The Outlaws Next Door: My BIKER Story

My name is Imir Leveque. I’ve been riding for ten years and I’ve logged over 100,000 miles on a motorcycle. This is my biker story of how I was introduced to this culture and why to this day, I feel so passionately about it.

We had just moved to this country with my father having finished his medical studies abroad and settled into a two bedroom apartment in a middle class neighborhood of New Jersey not too far from Morristown.* I’m weary thinking what it must look like today but back in the 70’s it was a decent place where people worked hard and neighbors looked out for each other even if your neighbors belonged to an outlaw motorcycle club.*

In the Caribbean I was privy to motorcycles and like most little boys became immediately fascinated by them. It was usually the teen age thugs or the poor who couldn’t afford a car who had them so I never got a chance to actually go near one. Sitting in the back seat of my mothers Mazda I remember staring at them as they whizzed by. I was filled with an adolescent powder keg of lust and anticipation as my spirit salivated at the thought of open air freedom and velocity those 650cc’s demonstrated on the hazardous streets of Port-Au-Prince. So when I sat on the bench in front of the split family home in Jersey and saw a parade of bikers line up and park their Harley Davidson’s in front of our neighbors house I quickly forgot about the crystal blue oceans and beaches of the West Indies and became engulfed in the oil leaking streams of motor oil and American steel.

My mother hated them. The bikes were too loud and the bikers looked like escapees from a Lynard Skynard concert and the stench of beer lingered long after they had discarded the cans all over the front yard. None of that bothered me. I was fascinated by the unruly men who brazenly displayed their tattoos and chain smoked like their lives depended on the cancer the smokes happily provided. They were different then my family with my father and mother going off to work in the morning and me stepping on the school bus while my grandmother watched diligently from the front door. There was no nurturing or mothering as far as I could see but I could tell there was a definite family atmosphere to even their worst ruckus. Later on I’d realize that to be a brotherhood.

I was also fascinated by their bikes. They were much louder and larger then the ones I had seen in the West Indies. They were customized and some had ape hangers and without fail, all of them were black. It looked impressive. I immediately recognized them as being a rouge military unit who collected their awards in loose women (because even at that age I knew what they were doing in the backyard with those girls) with a soundtrack of loud rock music.

They made an impression.

My mother warned me to stay away from them and for the most part I did. Perched on the lounge chair in front of the house I stayed on my property until one of them called me over. I had become friends with my next door neighbor Billy and his older brother Tommy was in the MC. Tommy was a really skinny guy who wasn’t particularly loud except when he laughed. He had dark wild hair and always had a denim vest. He smelled like cigarettes and booze and if he wasn’t on his motorcycle has always in his white Firebird that was routinely parked and never really working in front of their home.

My friendship with is brother exposed me to Tommie. He was a typical big brother which meant friendly bullying and occasionally friendly but he was always nice to me. But one day in particular Tommie called me over and asked me if I liked bikes. From that point on with his permission I started walking over to their bikes staring and asking questions. At first it was just Tommie but eventually he introduced me to some of the other members. Not all of them cared for the little black kid poking around their bikes but to my recollection, not one of them ever used a racial term that I could remember and not one of them was rude to me. They weren’t overly friendly but they weren’t outright assholes either. In fact, after a while they started paying me to watch their bikes which I saw as easy money ‘cause I had been doing that for free weeks before they had asked.

My parents worked so they never knew just how much time I used to spend “watching” motorcycles but my grandmother did. When she came home with groceries the guys would often help her with the bags. In fact, it became routine after a while though looking back on it I realized my grandmother was paying them in soul food. They may have had Confederate flags and Nazi patches but those white boys sure loved them some soul food and if “nigger” or “bitch” ever came to mind, it came out their mouths as “ma’am” and “Yaya” (my grandmothers nick name). I’m sure some of them were racist, but if they were, they kept in the closet. Either that or they were too busy eating “black” food to mouth anything racist at us.

