Biker Gang Quotes

I should have a gun.” “And you think I can provide it?” “Ask your biker gang buddies.” “They prefer the term ‘motorcycle club.’” “I’m sure they do.

For those of us who are not members of a biker gang or the Marine Corps, solidarity means little more than the compassionate impulse that leads us to comfort a bereft friend; for Beezer and his merry band, solidarity is the assurance that someone's always got your back.

It’s never good to owe money to a guy with a cellar full of military hardware. Especially not when he rides with an outlaw biker gang.

There were no zombies in those movies is all I’m saying. How many dangers should we have to face on any given day? We’ve got zombies, vampires, rednecks and now a biker gang. Enough is enough already!

Zach glanced out the window to what had to be the quietest town he’d ever been in. “Big gang problem around here? Lots of cow jacking?” “We have all sorts pass through our little town, thank you very much. Bikers. Cowboys. The always dangerous rodeo clowns.” “Rodeo clowns?” “Don’t ask.” Zach shrugged. “I don’t want to know.” “Any other condescending questions about my town?” “Oh, I’m not being condescending. I’m very interested in your tiny little town, with its tiny little people. I bet you guys even have a movie theater.” Sara barked out a laugh. “You certainly are a charmer.

A word of advice about Ricky ..." Gabriel said as he swung his car from the end of the drive. "Is it going to cost me?" I waved off his answer. "Whatever you're going to say, save your breath." "I overheard him offering you a ride on his motorcycle. I don't believe you understand what that entails." "Grass, gas, or ass. No one rides for free." I looked over at him. "I've seen the T-shirt." "I don't think you're taking this seriously, Olivia. Do you know what a one-percenter is?" I sighed. "Yes, Gabriel. It refers to the portion of bikers who belong to a professional motorcycle club. A gang. Ricky is one. As such, I'm going to guess that the only women who get to ride his bike are also riding him. Am I right?" His mouth tightened as if he didn't appreciate the crass phrasing. "I'm afraid you're under some illusions about Ricky because he does not fit the stereotype." "Oh, I'm not fooled. He may appear to be the heir to a criminal empire, but he's really an undercover cop, working tirelessly to overthrow his father's evil empire and restore justice and goodness to the land." I glanced over. "Am I close?" Not even a hint of a smile.

There were women, too. They were a little more what I expected. Tight jeans. Tank tops without bras. Evening makeup at noon. Jersey hair. The general vibe varied from “wouldn’t look out of place on a corner of 47th” to “could work at a really nice strip club.

Military Veterans have become gang members since the late 1700s.

We crossed the Mississippi and on to Illinois. At Starved Rock, 100 miles south of Chicago, we followed 40 or 50 bikers with ‘Bikers against Child Abuse’ as their colours. Next was Indiana, with foggy river towns and vast farmlands, Amish homes in Ohio with smoke curling from the chimneys, then 43 miles of unbroken forests and prime trout-water rivers in West Virginia. We stayed overnight and ate fresh game pie, although whether we were eating possum, rabbit or raccoon we never discovered.

I knew it wasn’t going to be easy to fence a stolen grand piano in outlaw biker circles.

I was often more at risk from my supposed brothers in blue than from my adopted brothers in the gang. Just as there were some decent qualities—loyalty, love, respect—among the outlaw bikers, there were some law-enforcement officers who were little more than outlaws with badges.

Seems to be catching." "What is?" asked Neku. "Wanting Kit dead." Neku shrugged. "He was fucking the wife of a gang boss and bikers used his bar to deal drugs, plus lots of uyoku felt Yoshi Tanaka should be married to someone Japanese. Then there's chippu he owed to the local police and unpaid bills from a Brazilian transvestite who mends his motorcycle. It could have been anyone.

Maybe you’ve been there. You go into a police or sheriff’s station after a gang of black kids forced you to stop your car while they smashed out your windows with garbage cans; a strung-out addict made you kneel at gunpoint on the floor of a grocery store, and before you knew it the begging words rose uncontrollably in your throat; some bikers pulled you from the back of a bar and sat on your arms while one of them unzippered his blue jeans. Your body is still hot with shame, your voice full of thumbtacks and strange to your own ears, your eyes full of guilt and self-loathing while uniformed people walk casually by you with Styrofoam cups of coffee in their hands. Then somebody types your words on a report and you realize that this is all you will get.

