"Unfortunately for the many, they find themselves frequently
surprised by the few."-Unknown
Oakland California, 1965
Two dockworkers were deep in the belly of a rusting freighter, heaving crates into
a cargo net and watching as they lifted out of the foul-smelling hold and into the
bright sunlight above. One of the dockworkers wiped sweat from his beard and looked
speculatively at huge pile of crates in the far corner of the hold,
"Oh man…that looks fun."
The other dockworker rolled his eyes and ran a hand through his slicked-back hair,
"Might as well tackle them next. You ready?"
"Yeah…"
The two walked over to the pile and looked at it, planning their attack.
"I'll circle around the back and see what that looks like." the bearded one said.
The other shrugged and waited for the net to be lowered back into the hold.
Pulling a pack of cigarettes out of the back pocket of his jeans, he shook a
cigarette out, and had just put it in his mouth and was getting ready to light it
when;
"Whoooaaaa! Charley! Man, you've got to come see this…"
Charley dropped the cigarette back in the pack and walked around to the other side
of the crates, and saw the bearded man standing next too…
"Terry, what the hell is that?"
The other dockworker shrugged,
"Some kind of far out statue…"
Charley had too agree…the statue was half of Terry's height, had a set of outspread
wings, its hands had four talons instead of fingers, and the stautue stood on high
arched, three toed feet.
"Hey, this things even got a tail!" Terry said, looking behind the statue.
Charley scratched his chin and evaluated the statue silently for a few seconds.
"You know where this thing would look good, Terry?"
The short man with the beard looked over at Charley,
"The clubhouse."
"Exactly."
"But how do we get this thing out of here, bro?"
Charley shrugged,
"Where there's a will…"
Four hours later, the two dockworkers were wrestling the statue out of the back of a
pick-up truck parked in front of dilapidated house on a rundown street.
"Were do you wanna dump this thing?"
"I dunno…lets just get the fucker inside first…"
Lifting from both sides, the two dock workers struggled across the overgrown front
lawn and onto the ramshackle porch of the house. The front door hung by a single
hinge and didn't have a handle, much less a lock, so the dockworker closest to it
shoved it ajar with his backside and kept going.
"This'll do." The bearded one said,
The two set the heavy statue down in the front room, just below a huge Nazi flag and
a shelf full of motorcycle trophies.
"Looks good…"
The two dockworkers went back out to the truck.
"Hey, I'm gonna head back home and pick my colors and my scoot…you gonna stick
around here Magoo?"
"Yeah, looks like it…later Terry."
"See ya."
Charley watched as the truck pulled around the corner before walking back into the
house,
where he found a huge man with greasy blonde hair inspecting the new decoration in
the front room.
"Hey Magoo, did you pick this thing up?" he asked.
"Yeah, man. Me an' Terry picked it up at work today…nice, ain't it?"
"Yeah…the things fuckin' creepy though!"
'Magoo' rolled his eyes, "Whatever…hey, I'm gonna go work on my bike, let me know if
anything goes down, okay?"
"Yeah…hey! Don't forget the club meeting tonight! You miss out again and we're
kickin' your ass out!"
"Yeah, yeah…" Tiny said the same thing to every club member, every week,
regardless.
Walking through the house and out the back door, Magoo walked over to a row of
gleaming chopped Harley-Davidsons. After wheeling a purple bike with raked front
forks out of the row, Magoo grabbed a set of wrenches out of a large shed and went
to work on his motorcycle.
Back in the front room, Tiny was still examining the statue when another man walked
through the still open front door, and stopped dead when he saw the statue.
"What the fuck is that?", he asked.
"I dunno, Tramp and Magoo picked it up from the docks."
Shaking his head, the new arrival walked over and looked closely at the statue.
Idly stroking his long goatee, he made a complete circle statue before saying;
"It looks good. Lets hope that whoever they stole this thing from doesn't come
looking for it.", pulling on a sleeveless denim jacket, the man with the goatee
walked out of the front room and into the kitchen.
As he left the room, the back of the jacket was illuminated by a ray of waning
sunlight;
on it a was an insignia; a pair of wings with red trim connected to a grinning skull
in an aviators helmet, along with two arched rockers. Both were white, the bottom one
reading 'Oakland' in red letters, the lettering on the top rocker was also red, but
instead of the name of a city, it identified the owners motorcycle club; Hells
Angels.
