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There are three layers of money makers complicit in the massive con-job being pulled on punters who have the misfortune to return to their vehicle in a the car park in Brisbane’s Ascot Village shopping block at 160 Racecourse Road in the state’s central horse-racing hamlet just to the north and down the hill from Hamilton, fittingly the one time home to a fellow fraudster named Chrissie Boy Skase.

The first layer of the cartel are the shopkeepers. They don’t employ the tow-truck outlaws who flog your Fords and pinch your Pulsars but they pay their rent to those who do, and know full well what’s going on before they hand over their fortnightly tariff to the Sultana Bran exporting Doctor dealing out the dough to the devil’s cowboys carrying a six-barrel hoist and wearing a ten-gallon winch with ‘I’m a lowlife c*nt’ burned into its brim.

We won’t name and shame the retailers just right now, but just like Kate Winslet’s turn a blind eye Nazi harlot Hanna character in the excellent movie The Reader, their day of reckoning awaits and is coming at them like a Tokyo bullet train.

We will name the Doctor however, for this cash-craving capitalist who so selfishly wants to build a huge hotel on the corner-block suburban site is the one who signs the contracts with the car rustlers, gives them carte blanche to perv on young birds through his surveillance cameras, and in all probability cops a backhanders from the towing company capo for his trouble.

The charmer’s name is Sharma, and I’m a poet and I don’t even know it.


Dr Pravendra Sharma of number 6 Chateau Street in beautiful downtown Carseldine (pictured above) to be precise, just across the road from Wimbledon winner Ashley Cooper’s tennis court complex.

The good doctor, whose wife Anita – also a doctor – owns the Platinum Medical Centre in Chermside, is the boss cocky of probably the most appropriately named company in Queensland.

It called – sit down before you read it – GIPS, and he and it own the pox-ridden little car park that in his dreams Sharma transforms into skyscraping towers, but when his eyes are open but deliberately looking the other way makes a motza for he and his car thieving cohorts through towing pregnant wide-eyed innocent’s cars away.


Sharma, whose business interests extend from funding the tow-truck extortion racket to exporting Austrlian (sic) Sultana Bran (which I assume is cereal eaten by cartographers who draw maps of the wide brown land sans Tassie) is not I can attest the world’s most honest chap, because I gave him a tingle on the mobile dog and bone last night while I was sitting in the rental car watching through his window, and bugger me dead if I didn’t see him pick up the walkabout home phone and move his lips as he told me that Pravendra Sharma wasn’t home!

It’s bloody lucky I’m a fast learner when it comes to surveillance of unsuspecting punters and learnt a quick lesson from him this arvo about how to turn a fish-eyed camera into collateral isn’t it, cos I wouldn’t have the footage and the recordings to prove he’s a liar if he hadn’t taught me the sneaky tricks of the scum sucker’s trade.

The upshot though is that Sharma’s mendacity has cost him the opportunity to offer up his side of the tow and dough car park trade, and old Pravendra has no-one to blame but himself and his medical sausage factory owning missus, who is featured on the film standing next to him as he spun me his ‘he not here senor’ bulldust and figures prominently on the audio offering him a piece or two of advice, which my Hindi-speaking mate Abbas who was sitting next to me in the front passenger seat kindly translated for this here ignorant white honky’s benefit.


Funnily enough the fakir who runs the whole tow-truck winch and pinch rort told me that he wasn’t him either when I gave him a bell this evening. Lucky I’m not a paranoid conspiracy theorist hey sportsfans, otherwise I may just be suspecting that the manager of the tow-away-morning sickness-suffering sheila’s sedans and extort them to stump spondoolies they don’t owe scam outfit – who, in a call made about 15 minutes before (also captured on audio) I had craftily tangled up in the web of lies that he and his offsider had variously spun to the Bead Twirler and I during the course of the afternoon – might just have speed dialed the Brissy Towing’s bullsh*t-artist and thief in chief’s iPhone and given him the heads up the butterfly had sprung from the cocoon and was intent on outing the silk-spinning spineless creatures preying upon the good punters of the gee-gee loving Ascot Village and beyond.

The thief in chief in question is a fella named Mahmoud Abu-Ziad – also spelt Abuziad – who tends the crops on his 4000 square meter lifestyle property at number 12 Carter Road, Munruben in the nether land south of Brisbane and North of the Goldie from which the dodgy as all f*ck Logan City council collects the rubbish bins.

