User:Enigma24/Episodes From San Andreas: Brotherhood Reborn

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Introduction
Episodes From San Andreas: Brotherhood Reborn is a fan-fiction currently being written by Enigma24 and will appear on this page on a chapter by chapter basis as each chapter is completed. It is set in the state of San Andreas in late 2013 and folllows the rise of the Devils Chosen Motorcycle Club, a '1%' outlaw motorcycle club based in northern San Andreas,  and a now mobile Angus Martin's rise to power in the criminal underworld at the head of his new club.

It will have several major protagonists but will heavily feature Angus Martin, Garrett Hayes and other ranking members of the Devils Chosen MC. San Andreas is substantially expanded for the purpose of this fan-fiction with the inclusion of new locations, towns and even neighbouring states.

Prologue


Yellow Jack Inn, Sandy Shores

Blaine County, San Andreas



November 12th 2013 



Loud rock music streamed from the open windows of the Yellow Jack Inn and a row of motorcycles lined the front of the building. The sound of raucous laughter and the clinking of beer bottles provided an undertone to the music as leather clad individuals passed in and out of the door at regular intervals. A tall figure with a short wiry beard and shaggy black hair stood relieving himself in the middle of the car park when a familiar voice caught his attention.

“They have toilets for that you know Glenn.”

 As he turned to face the source of the amused comment the shaggy haired biker revealed a three-piece patch stitched to the back of his sleeveless leather vest. A white top rocker carried the words Devils Chosen in bold blue lettering matched by an identically designed bottom rocker proudly reading San Andreas. A square ‘MC’ patch hung to the right of a central logo designed so as to be intimidating to the general public. The central logo, or centre patch as it was more commonly known in the outlaw motorcycle club world, depicted the image of a fiery eyed horned skull set in the middle of a stylized diamond. The skull wore a menacing grin and seemed to glare out from the middle of the patch with a chilling ferocity. The shaggy haired biker chuckled softly as he strode towards the figure leaning against the front wall of the bar.

“I know for a fact you’ve done the same thing Angus,” Glenn replied with a grin “besides, the toilets were full and I felt a mighty need.”

Leaning against one of the large wooden posts lining the front of the Yellow Jack Inn the tall figure smirked at the shaggy haired biker’s response. With a lean and well-muscled physique Angus was a physically imposing man with a sheer presence that forced those around him to take notice. A short mohawk adorned his otherwise shaved head and a short wiry beard clung to his chin. A ruthless and calculating intelligence smouldered behind a pair of dark eyes that tracked everything going on with practiced ease.

“This town is a shithole anyway,” Angus answered with a grin “I wouldn’t be surprised if half of these hicks pissed in the street.”

<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom:0.0001pt;margin-left:24px;">“The folks who live around here are either meth addicts or inbred hicks. Even if they found the balls to object they wouldn’t be much of a challenge. I bet I can beat the shit out of anyone in this armpit of a town.”

<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom:0cm;margin-bottom:.0001pt">Angus and Glenn made their way back inside to be greeted by a tidal wave of noise as soon as they set foot on the premise. The loud heavy metal music was matched by the clinking of beer bottles and raucous laughter that announced a biker party in full swing.

<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom:0cm;margin-bottom:.0001pt">As they made their way to a corner booth at the back of the bar Angus received nods of respect and raised beer bottles from every leather clad figure he passed. Angus’ uncompromising style of leadership and willingness to resort to violence had earned him the respect of every patched member in the club’s two chapters.

<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom:0.0001pt;margin-left:24px;">“Now this is what I call a party!”

<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom:0cm;margin-bottom:.0001pt">Sitting in the booth with his back against the wall was a balding man with a distinctly shabby appearance. He wore dirty blue jeans matched with a grubby white singlet and lounged back in his seat with an air nonchalant confidence. Without taking his eyes off the man Angus took a seat in the booth and motioned for Glenn to take a seat across the table from him.

<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom:0.0001pt;margin-left:24px;">“I knew you wouldn’t be able to pass up a party Trevor,” Angus said addressing the shabby man “but you practically live here don’t you? It’d be rude not to invite our esteemed business partner to our little outing.”

<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom:0.0001pt;margin-left:24px;">“When someone offers to pay for your beers you don’t say no,” Trevor replied as he drummed his fingers on the table in front of him “unless of course that offer comes from a creepy old guy at the far end of the bar. You boys have been making me a shit ton of money, the least I can do is have a few beers with you.”

<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom:0cm;margin-bottom:.0001pt">The noise of the party would keep anyone from hearing the conversation that would follow. For over a month now the Devils Chosen had been trafficking methamphetamine for Trevor and both groups had made a sizeable amount of money from the ‘business’ partnership. Trevor and his ‘associates’ manufactured the meth in a Sandy Shores trailer and gave it to the Devils Chosen who then distributed it throughout Waylon County and northern San Andreas. In exchange the club was allowed to take a cut of the profits before the bulk of the money was delivered to Trevor in his trailer.

