Jesse, a stocky, sandy-haired young Angel, was beside me when he was bull-rushed by a Mongol tank. The young Ventura chapter of Hells Angels poses in front of their clubhouse. Another Angel grabbed a piston-and-rod, which made for a deadly club. Prospect Cliff Mowery – a confidential informant, as we would later find out – grabbed a beefy kickstand and started swinging it. The first thing most of the Angels did was grab something lethal. Mostly, though, there are weapons everywhere. Tables and carts can slow enemies down and create a defensive barrier. In a place like a swap meet, there is also a lot of stuff lying around that you can use to your advantage. If you can keep your cool, you can maneuver opponents so that they’re in one another’s way and don’t have a clear shot at you. Only so many guys can get to you at one time. Fortunately, being outmanned in a close-quarters fight isn’t necessarily the worst thing in the world. Everyone was immediately pumped with adrenaline and just reacting, not thinking. It was on.īrawls are faster and messier than anything staged in a movie or on TV. Then without so much as a “How do you do,” the Angel swung on him and connected. 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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