Out front of the house a long line of motorcycles slowly accumulated as the Oakland
Hells Angels straggled in for their weekly meeting.
The front room was packed with thirty unwashed, unshaven, fully patched Hells
Angels,
all of whom were looking expectantly at the small man with the goatee.
"Alright," the goateed man said, finally beginning the meeting, "We've waited long
enough…this weeks meeting is now started…" for the next hour, the man with the
goatee rambled on, explaining the plans for a rally the club was attending next week
in Bakersfield, who was up for membership in the club, where the cops seem to be
focusing their latest efforts to destroy the Hells Angels, what members needed to be
found and brought back into the fold before they had to be ejected from the club, and
other matters he deemed important enough to bring before his flock.
All the while he was talking, the sun had been slowly sinking, until only a few
small pinpoints of light rose over the horizon. This every day transition from day
to night was hardly noticed by the assembled bikers, that is, until the long shadows
sank over their newly decoration.
"So, anyway, that's about everyth…"
A loud cracking noise filled the room, which quickly built until the statue in the
corner suddenly erupted as the gargoyle awoke, sending bits of stone skin spraying
around the room, roaring at the night, his eyes flashing white.
As the gargoyle shook the last of his stone skin off, the bikers sat in shocked
silence, staring openmouthed at this winged creature suddenly dropped in their
midst.
After looking around at his new surroundings, the gargoyle returned the surprised
stare as he took in the room full of hairy, bearded, humans, all wearing filthy, oil
stained, cut off denim vests decorated with gleaming winged skulls, bizarre
numerals, and an array of World War Two vintage German insignia and medals.
The huge sergeant at arms was the first too break this sudden mutual silence, giving
a very abrupt and clear suggestion to his compatriots;
"RRRUUUUUUUUNNNNN!!!!!!!!"
The crowd of bikers suddenly made a break for the doors and windows.
Outside, a surprised group of prospects who had been tasked with watching the clubs
bikes and a crowd of wives and girlfriends were shocked to see the entire Oakland
chapter of the Hells Angels suddenly come running in terror from their own
clubhouse, yelling at the tops of their lungs.
"Jesus Christ, what the fuck…"
"Things gonna fuckin' eat us, man!"
"I'm gettin' the hell outta here!"
And so on.
As the mob slowly flowed towards the line of parked choppers, the President moved to
intercept it.
"Alright! CALM THE FUCK DOWN!"
As his chapter ground to a ragged halt just in front of the bikes, the president
spoke quickly;
"Alright, whatever that thing is, it's in OUR clubhouse, which means WE have to get
it out, unless, of course, someone wants to call the cops?"
The bikers were silent, except for a few nervous laughs from those who had managed
to gather their wits.
"First off, we need too send some guys back over there and see what that things up
too…" the president looked around, "Okay, Bobby, Johnny, Skip, you guys try and
sneak up too the front window, Tiny, you take Magoo, an' Cisco and circle around
back, got it?" The six bikers he had detailed off, slowly went too their new posts,
moving cautiously, as is human nature when in the presence of the unknown.
The president turned and looked at his remaining troops
"Everybody else, get ready…cuz we're goin' in."
"Hey, chief, in case you hadn't noticed, that thing is a fucking MONSTER.", one of
the bikers pointed out.
"You gonna turn pussy on me Del?" the president asked, fixing the dissenter with a
cold, tombstone stare.
"No way, chief…its just…fuck it."
The president looked over his chapter again, looking for anymore dissention. But
apparently the rest of them had had time enough to get over their initial terror and
were now ready to fight. A few Hells Angels unlimbered weaponry, a few pulling drive
chains they had been using for belts, others pulled knives and one produced a set of
brass knuckles, but the vast majority of the bikers had come to their weekly meeting
unarmed, and suddenly found themselves preparing to face god only knew what with
their bare hands.
"Okay…" the president looked over at the three men he had sent to scout out the
creatures location, and one pointed to the front room and nodded, "Lets get this
thing!!"
The mob of Hells Angels charged the building, pounding over the porch and through
the open front door, they found the gargoyle standing near where he had awoken,
examining the flag hung up on the wall.
