Chapter 4 – Wheels of Rage by Kurt Saxon

The lack of a safety helmet, the bare arms, the reckless weaving through fast traffic at breakneck speeds suggests a suicidal maniac. But it is not true that the outlaw biker has a death wish.

Instead of courting death, he has contempt for it. Instead of wanting to die, he wants to live, totally, without compromise or quarter. Freedom in the ultimate is his demand and if his demand is not met, he seems to prefer extinction.

To the outlaw biker there is no such thing as a traffic jam. Roads are incidental. He will cut through a fence and go across a field or leave the highway and race across the desert leaving squad cars floundering in the sand by the freeway.

With the motorcycle’s mobility and style, coupled with the rider’s terrible courage, the threat of death is a weak thing to be despised. And if it comes, he has certainly met it headlong, without flinching; with class.

When a biker is killed on the road, his funeral is a solemn event. There is a general truce among the nearby clubs if they have been quarreling. Even the police show their respect as they escort the ranks of bikers attending the funeral.

Quite an accident happened when a mob of Knight-riders were storming along on the freeway about three o’clock in the morning. The victims were a young outlaw called Rollio and his girl friend who was riding on his bike behind him.

A red Volkswagen cut in front of the leader of the formation. The leader put on his brakes and skidded around the car. Rollio, just behind the leader, slammed on his brakes and whether he hit the rear of the leader’s bike or just lost control is not known. He bounced to the left to the center divider and was scrambled along a hundred yards of freeway fence.

The fence shredded him like cheese through a grater. One of his legs was left hanging on the fence. He was cut in half and pieces of him were strewn all over the freeway. The girl riding with him had her pelvis pushed up into her rib cage. She died at ten o’clock the next morning.

The Iron Crosses were friendly with the Knight-riders and partied with them occasionally. Even if they had been feuding, such a tragedy brings clubs together in a common bond of sentiment.

The funeral was held Monday morning at Valhalla Memorial Park in Burbank. The newspapers said there were one hundred scooters there but Noah counted over two hundred. What with cars and people coming on busses, there must have been four hundred mourners. The main clubs in attendance were the Knight-riders, the Iron Cross, Satan’s Slaves and the Chosen Few, a black club.

After the funeral, the main body of Iron Cross people went to Glendale and about a dozen took off for Hollywood. Going down past Hollywood Boulevard and Highland the bikers were held up by a traffic jam. Ahead on the sidewalk were about eight Hare Krishnas jiggling around and beating tambourines and chanting.

The Hare (ha-ree) Krishnas are a Hindu sect whose members, ex-hippies for the most part, dress in white robes and shave their heads. They are the most intense pacifists and preach love and reverence for all life.

It is little wonder that the mere sight of them drove the Iron Crosses into fits of screaming rage. Gunning their engines, the bikers tried to force their way through the crowds of tourists and hippies surrounding the Hare Krishnas and flowing out into the street among the cars.

There were about six motorcycle police trying to unjam the traffic and disperse the pedestrians. When they saw the howling scooter thugs bobbing up and down in the chaos and getting closer, they flew into a frenzy. Knocking civilians in all directions like so many sheep, they cleared an area a few yards from the sidewalk in the path of the bikers.

About that time, a pack of rowdies on the sidewalk took up the Iron Cross’s cry of “Kill the skinhead freaks!” As they moved in and began shoving the unresisting Hare Krishnas, a squad of excited patrolmen barreled through the crowd and began clubbing rowdies and Hare Krishnas alike.

When the first of the line of bikers forced their way between cars as far as the motorcycle police, the cops lashed out at them with their clubs. Pinocchio punched one of them in the mouth and sent him sprawling. Pinocchio was wearing a German flak helmet which looked like a great wash bowl shielding his head and shoulders. Two of the police jerked him away from the rest and after tearing his helmet off, handcuffed him and then beat him with their clubs. Noah grabbed a tourist and threw him across the small clearing against the two policemen on Pinocchio.

As the bikers filled up the clearing, the police drew their guns and sent out calls for reinforcements. The patrolmen on the sidewalk had handcuffed three of the Hare Krishnas and a member of Gay Liberation who had clobbered a cop with a “Gay Power” sign. In the distance were the flashing lights of several squad cars trying vainly to get to the disturbance.

