Larry “The Mutt” Roswell was stumbling down the chilled Philadelphia street.  He seen a lot of familiar faces but they were only familiar, he wouldn’t of been able to recognize any of them by name.  It had been years since Mutt was on this side of the country.  He noticed the warm sour stench of the city pollution.  
     As he walks over to the next block hoping to see someone smoking so he could borrow a spark.  The only soul puffing was a young boy sitting on the top of the bus stop bench.  He looked as if he couldn’t of been any older than 18. His face was dirty with car oil and grease.  His clothing was stained and ripped, hands looked 20 years older than the boy.  There was a dark red dried streak of blood running down his ring finger as if he had been in a tussle.  Mutt took a seat next to the boy.

”Hey Kid, where you from?” 
“South Philly, what’s it to you?”

”Stop the tough guy shit and listen, you probably work for little to nothing, live with 12 other teens just like yourself, drink, smoke, and have no parental guidance?”

The boy looked stunned before he responded. “I’m an orphan, I’m 17 years ol, my parents died during the big motor cycle club war years ago.  That’s where I got this!” The boy turned and lifted his shirt showing Roswell a flesh wound on his side that was brutal. Looked as if the boy had his whole side of his body in a fire. “What’s your story old man?”

Mutt looked at the boy in disbelief as he though of how similar the twos life’s were.  Then grabbed the lighter from the boys bloody hand, lit his cigarette and let out a sigh before his story began:

When I was seven and a half or eight is when pa and his buddies put me to work. They first taught me the basics of working on motorcycles, I loved it but not long after I was riding, there is nothing like the feeling of being so pissed off hopping on that bike and letting the air hit your face.  But that’s not the riding I am talking about, ya see my pa had a business and me being his seed he made sure I was prepared to run it in case anything happened to him.  One day he had me deliver a bag to his brother “Tom Grub Freeman.”

The boy looked up, the name seemed to spike his attention. 
 

Well Grubs package was filled with Meth and I was not prepared for the game for the big dogs.  Grub weighed the bag and snapped.  It must’ve been short or something but he grabbed the vase of flowers sitting on the table and smashed it over my head. Mind you I was not even a teen yet I began to run away as blood smeared across my face. Ol Tom chased me and talked me down and slammed my head against the pavement over and over until I was unconscious.  I woke up in the ICU with staples in my head and breathing tubes, I had to re learn how to walk.  My Pa was very upset and began to use his own product.  Well not even a month later he started a war that is know to all the MCs around the globe as dooms day.  
 

The boy took a deep gulp and a heavy breath as he remained quiet 

So my old man tweaked out one day during dinner. He slapped my mother and left the house.  The myth says he went to Grubs house and tied his whole family up and burnt down the house others say he killed the child and mother in front of Grub then burnt him alive. All I know is my father started a shit show.  Not even a week after the attack on the club president Grub my family was driving and at the red light four bikes pulled up on our right and left and lit the car up with a ray of rounds.  I was shot 3 time and survived, neither one of my parents made it.  Both being hit with 12+ bullets.  
 

The boy was not doing to good at hiding his emotions now, a single tear was sliding down his face separating the oil and leaving a clean skin trail behind it.

So by the age of 10 I was al so an orphan I lived in the group home right down the street.  I kept in touch with my uncles and cousins after the accident and kept on working for the club.  I became a full patched member once I turned 14 years old and ran away from the group home and started to live at the Club house. From that day on I Rode with the Warlocks. Well until recently when some snakey shit happened and had to leave for awhile.  
 

At this point the 17 year old boy was dripping from his eyes, Mutt looked over and asked him what was wrong?

  “Tom “Grub”Freeman was my father!” The boy said as he got up and walked away quickly!