BeyondDandy
Dandy Connoisseur
FALLEN ANGELS MOTORCYCLE CLUB
Day 1
The Fallen Angels Motorcycle Club was established after the Second World War in hopes of spreading necessary aid to all the men that served and sacrificed for their country during those years. The message was simple, “brotherhood over everything.” This however became the downfall of the club when the original members were replaced by their next of kin or strangers that had no connection to their heritage. When the club president’s son Frank Ward inherited leadership, there was a clear shift in purpose. Everything became more inclusive, those outside the club no longer reaping the benefits the Angels used to offer them for free. Money, drugs, guns and power consumed the club, turning them into one percenters. The legacy once built by men of war was washed away with them.
This shift however granted the club a level of unimaginable power. Their relationship with the biggest Mexican cartel gifted them with a large sum of territory and benefits. With the rising dead in the last couple of months, the club would have failed to survive had it not been for Frank's actions under the president's patch. Now, with October rolling by and a cold front finally hitting Texas soil, the Angels prepare for one of their toughest winters yet. With their most recent shipment having been stolen, they rush to find the culprits and get their supplies back. Tonight however they steer from the mission to say goodbye to one of the club’s last original members, Vice President Paul Cunningham.
- - - - -
It was around midday when funeral preparations began for Paul. The clubhouse was full of people, members, family and close friends - all checked in and accounted for by security. They gathered this day to say goodbye to one of their dearest and loyal friends, a man known by everyone for his calm demeanor and open ear. Angel funerals were almost always the same. It started with a period of grieving where those closest to the fallen would shed tears, but as the sun set and glasses filled with beer, sadness turned into a joyful celebration of life. They would stay together all night until the casket closed and it was time to say their final goodbyes.
With an influx of people, security around the clubhouse doubled. Guards held posts at every entryway and cycled every hour with replacements to ensure constant protection. Large crowds like the one tonight attracted the dead more than anything - one of the few things the club learned over their numerous runs outside the gates. The dead were attracted to mainly two things, sound and movement. Theories explored the idea that the dead could differentiate their own and the living through smell, but that was never officially proven. On the other hand there was only one sure way to kill them, blunt or precise trauma to the cerebrum. Alone they were easy to dispose of, but in groups they were primal, the fiercest of enemies. They felt no pain or fear, just hunger - the ultimate soldier.
Despite the threat the dead posed, the club continued to do things their way. As night started to fall, the sound of a solitary guitar could be heard from inside the clubhouse. People surrounded the bar with smiles on their faces and drinks in their hands - all geared up with winter coats as cold air breezed through the building’s many cracks. Paul lay center stage, unmoved in his casket with his favorite belongings surrounding his still body. He had been prepared by one of the men the club employed years ago. He bore no expression, but held himself bigger than life even in death.
His son Grady sat on the nearby sofa alone, staring at his old man from a distance. Despite not having the relationship he dawned for with the old man, he still felt the loss of his presence deep down. He was soon approached by a woman yielding a drink, taking it from her and chugging away at its components. Internally he was battling some demons, but most importantly preparing himself for what would soon happen. He looked down at his chest, no visible patch differentiating him from a simple soldier. He knew soon he would be crowned Vice President of the club and became uneasy at all the responsibility that came with such a title.
Outside the clubhouse two black vans pulled in through the gated entrance. Frank stood twenty feet from clubhouse doors, hands in the large green coat that covered his vest as a strong gust of cold air pushed through. The two vans came to a halt over the gravel road and a tall black man came out of the passenger seat with a smile on his face. Other men of the same skin color followed close behind - personal security.
“Frank! A pleasure to see you again,” said the tall black man, hand reaching out to shake Frank’s. The two men met face to face and embraced, Frank giving a faint smirk in return. “It’s nice to see you Weyland, how’s your father?” Weyland's expression suddenly changed at the question. His big smile faded as he explained his father came down with some sort of sickness and that’s why he was there instead. “We got something for you,” he stated, guiding Frank to the trunk of the van. Weyland signaled his men to open the trunk doors and reveal its spoils. As the doors opened, a man, handcuffed and muzzled, mummed through his oral restraints and rushed away from the group in fear.
“Bandidos?” Frank questioned, eyes fixed on the fearful man. Weyland looked over at Frank and nodded. The Red Bandidos was a small Mexican gang that lingered near the border. When the dead rose, they took the opportunity to increase their territory. Their the only known organization that far south which in turn makes them suspect number one for stealing Angel supplies. Frank signaled some of the security guys to come down from their post and get the Bandido. “Take him to the dog pound,” he ordered, watching his men drag the unfortunate thief through the gravel and behind the clubhouse.
As the van’s trunk doors closed, Frank faced Weyland again, nodding in respect and shaking the man’s hand again. “Pleasure doing business Weyland, give your father my best.” Concluding business, Frank started back towards the clubhouse but was stopped in his tracks when it appeared Weyland was not. “Don’t forget our deal Frank. Favors aren’t free anymore and I expect you to keep your word.” Frank expressed an unfriendly facial appearance and watched as the man and his crew loaded the vans and pulled out of the gates. When it was all clear, Frank confined back through the clubhouse doors into the fray. He didn’t say anything to anyone, simply started for the deliberation room - a private room where only patched Angels gathered to make executive club decisions. Everyone in the club knew that if their President headed for that room you were meant to follow and that was expected.
