RIP

I was sixteen when a well swung ballpeen hammer earned me the right to call myself an outlaw. The life of a 1%er seemed so glamorous to me back then. I was so naieve, such a young fool.
The life is no where near as glamorous as "Sons of Anarchy" and Kurt Sutter would have you believe.

I have buried those I called my brothers. There is no glamour in that. Not for me. Now I am a man I scarcely recognize as the teenage boy I once was, before duty eroded my innocence. I turned in  my cut and left the club to pursue a settled life and found I don't even know what that is.

I know how to strip a stolen motorcycle down so it can be rebuilt and registered with no one ever guessing it's illegal origins. I can do many things that have no value in straight society but almost nothing that does. I'm a great thief, my rapsheet's whistle clean since sixteen. Ironic huh?

All I have to show for the time I put in are a bunch of scars, and a few patches on a leather jacket remembering those whom I've buried.