"GET 'EM!" one of the bikers shouted, and ran at the startled gargoyle, who nimbly
stepped out of the way and drove the biker into the wall. The next attack came as a
Hells Angel tried to bring the chain he was wielding down on the gargoyles head, but
the gargoyle quickly snatched it away and smashed it across its former owner's
knees.
Another biker fell to a high kick to the chest, and fourth was felled by a blow from
the chain the gargoyle still wielded.
But the superior numbers of the Hells Angels quickly overwhelmed the lone gargoyle,
and he was driven to the ground, with three Hells Angels lying on his stomach, and
two others sitting on his limbs, while a single biker had grabbed a hold of the
gargoyles tail and now had it locked under his arm.
"Alright! We got the bastard!" One of the Hells angels shouted triumphantly.
Suddenly, a new voice broke into the animated congratulations that had started to
fly around the group of bikers.
"Would you fuckers GET THE HELL OFFA ME!" the struggling gargoyle yelled.
The bikers all froze in place.
"Holy shit, it can talk…" one murmured.
"Of course I can talk you jackass! Now let me the hell up!"
The six biker's who had a restrained the gargoyle looked over at the president, who
shook his head, "No way man…who knows what this thing can do."
"Well, could you at least have the mother fucker who has a hold of my tail to let
go?"
the president shrugged and waved off the Hells Angel holding the gargoyles tail.
"Thanks…"
The Hells Angels and their gargoyle captive fell silent for a moment, none of them
knowing quite what to do.
The Hells Angels looked at their leader expectantly,
"Shit…I dunno what to do! Stop starin' at me!"
"Why don't we kill it?" one of the bikers offered,
The president shrugged, "Maybe…nah, no reason to do that really."
"What? This thing looks like a demon or some shit!"
"An\' it wouldn't even be here if Tramp an' Magoo didn't steal that…statue."
"So what the hell ARE we gonna do?" Tiny asked, as he and the other two Hells
Angelsteh president had sent out back walked into the crowded front room thorough
the kitchen.
"I guess we let him up…wait! Tiny, Zorro, go upstairs and grab your guns." The two
bikers ran upstairs, and quickly returned, Tiny carrying an M-1 carbine and Zorro
carrying a sawn-off shotgun, "Okay…you two cover that thing while everybody else
gets off…"
The Hells Angels laying on the Gargoyle waited until Tiny and Zorro were standing
right over the gargoyle's head, pointing their guns at point blank range, before
quickly rolling off and scrambling to get as far away as possible.
"Can I stand up now?"
"Sure."
The gargoyle got slowly to his feet, the two bikers with guns keeping their weapons
pointed at his head the whole time.
"Now what?" the gargoyle asked.
"Uh, well…" The presidents face suddenly turned curious, "Hey man, who old are
you?"
"What? Oh… I'd guess I'd be about sixteen, in human terms…"
"Your only sixteen?" the president looked at the four Hells Angels the gargoyle had
leveled, three of them knocked unconscious while the fourth was writhing around in
pain on the floor, "Jesus Christ…"
Looking specutively at the gargoyle, the Hells Angels president asked another
question;
"You know anything about bikes?"
"What? You mean those idiotic looking contraptions you humans peddle around?"
"Guess that answers the question." the president sighed, "It would have been a
beautiful thing though…"
"What?"
"Nothin'…I guess you can fuck off if you want." the president waved at the door,
The gargoyle shrugged and headed out the door, the bikers quickly parting to let him
through. But the gargoyle suddenly stopped in the door way,
"Wait, by 'bikes' did you mean motorcycles?"
"Yep."
"Oh, well yeah, I mean I used to hang out with a guy who owned a…'Indian'?"
"Really?" the president looked at the gargoyle, interest sparking in his eyes, "You
ever ride any?"
"No, not really. Sounds fun though…anyway, I guess I'd better go before one of these
paranoid bastards shoots me."
The club president ran outside,
"Hey man hold on a sec…you got anywhere to go, or stay, or some shit like that?"
The gargoyle shrugged.
"Hey if you want to hang out around here for awhile, that'd be cool with us…"
A loud "WHAT!?" echoed from the house, where the bikers were nervously watching the
exchange between their chief and this unknown creature.