Noah, looking down a policeman’s gun barrel, was yelling, “How come you keep us away from those evil spawn of Satan? It’s your duty as a Christian to release the power of the Lord against those funny looking people.”

With the arrival of more foot patrolmen the cars moved and the mob was soon dispersed. The bikers were by then surrounded by police and were loudly demanding the release of Pinocchio. The police flatly refused to give him up.

As soon as a squad car could get through they stuffed him into its back seat, prodding him with their clubs. Pinocchio kicked out at one and knocked him half way across the street.

Soon the bikers were alone except for some tourists. Noah called Big Mike and asked him to send the camper for Pinocchio’s scooter and to call their bondsman.

At the Hollywood jail it took five burly policemen to take Pinocchio, cursing and struggling, into his cell. They opened the cell door and threw him inside. He immediately got off the floor and went around threatening to brain the other prisoners, mostly blacks, if they got out of line. Banging his cuffs against the bars, he hollered, “You goddam pigs have jailed a innocent man. You think you can throw me in here alone with all these niggers? But I ain’t alone; I got Jesus Christ.”

An hour later the club’s bondsman had come and bailed him out. As he left the cell area, one of the blacks called to him, “You show a lot of class, baby. In our book, you prisoner of the month.”

That night about twenty-five bikers were in the clubhouse partying. They were discussing the funeral, the Hollywood riot and Pinocchio’s running amuck on the Hollywood police. Big Mike said the charges against Pinocchio were assaulting a police officer, rioting and resisting arrest. No one was hurt so Big Mike figured, with a plea of temporary insanity, they could get him off with a small fine.

Paranoid George and Ape had gone out for more beer and as they came back, Ape saw a red Volkswagen parked a block from the clubhouse. Ape went over and caved in its door with a fierce kick.

Paranoid George asked, “How come you kicked in that car’s door, Ape?”

Ape answered, “It was a red Volkswagen that killed those people at the funeral, wasn’t it?”

“Yeah,” said Paranoid George, “but what makes you think this is the same red Volkswagen?”

“What makes you think it ain’t?” was the reply.

Paranoid George’s eyes lit up and he said, “Let’s get the guys and execute this car.”

Ape responded, “You mean kill it, really, in a ceremony, like?”

Paranoid George said, “You go get the others. Tell ’em to bring their guns. Meanwhile, I’ll hotwire it and we’ll take it out on Angeles Crest Highway and do it in with a lot of real heavy symbolism.”

Ape took Paranoid George’s case of beer and rushed back to the clubhouse. Paranoid George put his engineer boot through the car’s right side window and reached in and opened the door. Then he got in and went under the dash and by the time the other bikers had streamed out of the clubhouse, he had the little engine purring.

Not all the outlaws had their weapons, so Big Mike stopped by his home and got about ten 30-06 rifles and a case of ammunition. Then the camper, the red Volkswagen, three cars and twenty scooters moved on toward the Angeles Crest Highway.
A few miles out they went off the road and over a small hill. They parked the Volkswagen in the middle of a large depression and built a bonfire near each fender.

The next step was to decide whether to just blaze away at the Volkswagen or to make runs against it with their bikes. Ape said they could do it both ways, so they decided to first make runs at it. Five were on foot and no one would loan his bike to a neighbor for any reason. To keep peace five with bikes agreed to let a man ride behind him on his run.

Then arose the question of what guns were practical for shooting from a motorcycle whether by the one controlling it or by the passenger. It was generally accepted that a pistol or the light semi-automatic carbine were best as they could be operated with one hand while the other hand was free to guide the bike.

Shotguns and 30-06s were agreed by most to be too heavy to aim with any effect using only one hand and impossible to pump in extra shells while on the run.

Ape said he could shoot and reload even if he was a passenger, which he wasn’t since he had his own bike. A thug called Ginch, who had come in the camper told Ape he couldn’t do it, and especially riding tandem. He explained that either way, the recoil would cause him to lose his balance and riding behind someone, he wouldn’t have a purchase for his feet to hold on.