We lived on the second floor so Friday and Saturday nights Tommie usually entertained either before or after the club would do a run. They’d eat, smoke and drink. In fact, Tommie was the man who gave me my first beer. Sitting there with all of them I recall him specifically handing me his beer and at first I thought he just wanted me to hold it. “You gonna nurse that thing all night?” When he said it I just kinda stared at him. I had no clue what nursing a beer meant and then he said, “Drink it or give it back.” I raised that beer can so fast to my face it clinked on my front teeth. I took a deep, deep gulp and handed it back to him. “Good?” he asked knowing gotdamn well there was nothing good bout Milwaukee’s Best. I said yes but I’m sure my face looked like I had just swallowed a high calorie shit-shake  and that’s why they were all laughing at me. They never offered me any pot though and looking back on it, I take that as “looking out for me.” Of course they could’ve just been greedy but I’m going to keep my positive idea as to why they didn’t.

They always had women around and back in the 70’s short-short pants were the rage. Like it was yesterday I recall all those legs on the back of those bikes with those incredibly high platform shoes, bandanas, big glasses and hair blowing every which way. Tommie’s girlfriend was a brown haired girl who I believe wore those short shorts right through winter. Instead of open toe platforms she’d wear knee high boots with those same shorts. I guess that was her way of dressing for winter. I got the very early lesson that certain women were treated a certain way and other women were treated another. One night from the second floor window of my parent’s room I saw a woman getting gang banged. I initially felt bad for her but the next few days when I saw her coming over for more I felt worse. I didn’t understand it at such a young age but I pitied her.

Without having seen them do anything “wrong” per say as in criminal activity, I always felt they had that potential. There was an element to them that was dangerous but for me, it was always diffused by some random act of kindness. Tommie’s younger brother and I were the same age and on his brothers birthday I went over the house. My parents were incredibly formal so I wore a suit while all the other kids had on shorts and tee shirts. Feeling like the odd ball, I sat down on the far end of the couch and accidentally plunged my butt into a slice of cake that someone had left there. The kids laughed and I was mortified. Tommie came over to me seeing how embarrassed I was and walked me next door to my house and explained to my grandmother what had happened. He then suggested I wear something a lot more causal because all the kids were gonna go in the backyard to play. I came back to the party with shorts and a tee shirt and I distinctly remember Tommie saying, “Fuck ‘em” when it came to the kids who had laughed at me. If Tommie was a criminal, he was the softest hearted criminal I had ever met.

I remember seeing two members fight and after the fight which was actually pretty good, drink together. I thought that was pretty cool ‘cause it was just like me and my friends at school. We’d exchange fisticuffs and then the next day at lunch we’d be cool again. These guys were nothing but bigger versions of us…but much cooler.

But if Tommie wasn’t the obvious criminal outlaw in the bunch there was one member who certainly was…or at least he looked the part.

One of the moments I never forgot which to this day made an incredible impression on me was when I came home from school to find a member of the club sleeping on his bike. He was one of the few members who really never took to me and never ate my grandmother’s food. He had a scruffy long beard and his clothes were always dirty. It was the beginning days of summer yet he always wore boots and a cowboy hat. His hands looked like he used to meat grind them and I’m not sure he had teeth but I know he always had a cigarette in his mouth…sometimes it wasn’t even lit. It just hung in between his lips as if he were born with it there. From the faded ink on his arms his tattoos were probably two decades older then me. As a child this man appeared as if he was death walking.

But death was riding a bike with ape hangers full of skulls and other ornaments that made his bike really unique. He had Nazi symbols on his decayed and tattered vest with pictures of naked women pinned in his cowboy hat. I got off the bus and no other bikes were around and there death laid on his back. Slung over the tank, hat sunk over his eyes and his feet up across the back fender and over the backlight. Like a moth to a flame I approached and though I would’ve liked to have said it was the summer heat making me sweat, I know now that it was nothing short of fear and curiosity. I crept close and still like cigarette smoke in an interrogation room but I never made it to the bike or the biker.

Without moving he said to me, “What the fuck do you want?”

I didn’t even realize he had seen me due to his hat being slung so low over his eyes. I was frozen with fear and for the brief second that I stood there trying to figure out what I wanted. I decided what I wanted was my grandmother and I ran home.

I didn’t come back out for a while except to get on the bus and off. I’m not sure why. Maybe I was embarrassed or maybe I was scared but to this day I’m not sure what it was. Summer is the long distance call made very short to the ears of children so eventually I did return to playing in front of the house and when I saw that biker again he walked over to me and handed me a dollar. “Watch the bike, “is all he said. I was too scared to say thank you or anything else but I took that dollar and watched his bike a little bit more then the others. He never spoke to me again and I don’t think I wanted him to.  

