Charming, California - 1999
Just outside the Teller-Morrow automotive garage, a few overall-clad mechanics were performing a royal treatment of sorts on a fleet of classic motorcycles, including a hand-wash, hand-dry, and any additional tune-ups needed to ensure the bikes were in tip-top condition. Some people would say these bikes were treated better than humans. Those people would be right.
Inside the attached clubhouse, though, was a whole other world that those on the outside wouldn't understand unless they were a part of it. A world of Harley's, leather, booze, pussy, and power. These ingredients, mixed with a couple of off-kilter individuals, make up Sons of Anarchy Motorcycle Club: Redwood Original, or SAMCRO. The crew of ruthless, brazen criminals only loved one thing more than their bikes, and that was each other. The brotherhood.
Several young Prospects - young men waiting for their turn to take a seat at the table - lounged around the bar doing shots, chatting up girls, and cleaning their illegal weapons. Scantily-clad women in leather known as Croweaters waited for the patched-in members to finish their meeting so they could have a little fun before being passed on to the next member. It certainly wasn't the life these young women had envisioned for themselves, but it was what they lived for, much like everyone rocking the Reaper.
Behind those wooden doors, however, was a world neither Croweaters or Prospects knew much about - a world of greed, extortion, police corruption, and all too often, murder. Sitting behind their beloved oakwood table carved with the club's infamous Reaper logo was seven of the organization's most hardened members, including two wet-behind-the-ears rookies who just got their first taste of the explosive and dangerous lifestyle.
At the head of the table sat arguably the most feared and unpredictable SON, and stepfather to the newest patch-in - club president Clay Morrow.
"First off, I wanna give a round of applause for our newest members of taking care of that little brown problem we had last night," Clay bellowed with a devious smile, sending the table into a rowdy cheer. "You boys put in good work on those Mayan bastards. Good work Jax and Opie."
Jax Teller grinned proudly through a black eye from his seat near the end of the table. He bumped knuckles with his best friend since grade school, Opie Winston, who was sporting his own split lip.
"That boy's a Winston," Piney - Opie's father and club VP - boasted from Clay's left. "What did you expect? He was born a tough motherfucker."
Praise came again from the club, and Clay's gavel quieted them.
"We have a few things to go over tonight before we head out and party," he said sternly, taking a long drag off his cigar before continuing, "As you know, we were approached by the Grim Bastards to execute a run to their Nevada charter while they lay low from some heat. Now of course we agreed to that before the Feds came snooping around, but we need that 75K payday. We got a lot of business deals coming up and we need all the money we can get."
"How the hell do you expect us to pull this off with a FBI tail on us?" said Bobby Elvis, another longtime member. "Can't even scratch our balls with them snapping a pic of it."
"Well who is to blame for that?" Clay asked, all eyes turning to Tig Trager, the most eccentric and unstable of the bunch. "The plan was to discreetly get rid of those rats, Tig. Burying them. You don't know the meaning of discreet?"
Tig only shrugged with a grin, "Bury? I thought you said burn." The other men at the table snickered, while Clay only glared over at him. "Look, I felt like burying the men who got our warehouse raided and our men locked up was too easy. They needed to suffer. Sue me."
Clay flicked the dry ash from his stoagie and leaned back, "Well now, we have to let the Feds do their jobs and pray it doesn't backfire on us. Unser can't help us this time considering the scene is outside of Charming. Let's hear some ideas on how to get this shipment to Nevada without landing us all in prison."
The men went around the table giving their idea on how to safely transfer a few life-sentences across state borders. Most ideas including making those agents - and anyone who got in their way - disappear, but it would only bring more stress and more cops. The suggestion wheel landed on Jax and Opie, and all eyes went their way.
Eighteen year-old Jax snubbed out his own cigarette, "Well since we can't make the drop, let's find someone to make it for us... under our supervision, of course."
"Go on," Clay said, intrigued.
Jax leaned across the table and intertwined his hands, "Find drivers, drivers who aren't apart of our world. Ones who wouldn't be linked back to us."
"You mean outsiders? We don't associate with outsiders, Jackie Boy," Chibs, a mild-mannered Scottie, said.
"I know that but hear me out," Jax's shining blue eyes pleaded. "We find four, maybe five drivers we can trust to make this drop. Ride along with them to make sure they don't make off with the product. That way our bikes aren't seen anywhere out of Charming, and we still get to collect."
"We can call up Reno-" Piney said but Jax cut him off.