Ape told Ginch he was a damned fool and didn’t know anything and should shut up. This enraged Ginch, so he grabbed up a heavy Eddystone Enfield loaded with armor piercing ammo. Then he went over to where Pinocchio sat on his bike and hopped on behind him.

Pinocchio gunned his machine to life and circled the Volkswagen then headed straight for it. Ginch managed to get a fair shot off holding the rifle with one hand. But when he released his hold on Pinocchio to work the bolt, he fell off and broke his arm.

He got up yelling in pain and rage. The other bikers were howling with glee at his plight. Rushing over to Ape he screamed, “You son-of-a-bitch, I told you it couldn’t be done. When this here arm heals, I’m gonna kick your ass.” Then he went to Big Mike and asked to be taken to a hospital.

When the laughter had died down, the bikers mounted in a line and headed in single file for the Volkswagen. Most of those who had shotguns or 30-06s contented themselves with one shot before sheering off.

Ape, however, was going to show up Ginch. He took his first shot and tried to ride no hands over the bumpy turf while he struggled with the bolt. Instead of sheering off as he approached the Volkswagen, he slammed into it and was thrown clear over it.

The ten bikers following him continued to blast away while Ape screamed for them to let him get out of the way. Some of the bikers even took second runs while Ape tried to burrow into the ground.

When the shooting was over Ape scrambled up and cursed everybody. Then he examined his bike and found the front wheel and fork demolished and five bullet holes in the frame and engine.

When Ape got his wreck out of the way and into the camper, all the bikers, including Ginch, formed a half-circle around the Volkswagen. At a signal from Big Mike, they solemnly raised their guns and fired point-blank into the Volkswagen. It actually seemed to shudder and die.

Then they threw all the guns into the camper and mounted up and began to leave the field. Before getting into the camper, Noah lit a fuse attached to five sticks of dynamite and threw the bundle under the Volkswagen. Then he leaped behind the wheel and roared after the others as the Volkswagen went up in a fall of fire and splinters of tin.

Four miles away from the scene, they met about twenty highway patrol and police squad cars coming from Glendale, lights flashing and sirens screeching. When the police saw the bikers, they slowed and over half went to a turn-off and raced back.

Noah plunged ahead honking the scooters out of his way and got to the front of the formation. With all the guns in the camper, he didn’t intend to get caught. As he pulled ahead of the column, the bikers spread out and slowed down.’

When the squad cars approached the bikers and the three cars, they couldn’t get through. To add to the sirens, they all honked and one crazed highway patrolman emptied his pistol into the air. At this all the bikers skidded to a halt.

Big Mike got off his scooter and rushed back to the lead squad car. Confronting the highway patrol captain at the wheel, he said, “Sir, this is the last straw. We were within the speed limit and you go blowing your mind and shooting at us. I’m taking your number and…”

The captain snarled, “You shut up, punk. There was shooting back there and an explosion and you guys had something to do with it. Now, you’re blocking our way and that camper is escaping off down the road. You have your people pull over to the side, right now, or I’ll book all you trash.”

Big Mike hollered for the bikers to pull over and they did so, very slowly. While the others stumbled around on the highway Pinocchio and Paranoid George went back past the squad cars and dragged a terrified motorist from his car. They hustled him over to Big Mike and the captain and Paranoid George said, “Here’s a witness, captain. He’ll testify to your loud and abusive language and ungentlemanly conduct.”

They left the motorist standing there gibbering and went to their bikes. When the motorist broke and tried to run back to his car, the captain’s partner jumped out and clubbed him to the pavement. Then he threw him into the back seat of the squad car. By this time the camper was long gone. With no adequate description from its pursuers, it was not stopped. In a few minutes Noah dropped Ginch off at the hospital and then went to Big Mike’s where he and Ape unloaded the arsenal.

A few days later some of the bikers were at the clubhouse repairing Ape’s machine. A call came in from an anonymous woman that the Warlords, a club in the valley, were going to come and have it on against the Iron Cross that evening.

It seems the Warlords had heard that Big Mike and his people were looking for a Warlord called Poet with the intent to kill him. That meant the Warlords were obliged to gather their forces and come shooting.