The biker president sent a silencing glare back at the house, before turning back to
the gargoyle, "What do ya' say man?"
"Sounds good, I guess…"
"Alright man, I'm gonna go inside and make sure it's cool with the guys…" the tone
of the presidents voice suggested he already knew the answer.
"Wait, wait, hold on a minute Goliath…" Elisa suddenly broke into Goliaths story,
"You mean too tell me, that Angel was getting into the Hells Angels when he was only
twelve?" Elisa shook her head, "He looks younger than you, Golaith! Even if he's
aging at half the rate of humans, that doesn't make sense!"
Goliath could only nod in agreement,
"I know, Elisa, but I saw this with my own eyes…I'm still not sure what happened too
Angel too slow his aging, but…"
"It's okay, I guess." Elisa said, "Its not like this story isn't already weird
enough."
Three months after his dramatic entry, the teenage gargoyle was still hanging around
the ramshackle Hells Angels Clubhouse, and, for whatever reason, he and the grimy
outlaws had gelled spectacularly.
"Hey Kid, hand me that one-eighth, will ya?"
"Gimme a sec…" the gargoyle gave one final tug to a bolt he had been threading back
onto the bike he was working on, "There."
He tossed the wrench over to Tiny, who was working on his own bike in the shed
behind the clubhouse.
"Kid, you ain't never gonna get that fuckin' bike running!"
The gargoyle snorted in amusement and affectionately patted the rusting metal of the
bikes gas tank.
"That's what you said about Magoo's bike."
"Yeah…well…" The huge biker had nothing too say about that. The week after he had
shown up, the gargoyle had single handedly brought life back to a machine its owner
had given up for dead. The Angels, each an accomplished mechanic in his own right,
were shocked when they found out a teenager with no experience had succeeded were
their best efforts had failed.
"The kids got an angel's touch, man." Cisco had said, as he listened in awe to the
roar of the newly revived chopper that Magoo had eagerly reclaimed from its former
final resting place in the shed.
After that, the 'Kid', as he had been dubbed by the bikers, went to work on the
rusting hulk of a 40's vintage Harley-Davidson knucklehead that had been sitting in
one corner of the garage as for as long as anyone could remember. Most of the
bikers considered the Knucklehead to be a lost cause, but a few stopped by to help
the young gargoyle, finding new parts to replace the ones missing from the bike, and
providing advice on the few things the gargoyle hadn't been able to figure out for
himself.
After a month of work, the bike was now complete, and Tiny watched in anticipation
as the 'Kid' mounted the bike, and got it ready to start. After pouring in some gas
from a can kept in the shed, the Kid mounted his rusty metal steed, and kicked hard
on the starter pedal.
The bike immediately roared too life.
"Holy crap…" Tiny murmured, as the gargoyle gunned the engine, the exhaust roaring
through the set of up-turned straight pipes one on the Hells Angels had donated too
replace the bike's old muffler.
"Guess it runs\", the gargoyle announced, as he cut off the engine and dismounted
the bike.
"Yeah…now all you need to do is learn how too ride the damn thing." Tiny pointed
out.
The Kid looked crestfallen for a second, realizing he might have wasted a months
time on something he really knew nothing about. But a new look of determination
quickly replaced the his disappointment. He looked over at Tiny,
"Okay, one gear down, four up right?"
"Yeah…"
The gargoyle promptly kicked his bike back to life, dropped down on the clutch, and
roared out of the open back door of the shed.
The bike sputtered and growled as Kid drove it slowly and unsteadily down the alley
behind the clubhouse, grinding gears and nearly stalling the bike. Finally reaching
the street, the gargoyle put the bike in high gear, and took off into the East bay
night.
Roaring through the nearly deserted streets of Oakland, he led a zig-zag course
around town, learning the ropes of riding a bike, blowing through dozens of red
light's and dodging cars in both lanes of traffic, the Gargoyle suddenly found
himself having the time of his life.
An hour later, he managed to find his way back to the Hells Angels clubhouse, where
he parked his bike next to three gleaming, chromed choppers that were parked
outside. Three Hells Angels sitting on the porch watched in astonishment as the he
turned off his bike and dismounted.
