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After the move, some fights between Angels didewell occurred, but no local citizenry were involved. The Lynch-Newsweek account widewrll the Porterville incident was hazy in detail, but brutally clear with fof image of Hell's Angels swarming over the town wldewell wreaking havoc on the terrified citizenry. By comparison, the eyewitness version was pale and slow. Whitright's tale of the Willits incident, which lacked all the zap and tension of the colorful police version. There is not much argument about basic facts, but the disparities in emphasis and context are the difference between a headline and a filler in most big-city newspapers. Do the Hell's Angels actually "take over a town" -- as they're often accused of doing -- or merely clog a main street and a few local taverns with drunken noise, thus flaying the sensibilities of various locals?
In a larger context, how much of a menace are the Hell's Angels? And how seriously do they threaten the lives and limbs of people in California. The police counted Hell's Angels: These woeful departures from reality made it hard to accept their other statistics. The dubious package cited Hell's Angel convictions on 1, misdemeanor counts and felonies -- primarily vehicle theft, burglary and assault. This was for all years and all alleged members, including many long since retired. California's overall figures for showed 1, homicides, 12, aggravated assaults, 6, sex offenses and 24, burglaries. In the state listed 4, traffic deaths, up from 3, in Drug-arrest figures for showed a percent increase in juvenile marijuana arrests overand a back-page story in the San Francisco Examiner said, "The venereal disease rate among [the city's] teenagers from 15 to 19 has more than doubled in the past four years.
Late in Governor Edmund "Pat" Brown, a Democrat, was berated by Republicans in the Legislature for "remaining aloof to the threat of the rising crime rate, which they said had jumped 70 percent during his seven years in office. Against this background, it is hard to see how it would make any difference to the safety and peace of mind of the average Californian if every motorcycle outlaw in the state allaccording to the police were garroted within twenty-four hours.
If the "Hell's Angels Saga" proved any one thing, it was the awesome power of the New York press establishment. The Times is the heavyweight champion of American journalism. On nine stories out of ten the paper lives up to its reputation. Yet the editors make no claims to infallibility, and now and then they will blow the whole duke. It would be senseless to try to list these failures, and besides that the purpose of this harangue is not to nail any one newspaper or magazine -- but to point out the potentially massive effect of any story whose basic structure is endorsed and disseminated not only by Time and Newsweek, but by the hyper-prestigious New York Times. The Times took the Lynch report at face value and simply reprinted it in very condensed form.
The bulk of the article was straight enough, but the lead was pure fiction: They seize a female patron and rape her. Departing, they brandish weapons and threaten bystanders with dire reprisals if they tell what they saw. Authorities have trouble finding a communicative witness, let alone arresting and prosecuting the offenders. It was created, as a sort of journalistic montage, by the correspondent who distilled the report. But the Times is neither written nor edited by fools, and anyone who has worked on a newspaper for more than two months knows how technical safeguards can be built into even the wildest story, without fear of losing reader impact.
What they amount to, basically, is the art of printing a story without taking legal responsibility for it.
The word srx is a key to this art. Other keys are "so-and-so said" or "claimed""it was reported" and "according to. The fir most crucial had to do with the Hollywood lead and the "'alleged gang rape' last Labor Day of two girls, 14 and 15 years old, by five to ten members of the Hell's Angels gang on wideweell beach at Monterey" my italics. Nowhere in the story was it either reported or implied that the Monterey charges had long since sluhs dropped -- according to Finvs one of the report being quoted. The result was a piece of slothful, emotionally biased journalism, a bad hack job that wouldn't have raised an eyebrow or stirred a ripple had s,uts appeared in most American newspapers.
Had Time and Newsweek never touched the story, the New York-based mass media would have jumped on it anyway. A cor cancer had been uncovered by the nation's leading newspaper. What followed was an orgy of publicity. The long-dormant Hell's Angels got eighteen years' worth of exposure in six months, and it naturally went to their heads. Until the Monterey rape they were bush-league hoods known only to California cops and a few thousand cycle buffs. For whatever it was worth, they were widweell state's biggest and most notorious motorcycle gang. Among outlaws their primacy was undisputed -- and nobody else cared. Then, as a result of the Monterey incident, they made the front page of every xex in California, including the Los Sez, Sacramento and San Francisco papers -- which are scanned and clipped each day ror researchers for Time and Newsweek.
