Freeway
I know, the person I'm about to describe might seem unbelievable, even a bit cringe-worthy. But bear with me—this is going to be one hell of a ride. The man’s name is Freeway, and he’s truly one of a kind. Let’s start from the top.
His head is the size of a basketball, and his hair—if you can call it that—resembles the lake of fire. This "hair" is actually a long beard, tangled and braided, held together at the end by a small skull. If he had any hair on top of his head, it would be the same fiery red, but he doesn’t. That’s because a massive tattoo covers his scalp, depicting a Cowboy from Hell—a lifeless skull with a torn bandanna around its face, a cowboy hat with a bullet hole through the center, and crossed pistols that extend down the sides of Freeway's face.
His face is like something out of Easter Island, as if it were chiseled from stone. His eyes pierce through you like a bullet through flesh. His right ear has a small chunk missing—a bite wound from a worthy adversary. His left ear sports a gold swastika piercing. His nose, broken more times than he can remember, resembles the gnarled roots of an old oak tree. Under his left eye is a faded tattoo of a barber pole, twisting in red and white.
Freeway's neck is like a rutting deer in November—thick, muscular, and bursting with faded tattoos of ex-girlfriend names and a huge Harley Davidson engine covering his throat. Across the back of his neck, bold prison ink spells out "HATE."
His midsection is like a whiskey barrel, covered in fiery red hair and more tattoos, including a huge PBR beer can on his gut with the words “BLUE COLLAR MOTHER FUCKER” arched across the top. Freeway takes pride in his size—at 350 pounds, he leaves indents in the ground as he walks. He drinks beer by the gallon and eats like the food might be taken away at any moment.
Freeway's hands are scarred and broken, with knuckles that jut out like mountains. A ring on his right middle finger reads “VICTIM” backward (think about it). Each hand bears a tattooed portrait of his children, Lisa and Hank. His arms are as hard as concrete, covered in knife wounds and burn marks.
Under his protruding gut is an old belt buckle with the number “13” etched on the front. Behind it, two phone numbers are engraved—the first is a direct line to the president of his Motorcycle Club, and the second is his lawyer’s. Hanging from his belt is a leather holster—not for a gun, but for a two-foot-long crescent wrench, ground down to a spike on one end. Engraved on the side are the words, “ADJUSTING ATTITUDES-LOOSENING TEETH AND TIGHTENING JAWS.” This tool, his weapon of choice, is named “The Tommy Wrench.”
Freeway only wears one type of pants—Levi 501's that hang low, with a dirty, rust-colored bandanna tied to a padlock hanging out of the left pocket. His pants are so filthy from road grime, grease, and blood that they can stand up on their own. Holes in the back pocket mark where he keeps his can of chew, which he devours in two pinches. Burn marks from his exhaust pipe scar the right side of his pants. He wears a pair of blood-red Doc Martens that lace up to his calves, with a small double-edged boot knife tucked inside the right one.
Freeway lived the life of a biker, often sleeping on or next to his Harley. He always carried a Mexican blanket strapped to the handlebars of his bike, a 12-inch Bowie knife zip-tied to the forks, and another “Tommy Wrench” wedged in his saddlebag. God knows what else he kept in there. His Harley, a bright white beast he called the “Cocaine Freight Train,” was always dirty—washing it would be sacrilege. Stickers on the front read “MOVE OVER” in big red letters. Dents lined the gas tank and fenders from countless road rage incidents on the busy highways of Southern California. His tires were perpetually on the verge of explosion, the wire in the tread sticking out like bristles on a toothbrush. When Freeway had a license plate (which was rare), the registration sticker was always upside-down—a protest against the government and the gouged prices of the California DMV.
Freeway loved two things in life: his kids and his Motorcycle Club. Divorced multiple times, he only saw his kids occasionally, which led him to fully immerse himself in the outlaw life. It suited him—Freeway was a natural rebel, a man with no laws and no home, a true nomad roaming the streets of California in search of the next good time.
Freeway never had trouble finding women to entertain him. He had dimples that would appear at just the right moment to catch the eye of the next unsuspecting barfly, and he was a master storyteller. Often, he was the center of attention, downing shots of Honey Jack with a huge dip dripping from his lip, telling the most crude jokes imaginable. Freeway took on odd jobs—bouncing at bars, working security at local strip clubs. He was an incredibly versatile character, with more talents than even he probably realized. He was a natural mechanic, had an eye for painting, and could talk an Eskimo into buying ice—or a woman out of her... well, you get the picture.
Freeway was a good man, with a big heart for those who mattered to him. His life was that of a jolly, beer-drinking, bar-brawling, Harley-riding, club-loving, bizarre, and sometimes nonsensical human being. But we loved Freeway till the bitter end. He tragically died in a head-on collision with a Mac truck on the back roads of Temecula, California. He was the best friend, brother, and sergeant-at-arms a president and founder of an outlaw Motorcycle Club could ask for.