Eventually our family moved and I was sad to not have the presence of debauchery and anarchy as the view to my room anymore but the damage had been done. Something was ignited inside of me and as an adult I recognize it to be the birth of my love for bikes and biker culture. It appealed to me.

Bikers are self described outcasts who either because society rejected them or because they found no comfort with the society they were born into, lived on the outskirts as bikers. The bikes represented the machine smith manifestation of their attitude and by extension, became an additional appendage that God had misplaced on them at birth.

I was always a loner whether at home or at school. Because of my parent’s affluence, I was afforded the best schools on Long Island but that often meant I was usually the only African American child in the building. In other words I was outcast. When I came home I was usually bombarded by parents who had a deep rooted superiority complex when it came to African Americans. My parents are Caribbean and without getting into it too much here, are no different then most people from the West Indies who shared a deep hatred of African Americans. I was reminded all the time that African Americans were lazy criminals who would rather collect welfare then work three or more jobs to support their families like so many West Indians did to make a living. What my parents failed to realize was that I was born in Brooklyn and I was African American. So in other words, I was an outcast at school and at home.

For years living outside the borders bothered me. Eventually when I wasn’t the odd man out anymore, I made sure to take my place there regardless. Being on the outskirts and being different wasn’t so bad anymore as I got to know myself. I came to realize that it wasn’t me living on the outside, but I was the one not allowing people in…and I liked it. Eventually of course I had to manifest that physically and so combined with the current hip hop trends of the time, (flat top fade, shell toes, gazelles) came the tattoos. My parents of course knew I was destined for the prison cell once I came home with my first tattoo but what they failed to realize was that by getting the tattoos and the piercings I was actually escaping from the prison of “normal” life that they and society had tried to force on me.

Now with that escape, I needed a getaway machine.

And along came the motorcycle.

Years later I found myself working as a strategic marketing director despite my tattoos and my dreadlocks that ran down my back. I was successful in terms of being able to provide for my family and being one of the few African Americans with a position that high in the industry. But something was missing. I worked out regularly with my friend Joel Mayne and one day while expressing to him that void in my life he said to me, “You strike me as the type of guy who should be riding a motorcycle. You ever think about that?”

By the following summer Joel had lent me the last two thousand dollars to get my first brand new motorcycle out for spring. Within a month of me getting mine, Joel bought himself one and we were riding around the tri-state looking for nothing but good times and we found it and I had found what was missing in my life.

The motorcycle represented the part of me that embraced the “anti” in me and celebrated it. It was the middle finger to everyone who had ever doubted me, looked at me funny, rejected me or thought less of me. It was me telling Death, “Yeah, one day you’ll catch up to me but not only am I gonna enjoy this race but you’re gonna have to be faster then me to get me…bitch.”

My motorcycle and riding completed me.

Or so I thought.

I remembered very fondly the outlaws who had lived next door to me growing up. I remembered their brotherhood and feeling that bond amongst them. I remember seeing how they shared their passion for their bikes and their lifestyle with each other. I remember seeing their army of rogues and I remember feeling how bad I wanted to share that feeling with a group of people.

I rode independent for years quite honestly because I wanted some years and miles underneath my ass before I prospected for a club. I never wanted to be the one with less then average bike skills. I took those independent years and made a lot of observations and because I did I immediately had some reservations.

Why were so many of these clubs riding around recklessly? I didn’t understand the zipping in between cars at unsafe speeds, riding with no formation whatsoever and stunting on the FDR. The Grand Central Pkwy was a speed track that served as a preliminary speed course for the Jackie Robinson and Southern State Pkwy’s. It started to make sense to me why despite not doing those things myself, why cops acted the way they did towards bikers in the NY tri-state region.

I also noticed I was usually the only brother out riding a cruiser. I know the style of bike contributed to the style of riding though I don’t blame the machines for a lack of common sense. Motorcycles, whether sport, cruiser or naked are perfect machines; it’s the rider who makes them imperfect. I fell in love with motorcycles because of cruisers but it wasn’t until I started riding myself primarily in urban areas did I notice that love of cruisers was perhaps not only a racial divide but a geographical one as well. It didn’t bother me. It solidified and continued my position as an outcast. If I was going to be an outcast in life, I guess being one in the biker community would be just fine as well. At the very least it seemed appropriate.