Despite the superficial similarities created by global technology, the dynamics of peer-orientation are more likely to promote division rather than a healthy universality. One need only to look at the extreme tribalization of the youth gangs, the social forms entered into by the most peer-oriented among our children. Seeking to be the same as someone else immediately triggers the need to be different from others. As the similarities within the chosen group strengthen, the differences from those outside the groups are accentuated to the point of hostility. Each group is solidified and reinforced by mutual emulation and cue-taking. In this way, tribes have formed spontaneously since the beginning of time. The crucial difference is that traditional tribal culture could be passed down, whereas these tribes of today are defined and limited by barriers among the generations. The school milieu is rife with such dynamics. When immature children cut off from their adult moorings mingle with one another, groups soon form spontaneously, often along the more obvious dividing lines of grade and gender and race. Within these larger groupings certain subcultures emerge: sometimes along the lines of dress and appearance, and sometimes along those of shared interests, attitudes, or abilities, as in groups of jocks, brains, and computer nerds. Sometimes they form among peer-oriented subcultures like skateboarders, bikers, and skinheads. Many of these subcultures are reinforced and shaped by the media and supported by cult costumes, symbols, movies, music, and language. If the tip of the peer-orientation iceberg are the gangs and the gang wannabes, at the base are the cliques. Immature beings revolving around one another invent their own language and modes of expression that impoverish their self-expression and cut them off from others. Such phenomena may have appeared before, of course, but not nearly to the same extent we are witnessing today. The result is tribalization.

I’m in a biker gang. We deal in drugs. Our chapter president is Lance Armstrong.

With nothing to occupy my time, I enrolled in online classes through Liberty University and decided in my new life I would be well educated and well employed. I worked toward my bachelor’s in biblical studies.

Let’s go. I don’t want to keep you from the things you have to do . . . like plan the next crime wave with your biker gang.” “Sure. And you don’t want to miss your nail appointment.” I cocked my head. “That’s tomorrow.

I succumbed, white spots punching my eyelids.

We traveled like a black swarm, our bikes so close we grazed each other’s knees, clipped side mirrors, and inhaled exhaust. The experience, reminiscent of stock car racing, left me breathless and anxious as I split traffic and roared ninety-five miles an hour down the freeway. My hands shook

the Vagos Motorcycle Club, an outlaw biker gang composed mostly of ex-military personnel, known as “violent predators” and dubbed the “largest urban terrorist” organization in the United States by San Bernardino County DA Michael A. Ramos. Intelligence sources warned that the Vagos, known as “the Green Nation,” posed an “extreme threat” to law enforcement.

Members had purportedly infiltrated public safety agencies, operating as moles, securing sworn and nonsworn positions, and working undercover to obstruct and dismantle police investigations. “Can you get inside?” Detective Samantha Kiles1 of the San Bernardino Sheriff’s Department (SBSD) challenged me one chilly morning before Thanksgiving 2003. She sat across from me in a room in the department’s Criminal Intelligence Division and warmed her hands on her coffee mug.

The Vagos never hid their brutality; they flaunted it. And whether their bravado derived from sheer machismo, raw animal instinct, or jockeying for position in the drug economy, their acts left a staggering body count.

we were briefed on the Outlaws’ mission: hunting Hells Angels.

They looked like us, smelled like us, were armed and drugged and dirty like us. But they were the “enemy combatant” and they had to be eradicated.

demanded a birth certificate, relatives’ names and addresses, employment and criminal history for the last ten years, even tax returns. Preparing an undercover identity involved an elaborate operation. Gringo and JD had to create fake records—including school, credit, and work history—that corroborated their fictitious lives.

most who entered the Witness Security Program could not survive the isolation, could not perpetuate the lies.

participants lasted two years before they voluntarily reentered the world and lived exposed. As an informant and a Vago, I had an identity: I was either a good guy or a badass. My costumes generated respect and fear, sometimes a mixture of both. I slipped effortlessly between my two personas, and in “off” hours I dissolved into myself. But in the WSP I was no one.

with his paperwork in order, he could now turn to more pressing issues: killing Hells Angels.