"Holy shit…" Cisco said as he saw the gargoyle park his mismatched bike next to his
chopper, "He got that thing too run? Man, he really does have an Angels touch…"
"How the hell did the cops not pick him up?" Del asked, "I mean he's well…you
know."
Cisco could only shrug, but the Hells Angels president sent a speculative look at
the gargoyle swaggering across the lawn. The gargoyle had long since discarded the
ragged clothing he had been wearing the night he and the bikers had had their first
introduction, and now wore a black leather jacket he had dug out of closet and cut
two long holes in the back of to fit his wings through, along with a pair of
oil-stained blue jeans and a white t-shirt. As well as his new clothes, the
gargoyle's hair had grown out, and the greasy black locks now reached down past his
shoulders.
Except for the jacket, the gargoyle looked identical to any one of the hundreds of
outlaw bikers around the bay. It was odd that no cops had yanked the gargoyle off
his bike, at the very least for daring to ride a motorcycle in these days of
concerted harassment, but the gargoyle did blend in well dressed in the same grubby
uniform as his new friends. It seemed the half-formed plan the president had
hatched was working out perfectly…
"Hey, Angel!" Cisco suddenly yelled, "How'd you get that rust bucket piece of shit
too run?"
"Angel?" the president asked, turning to look at the paunchy Mexican,
"Hey, it fits!" Cisco, said, defending his new nickname for the gargoyle.
"Well…yeah, I guess it does…"
"Why the hell did you just call me Angel?", the gargoyle asked as he hopped up onto
the porch.
"Because that's your new nickname...love it or leave it."
The newly re-christened gargoyle rolled his eyes.
"Hey man, now that you got that thing running, you gonna finish chopping it?" Del
asked
Angel shrugged before answering, "Hey, I'd love to, but that costs money…which I
don't have."
The three bikers had too agree with that. Since he had arrived, the gargoyle had
been living off the largesse of the Hells Angels, which many were growing tired of
giving.
"Hey man, why don't you just head across town and roll a couple pimps or
something?"
the president suggested.
"What's a pimp?" Angel asked.
Cisco and Del both broke into fits of raucous laughter while the president could
only shake his head. The gargoyle fit in so well with the Hells Angels it was easy
too forget how foreign their two worlds had really been.
"I tell you what, head out across the bay, than another five miles north, and when
you find a guy in a purple suit smacking around a chick…you've found a pimp." the
president explained.
"Okay…" Angel considered for a moment. The option of heading east and beating up
one of these 'pimps' for his money seemed risky, not the least because he wasn't
familiar enough with the area too ensure he could get back too the relative safety
of the clubhouse before dawn; his own exploration forays had never been long enough
to bring him too the territory of these 'pimps'. But weighing against the risk were
the gains; he would be able too help pay his own way, at least for awhile, and so
would be able to stop living off
the biker's charity, which embarrassed the usually self sufficient gargoyle, and
above all was the delicious possibility of being able too fully chop his bike,
complete with all the modifications he saw on the Harleys parked in front of the
clubhouse night after night.
Of course he'd have too figure out how too get the bike into a machine shop too work
on it, but he could worry about that later.
"Yeah, I guess that sounds like an idea." Angel decided before digging his talons
into the side of the house and climbing up the crumbling brick wall and onto the
roof.
Spreading his wings, Angel caught an air current and headed north.
"Man, no matter how many times I see him do that, it still looks awesome." Cisco
said, as he watched the gargoyle glide away.
"Hey Sonny…" Del said, talking to the Hells Angels president, "When're you gonna do
it?"
"We'll see how he does tonight…if the fucks over in the north bay handle him, I
guess we just kick him out. But if everything goes the way I think it will, we do
it tomorrow night."
"Cool."
Slicing through the air a few miles away, Angel was looking down at the dark waters
of San Francisco Bay, headed towards the City by the Bay looking to make himself
some easy money. He didn't know how tough these 'pimp' types would be, but he
doubted they could stand up to a gargoyle very long. Gliding in off the bay and over
the streets of San Francisco, Angel began to search for his quarry, dropping lower to
get a closer view of the mobs of people and cars below. Gliding over golden gate
park, Angel saw a sprawling mass of tents and bonfires, heard the strains of a few
folk songs, and caught the now familiar odor of burning hash, which after a solid
month with the most flagrant drug users in California, the gargoyle had grown
accustomed too. Flying over this vast expanse of people, Angel suddenly found
himself in squalid, filthy ghetto, outlined in red neon and lit by run-down theaters
with brightly signs marked with three black X's.