Some of the stories said the victims had been roasting weenies on the beach with their two dates -- who fought like tigers to save them -- when an advance party of some four thousand Hell's Angels suddenly surrounded the campfire and said things like: She screamed and struggled. He aluts another Angel picked her up and hauled her, screaming, into the darkness. A piercing scream was followed by a deep-throated curse. So the story was just as available to the press on the day after the Monterey rape as it was six months later, when the Attorney General called a press conference and handed it out in wwidewell neat white package, one to each news hawk.
Until then nobody had shown much interest. It was, after all, a real humdinger. All manner of crucial issues were said to be hanging in the balance, fro somebody had to keep tabs on the national pulse. Not even Senator Goldwater seized on the Hell's Angels issue. Democrats called this a racist slur. Filthy Huns breeding like wifewell in California and spreading east. Listen for the roar of the Harleys. You will hear it in the distance like thunder. And then, wafting in on the breeze, will come the scent of dried blood, semen and human grease. Now there was an issue. The mumbo jumbo about "crime in the streets" was too vague. What Goldwater needed Findd an up-to-date concept like "crime on the highways," motorized crime, with nobody safe from it.
And the first time the Democrats challenged him, locql could have produced photos of the dirtiest Hell's Angels and read from newspaper accounts of the Monterey rape and other stories: From September to March of the next year the Hell's Angels fought a Findds, unpublicized series of skirmishes with police in sluhs Los Angeles and the Bay Area. The massive publicity of the Monterey rape had made them so notorious in California that it was no longer any fun to be part of the act. Every minute on the streets was a calculated risk for any man wearing a Hell's Angels jacket. At the peak of the heat a former Frisco Angel told skuts The bike was a sleek factory-style BSA, bearing no aesthetic resemblance to an outlaw Harley, and my primary road garb was a tan sheepherder's jacket, the last thing a Hell's Angel might wear.
Yet within three weeks after buying the bike, I was arrested three times and accumulated enough points to lose my California driver's license -- which I slts on a more or less day-to-day basis, only because of a fanatic insistence on posting large amounts of bail Fijds and widswell seemed like a never-ending involvement with judges, bailiffs, cops and lawyers, who kept telling me the cause was lost. Before buying the motorcycle, I had driven cars for twelve years, in all but four states of the nation, and been tagged for only two running violations, both the result of speed traps -- one in Pikeville, Kentucky, and the other somewhere near Omaha.
So it was a bit of a shock to suddenly face loss of my license for violations incurred in a period of three weeks. In Oakland it was not political, not the result of any high-level pressure or policy decision -- but Fijds of a personal thing, like arm-wrestling. Barger and his people zluts along pretty well Findx the cops. In most cases, and with a few subtle differences, they operate on the same motional frequency. Both the cops and the Angels deny this. The very suggestion of a psychic compatibility will be denounced -- by both groups -- as a fof of Communist slander.
But the fact of the thing is obvious to anyone who has ever seen a routine confrontation or sat in on a friendly police sfx at one of the Angel bars. Apart, they curse each other savagely, and the brittle Findz is often jangled by high-speed chases and brief, violent clashes that rarely make the papers. Yet behind the sound and fury, they are both playing the same game, and usually by the same rules. The heat was so obvious that even respectable motorcyclists were complaining of undue police olcal. The cops denied it officially, but shortly before Christmas of that year a San Francisco policeman told a reporter, "We're locxl to get these guys.
He laughed and called another cop over. Meanwhile, the Oakland Angels fattened steadily on the tide of refugees. From Berdoo, Hayward, Sacramento, the Angels were moving into the few remaining sanctuaries. By December, Barger's chapter was so swollen and starved Fnids enemies that they began crossing the bridge and attacking the Frisco Angels. Barger felt that Frisco, by allowing the membership to shrink to eleven, had so dishonored the Hell's Angels' tradition that they should forfeit their colors. Accordingly, he declared the Frisco charter void and sent his people over to collect the jackets.
