Chicago, 1975. The sleeping urban street lays silent, the streetlights and moon illuminating the barren street.

And a lion awoke: the guttural, thunderous roar of one motorcycle, echoed by another and another and another stirred the night owl. The sharp sting of the gasoline followed the metal monsters, leaving behind a trail of smokey exhaust.

They road together: with their sleek leather jackets and denim vests, all sharing the same dusty-white cracked skull and 'x' of daggers pressed onto the back. Faces stoic, tendrils of cigarette smoke falling from their mouths. The Vandals rode through the streets like they owned them. And, in some way, they did.

He sits on his bike, cold seeping through his thick biker's gloves that house his slender, veiny hands. Benny Cross; that was his name. Hell, it was even in the papers. They want him; the police do. That's what they said--that they wanted him.

But he doesn't care. The wind flows through his sandy hair, and he feels the weight of another person's arms around his waist. He's free.

He lets out a carefree 'yip' and revs the engine, speeding through the parade of his fellow bikers.