This ain’t no Sons of Anarchy fiction but the real deal.
True tales of the tales Donny can tell are much more interesting than television fantasy. This is Donny’s memoir as an outlaw 1% biker. To survive five decades in this lifestyle is an accomplishment that few can claim.
Yes, there is much violence, partying, and sex but the joys of brotherhood outpaces all, even the treachery and pain that awaits each and every one of us.
There is even a little of Donny’s poetry Living on the Edge…
“The thrill of speed overcomes fear of death, Leaning hard into aggressive -wind, Screaming engine pulsates; throbbing below. Brothers in front and to the back of me; one, tight beside me. Straight ahead, squinting eyes, tearing, salt burning the skin, We dare not look; we feel, we hear, we sense where each of us be. Constantly, adjusting tight distances instinctively. Masters of our beasts; unified, man and machine. Lone wolves in the pack meld as one. We form as a predatory snake. Rhythmically, poetically it weaves. Effortlessly, through and around, Pugnaciously, racing in and out. Melodiously, to the music we all hear. Thundering, barking exhausts. The tune of death; the adrenaline of life, The fearsome, intoxicating dance.
Living on the Edge.”
…or The Bro Code…
“ Once upon a time …
I moved in with a hot chick.
She was needy, becoming a bitch.
… and she tried to change me.
… and I never changed.
I lived happily, ever after.
… and rode my scooter and fucked skinny, big tittied broads.
… and pounded the pavement at high speed and did burnouts and wheelies.
I hung around strip joints and rode off with women half my age.
… and I drank whiskey, backed up with a beer or three.
… and I licked pussy, snorting coke off a dancer’s ass.
… and I slept at the clubhouse and kept my guns.
Best of all, the toilet seat was always up.
Everyone thought I was fucking cool as hell.
… including the hot bitch.”
This all sounds great, and for some it is true but the lifestyle can easily send many into addictions, despair, a life in prison, or the relief of death.
I was standing with some of the local bikers in front of our motel.
I asked one of the old ladies where the local bar was?
“The Pick-a-Pig is down the hill.”
“Wait here, I will get you a paper bag for you to cover her face … that way you won’t go limp.”
“She will be lots of meat Don. Weigh her and the scale will read one person at a time please.”
“Will she have more teeth than Big Mike?”
“Not sure Don.”
On a more serious note…
Killing an Undesirable: Diddlers
In the prison system, there is nothing lower than a diddler except maybe a rat but maybe not. Bikers concur without exception. Diddlers receive no mercy in our world.
Bud was still being treated as a non-violent, nuisance, revolving door prisoner who never caused problems … except for his penchant to escape. In reception, at arguably Canada’s toughest prison, Bud was in a holding area when another prisoner was added to the mix. Was this a mistake or the guard’s fault? Was it done on purpose? Or, did the guards think none of the inmates in reception knew? Bud recognized him as a diddler that had brutally raped a young child back in the Schwa.
“Donny, I couldn’t control myself. It didn’t matter anyway. The penalty for killing another prisoner was only 5 years. The charge was called Killing an Undesirable. Today you get life but back then, a measly five years. I beat him ’til he stopped breathing. Then I beat him some more. He didn’t die but spent three months in the hospital. They put me in “J” Unit with 22-hour lockup.”