Outlaw Biker Quotes

Butcher by name. Biker by nature.

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.

... he's most probably in a closet so deep he's, like, in Narnia.

There was nothing wholesome or good about her bad biker-man. And not when he was heeling his hand over his hardness. “Come here to your man so I can wrap your pretty pussy around my cock.” And he pulled out his angry-looking cock to rest on his abs, a hard bat of need just for her.

Come here, Zara.” His voice low and sinful. She knew that look in his deep-set eyes as he unravelled his hair and spread out his sweatpants covered legs in front of him. There was nothing wholesome or good about her bad biker-man. And not when he was heeling his hand over his hardness. “Come here to your man so I can wrap your pretty pussy around my cock.” And he pulled out his angry-looking cock to rest on his abs, a hard bat of need just for her.

... he’s most probably in a closet so deep he’s, like, in Narnia.

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.

I imagined the headline: TWELVE-YEAR-OLD OUTLAW BEATS UP DEFENSELESS BIKER.

He backed her up to the wall, leaning his forearms on either side of her head. “I just spent the afternoon beating the crap outta one of Axle’s men, and I couldn’t get you out of my mind.” “That’s sweet in a twisted, outlaw-biker kinda way.

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.

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.

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.

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.

I succumbed, white spots punching my eyelids.

Any suggestions?” “Boom-boom. Clump of C-4 the size of a butter stick,” Jennifer said. “Loud,” Bentley said, “but they’ll almost certainly be alerted to your presence as soon as the assault begins, no matter how you go in. Loud and disorienting might be to our advantage.” “Wait,” I said, “plastic explosives? You can get that?” “Darlin’, I deal in mass quantities of recreational substances for a living. Outlaw bikers are some of my best customers. When I say I can get some boom-boom, I mean I can get some boom-boom. Lemme make some calls, I’ll have it by tonight.” It made sense.

I regarded the biker quizzically. I think it was more surprising to find out they were his. "What?" he said defensively. "They would make killer tattoos." Which made a heck of a lot more sense all of a sudden. Kasper wasn't into wu wu stuff. The man was a lot of things. He was an artist with a drinking problem. Or maybe a drinker with an art problem. The order wasn't important.

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.

There were outlaw bikers and meth labs close by. Berenson was readier to believe that. Stories about the badlands were legion. But a pained echo in a chance remark about Dean’s daughter led her to believe that the kid was in some way the problem. She was fourteen years old. Berenson put two and two together and made five. She figured maybe the kid was hanging with the bikers or experimenting with crystal and causing big problems at home. Then she revised her opinion. The quality problems up at Highland Park became common knowledge inside the company. Berenson knew that Dean had a difficult split responsibility. As a director of the corporation he had a fiduciary duty to see it do well. But he also had a parallel responsibility to the Pentagon to make sure New Age sold it only the good stuff. Berenson figured

Every one wants to be a badass until they meet one.

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.

I was with two men that night, Mom! The baby could be either of theirs!

IN A WORLD WHERE THE WEAK ARE PREYED UPON... crime goes unpunished and evil runs rampant in the streets, who will stand up to chaos and fight for justice? There is only one: an outlaw biker with dead set principles and dangerous methods that get the job done. Asking nothing in return, he sets out for war in the name of the people, regardless of creed or colour. These are the stories of an outlaw about to douse the criminal world in gasoline and strike the match. He's a one man wrecking ball...today's Robin Hood, protector of the people.

An outlaw biker with more ink than a Bic factory, enough metal to be a lightning rod, and a panty-dropping smile was so far from what she needed.

Part of being a man is taking responsibility for your mistakes, no matter how much it hurts or kills you. I left because I needed to learn how to be a man, not like I could have learned by staying here. I needed to be the kind of man you deserved. Because whether you blame me or not for what happened that night, you deserved better than the idiot boy I was back then. Babe, you deserve better than the man I am right now.

Her breaths came harshly as she looked at him, “I can’t let you go, so never let me go.” she hitched her dress higher climbing on behind him. Her arms hugged him close as Tucker hit the clutch, then the throttle.

The lowest of the low-bottom groups in Jefferson and Orleans parishes was the Work the Steps or Die, Motherfucker meeting, a collection of outlaw bikers, prostitutes, street bums, wet-brains, and violent offenders known in Angola as “big stripes.” After

How different my life would have turned out had either one of us been born with a dick!

If I don’t get the f**k away from her I’m gonna go back to prison for sistercide! And I’m too young to ride the lightning down in Huntsville.

Used to be, only bikers and outlaws had tattoos. They were so commonplace now that they weren’t even a statement. Unless the statement was, “Look, I’m like everybody else.” Her

You do realize for badass bikers, leaders of the resistance...we hug too fucking much.” Outlaw

American bikers are the last of a breed. Free thinkers all, and proud defenders of free thought, bikers are the last Vikings, the last frontiersmen and mountain men, the last pirates and outlaws, the final breed of the wild ones who made this country. Woe to the world when the last biker rides into Valhalla, for the world we all were born to will be long gone. The wolves will have gone and the sheep will inherit the earth in a bleating, vacant-minded void of dreamless, meaningless sleep.

I’d lived my whole life around weirdos. Bikers, outlaws, vagabonds, freedom seekers. You name it. Fuck it, give me the weirdos any day of the week.

Wasn’t that the way of the outlaw after all? Why the fuck should Stitch be constrained by rules? Wasn’t lack of them what he loved about the biker lifestyle in the first place? Some arrangements made sense: don’t rat, have your brothers’ back, don’t mess with another guy’s bike, but cocksucking, ass-fucking? Why the fuck would anyone in the MC care whom he fucked? Because someone believed it’s disgusting? Hell, he thought Freddy puking all over the pool table was disgusting, and no one kicked him out. “Fuck the rules.” Stitch bit his lip, looking down and already awaiting those skilled lips