And guess what lovers of justice and barely believable symmetries?

He’s the same bloke who hit the headlines a few years ago after his company towed a paralyzed stroke victim’s car prominently displaying her disabled parking permit from the car park of a Fortitude Valley shopping center car park just a few years ago.


At that time the avaricious loose with the truth lecher was running his law-breaking rorts under the banner of a company going by the Confucian sounding name of We Tow You, but he soon abandoned the Kung-Fu brand in favor of the misspelt Brissy Towing title, presumably due to the bad press that We Tow You was copping left right sideways and center in the press and on social media.

We’ll get back to Mr Mahmoud Abuziad in a moment, but if you can’t wait that long to hear more from him why don’t you give him a buzz on (07) 3297 1565 and say that you want to ask a few questions about the business practices of a car-thieving c*nt like he.

And while you’re at it give the not-so-good Doctor Sharma a ring at home on (07) 3862 8482, ask him how large a sling he’s copping from his contractual love-in with Abuziad and tell him that he’s one too.

After all this pair of mendacious parasitic con merchants publicly list their phone numbers and addresses, so clearly they are just waiting in anticipation for your call.

Back to the towing of the stroke victim’s car, but before I do let me tell you a little story about a lobbyist named Damian Power, who readers of this outstanding website will probably know better as the Branch Stacker, my one bosom buddy at whose wedding attended by luminaries of the lowlands such as Kev the Rat Rudd I humbly served as best man, or a rose and rampaging rooter mired in a muddy swamp of insipid sexless thorns as the Bead Twirler so likes to put it.


The Branch Stacker, who is as dodgy as all f*ck – he was for an extremely profitable time the chief spruiker for the arch conman Hong Kong Tony, which tells you all that you need to know – and an arch homophobe to boot back in the days when he was trying to gain union influence and I had some used to drive me to have coffee all over Vegas, despite the fact that I hate peasant picked beans and hot water with a passion.

Sociopaths don’t give a bugger about what others like or dislike however, nor do they pay even scant regard to the parking needs of others. It’s all about them and their singular focused egos after all, and the Branch Stacker proved it by parking in No Parking spots every time he had the opportunity, often driving past vacant free parking zones in order to get his weird kinky kick by pulling up and perching where the signs said he should’t.

On an intellectual level I understand this breed of psychosis, but on a personal level I reckon blokes like Power are just power-parading whackos. Not that whacko that they risk being towed however, for the Branch Stacker always took care to park in a spot which was inaccessible by tow trucks, which I guess made the chronically insecure and jealous of his high-achieving brother bimbo in bikini’s bandit feel like a winner, even though his lot in life is kissing pernicious half-bent politicians arses while his brother rakes in the riches sitting on the publican’s recliner at the Norman Hotel drinking Pina Colada’s and condescendingly pattering to the ripped off punters while watching his poker machines spin and win.


I guess parking dodges and parasitic business practices must run in the one-time Powers Brewery beer baron Bernie’s nephew’s veins, because guess who later bought – and sold within 2 years at a near 100% profit to the company he had not long before gifted a windfall when he sold them the prime South Brisbane TAFE site on the chief after his political donations to the LNP were rewarded by being personally selected by Can-Do to head one arm of the ‘sell everything that the mug punter owns to our mates’ razor gang -Brunswick Central, the shopping center from which the stroke victim’s 4-wheeled source of independence was a couple of years before snaffled by Mahmoud Abuziad’s mob under the cloudy cover of night?

James bloody Power, the Branch Stacker’s brother and fellow father’s trust fund beneficiary, that’s who.


Is that simpatico or what sportsfans? It’s a bloody small town Brisbane isn’t it, and who the hell would have thought that my investigation into the unlawful snatching of the bride’s low-rent limousine would lead me here? No-one, that’s who. Or no-one who didn’t believe in the inherent old school tie and the Tory political party sling and undercover quid pro quo old school tie tradition that is anyway.

But Branch Stacker’s and Pokie profit-reapers aren’t what this true crime tale is all about, even though they are for your author a highly amusing by-product and diversion. No, this story is about bottom-feeding swindlers without a shred of conscience who break the law and in the commission of their crimes break pregnant girls and stroke victim’s hearts too.

A pox on all their houses.

These scum of the earth swindlers day of reckoning before the law soon awaits.

Next up – How the crooked car-park crooks are breaking the law, and why you should make a complaint about them to the police.