Eventually I did join a club. I was recruited at my son’s little league baseball game. I rode up on my Café racer and a guy on a GSX-er came over and we started talking. We had a few things in common including our obvious love of bikes and later that day I was riding with him and his club. The guys had all sport bikes but that was fine because by this time I had a cruiser and a sport bike in addition to my Café. I’ve always believed how can you call yourself a biker or rider if you’ve never experienced more then one style of bike riding.  The first event we went to was a funeral for a fallen rider. Not ideal but the brotherhood I saw in that supermarket parking lot in Hempstead where that man was killed was powerful. Everyone, myself included, contributed to the dead man’s family that he left behind and we all prayed together. There were hundreds of us and we all showed solidarity that day for that fallen man. I felt I had found that sense of brotherhood that had been calling me and I wanted in.

I prospected, got in, got my cut and realized very quickly that the ideals of brotherhood that had been instilled in me from the outlaws next door were not the same ones that governed my brothers today. I don’t want to belabor what I experienced because individually I’m still friends with nearly everyone in that group but collectively I never shy away from saying the group (notice I refuse to say MC) was a complete disappointment. Again, I won’t belabor the points to which they disappointed me but what I will say is that the issues I found within that group I found widespread in the black biker community.

I didn’t see any discipline and as a result so many African American clubs never rode in formation or moved as that rogue army that I had romanticized as a child. MC culture shock for me was seeing women wearing the same cuts as the men they rode with and the cuts didn’t label those women as property. I saw bikers who didn’t opt to have a uniformed look. Some wore black cuts, some wore brown and then to my complete bewilderment, some had gems on their cuts. Some even had patches that were non-club, non-MC related and in some cases, were brand specific. My shock became flat out disgust when I came across clubs that had members with no motorcycles and in some cases like the group I was in, had no intentions of ever getting a motorcycle.  It felt as if I had walked into some sort of evil MC bizzaro world. I was John Carter on Mars and the people who should’ve been my brothers were Martians.

For the last few years I had been working at a tattoo shop where white outlaw bikers used to frequent regularly and we got to talking. We talked about the MC world, the culture, traditions and protocols. We talked about motorcycles and we talked about things I’d never repeat and I was reminded that I’m actually not living alone in my outcast world. There were other people, other bikers who still lived by certain codes and ethics that governed the ungovernable.

But I wanted to see faces like mine living that life.

I started to do my research and like a virgin discovering a woman’s thighs for the first time I came across names like The East Bay Dragons, Rare Breed and The Chosen Few. Later on I found Wheels of Soul, Sin City, The Savage Nomads, The Ching-A-Lings, Soul Brothers and Outcast. I saw black and brown faces who lived in the same outcast society that I thought I had voluntarily marooned myself on. I wasn’t alone but I quickly came to the conclusion that I needed to be.

That decision to ride alone or independent came to me very painfully. It was one of those same white outlaw bikers who used to talk to me about biker history and culture who helped me retrieve one of my motorcycles from the group (not an MC) I was in. They had promised to work on the bike and get me on the road within a few weeks but that turned to nearly a two year ordeal and it was during that exchange did that white outlaw biker say something to me that changed my biker life forever. He said:

“I don’t understand how you guys call each other brothers but you treat each other like niggers.”

That comment hit me like a ton of bricks. I quit that group (still not calling them an MC) and rode independent for the next two years. The negative association of that group, coupled with what I was seeing in the black biker community and that white man saying what he said to me left a considerable weight on my shoulders and my heart.

I dove deeper into black biker history and discovered Suga Bear and Ben Hardy. I fell in love with Bessie Stringfield and looked up to Tobie Gene Livngston realizing he’s as much the pioneer biker legend as Sonny Barger. I discovered Brooklyn Kings by Martin Dixon and I stared at those pictures the way I used to stare at naked women in Hustler and Penthouse magazines. By immersing myself in all this research I started to realize what was wrong.

Expanding it beyond the MC world black people have always marginalized their future because they have bankrupted their past. What I mean by that, because black people take no measurement of respect to honor their (our) past struggles and more importantly achievements, we carry ourselves today without the responsibility of living up to the greatness of our history.

