Mitch couldnīt stop, his self-control was almost as of a wild animal. Bad decisions were his middle name, and anyone who said that the decision was bad would pay in blood and broken bones. Mitch's hair grew long and became grey, greasy and disheveled, too manly to care about hygiene, his long, wild beard, already gray with a few blond streaks. Mitch's memories began to change, now he was not McKeeley's neighbor anymore but his older half-brother. Several tattoos began to appear through his body, nothing artistic, just exaltation of violence, symbols of his gang and celebrations of past crimes, all proably done while serving time in a prision. He was a middle school drop out and never understood computers very well (or even the internet), so the new Mitch was a really rough uneducated thug.
Bank robberies, kidnappings, theft of cargo and even some dead police officers. Mitch McKeeley spent more than half of his life in prison and the rest on two wheels. Now those damn pigs killed his brother and took his motorcycle and scattered the gang. No matter, he looked at the tattoo on his arm that marked the gang's warrior duke, according to the demonic pact they'd made, could turn anyone into gangmembers and start over from the beginning.
He searched under the mattress and found his gang vest, his hairy, sweaty muscles gleaming beneath his beard that almost reached his navel, even in his early 60s, Matt was bigger than many NFL players. He spat on the ground and took a step toward his vengeance against this fuckin world. But first, he had to find his bike.