Angel didn't know it, but he was now entering the Tenderloin District.
A few blocks into the District, Angel spotted a likely candidate.
Swooping down to a building, angel landed on the roof and looked over the side to
get a closer look at a man in a purple suit he had just seen ducking into an alley.
Peering into the dim alley, he spotted the man again. He had shoved a short black
woman in a miniskirt, rolled up blouse and open toed stilettos up against a wall and
had a knife shoved against her throat.
"Bitch what'choo mean you ain't got my money?!"
"Johnny, please… I ain't had no tricks tonight, honest!"
Angel's eyes hardedned. This idiot was dressed like a clown, and was abusing a
woman.
Two for two on Sonny's description.
Spreading his wings to slow his fall, Angel leapt off the roof and landed almost
soundlessly on the cracked concrete surface of the alley below.
"Johnny a swear to god I'll get 'yo money by next week…"
"Too late ho'…I had enough of yer shit."
The pimp started to dig his knife into the woman's throat, when he was suddenly
yanked backwards and tossed face first into a wall.
"Fucking pansy." Angel sneered, before walking over and delivering a hard kick to
the back of the pimps head. Satisfied the parasite wouldn't be standing up for good
long time, Angel crouched and pulled the knife still clutched in his hand away. On
close examination the knife proved to be an expensive Italian switch blade model, so
Angel dropped it in one of his jacket pockets.
Rifling the pockets of the pimps jacket, he came up with a set of brass knuckles, a
pack of cigarettes, and gold plated Zippo lighter with a silver skull on one side.
Pocketing these items, Angel then pulled the pimps jacket open, revealing a leather
shoulder holster with a nickel plated colt 1911 with pearl grips holstered in it.
"Oooo…fucking groovy." Angel said, as he tore the pimps jacket to shreds and yanked
the shoulder rig off. Pulling the weapon out of its holster, Angel pointed it at the
wall and sighted down the barrel before setting both the weapon and the shoulder
holster off too one side. After going through the pimp's trouser pockets, Angel
came up with a wad of cash and a few packets of white powder.
He didn't know what it was, but if the pimp had it in his pockets, he figured it
might be worth something. He could always ask one of the Angels when he got back
too the clubhouse. After yanking off all seven of the rings the pimp was wearing, as
well taking the gold chains around his neck, Angel deposited his loot in a paper bag
he found sticking out of a nearby trash can. As he started too climb back out of the
alley, he looked over too find that the woman the pimp had been threatening was still
there, frozen in place and staring at him.
The two locked eyes for a moment. Then Angel let out a loud snarl.
The woman's eyes widened, before she screamed and ran away, her heels clicking
across the pavement.
Angel laughed and continued his climb to the buildings roof.
Just after two a.m., Angel was landing on top of the Hells Angels Clubhouse back in
Oakland, laden with his spoil's. He'd mugged two more pimps after the first,
netting himself more money and jewelry, a chrome plated Saturday night special,
another switchblade, and a small bottle of red pills, the same kind of pills he'd
seen the angels taking. He thought they were called reds. Like the white powder he'd
nabbed, he figured that they might be worth some money.
Jumping into a second story bedroom through a broken window, Angel nonchalantly
walked past the bed, where four Hells Angels were gang banging some woman Angel had
never seen, and judging by what was happening to her right now, was unlikely too
ever see again.
Kicking open the bedroom door, Angel walked down a graffiti-covered hall way and
down the stairway to the front room. A few Hells Angels were scattered around,
passing around a joint. Terry the Tramp called out a mellow greeting form one end
of the room, as did a writer who had taken too following the outlaws around in the
last few weeks.
The rest of the Hells Angels in the room were to far gone to notice the arrival of a
Greek god, much less a lone gargoyle.
Walking past a circle of Hells Angels in the kitchen who were eagerly demolishing a
case of beer, angel walked over too the shed, where Skip and the Hells Angels
president were working on their bikes.