For example:

Growing up we had rules when we used the “n’ word. You never said it around a white person ever because we didn’t want white people thinking the word was now cool for them to say. Second, if you were Hispanic you could say it as long as we could call you a spic so that usually deaded it right there. The third was the most important; we NEVER said the N word around an older black person because we respected and honored what they went through when they heard that word growing up. They fought so that word wouldn’t be used to hate me and my children. My friends and I respected that and more importantly, we honored it.

Look at us today. We have a black President whom I’ve heard people refer to as nigga. It’s disgusting.

It’s the same thing in the MC world. Because we don’t honor the traditions and protocols of established clubs and MC’s who came before us, we inevitably act and behave like the idiots we are today. Do you think The Dragons would be around today if they didn’t treat and love each other with respect worthy of the patch on their back? Could Bessie Stringfield have toured this country before integration if she carried herself like some slut? Has anyone ever stopped to think how did black MC’s stay off the map for so long and was it by chance or circumstance? I like to think that they were smart enough to see all the negative press the white boys were getting and decided, “We don’t need the law comin’ down on us” so they stayed off the radar. Today the way we ride, particularly sport bike riders, the cops know some of us on a first name basis. How is that showing me love? Your stupidity is affecting everyone in the community.

The same member who recruited me into that group I mentioned above tried to sleep with my Old Lady at the time. That’s brotherhood? When a member in that club cheated on his Old Lady, someone from the group told his Old Lady just because they were mad at him. Is that brotherhood? When I see us riding recklessly bringing the law down on everyone is that brotherhood? When I see black clubs paying homage to white clubs and never even tipping their helmet to the dominant black club in their neighborhood how can that be construed as anything but a lack of self knowledge, history, awareness and love? 

And that brings me back full circle to where I am right now, today.

I’ve been accused of celebrating the outlaw lifestyle.  I’ve been accused of putting down sport bike clubs. I’ve been accused of thinking that I’m better then the next biker and to anyone and everyone who thinks those things I have this to say: 

If you think I’m a better biker than you, then you think that; I never said that and I never would for the simple reason I’d never compare any man to myself. I’m too busy trying to live up to my own expectations of myself to care about how you fail to live down to mine.  I admit I don’t have any love for sport bikes and the primary target of my criticisms are usually sport bike clubs but  in saying that understand I have no hate for sport bikes and sport bike clubs.

Let me repeat that:

I have no hate for sport bikes, sport bike riders and sport bike MC’s.

In fact, I’m blessed to have friends in incredible sport bike clubs in the tri-state area but I notice the clubs and riders in those groups I vibe with practice traditional MC protocols despite being on sport bikes. In other words, just because you have a cruiser doesn’t automatically make you traditional or “right”. You can be just as much the ass on a cruiser but categorizing all sport bike riders and their clubs as bad is equally stupid and wrong.  I’ve always said the motorcycle is a perfect machine, it’s the rider who makes it imperfect. The same thing applies to clubs regardless if they’re sport bike or cruiser.  Sport bike clubs are often made up of younger members and those young and new riders are the most prolific in their blatant disregard and ignorance of MC protocol and traditions. So please, get it straight. I have no problem with sport bike clubs who break the mold and conduct themselves like a true MC. I do have a problem with sport bike and cruiser clubs who act like gotdamn fools and pay no homage to rules of engagement.

One of the accusations that insult me the most is the claim that I celebrate a white biker lifestyle as opposed to a black one. I want to be crystal clear with this, I celebrate and promote a traditional biker lifestyle and mindset. By traditional I mean outlaw and more white clubs subscribe to an outlaw code of ethics than black clubs. Keep in mind however that a traditional MC mindset has very little to do with color because there are plenty of black outlaw clubs who follow the same rules of engagement that I promote in my blogs.

This celebration of a traditional lifestyle also impacts my preference of what I like to see in women. On my Facebook page I’ve been chastised for posting more pictures of white women than women of color. Again, it has nothing at all to do with color but it has everything to do with the style of bikes that the different races tend to ride. I don’t find women on sport bikes particularly attractive. A beautiful woman cannot make an unattractive bike charming and a guy like me is all about the bikes. Women are secondary when it comes to what’s visually appealing to my eye. Café racers and cruisers are sexy so those pictures, especially the vintage ones, get my attention. When more women of color decide to diversify their tastes and start riding something besides a rice burner I’ll start celebrating them and their bikes on my page. Until that happens, expect more of the same.