With all the talk of war and hunting, death by bike was the biggest threat to the Outlaws, to any motorcycle club. The highway stretched before me, dark and inviting. And I let her go one more time.

Gang members have joined the military since the mid-1800s.

The first military-trained gang member was Samuel Mason, leader of the Mason gang of river pirates operating along the Ohio River from the 1790s.

Gangs have had connections to the U.S. Military in every period since the founding of the country.

The first gang members who joined the military were known as the Hounds, a group of former New York gang members.

Jesse and Frank James were the most well-known military-trained gang members

Congress has mandated an annual report on street gang, outlaw biker, and domestic extremist activity in the military since 2008.

Members of every major street gang, outlaw biker, and domestic extremist group have been found in a number of military branches.

Only the Army conducts an annual assessment, and they appear to do relatively little to analyze the problem, contributions to the problem, and potential solutions.

Your past mistakes are meant to guide you, not define you.

She ran away from home at age seventeen and hooked up with three outlaw bikers who gang-raped her on the way to Sturgis. She had an abortion in Memphis and spent three months in jail for soliciting at a truck stop on I-40. The next two stops were Big D and New Orleans and runway gigs with a G-string and pasties, then Acapulco and Vegas with oilmen who could buy Third World countries with their credit cards. Miami was even more lucrative. She went to work for a former CIA agent turned political operative who set up cameras in hotel rooms and blackmailed corporate executives and Washington insiders. She helped destroy careers and lives and woke up one morning next to the corpse of a married man who died from an overdose in his sleep and whose family she had to face at the police station. One week later, she swallowed half a bottle of downers, turned on the gas in the oven, and stuck her head in. Three weeks later, she slashed her wrists. One month after that, she helped a pimp roll a blind man. It’s not the kind of personal history you forget.

Your mom’s a two-time felon who runs with one of the most violent biker gangs in the US territories.” Blake fell into the swivel chair in front of Zane’s desk, spinning it a few times before he peeled back the paper on his pastrami sandwich. “And your mom is a gin-swilling narcissist who spends her days sucking the hopes and dreams out of people like a dementor. The only difference in our moms, man, is capital. One’s rich, one’s poor. They’re both shitty people.

He is a powerful demon, a skilled magic user, and has some association with the Lords of Chaos.” “I’m guessing that’s not a biker gang,” I said. “No, they are a primordial force of the universe.” “Could still be a biker gang.” “They are not a biker gang.

At the same time, Beausoleil got into trouble with a biker gang who hung out at Spahn Ranch. Beausoleil had sold mescaline manufactured by Gary Hinman to the bikers, who reported that the drugs were actually poison. They wanted their money back. Manson convinced Beausoleil to confront Hinman and demand from him not only the drug money but anything else of value he possessed. Beausoleil drove with Bruce Davis, Susan Atkins, and Mary Brunner to Hinman’s house on July 25, 1969. At the house, Beausoleil pulled a gun on Hinman when he refused to give back the money. There was nothing wrong with the mescaline, Hinman said. Susan kept the gun on Hinman while Beausoleil searched the house, but Hinman managed to overpower her, causing Beausoleil to beat him. Eventually, Davis drove back to Spahn Ranch to pick up Manson, who wanted to take part in what was to follow. Manson brought a sword and used it to slash Hinman’s face and cut off part of his ear. After Manson left, Beausoleil continued to beat Hinman over the course of the night and into the next day, with Susan and Mary still present. Hinman maintained that he had no money and threatened to call the police as soon as they left. Beausoleil called Manson to tell him about Hinman’s threat, and Manson ordered him to kill Hinman, making the murder look as though the Black Panthers did it in retaliation for the murder of Lotsa Poppa. Beausoleil stabbed Hinman to death and used his blood to write the phrase “political piggy” on the wall. Beausoleil, Susan, and Mary tried to remove their fingerprints from Hinman’s home before they drove away in his cars. It took two weeks before anyone found Hinman’s body.

Here's some advice: If you ever have to kill someone, do it alone. No buddy watching your back, no friend with the getaway car, no one swearing you were with them.