A few years ago, clubs settled their differences with fists, motorcycle chains and knives. Today, beating and stabbing is reserved for fellow club members and citizens.

The reason clubs are so gun oriented now is the national mania for firearms. Most adult Americans own one or more guns. There are at least one hundred million rifles and pistols in private hands. That is more small arms than are held by the Russian and American armed forces combined.

Since motorcycle outlaws are extremists in everything they do, they probably have more guns per man than any group in the country except perhaps the Minutemen or the Black Panthers. It is a certainty that any club outguns the local police department.

The promise of a gang shootout was the kind of thrill every member relished. It had never happened before except for minor skirmishes between a couple of members from one club shooting at a couple of members from another club. But this was supposed to be one whole club shooting at another whole club.

Several members couldn’t believe it would happen so they did not show up. They had been disappointed so often in life they no longer believed in anything. Twenty-three optimists did come in, however, and brought eighty-four guns, about five thousand rounds of ammo and ninety-two six packs of beer.

They waited until about ten o’clock and nothing happened. Then Big Mike called up Crow, president of the Warlords and asked him when they were going to attack. Crow said his club was not attacking. He added that a woman had called them and said the Iron Cross was coming to shoot up the Warlords. He complained that someone had driven by an hour ago and fired several shots into their building and he had presumed Big Mike was behind it.

Big Mike denied everything and invited Crow to come partying sometime soon. Then he hung up and started to go out and call down the men posted on the nearby roofs. Before he got to the door a bullet ripped through it and narrowly missed him. More shots rang out and it sounded like a war going on outside.

Big Mike and the rest grabbed their guns and ran out the back way. By the time they got around to the street, it was all over and the gunmen were climbing down from the roofs.

Black Bart got down from the clubhouse roof with his Tommy-gun as Indian and Richard descended from a building across the street. He told Big Mike that it was the girl bandit who started the shooting. She had driven by and cranked three rounds into the clubhouse and they had all opened up on her. Indian said her car was like a sieve but she still got away. Richard added that Snuffy Smith, the ex-moonshiner and Ape had taken off after her in Snuffy’s souped up car.
Big Mike figured the police would be there soon so he told the bikers to put all their weapons in the camper. Then he had Noah drive it over to his place. Next he had all the empty shells picked up off the street and sidewalks and hung an out to lunch sign over the bullet hole in the door.

Just then three Glendale squad cars pulled up in front of the clubhouse. Six policemen got out and confronted Big Mike. “We just got a report of some shooting over here. Who were you shooting at?”

Big Mike took a swig of beer and answered, “What shooting? Nobody’s been shooting around here, man. We been partying for hours.”

“Don’t give us that garbage, Brown,” said one of the officers. “I can smell gun smoke. It’s hanging all over the place. You guys have been shooting and don’t try to deny it.”

“You want to search the clubhouse for weapons?” asked Big Mike.

“Forget it,” said the officer. “We’re wise to you. You’ve probably got your guns in that goddamn camper heading out someplace to hide them. We’re not as dumb as you think.”

Paranoid George said, “You couldn’t be, man.”

The police got back into their cars and after glaring sternly at the bikers they drove off. Big Mike and the others went back inside and resumed partying.”

When the girl bandit began firing at the clubhouse , Black Bart let loose with a volley from his Tommy-gun which riddled the passenger’s side of her car. Across the street Indian had pumped two loads of buckshot through the car’s roof and Richard had hit it four times with his Eagle 45.

Snuffy Smith and Ape had been parked down the street drinking beer and waiting for some sort of hit-and-run raid. As the girl bandit fired at the clubhouse, Snuffy started his motor and peeled out after her.

Thinking she had a milk-run like at the Warlords, she was horrified at the artillery barrage she got. Weaving all over the street in hysterical panic, she headed madly for Colorado Boulevard.

Snuffy would have caught her in no time if she had kept to the street. But she was on the sidewalk half the time or else on the wrong side of the street. Other cars were stopping suddenly or swerving in her way, making a real obstacle course for Snuffy.

Ape was rattled at the risks Snuffy was taking. He had his door unlatched ready to jump out if Snuffy slowed down. When they skidded around the turn on Glendale Avenue, Ape hollered, “Let her go, damn it. You’re going to get us both killed. You can shoot her some other time. Let’s go back.”