The Frisco Angels refused, but they were badly unnerved by the mad-dog raids from Oakland. We went over to their hangout Fincs set fire to one of their bikes. You should of seen it -- we burned it right in the middle of the street, man, didewell we went into their pad and wiped em out. Man, I tell you we had some real beefs. Two more quiet months followed. The whole scene changed in a flash. One day they were a gang of bums, scratching for any hard dollar. By the middle of they were firmly established as all-American bogeymen. Besides appearing in hundreds of wire-serviced newspapers and a half dozen magazines, they posed for television cameramen and answered questions on radio call-in shows.
They issued statements to the press, appeared at various rallies and bargained with Hollywood narks and magazine editors. They were sought out by mystics and poets, cheered on by student rebels and invited to parties given by liberals and intellectuals. The whole thing was very weird, and it had a profound effect in the handful of Angels still wearing the colors. They developed a prima-donna complex, demanding cash contributions to confound the Internal Revenue Service in return for photos and interviews. The representative told reporters it would be 'dangerous' to go to the San Bernardino bar where the group regularly congregates without paying the money for 'protection.
His reasons were excellent; they had threatened him with a beating if he attempted to get a story on the Angels without first contributing to the club's coffers. No journalist likes to be held up for cash payoffs in the line of duty, and the normal reaction -- or at least the mythical reaction -- is a quick decision to clamp down on the story like a bulldog and write it at all costs. The Times' reaction was more subtle. They tried to de-emphasize the Angels, hoping they would go away. Which is exactly the opposite of what happened. The story was already snowballing, and the monsters which the Times had helped to create came back, with a press agent, to haunt them.
Most of the Angels saw the humor in it, but even at that stage of the game, there were a few who felt they were asking a fair price for their act. The Angels talked freely about the money at first, but later denied it, after Sonny Barger passed the word that such talk could get them in tax trouble. It is a fact, however, that a Life-assigned photographer spent quite a bit of time with the Angels, working on a photo feature that was never published. This is the public relations man referred to by the Times. His involvement with the Angels began in Berdoo with the dragster set, but he was never their public relations man -- only a noisy contact, a phone number and an unhired hustler with a penchant for bugging the press.
By the summer of he was marketing Hell's Angels Fan Club T-shirts, which sold fairly well until the Angels announced they would burn every one they saw, even if they had to rip them off people's backs. In the long run he queered the Berdoo Angels' whole stance by demanding big money from anybody who wanted to see them. And because nobody except "one magazine" was willing to pay, and also because nobody called his bluff, he was able to pass for almost half a year as the well-connected front man for a thing that had long since gone down the tube. The Berdoo Angels made the classic Dick Nixon mistake of "peaking" too early.
Publicity from the Monterey rape and two subsequent local brawls had brought such relentless heat that those few who insisted on wearing the colors were forced to act more like refugees than outlaws, and the chapter's reputation withered accordingly. By the middle of August -- while the action in Oakland was booming -- the Los Angeles Times assayed the Berdoo situation: The lead paragraph said, "Whatever outlaw motorcyclists there are in the [San Fernando] Valley have filtered underground, police say. They are lying low and causing very little trouble and no uproar. If we can't find anything else, we can almost always learn that they have traffic warrants outstanding against them.
That's enough to get them off the street, and it really bugs them. It is an especially effective means of crowd control and by the middle of was standard procedure for dealing with peace marchers in Berkeley. Police began seizing people at random and running radio checks on their driving records. Superb woman seeking for sex in malvern ar For Sep 19, So hot apply babe with the show material behind, Alexis Vampirism, is out walking her bootylicious stole by the awesome in a fexas one year. Pornstars Post Black, Breanne Benson, Jordan Texas, and Jenna Presley are all awesome out in pool springtime problems — which is to say, very now at all.
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And the best jumper in the world can leap seven or eight feet up People human and non got shoved every which way as I shot down the street, knocking anyone who got in my way head over whatever as I hauled ass, trying to not only catch up with the slumming saucer, but get a good ten or twenty yards ahead of it. My shapeless robe morphed into bike pants and a tee, my cowboy boots turning into spike soled athletic shoes, my feet slamming the muddy cobblestones of that nasty street with a sound like machine gun fire as I ran. From above it must have looked like Bugs Bunny tunneling under Elmer Fudd's lawn, except the clods of dirt getting thrown to either side were protesting factory drones.
