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Wally Ahmad is dead, lying cold on a slab tonight with a bullet in his head.

As Ned Kelly famously said, that’s life.

Or in this case, death.

It’s not polite to speak ill of the deceased, and so I won’t, and rather than be disrespectful I will tell you a little story about Wally.

It goes like this.


One early spring evening in 2002 – Sunday the 8th of September of that year to be precise – Wally , who ran a chop shop posing as a wrecking yard, was working the door at a Kings Cross nightclub named DCM, owned by a former pizza shop proprietor named Hakki Mustafa, who some unkind souls then and now suggest was nothing but a front man for a couple of fellas called John and Hassan, the latter better known by the moniker of Sam.

These lads were and are the  Ibrahim brothers of Underbelly Golden Mile fame.

It was your typical Sunday night in the Cross, and an eclectic mix of the creatures of the Oxford Street dark crossed, or tried to cross, the DCM and dive onto the dance floor to get down and boogie.

There were drunks, dancegoers, druggies, desperates, divas and dilettantes; sniffers, snobs, society cinderellas, slug suckers, stockbrokers and sluts; gays, groovers, good-time gals, gamblers, grow-swillers and gun-slingers.

And then there was Khalid Hammoud, an eighteen year old nobody who had relatives with reputations, and an attitude bigger than the Arctic circle and – as he would later prove – held the morals of a squeaking mouse.

Hammoud –  who was iced up to the eyeballs, and full of piss and misplaced menace   rocked up well after the clock had ticked past 12 and Cinders carriage had turned into a pumpkin. Safe in the succor of his self-delusion of being Superman, he pushed past the parade of punters patiently queued outside the club and swaggered up to the door, demanding immediate entry for he and his duo of mates.

Unfortunately for all concerned, Chop Shop Wally told Hamoud to f*ck off, and the cocksure teenage try-hard take it too kindly, and put on a stink of epic proportions. One of his mates who was as high as a kite and thought he was a hero too went ballistic, as blokes off their balls on meth have a tendency to do, and head-butted the club manager.

It was a bad move. A real bad move.


The manager, unhappy that he’d been clocked in the head by a clown, whipped a punch to the wanker’s scone that knocked him from yesterday into Disneyland, and as a result the head-butting halfwit missed the rest of show as was hauled off to hospital dreaming psychedelic delusions about being Donald Duck.

The unconscious blokes amped up mates though weren’t ready to call it a night, flying like fireflies  as they were on ice, and decided that they’d take up the fight to the big boys on the door, which just shows that they had the same degree of judgement as their mate on the stretcher, for their He-Man act proved as equally bad – and ultimately deadly – as their mates initial mistake.

A melee ensued, and Wally cracked the hopped-up Khaled Hammoud a beauty, breaking his glass jaw into a gazillion pieces which soon thereafter required the insertion of skillful surgery and several pieces of wire to restore the idiots face to its presumed previous glory.

And that was the end of the section.

Or so they all thought.

They were wrong.

Dead f*cking wrong, as it turned out.