Green was right in the middle of the Mongols. “Yeah, man.” Except for the one person who wasn’t hearing him, a Los Angeles Hells Angel.Ī clot of Mongols walked toward us, the crowd parting as they came through. If the shit happens, we just hold our ground back-to-back.”Įveryone nodded and closed ranks. “What the fuck is going on with all these Mongols? Do we have a problem with them? Why are all these assholes here?” At a glance it looked like we were outnumbered at least five-to-one law enforcement would later put their numbers at anywhere from forty to a hundred, to our nine. Like everyone else, he knew a bad scene when he was in one. He was quick with a bright smile and was smart for a biker, but had a reputation for toughness. Kid had a linebacker’s frame, muscular with no belly. Like the rest of us, he was wondering what we had walked into. I was walking next to Kid Glenn, a six-foot-two, 230-pound Hells Angel from San Bernardino. Chester had left us in disgrace and, for months leading up to the swap meet, had been quietly filling the Mongols with ideas that the Hells Angels were vulnerable. We were on guard right away as we realized we were in a sea of Mongols, a smaller, newer club in Southern California that had taken in Chester Green, a former Hells Angel from the Bay Area. In the spring of 1977 I walked into a swap meet in Anaheim, California, with eight other Hells Angels.
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