Controversial Australian Author Reveals all in an Autobiography About Heroin Trafficking.

Wade Agnew is a 56 year old Australian, an anarchist, occasional Rasta, and an atheist with Buddhist tendencies. For many years he happily consumed heroin, traveled extensively and ferried various illegal drugs around the world, and successfully trafficked heroin Down Under for over twenty years. During these escapades he studied Architecture, Film Making, Politics and Law, promoting international music into New Zealand and Australia, personally handling the arrangements. With all the terror dissipated, and in a more contemplative stage of life, Wade is ready for the next phase of his heroin affair, writing about the close association for this hostile world in “Cheating the Hangman”.Time has come to spill the beans on all the hair-raising adventures in a 20th century morality tale. Alas now separated she got everything, leaving him without a brass razoo, just soaring memories of her warm, transforming embrace. In the planning for years, Wade is sure that just like heroin; the project will be imbued with “the rosy hue of unlimited success.

THE STORY:

“Cheating the Hangman” is the terrifyingly true account of his life of heroin trafficking; turbulent and exhilarating. Well written and outrageously funny, the story explodes across the globe, out of the perilous sources of Bangkok and Penang in “The Golden Triangle” of S.E.Asia. The journey strips bare the ecstatic highs and subterranean lows of the lone wolf, providing a unique glimpse into this anarchic existence. Fueled by heroin and adrenaline, motivated by mercenary zeal for cash and travel, the life is examined in forensic detail. You will be there all the way clinging on for dear life, on this palpitating drive into the under-belly of capitalism; from scoring narcoticsin Bangkok, through the knife-edge searches at the world’s airports, to the drug-soaked streets of Australia. Some negative heroin myths are debunked along the trail, and you will find out what happened to Barlow and Chambers, hanged later for drug trafficking, on that fateful day at Penang International Airport. Wade remains convinced that all drugs should be legal, and that this contributed greatly to his successful traffickingcareer.

 Fasten your seat-belts; it’s a hell of a ride.

Please go to the “Cheating the Hangman” website;

http://www.cheatingthehangman.com.au

PENANG HAND-OVER:

I felt like an agent under-cover, outside of society, but in their eyes I was an assassin, fermenting rabid evil across the globe. I knew it was nonsense though it still seeped into my dreams at night. My customers valued the services, with me brimming punch proud, providing high impact powder without risk, at the best price in town. I had arrived at the Golden Sands early, getting straight into the heroin after a lay off. By the time my girlfriend joined my soaked sojourn for the hand-over it was already too late. With no drugs available in heaven, it was imperative I got my fill on earth.

I rented a suitable vehicle, a snazzy ex-police car the old siren still operational, and I was soon driving it at every chance, unable to resist the occasional burst. It worked brilliantly, all cars moving aside, allowing me my rightful place on the road. Without access for a while, a sudden onslaught of Penang pink rocks had launched me into oblivion. It was incredible how fast I got accustomed to saturation, taking on huge amounts with no apparent effect. My comfortable new home had a warm, rosy glow, and I would do whatever necessary to clutch those keys.

My mission was secreting 400 grams of heroin into The Sanyo, to hand to my girlfriend for her short cruise to Singapore. That packaging progressed well, until it came to replacing some screws. When she arrived by taxi from the dock, I was still struggling, insisting unreasonably that I was up to it. I clearly wasn't, away with the fairies. The more intense I became, the more those buggers burred, difficult morphing into impossible. Finally she had to wrestle the recorder from me, soothing my painful, ego-crushing admission by saying calmly,

"There'll be more time when I get them on board. Just leave it; I'll take care of it later."

That disaster averted, I insisting on driving to the boat in my rental for the 11pm sailing. I recall hurtling along a precarious, cliff-edge road like Fangio, going like the clappers, siren blaring, and pupils straining through heavy, tropical rain in complete dark. It was exhilarating and magnificent madness, with me nodding off at the wheel, hands not getting orders, all signals scrambled.

I'm sure my terrified, knuckle-clenching girlfriend was more relieved to exit my adventure, than scared of her trafficking ordeal ahead. But my drama wasn't over. The solo return drive was more outrageous, a thin strip of moon-light piercing a turbulent torrent, squinting through pin-eyes for focus, all to a wailing siren. Shit it felt good mission finished, my hunched head kept upright by the steering-wheel. In the end I was forced to pull over, the energy exerted staying awake quickly draining me.

The Duracell bunny had lost all pow.e..r.

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