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Ruthless Bastards Motorcycle Club


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As the wind blew, the sun-glistened on to the prison courtyard. Joe, who became twenty-six, a month ago, strolled through without a care in the world. Completely ignoring the surrounding individuals, as he just continued walking across to the gym apparatus in his orange sweat-stained vest and his sweat-pants. Back on the prison court, Joe sat his ass to the "cushioned" seating, reclining as he began to use the bench-press until the sun became clouded. A group of caucasian-like individuals had surrounded him, glaring down at him before one with a distinguished skinhead look let out a few words. Judging from the tattoos and markings of the individual, you did not have to be a brain-surgeon to work out that this man was of significance. He would not announce that he was in a form of leadership position, however by the way he looked and acted - it was evident. Joe was about to be enlisted into one of the most notorious crime organisations on the Western hemisphere. The Aryan Nation. Joe was about to sign his life away.
The individual ushered an item towards Joe before ordering him to conceal it, whereby he was then told to proceed to an African American male who had wandered to the prison yard, the area with the sports equipment, to be precise. He followed the man, without given direct orders of what to do - merely told to follow him, and then given a melted tooth-brush with a razor blade attached to the end of it. Uncertain and wary, Joe proceeded to the individual prior to slashing him thirteen times in the chest, seven times in the stomach and four times in the throat. He was surrounded by about ten witnesses. Inmates and corrections officers. The inmates knew, who Joe was acting for, so they didn't act. He was sure, that he would be tackled down by the guards, or even shot. His arrest would go up to life imprisonment. But well. He was ordered to do the job and he was ordered to do it now. What was worse - doing the task and live or denying to do so and die a painful death? He slowly stroaked away from the scene. His hands full of blood, his eyes closed, his lips pressed together, the breath was heavy. Pictures flashed into his thoughts. Being in this shit-hole for life. Murdering countless of people behind the bars. That's what'd happen to him. But no. Nothing happend. No gunshots, that would splatter his brain, no guards tackling him down. It was all planned by the orderer. He paid the guards to have a timeframe for the job. And he was sure, that none of the inmates would go against Joe. "Nobody seen it, nobody heard it". A young, slender guy rushed towards Joe, reached for the shank, concealed it and ran away. Joe even had the chance to reach a sink, where he could clean his hands. The male laid unconscious in a puddle of his own blood. His cause of death was unknown - he either died from his wounds or from drowning in his own blood.
Joe was recognized for his actions. Not that he ever felt hate for other races. It’s more like he was pushed into it and enjoyed the power he granted. 

 

 

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It's been some time, that Joe P' has seen the other side of the prison fence. Two years to be precise. He has been imprisoned over some minor drug charges that he has collected over the past few years. Today is his last day in the slammer. The last night on the comfortless prison cot, that has actually been luxurious, comparing to the places, he's slept at after his countless crystal methamphetamine excesses - oftenly somewhere on the stairways to an underground station and in a puddle of his own vomit. But still, he's craving for a night on an actual mattress. Entouraged by a Department of Corrections Officer, Joe strolls towards 'Receiving & Release' department. On his way there, he dismisses other inmates. White boys. Nasty creatures with bald heads, mainly. The peer group, he has been bound up with in the inside. Aryan Brotherhood, Nazi Lowriders, 828, Peckerwood - That kind of clientele. Arriving at the Receiving & Release Department, he picks up a blue, large plastic bag with all the belongings, he had on him, when he got caught in the act and arrested. Well, at least the legal items. He lays down his prison clothing, jumping into his jeans, putting on his gray lumberjack shirt, slipping into his black AllStars, fastening his red laces. He then gets escorted through a few more gates, leading towards the outside.
Blinded by the lights of the bright and hot Los Santos sun, he presses his eyelids together, trying to focus his view on three individuals in front of a grey lowrider. His three best friends, who came to pick him up. Approaching them, a crumpled piece of clingfilm gets tossed his way. Joe P' catches it mid-air, checks the item inside his palm, looking over his shoulder towards the prison walls, laughing under his breath, shaking his head towards the trio. An eightball of meth was stuffed into the clingfilm. He lets the item drop into his chest pocket, greeting his fellas with bear-hugs before he jumps into the passenger seat of the lowrider, that brings the clique to their hood - Vespucci Beach.

 

 

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Plans were forged in the cell. Plans that made the time in the inside more endurable for Joe. Becoming legal, a law-abiding citizen, after release, was never on his mind. He was fully aware, that attending job center appointments would be nothing but wasted time. Especially after being in custody. So there had to be another way to make money. Especially after getting in contact with the Brotherhood in prison. He supplied his friends with poor selfmade meth, that always brought him a quick buck, before he got sent in. Just not enough to live the dream. So forming a crew around him and doing things on a larger scale. That had to be it. Joe always had the passion to ride Harleys. He formed the idea for the club's structure, and the name into detail. He drew scatches of the backpatches for over hundred times in his head - The Ruthless Bastards MC. 

Edited by Blackbeard
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