Reading the news this morning, I saw there was a shoot-out between outlaw motorcycle gangs on a freeway in Texas, the Bandidos and the Homietos being the primary suspects. 

I had forgotten about a funeral service I worked for a Bandidos member.  Club members kept showing up for hours before the service.  Gang members came from all over the United States.  We kept track of all the patches from every state, and every state had at least one representative. 

It was a bit scary because none of us at the funeral home had ever encountered an outlaw motorcycle gang, and while we were a bit uneasy, I found them quite interesting.  I began asking questions of some of the riders.  Without fail, the men were polite and respectful.  The women were a different matter.  Although women are in the club only because of their attachment to a man, they acted like they owned the world.  They were a lot scarier than the men.

I talked to several of the men, and they were all very courteous.  When I asked about their various patches, one said he could tell me, but then he’d have to kill me.  I’m not sure he was joking.  No one would explain about the 1% patch, but I later learned it stands for the one percent who don’t answer to the law of the land.  Their only law is the law of the club.

My co-workers thought I was going to get myself killed by asking so many questions. A few asked if I’d like to go for a ride, and not wanting to offend, I simply said “I’d love to, but I’m working and can’t.”  Had I even wanted to, I had visions of riding off into the sunset and no one ever hearing of me again.

There were several men who wore a probation patch, and weren’t full members yet.  I didn’t dare ask what happened to a probationer who doesn’t pass whatever tests they face.  I did, however, ask how one becomes a member.  For instance, me.  Knowing full well a woman had to “pull a train,” a nicer(?) way of saying they had to have sex with every man in the club, I wanted to know what they would admit to.  One polite, well-spoken man told me they’d lock me in a room for five days with no food or water.  We even joked together that I thought I’d have to beat up someone to get in, and I said, "Oh, I can handle that."  Hahahaha.  I was younger then and said to be pretty, and I got a lot of attention.  That’s scary in itself.

The funeral was a lovely service, and everyone showed great respect and reverence for where they were.  As they rode out behind the hearse, we lost count at over 400 motorcycles with more coming, each one with a man and a woman aboard.  They had cleaned up the grounds after they had lunch, and left it cleaner than it was when they got here.

A few days later, I saw on the news someone in the gang had shot and killed the number 2 man of the club.

I read a book about a man who infiltrated the Hell’s Angels.  I can’t remember the author’s name, but he told some horrific stories.  He left the club in “bad standing,” and had to have police protection for over a year.  I often wonder what happened after that year.  These people don’t forget.

On a brighter note, once on vacation, my mother and stepfather were leaving a restaurant where Hell’s Angel’s were dining.  The leader said they would follow Mother and Amos until they reached their destination to make sure they arrived safely.  They gently helped them into their car, Amos was a bit feeble by this time, and sure enough, they surrounded the car until it left the freeway.  All the while, Mother and Amos didn’t know what to expect, but what could they do?  They were scared to death!  But when they turned off to leave the freeway, the gang gave them a loud salute with their horns and moved on.  Kind of sweet, wasn’t it?  Totally not what one would expect.