"Well, he ain't dead!" the president announced when Nagel swaggered into the shed.
"Hey Sonny…you will not believe how much crap I picked up tonight!"
Angel dumped the paper bag he was carrying his loot in onto the dirt floor of the
shed.
Skips eyes widened when he watched the pile of stolen goods accumulate.
"Jesus Angel," Skip was careful too use the gargoyles new nickname, "Did you roll
every pimp in Frisco?"
Angel shrugged, "I don't know…maybe?"
Skip laughed and went back too working on his chopper.
"That's a pretty good haul, Angel…" the presidentsaid, Picking up a mass of gold
chains, "What're you gonna do with it?"
Angel suddenly looked stunned, "Well I…what would you do, Sonny?"
"If I were you, I'd hang on to them guns and the switchbladea…and sell the rest."
"Sounds good…hey, that reminds me!" Angel pulled the packets of white powder and the
bottle of pills out of his pockets, "Are these worth any money?"
"Holy shit…" Sonny held out his hand, and Angel dropped the drugs on it. After
flipping through the for a few seconds, Sonny looked up at Angel, "Man, you've got like, two hundred
dollars worth of smack here!"
"You want to buy it?" Angel asked,
"Fuck…hold on a sec…", Sonny dug into his pockets and pulled out a few wadded up
twenty dollar bills, "Looks like I can buy half now…" he handed Angel a hundred
dollars, and the gargoyle handed over half of the Heroin, "And I'll pick up the rest
later. Now, what're you gonna do with that jewelry?"
Angel shrugged, "I don't think I can sell it myself…"
"There places I can take it…I'll split the profits with you."
"Nah. Just sell that shit and use the money for the club…consider it back rent for
the time I've been living off you."
The president clapped Angel on the shoulder, "That's a righteous move, brother."
Angel was slightly taken aback when Sonny called him 'brother'. He had long ago
noticed the Hells Angels attached a great deal of significance too the word, but the
purpose for this was still unclear. Oh well.
"And I'm keeping the cash, of course," Angel continued, "I've got about two grand, I
think…" Skip and Sonny's head whipped around at that, "Is that enough to get started
on my chopper?"
Sonny laughed, "Angel, that's enough to BUILD the fucker."
"Really?" Angel sat down on the hard packed dirt floor, "That's…wow." To him, the
lofty ambition of a chopped Harley Davidson was a dream he had had since first
seeing the line of sleek machines parked in front of the Hells Angels clubhouse. And
now, it was in his grasp, and all it had required was hospitalizing a few people.
It was amazing how easy things could turn out to be.
"So whatta ya want to do?" Skip asked Angel,
"Huh?"
"Like, how do you want yer bike chopped? High bars, drag bars, raked front or not…"
"Oh shit, yeah…"
Angel sat with the two bikers for the next few hours, discussing how he wanted his
bike done up. As the night wore on, Skip and Sonny left, heading home. Angel drifted
inside and talked too Magoo for awhile, until the tall biker passed out after taking
too many reds.
As dawn approached, Angel crouched in a corner of the front room, and as the sun
slowly crept over the Horizon, Angel suddenly realized he had left his hard stolen
goods laying on the floor of the work shed. He realized too late, and the sun froze
his panicked expression on his face.
"Hold on a wee bit there lad…" Hudson interrupted Goliaths story, "Might this
'Sonny' fellow have the last name of 'Barger'?"
Goliath looked surprised, "Yes…"
"Well now…the young lad has friends at the very top, doesn't he?" Hudson rumbled.
"Who's this…Sonny Barger supposed to be anyway?" Angela asked,
"He's the leader of the Hells Angels…" Elisa explained, "If it wasn't for him, the
Hells Angels would have just died out a long time ago, instead of turning into one
of the most dangerous groups of people on the planet." by he tone, it was easy to
tell that Elisa didn't have a whole lot of fondness for this Barger character or his
organization. Also obvious was the fact that, judging by the glare he sent Elisa's
way, Brooklyn didn't agree with that assessment. but the red hued gargoyle kept
silent, and Goliath continued his story
The next night, Angel awoke still in a panic, and he ran for the back door the
second he could move, still shedding bits of stone skin through the clubhouse he ore
through it and towards the shed.