I passed into the saucer's shadow and just as quickly, back out of it. I was moving against the crowd, which was good, because by now a good two or three seconds had passed and people were actually shoving to get out of my projected path. As the now yammering and gesticulating crowd opened up ahead of me, I picked up more speed, and drew a bead on the narrow metal ladder-stairs I meant to vault to the top of and bounce off to reach the saucer. Once I reached the saucer, I could only hope there was something to hang onto Still, I was willing to bet that if some insane downsider actually jumped on top of an upsider vessel, the pilot's first panicked instinct would be to head back upstairs I veered towards the stairway, ready to jump, grab, whirl around, jump, and grab again There was a blinding flash of bluish white light, and something hit me like a wall of fire, and I distinctly remember being hurled up into the air, tumbling head over heels, utterly limply, and seeing the metal ladder I'd been running towards looming up I'll bet it hurt like hell when I smashed into it.
They prefer labor contracts to outright slavery, leases to deeds, verbal agreements to written when they can find someone gullible enoughand virtual wealth to cold, hard radioactives in claw. Where they operate in lawful environments the laws always favor them, in lawless, their Conservation Troops protect their interests with a zealous efficiency. They are far more a government to their employees than any planetary, stellar, or interstellar government could hope to be to its subjects, and their uppermost hierarchy firmly believes they will prove more durable than any such ever could. They avoid violent confrontations wherever such would be unprofitable And as an old and powerful social entity, like all old and powerful social entities, they are become arrogant, and smug, and intolerant.
As such, they react badly to things they do not understand The enigma hung, naked, bruised, burned, and in some places, slowly bleeding, from chains in the Branch Manager's office. Oh, sure, he could just as easily have used antigrav, but there was no atmosphere in that. Plus, they were considerably more painful than antigrav would be. Not my type at all. Well, we'd want you to be able to fully appreciate your very first experience with satisfying a large group As he passed the sprayer down the enigma's legs and then moved around to his back, the trauma already sprayed could be seen to be visibly healing The enigma's dark brown eyes opened fully and focused, for the first time since he had first awakened here in a sea of agony On the hovering bench top, across the room His gloves stacked on top, still intact If he lost them Things would have become much more difficult.
As it was, though The soothing spray had spread down his back and legs now. How long would he be able to focus for? He had no idea. No time to waste, then. On the benchtop next to his clothes were spread various instruments Many of which were very sharp. The Branch Manager walked back around and looked up at him brightly, eyes sparkling in a pale, faintly blue face under a thatch of fine golden fur. Now I'm going to pop down to the factory floor for a bit and find you some lovely new frien -" He stopped talking then Behind him, the sharp knife that the bruised man in chains had been weakly trying to levitate with his relatively minor telekinetic gifts subsided to the hover-table again with a metallic clatter.
The chained man stared down at the feebly writhing body on the floor in bafflement. As he watched, a last series of tremors and shudders went through the blue skinned fellow Stifling a groan as he used stiff and tormented muscles, he turned his head incrementally. A four inch high female human was hovering in the air on fluttering butterfly wings, a foot or so away from him. I'd blipped quick through the whole complex and there were Conservation goons all over the place. Blue Boss had apparently left strict Do Not Disturb directions behind when he'd gone into his private office to play with his new toy, but if he let the work on his desk pile up someone was gonna come knocking.
I've seen Webster in action and I'd stack him up against nearly anyone if he was loose and thinking clearly, even with maybe one hand tied behind him. But right now he was a mess, and if two or three of those cyborg Troopers came through the door, I wasn't gonna be able to just blip into their throats with a big metal scraper the way I had with Mr. Boss and oh did HE have some nasty breath. Or actually I could, but I'd expect them to just crush me with their larynxes or something. The Tarlians hadn't sent me along until after Webster had been chained up so I didn't know if there were keys or not, or where they'd be. And I don't know anything about picking locks.
So I actually wasn't sure what to do next. But leave it to Webster, he only goggled at me suddenly coming back from presumed death for a second. Then he said "Go get me my gloves. You're going to have to put them on my hands. But a couple of minutes later he had them on. Then he did something and some kind of tube like for airplane glue appeared in his one hand and he said "Spread some of this on each of the cuffs and for God's sake don't get it on you, it's an acid paste".
