Tony Anthony knew no fear. Three-times World kung Fu Champion, he was self-assured, powerful and at the pinnacle of his art. An extraordinary career awaited him. Working in the higher echelons of close protection security, he travelled the globe, guarding some of the world’s wealthiest, most powerful and influential people.
This fast-paced, compelling and, at times, chilling account is Tony’s deeply moving true story. More extraordinary than fantasy, more remarkable than fiction, this blockbusting read almost defies belief. With fascinating insight into China’s martial arts, and the knife-edge adrenaline highs of the bodyguard lifestyle, it documents the personal tragedy that turned a ‘disciple of enlightenment’ into a bloodthirsty, violent man.
From the depths of hell in Cyprus’s notorious Nicosia Central Prison, all might have been lost, but for the visits of a stranger...
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Chapter 1
Shane D'Souza was barely recognisable. The guards scraped him off the cell floor and laid his mangled body on a dirty stretcher. He had been beaten, battered, cut, raped and ruined in every way. Pools of blood formed great purple patches on cold concrete. The trail of mutilation snaked its way down the dark corridor as they carried him off to the hospital wing.
The small gathering of men shuffled away. We all knew who was guilty of the assault on the young Sri Lankan. No one said a word. The authorities didn't care. There'd be one less con – fylakismenos they called us – on B-wing. Another would soon take his place. There'd be no inquiry, no punishment for the attacker. No justice for my friend.
It was just another day in Nicosia Central Prison. We were murderers, drug pushers and smugglers, gangsters, child abusers, thieves, rapists, terrorists and fraudsters: a miserable mixed bag of human depravity; the meanest of the mean and the downright unlucky, tossed together in a stinking hot-pot of a Cypriot jail. There were many rules, but they weren't the ones laid down by the authorities. We each lived by a code of violence, necessary for self-preservation. You always had to watch your back. It was every man for himself and blood was often spilled for little more than recreation. Still, there was something of an alliance between me and Shane. When I saw what had happened, it triggered a dark and dangerous rage inside me.
Al Capone – or 'Alcaponey', as the Greeks called him – was a nasty piece of work. No one knew his real name. He was one of the mentally deranged, the criminally insane. The courts didn't bother with asylums; they just abandoned their madmen among the rest of us. They were a law unto themselves. Alcaponey was one of the worst. A barbaric Cypriot, he was a loner, who barely spoke his own language. Serving time for murder and multiple rape, he was a grade one psychopath. Whilst the rest of us occupied our time with drug use, petty theft (primarily cigarettes and chocolate, which were the main form of currency), and occasional arts and crafts, Alcaponey spent his days mutilating and raping other inmates. He was a lifer on a mission to make a living hell for the rest of us.
On the day Shane was brutalised, I vowed his vengeance would be mine. Alcaponey was a good foot taller than me. He pushed weights and his arms were as thick as my thighs, but I knew I could have him. I knew I could kill him with my bare hands and make him suffer for every blow, every stinking sordid deed, every drop of Shane's blood.
In the days ahead, a hushed anticipation hung over the jail. Everyone knew I was after Alcaponey. It wouldn't be pretty. I was just waiting for my moment. Almost two weeks passed and with each day I grew more angry and ambitious in the suffering I would cause him. It wasn't enough to kill him. I'd make him beg for mercy, before releasing him to his devils. I was a world class Kung Fu champion, with the skill to burst him open and break him into a million pieces. I could do it easily, with my bare hands, but these days I often carried a blade. Most men did. We broke them out from our razors and hid them under our tongues or some other place where they could not be easily detected. It wasn't as though the guards bothered much. Some of them took sadistic pleasure out of it. Others just turned a blind eye. What did they care if an inmate got cut up or raped with a blade to his throat? Gammodi bastardos!
Suddenly, I was slammed against the wall as Alcaponey's screech echoed round the dark, desolate corridor. I was angry at myself for being caught off guard, but adrenaline raced through my veins. At last, my time with the demon had finally come.
The stench of his breath was sickening as he leaned the full weight of his huge body against me, pushing his nose to mine. Ablade dug sharply at my neck, waiting to slice my jugular. Immediately, I grabbed his greasy face with my free left hand, my thumb over his eye socket, ready to puncture. We grappled with each other, as I quickly calculated my moves. I knew I would receive a life threatening cut, but that didn't matter. Nothing mattered any more. I might die, but I would kill him first.
I wanted his blood. I'd easily take his eye, before ripping off his ear with my teeth. Fury boiled within me, but suddenly there was something else. In the heat of those split seconds I was strangely aware of a much deeper battle raging. It had little to do with Alcaponey. This one was all mine. It was as though some kind of new consciousness was weakening the ingrained instincts that made me the combat fighter I was. As I fought to focus my attention on Alcaponey's ear, I had an image in my head from something I had read only that morning. A man unjustly arrested, his friend defending him, cutting off the ear of the servant of his accuser. Alcaponey's ear was just inches from my mouth.
'Come on Tony, just bite. You're fast, you can take it,' the voice of my instinct spoke.
'No, wait . . . all who draw the sword, die by the sword . . . ' Where did that come from?
'Come on boy, just do it! What are you waiting for?'
As the conflict raged within me, I felt Alcaponey's free hand grasping down at my groin. His evil grin bared broken, rotten teeth as my fingers dug into his face, stretching and tearing at the leathery skin. There was the voice again.
'Come on, are you going to let yourself be cut and raped like Shane?'
What was stopping me? I didn't know. I kept a tight grip on the brute, as his body locked me against the wall, but something was preventing me from making my next move. The two voices of my inner being battled in the time it took for a drop of sweat to roll down Alcaponey's face, but it was as though time was standing still. It was a debate that addressed a whole lifetime and challenged the very core of who I was, who I had become.
I knew which voice had to win. But what then? Could I allow myself to be mutilated, just like my friend? Or could I really trust this new consciousness, this new voice that seemed so determined, so sure? Suddenly, words came out of my mouth. They were calm, clear, authoritative. Alcaponey knew only Greek, but in the surrealism of the moment, I spoke English. As I said the words, I released my hold and waited.
In the next split second I felt the weight of shock run through Alcaponey's body. He shivered and goose bumps rose on his clammy skin. His murky eyes glared in terror and I braced myself for the assault. Suddenly, my body heaved as he loosened his grip. We stood, still inches apart, glaring at one another's faces. Then, in a moment, he turned and fled. He was like a man possessed, running with his hands shielding his head. His blood curdling scream bounced off the concrete walls as I watched him disappear into the darkness.
I put my hand to my neck and peeled the blade from my skin. It hadn't left a mark.