When he got there, he found that his pile of goods were gone, a chopped Harley he
had never seen before sitting where he had left them.
Cursing loudly, Angel looked around, hoping someone had just moved his stuff, but
found nothing until he looked on the work bench. The forty-five and shoulder holster
were sitting there, along with the revolver and the other weapons he had stolen. But
all Angel could find remaining of his cash was the hundred dollars Sonny had paid him
for the drugs.
"Shit…" Angel hissed,
"Hey, Angel, man, how do you like your new bike?"
Angel whirled and saw Sonny, Skip, Cisco and Tiny standing in the open doors of the
shed.
"My new…"
Cisco pointed to the gleaming chopper parked in the shed.
Angel gaped, mouth hanging open as he stared at the bike, seeing it clearly for the
first time. The engine, frame, and pipes were the same ones he had been working on
for so long…but everything else was new. Shoulder height handle bars had been
added, along with a smaller gas tank stripped off an old Mustang minibike. The front
fender and brakes were gone, and the forks had been raked ever so slightly, to get
the bike lower to the ground. the back fender had been replaced with one from a 30's
era sedan, which snugly over the fat back wheel. Anything on the bike that couldn\'t
be chromed had been painted a bright candy apple red.
"Holy god…" Angel muttered reverently, as he walked over to run a taloned hand down
his newly chopped Harley. Sitting on the skinny leather seat, Angel leaned back on
the dagger shaped sissy bar and smiled.
"Hey, If you can tear yourself away for a second and come inside we got another
surprise for ya…" Sonny said, as he and the other Hells Angels walked back towards
the clubhouse. After a few minutes of sitting on his chopper, Angel reluctantly
followed.
Walking through the house and into the front room, Angel found that a good half of
the Oakland Hells Angels were arrayed around the front room, waiting for the
gargoyles arrival.
"Alright Angel…" Sonny said, from a beat up office chair he was sitting on, like a
king holding on his throne, "You've been hanging out with us for a long time now,"
for a Hells Angel in the sixties, a month could be a lifetime, "And we dig you.
You're us, brother; you don't take shit and you know how to survive…" the Hells
Angel leader reached behind him, and Tiny handed him a cut off denim vest, "I want
to sponser you man…I want you to prospect for the Hells Angels." Sonny offered Angel
the cut off denim vest, and Angel saw that it didn't have a top rocker or a Hells
Angels insignia;
only a bottom rocker with 'Oakland' on it, and the Square white patch with the
acronym for motorcycle club, MC, in red. These were prospect colors; to be worn
until the far off day when a prospective member is decided fit to upgrade too the
full patch. but besides that Angel saw something else; a lure. It was obvious now,
at least too someone wide a suspicious nature like Angel's, why Sonny had wanted him
too stick around. He'd wanted the gargoyle too become a member of his club. After
all, the use's of having an incredible strong, terrifying gargoyle around would be
glaringly obvious too a shrewd man like Sonny Barger. But in the month he'd been
there, Angel had grown too idolize these dregs of humanity. The filthy, violent,
Hells Angels embodied the ideal life for the rebellious young gargoyle; they refused
to obey any rules, including the ones they set themselves, they fought at the drop of
a hat, were more interested in the next minute than the next year, and none of them
gave a damn about what society expected of them. They were true outcast's and
reveled in it.
By whatever stroke of fate, Angel had found his niche. He reached out to take the
jacket. After all, if he decided he didn't like being an outlaw biker, he could
always do something different, right?
'Bullshit.' a tiny voice said in the back of his mind.
But before the voice could say anything else, angel was pulling on the vest, which
one of the outlaws had thoughtfully cut to allow it to fit over his wings. As soon
as he finished putting the vest on, the Angels fell on him.
Spraying Angel with the contents of a can of Budweiser, Terry and Skip ran over too
offer Angel their congratulations in the form of bone crunching bear hugs. Sonny took
a more direct approach, cracking open a can of motor oil sitting next to his chair
and pouring the contents over Angel's head.
"Alight bro…" the infamous Hells Angel leader said, rubbing the oil into Angels
colors, "Now you've got too earn the right."