<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom:0.0001pt;margin-left:24px;">“The addicts are getting restless up north Trevor,” Glenn chipped in “I hope you’re cooking up a fresh batch. After all, we wouldn’t want to make your loyal customers go without now would we?”

<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom:0.0001pt;margin-left:24px;">“Great minds think alike Glenn my man,” Trevor replied with a broad grin “Chef and I just finished cooking up a fresh batch this morning – real grade A stuff. Swing by my trailer on your way out and pick it up.“

<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom:0cm;margin-bottom:.0001pt">Sandy Shores always did well when the Devils Chosen came to town. The bikers liked to drink and the Yellow Jack Inn was the only bar in town meaning that Janet made a large profit after every visit. Out of habit the members of the Devils Chosen also stopped to get petrol at Sandy’s Gas Station putting more money in the hands of a local. The local meth addicts and petty thugs kept their heads down when the leather clad figures rode into town making the local sheriff’s job significantly easier. The media tried to portray outlaw bikers as a rolling menace but the truth of the matter was that Sandy Shores benefited significantly from the three monthly visits. The authorities would have put a stop to the biker visits a month ago if they’d had even the slightest clue as to the true reason behind these “booze and ride” visitations. More meth came out of the small rundown desert community than from anywhere else in two counties – and the bikers were responsible for its spread into Los Santos and northern San Andreas.

<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom:0cm;margin-bottom:.0001pt">After taking a very drunk Trevor home the Devils Chosen left Sandy Shores in the same fashion as they had arrived. The bikers rode two abreast with Angus leading the convoy from the front setting an example by deliberately revving his engine as they rode down Panorama Drive heading for Route 68. As they approached the edge of the rundown dump of a town Angus spotted a Vapid Stanier bearing the black and white livery of the Blaine County Sheriff’s Department parked on the side of the road. Wearing the khaki shirt and green pants with a yellow stripe down the outside of each leg that formed their uniform a sheriff and his deputy watched the approaching column of motorcycles.

<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom:0cm;margin-bottom:.0001pt">Desert scenery rolled by as the bikers hit full speed on the open expanse of asphalt that was Route 68. Amid the thunderous roar of motorcycle engines they tore past farm after farm as Route 68 became Route 13 leading them northwards to Route 1 which in turn yielded to become Route 65 when it arched northwards. The lush greenness of the Colinas Valley posed a stark contrast to the dry barrenness of the desert and even the oppressive heat seemed to fall away. Cows ceased their grazing to watch the noisy throng ride past and farmhands watched from the crop fields with almost palpable unease.

<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom:0cm;margin-bottom:.0001pt">After many hours spent on the road the urban outskirts of Waylon rose to meet the leather clad throng. They rode into the city like a marauding horde returning from battle revving their engines and shouting to each other. Home to dirty tenements and graffiti covered back alleys Burwood was regarded as Waylon’s least desirable neighbourhood situated on the edge of an industrial area on the city’s eastern fringe. The wealthier residents of Waylon took great pleasure in mocking the area as a den of thugs and petty criminals. Since establishing their Club House on a dead-end back street in the troubled neighbourhood the Devils Chosen had actually had a stabilizing effect on the area. The gangs of ‘street toughs’ and petty criminals had been violently shut down by the patched bikers and any drug dealer who refused to pay a street tax either fled the city or turned up dead in some gloomy alley. The police seemed to turn a blind eye to the goings on in the area content to let the underworld sort itself out. Patrol cars still patrolled the area but the gangland killings and violence were largely brushed under the carpet to save police time.

<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom:0cm;margin-bottom:.0001pt">A reinforced concrete wall topped with razor wire surrounded the Club House with a sliding chainlink gate controlling entrance to a fortified compound. Perched on a corner of the building a lone security camera watched the main gate giving the members inside advanced warning of new arrivals or threats. The Club House itself, which stood backing onto the wall at the rear of the compound, was a two-story brick building that had once been a freight warehouse before being renovated by the club. Small casement windows graced each story in specifically chosen places and the club patch was painted in a prominent position above the main door.

<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom:0cm;margin-bottom:.0001pt">Angus led the procession through the gate while a dark haired prospect waited to drag it closed behind them. One by one the bikers parked in a line in front of the Club House and swung themselves off their motorcycles. The chapter President smiled as he watched his members promptly begin barking orders to waiting prospects. He ran his chapter with a ruthless efficiency and a ‘no bullshit’ motto that had so far resulted in its success and growth.

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