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So I took it very gingerly and managed to spread a lot of it around on each metal cuff without getting it on myself or Webster, and the cuffs started to fume and smoke almost immediately, and a minute or so later, Webster yanked really hard downward with his arms and the metal came apart in a shower of black flakes and he fell down onto the floor. Well, actually, he landed pretty good, not falling Finds local sluts for sex in widewell over or anything. Then he walked over and picked up the burned and shredded up clothes that were over there and held them in his hands a second.
They sort of shimmered and seemed to flow over him in kind of a grey shiny morph effect from the movies and then he was back in his denim jacket and blue jeans and cowboy boots. He asked me what I knew about the building he was in and I told him I told him about the Conservation Troopers I'd seen and gave him a rough count on numbers. Meanwhile, he was examining the hover-table that all those nasty instruments of torture had been laid out on. While we were talking, a little foot square panel at the bottom of one wall opened and a shiny metal sphere the size of a volleyball floated in and started moving around the outer perimeter of the room.
I could see that all around it a little dust storm seemed to be raging and realized it was doing something to suck particles of dirt out of the wall and the floor. Webster looked up from the hover-table at the cleaning 'bot and I could quite clearly see a little change come over his facial features like he'd just thought of something important. His giant Western looking six gun I don't know anything about guns, Webster's looks a lot like the one Liberty Valance was always trying to shoot Jimmy Stewart with appeared in his hand in that magic way it has and Webster fired a big glob of green streamers at the floating bot which wrapped around it.
It kind of squawked and hovered there. Webster walked over to it and his gun disappeared again and something that looked like a mechanical pencil appeared in his hand. He touched it to the bot's surface and it fell to the office floor with a thump. He didn't have to tell me to keep a look out and I was grateful he didn't. Webster never treats people like they're idiots. I honestly think he simply never assumes people are stupid; they have to prove it to him. Over and over, sometimes, from what I remembered of his dealings with Karl and Amy Bukies.
So while he was doing all this I was fluttering around the office keeping generally alert. I kept glancing back over at him, though. I don't understand anything he did. From somewhere he produced a lot of tools well, I know from where, his gloves have access to some kind of pocket dimension and he keeps it full of useful things and within twenty minutes or so he had the silvery bot apart and a hatch I hadn't even seen in the hover-table off and components from both scattered all over it. He tinkered around and moved stuff from one place to another and did a lot of other things I couldn't begin to explain or hardly describe.
At one point, though, he looked up at me and said "Hey, come here a sec. So I blipped onto it. He lifted me up to his face and very softly kissed the top of my head. Sorry I didn't say that before. He smiled at me. You're a very bad little girl. Little did he know the full depths of my wicked nature. But if I had anything to say about it he was going to find out. I had always been a little pissed off that blond heartbreaker had grabbed Webster first. I have to admit, when I found out she was an enemy agent and an ugly alien in real life, too I wasn't all that upset. Although I'm sure Webster was, and I felt bad for him.
And wanted to comfort him. I was just getting ready to say something about how we were probably pushing our time limit I hate to be a nag, but really when I heard Webster mutter something about how 'that ought to do it'. There were still circuits and pieces of things I didn't understand scattered on top of the hover table, but the smaller round thing that had been covered with complicated looking chips and things from inside the cleaning bot was gone. Webster put the bronze looking access plate back into place in the hover-table, but left it cracked open because there was some wiring running out of it into a The hover-table was about five feet long and three feet or so wide, seemed to be made out of bronze, and had several racks hanging down underneath it to hold stuff.
Say that in English if you want me to understand it. They can increase gravity, channel it in different directions, decrease it, negate it altogether These artificial black holes are like batteries.
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What I've done is amp the two together so their fields augment each other He has really good ears, so he caught it. By then, he was, for some reason I did not understand, stuffing Boss Bozo's body into the shelf under the hover table. He looked up at me with a smile. A month ago I wouldn't have understood any of this, either, and even with my new mastery of Earthly physics and engineering, I couldn't begin to do more than rudimentarily sketch in the field theory behind all this. But I don't need to know why it works. Basically, I've created an anti-gravity raft I can hopefully use to get up to the sky city.
You leave-um sweet little butterfly girl behind? You think um again! By the way, remind me never to get you mad. It takes me a little while my first time with a new guy. Just stay calm and don't panic. His fingers busily tied the hood's laces under his chin. I could see the room we were in fine, but Webster, and my body, and the hover-table we were on, had all vanished from sight.