"It can't be anyone linked to the Reaper. Any of the charters get busted with automatic weapons, the ATF is gonna make even more trouble for all of us."
"Say your plan works," Tig interjected skeptically, "What do we do with said drivers after we're done with them? What - send them off on their merry way and mail them thank-you letters after? Come on, Clay."
"Pay for their silence. No need to pile on the bodies," said Opie.
"And pay them with what, Little Piney?" Chibs asked.
Clay tugged at his beard, contemplating his son's suggestion to their problem. Jax was intelligent and analytical, much like his father, founder and longtime president John Teller. Jackson was born into the club and had been a prominent figure around the clubhouse since birth, so it was no surprise that he was fresh off his one-year probation period, and the same went for Opie. The boys went from high school dropouts, to SAMCRO Prospects within months, and now they were both at the table, ready to ride for the family they had chosen for them.
Jax had initiative, but he jumped into the club after a bad breakup, and spent the last year bedding Croweaters and going above and beyond for the club. Clay often worried if his self-destructive behavior would be a dark cloud for the club, or if his fearless actions could one-day be beneficial for the crew.
"Alright Jax, I'm gonna let you and Op run point on this one. You boys find drivers that you can trust to pull this off. I want Chibs and Tiggy to roll with you. You have three days, and I don't think I have to tell you to keep it quiet."
"We can handle it," said Jax.
"Hope so, kid, 'cause the rest of us have to keep up appearances for the piggies," Clay said before ending the meeting with a bang of his gavel. "Go party, boys."
As Jackson exited the Reaper room, he was immediately met with blaring rock music, shots of dark liquor, and plenty of women of his choosing. His brothers were congratulating him on his work thus far, but he already thinking about his next mission. He plucked a cigarette from his pack and lit it, taking a much-needed drag as his eyes scanned the rowdy bar. He found who he was looking for and made his way over to the bar, where the most recent Prospect worked serving drinks. The weird Latino kid was timid, but he was a wild-card and practically a genius when it came to technology. Chibs vouched for the boy who only went by Juice, now it was time to prove his usefulness.
"Juice, let's talk, brother."
Jax nodded for the others to follow him outside. They kept an eye on the silver sedan that had been parked outside the business all day, undoubtedly a government vehicle.
"I got an idea," Jax said, "Juice, you remember a few weeks ago when we got caught behind those street racers. You mentioned you knew a few of them?"
"Yeah, a few. I'm not too bad myself. Why?"
"Wait, are you thinking using racers to run our shit?" Tig said, as if the idea was blasphemy. "Hell no. Never trust a man who can't ride two wheels."
"It's a smart idea," Opie said. "Cops will spot our bikes, hear them coming a mile away. But if we used people who could really drive, we could easily go undetected. They'd never expect us to be affiliated with anyone in that world."
"And even if we pick up a tail, they can outrun them," Jax added.
"I don't know about this, Jax. Makes me nervous," Chibs said.
"Chibs, who else do you know that despises authority and cheats death daily like us?" Jax asked with a sly smile.
"Other bikers," he said easily.
"Besides other bikers, Chibs."
"Can they be trusted, Juice? This is a big deal. Any screwups wouldn't bode well for that top-rocker you're working so hard to get," Tig said.
"I have a few people in mind. We haven't talked in a few years, but we were close as kids. I think they'd do it."
"You think, or you know?"
"I know," Juice said.
"Set up a meet for tomorrow. We'll all go check 'em out"
"Now can we go party?!" Chibs asked eagerly, spotting a few Croweaters waiting patiently by the doors.
The boys split up, Jax and Opie heading back inside.
"You think this will work?" Opie asked his friend.
"It better. Or we'll have to ask Luanne to make room at porn heaven for Juice."
"Shit, if this backfires, Clay will have us taking it up the ass."
"Let's make sure it doesn't, then," Jax said, making his way over to the bar. He took two quick shots and turned to scan the crowd. He spotted a beautiful blonde sitting on the sofa nervously, clearly out of her element. He made his way over and took a seat next to her. "Now, why have I never seen you around here before?"
"Probably because this is my first time here," she replied. "I'm friends with Gina." Gina was currently on the bar, letting Bobby and Piney take shots off of her body. "Though I'm not sure if I should admit that publicly."
"She seems like fun," Jax smirked. "I'm-"
"Jackson Teller, heir to the S-O-A throne," she smiled. "I know. I've heard a lot about you, Mr. Teller. I'm Wendy, Wendy Case."