Snuffy said, “Hell, I don’t want to shoot her. I ain’t never seen driving like that. I love her.”

By this time several squad cars were converging on the girl bandit and her pursuers. For several blocks more there was nothing but flashing lights and sirens and screeching brakes and panicked motorists and pedestrians.

Snuffy and Ape knew they were going to be caught so Ape took their pistols and threw them into a clump of bushes as they turned on Chevy Chase Drive. Then they pulled over and got out and waited for the nearest squad car.

Up ahead on Brand, an old lady tooling along in a Marketeer Caddie Car was crossing directly in front of the girl bandit. The girl swerved to avoid the caddie car and stopped on the sidewalk. Immediately she was surrounded by cops and dragged from her car.

The little old lady pushed her way in between the police and yelled, “Young puss, driving like that and scaring a body out of her wits. And that miniskirt and those naked legs; if I had a board…”

One of the policemen took her by the shoulders and ushered her to her cart saying, “Don’t interfere, lady. Go home and watch Merv Griffin or something.”

She got into her cart and shouted back at all of them, “You’ll let her go. It never fails. An old lady never gets no justice from a bunch of horny cops.” Then she drove off angrily.

After the police had searched Snuffy and Ape, they led them the half block to where the other officers were examining the shot up car. One cop seemed to be lecturing the others. “Now here are two bursts of buckshot pretty close together. That was done by an expert. There are at least four hits from what appears to have been a 45. On the passenger’s side, from the pattern, it’s obvious that this car has been worked over with an automatic weapon.”

The police all stared at the girl bandit and one asked her who had been shooting at her. She said, “How should I know? A girl can’t go anyplace in Glendale and be safe. There’s nothing but a lot of rapists in this town, anyway.”

When Snuffy and Ape joined the group, the head officer said, “I know who she is now. She’s the young Ma Barker who was in a shootout with some Iron Cross guys a while back.” Then he searched her car and found the pistol under the seat.

He sniffed the barrel and said, “From the smell f this it’s been fired, I’d say, just a few minutes ago.” Then he told them all about their rights and had them loaded into squad cars. Policemen drove the girl’s and Snuffy’s cars and everybody went down to the station house.

The captain at the desk knew there had been some shooting at the clubhouse and had pretty well pieced the story together. He questioned the girl and tried to get her to press some good charges but she would only charge Ape and Snuffy with attempted rape. The captain didn’t even bother to write that down.

He asked Snuffy if the girl had shot at them. Snuffy said, “Well, she’s a strange piece, alright, but she didn’t shoot at us.”

The captain then asked why they were chasing the girl and Ape said, “We saw her car was all shot up and thought she might be in trouble and need help.”

The captain gritted his teeth and said to the girl, “Young lady, I don’t know why you keep coming in contact with these people but I advise you to stay away from them. I’m charging you with possession of an unregistered hand gun and transporting it in an auto. I’m also going to impound your car for further investigation.”

To Snuffy he said, “I’m charging you with speeding, reckless driving and failure to pull over when signaled by the officers. Now you people go call your bondsmen because I’m going to lock you all up until someone comes for you.”

When the girl bandit and Snuffy and Ape were led off, one of the officers said, “Is that all you’re charging them with? We saw…”

The captain interrupted, “You saw some pretty wild driving and that’s all anyone in the department saw. We know these people were shooting at each other and we know there was a whole string of felonies committed tonight, but we can’t prove anything.

“The girl won’t tell the truth or press any sensible charges either out of fear or obstinacy. She was certainly fired on and was obviously being chased by persons she had good reason to fear. Under the circumstances, her wild driving was a justifiable attempt to escape bodily harm.”

An hour later the club’s bondsman and the girl’s mother came to bail them out. Snuffy and Ape left immediately but the girl’s mother stayed to chew out the police.

She raged at the captain, calling him every name she could think of. Then she said, “You’re just a bunch of dirty men always abusing my little girl. She never did anything wrong. She’s always been a lovely child, no thanks to her father, and I want you brutes to let her along.”

Then the girl bandit said, “Can the shit, Amy. Let’s go home and get bombed.”