sound paranoid but it is part of Mad’s MO. He likes to enlist help from tourists, security or the police; it’s a wise thing to keep an eye on your surroundings when dealing with him.
I had no idea what he was talking about as I had not heard from either of my friends. “What happened?” I asked sensing that I was somehow involved but unsure how.
Mad looked around and fidgeted. He was nervous and unsure where to start. “Luke and I had a fight last night. He started it. I didn’t mean to hurt him but he was taken to hospital.”
I sighed, stubbed out my cigarette and flicked it away. Luke was a harmless guy that didn’t cause trouble. “Is Luke OK?” I asked, concerned. One of the guys in the restaurant across the road stood up. He looked in our direction and I lifted my sunglasses to let him know I was watching.
Mad rubbed his face and shuffled his feet. “I don’t know,” he said, “I left after the fight. But he started it. I thought you should know.”
I grunted but I wasn’t really listening, I had my eyes on the guy in the restaurant, I didn’t like his body language.
Mad turned to see where I was looking. He noticed the guy standing at the table. “Hi,” he called over and waved.
“Don’t talk to me, you fucking dog!” the guy called back.
I was a shocked. It was not the reaction I expected and I stood up. I didn’t like to be seated in Mad’s presence anyway, it made me feel vulnerable. “Do you know those guys?” I asked. “I don’t think they like you.”
Mad ignored the dog comment and turned back to me. “OK, I will let you get back to work. I just wanted to tell you the fight was not my fault.”
Mad held out his hand for me to shake.
I refused. “OK, bye,” I said.
He walked away and I figured he was worried about the guys in the restaurant. This intrigued me so I crossed the road to talk to them. I introduced myself and asked if I could have a word.
The guy who was standing was a big English lad about twenty-five years old. He had a rugby player’s build and a boxer’s stance, and he looked like he could handle himself. He invited me to sit down and took his seat. “Do you know that guy? Are you a friend of his?” he asked.
I laughed. “Yeah, not likely,” I replied. “I call him Mad. Watch him, he’s dangerous.”
The rugby player scowled. “He’s a dog,” he replied. “That cunt smashed a bottle over some geezer’s head last night. The geezer wasn’t even looking.”
I could tell the boys were angry. Luke was English but I’m sure this had little to do with it; they just couldn’t believe someone would commit such a cowardly act. “The guy’s name is Luke, he’s a friend of mine. Was he OK?”
The rugby player relaxed and leaned back in his chair. “He’ll be alright but he will have a nasty scar.” He bent his head down and ran a finger along his skull to show me where Luke had been hit. “His head was split along here,” he said. “One of his mates took him to the hospital.”
I unwound a little, I was glad to hear it. I liked Luke and no one deserves to be hit with a bottle. “What happened?” I asked.
The rugby player shrugged and looked over at his mates. One of his friends answered for him. “We didn’t see all of it. The geezer, your friend, was sitting at the bar with his back to that dog. He gave him a clout to the back of the head with a bottle. A little Scotsman broke it up, we helped him.”
I didn’t know Hamish was involved. I’m very protective of Hamish—my whole family is. I felt my temper rise. “Little Scottish guy with grey hair?” I asked. I now understood why Mad had approached me.
The rugby player nodded. “Yeah, little fella, grey hair … he brought the big Aussie down. Me and me mates stepped in and made sure the Aussie didn’t retaliate.”
“Thank you for that,” I said, “he’s also a friend of mine. Is he alright?”
The rugby player laughed. “The little bloke, he’s Scottish isn’t he? Yeah he’s fine. Tough little bugger. The big Aussie didn’t know what hit him.”
I thanked the rugby player and his friends again. I was glad Hamish wasn’t hurt but I was annoyed that Mad had brought his special kind of trouble to bear on friends of mine. I left the English boys to their breakfast and called Luke and Hamish to check on them.
Like a coward, Mad jumped on a plane and flew out of Bali that afternoon.
One of the problems with Mad is you never know when he will try and impose himself into your life. He likes to seek out well-muscled tattooed-up people to tell his sob story to in the hope of garnishing their help. Unfortunately for Mad, the next occasion he t
ried to rustle up a friend, it was an acquaintance of mine.
Jason was eating breakfast when Mad appeared and sat at his table. Mad went into a monologue on how he had been ripped off by a family of business people; he told Jason that these people were going to be taught a very big lesson. Jason had no idea who Mad was but he guessed that he was talking about my family. He listened patiently to what Mad had to say.
Mad told Jason that he’d procured the services of a hitman who had worked for former president Suharto. Mad said he was going to lure one of the members of the business family around the corner from his office then kidnap him at gunpoint. The person would then be bound and gagged and driven to the outskirts of Bali where he would be executed with a bullet to the head. Mad then told Jason that he planned to bury the executed person in a rice paddy.
Jason was a little astonished at this boast and he explained to me later that Mad had simply sat down at his table and rambled on about this without any prompting on his part. Jason did however ask who the victim was going to be and was surprised when he heard a description of me and my name.
Jason then excused himself and he called me. He repeated the conversation and warned me not to go to my office. I took his advice and didn’t show up.
Mad turned up at my office at ten that morning. He was accompanied by a large Westerner and a well-muscled Indonesian. He asked for my whereabouts and was told that I hadn’t arrived for work, then he got my phone number from one of my business cards and called me. He did his best to get me to the office. I declined, but arranged to meet him the next day.
The staff called me when Mad and his villainous entourage had left. They told me that Mad and his friends had done their best to frighten them into giving up my address but that they had refused. The following day I arrived at the office to meet with Mad accompanied by two Balinese gang members and a paid-off Bali policeman.
Nick organised this and he also came along. Billy sat in the restaurant across the road. I wasn’t kidnapped and murdered but I did get to meet the bodyguard and he looked the part. Again Mad demanded money for his apartment and again we explained that we had nothing to do with his room.
Bali Raw Page 8