It’s around 5pm when me and the rest of my guys walk into some random bar that we stopped at on our route. We’re an outlaw motorcycle group known as Hells Angels, and I’m the leader of our chapter. We participate mostly in drug trafficking and are never in one city for too long at one time in order to avoid being located by any sort of law enforcement.

The bar is pretty empty this early in the evening, with only three or four customers playing pool in the corner and one bartender behind the counter. The 12 of us all glance around the small bar, each of us wearing a an outfit involving a leather jacket with our logo on the back.