Lastly, understand first impressions are lasting impressions. I was introduced to this life by a white outlaw club who lived next door to me as a child. Seeing their army of infidels riding in formation with similar bikes in uniformity was a powerful and lasting image. And while they were uniform in their general look, each member was colorful in their very unique way. Whether it was beards down to their belt buckles, Nazi patches, a billion pins on their jackets, or ten gallon cowboy hats on their heads while they rode, they all had a distinct look. I feel in the black motorcycle community, especially in the sport bike division, uniqueness is frowned upon. Besides everyone riding the same bike (Busa or GSXer or the ZX-10) everyone wears the same apparel. Helmets are decorated the same way with that incredibly tacky stick on strip of spikes or equally tacky Mohawk hair and any attempt to break the mold is ridiculed. The fact that we’re on two’s means we’re different then general society so why once we become part of the community we become everyone else? Does that make sense? For goodness sake, I ride with a kilt sometimes and highway boots up to my knees. I’ve had sport bike riders laugh and say, “What the fuck are you doing?” but had outlaws say, “Fuckin’ tough, brother.”  Sport bike clubs appear to have this self imposed insecurity of anyone who breaks the mold within their ranks. Traditional or outlaw clubs on the other hand seem to have this code that says “be yourself or fucking die” which speaks to the true DNA of an outlaw.

(I do realize the hypocrisy of what I’m saying in the last paragraph. Outlaw clubs demand uniformity in their members while sport bike clubs tend to be considerably more lax with their rules and the enforcement of those rules.) It makes it even more audacious that I have seen more individuality in outlaw bikers than rice burner athletes.

I’m not romanticizing an outlaw lifestyle because even within that lifestyle there are degrees. You have the “moving meth across state lines doing federal time” outlaws and then you have “I’m an outlaw but a dentist ‘cause I’m providing for my family through my education” outlaw. I’m not advocating any criminality (as we have more then enough black and Hispanic men in jail) but I am advocating a disciplined lifestyle that reflects in how we ride and carry ourselves through our MC’s and individual riding styles.   

And in terms of an outlaw lifestyle…

I don’t need a patch or club to label me an outlaw. If you’ve read this entry you should’ve concluded by now that I was born outlaw and the traditions those MC’s reflect is something I’ve had all along and I’ve adopted and believe in. Do I agree with everything? Of course not and I never will. Before being anything including a human being, I’m a Christian and if there’s any outlaw I try to emulate, it’s the greatest outlaw of all time, Jesus Christ. Jesus stood out, he didn’t follow the mold and when people started following him, he had a very distinct code of conduct and principles for his MC…I mean his disciples. I can see Jesus and his Disciples riding into a town on their donkeys and people either running away or running towards them. Ironically enough, I’ve heard Hell’s Angels describe reactions of people to them the same exact way.

So in emulating Jesus Christ I remember not to judge anyone but I do have my opinions and like Jesus, I tend to preach. My blogs are my weekly sermons on the mount and like Jesus I have my enemies and those who would crucify me for not only having my beliefs, but for having the nerve to share them as well. Jesus challenged the leaders of the church and reminded them that they had lost their way. In my blogs I pontificate on a lifestyle that had an honored code, principles and rules that so many of us don’t adopt today. Jesus preached and was challenged on his teachings. I’ve had people debate me on my points and while some exchanges have enlightened me to a few things, for the most part I have consistently bested ignorance with my years of respect and research into this MC world.

I remind those people Jesus promised to bring hell with Him when He comes back. In my case I can assure you, I won’t keep you waiting that long.

I didn’t realize until much later but those outlaws who lived next door to me as a child in New Jersey live with me in my heart now as an adult. Whether I’m wearing a three piece suit, my cut or nothing at all, my diamond patch is tattooed right where it should be-in my heart. I’ve often said my three piece patch is my mind, soul and fist because as an outlaw, I live by those three things.

…and a shot of Jack Daniels.

My name is Imir Leveque and I love motorcycles and I love biker culture. I write these blogs because I want to share my passion for the community with others and hope that those who share this passion, show the others who lack that respect and gratitude what it means to be a real biker.

Whatever the fuck a real biker is…

Stay Sucka MC Free, people. It’s what Jesus would want you to do.

*I deliberately have not identified the outlaw club next door and have deliberately changed the names of the members (Tommie) and the original city in New Jersey for reasons I need not explain