As a throne, Frank sat at the end of a large table - President’s patch stitched firmly on his vest. He crossed his arms and waited for his members to join him as the club prepared to make some tough decisions for the future of the club. The actions the club took were decided on a simple majority/minority voting system. Members got the opportunity to speak their minds on certain topics and agree or disagree on club matters. A majority agreement meant decisions could be executed, a minority meant decisions were void and another club vote was mandatory.
Tonight the club would vote on how to proceed with the loss of their supplies.
Interactions
Bullyboy Squad
Fern
WantYourSoul
Conloth
Day 1
The Fallen Angels Motorcycle Club was established after the Second World War in hopes of spreading necessary aid to all the men that served and sacrificed for their country during those years. The message was simple, “brotherhood over everything.” This however became the downfall of the club when the original members were replaced by their next of kin or strangers that had no connection to their heritage. When the club president’s son Frank Ward inherited leadership, there was a clear shift in purpose. Everything became more inclusive, those outside the club no longer reaping the benefits the Angels used to offer them for free. Money, drugs, guns and power consumed the club, turning them into one percenters. The legacy once built by men of war was washed away with them.
This shift however granted the club a level of unimaginable power. Their relationship with the biggest Mexican cartel gifted them with a large sum of territory and benefits. With the rising dead in the last couple of months, the club would have failed to survive had it not been for Frank's actions under the president's patch. Now, with October rolling by and a cold front finally hitting Texas soil, the Angels prepare for one of their toughest winters yet. With their most recent shipment having been stolen, they rush to find the culprits and get their supplies back. Tonight however they steer from the mission to say goodbye to one of the club’s last original members, Vice President Paul Cunningham.
- - - - -
It was around midday when funeral preparations began for Paul. The clubhouse was full of people, members, family and close friends - all checked in and accounted for by security. They gathered this day to say goodbye to one of their dearest and loyal friends, a man known by everyone for his calm demeanor and open ear. Angel funerals were almost always the same. It started with a period of grieving where those closest to the fallen would shed tears, but as the sun set and glasses filled with beer, sadness turned into a joyful celebration of life. They would stay together all night until the casket closed and it was time to say their final goodbyes.
With an influx of people, security around the clubhouse doubled. Guards held posts at every entryway and cycled every hour with replacements to ensure constant protection. Large crowds like the one tonight attracted the dead more than anything - one of the few things the club learned over their numerous runs outside the gates. The dead were attracted to mainly two things, sound and movement. Theories explored the idea that the dead could differentiate their own and the living through smell, but that was never officially proven. On the other hand there was only one sure way to kill them, blunt or precise trauma to the cerebrum. Alone they were easy to dispose of, but in groups they were primal, the fiercest of enemies. They felt no pain or fear, just hunger - the ultimate soldier.
Despite the threat the dead posed, the club continued to do things their way. As night started to fall, the sound of a solitary guitar could be heard from inside the clubhouse. People surrounded the bar with smiles on their faces and drinks in their hands - all geared up with winter coats as cold air breezed through the building’s many cracks. Paul lay center stage, unmoved in his casket with his favorite belongings surrounding his still body. He had been prepared by one of the men the club employed years ago. He bore no expression, but held himself bigger than life even in death.
His son Grady sat on the nearby sofa alone, staring at his old man from a distance. Despite not having the relationship he dawned for with the old man, he still felt the loss of his presence deep down. He was soon approached by a woman yielding a drink, taking it from her and chugging away at its components. Internally he was battling some demons, but most importantly preparing himself for what would soon happen. He looked down at his chest, no visible patch differentiating him from a simple soldier. He knew soon he would be crowned Vice President of the club and became uneasy at all the responsibility that came with such a title.
Outside the clubhouse two black vans pulled in through the gated entrance. Frank stood twenty feet from clubhouse doors, hands in the large green coat that covered his vest as a strong gust of cold air pushed through. The two vans came to a halt over the gravel road and a tall black man came out of the passenger seat with a smile on his face. Other men of the same skin color followed close behind - personal security.
“Frank! A pleasure to see you again,” said the tall black man, hand reaching out to shake Frank’s. The two men met face to face and embraced, Frank giving a faint smirk in return. “It’s nice to see you Weyland, how’s your father?” Weyland's expression suddenly changed at the question. His big smile faded as he explained his father came down with some sort of sickness and that’s why he was there instead. “We got something for you,” he stated, guiding Frank to the trunk of the van. Weyland signaled his men to open the trunk doors and reveal its spoils. As the doors opened, a man, handcuffed and muzzled, mummed through his oral restraints and rushed away from the group in fear.
“Bandidos?” Frank questioned, eyes fixed on the fearful man. Weyland looked over at Frank and nodded. The Red Bandidos was a small Mexican gang that lingered near the border. When the dead rose, they took the opportunity to increase their territory. Their the only known organization that far south which in turn makes them suspect number one for stealing Angel supplies. Frank signaled some of the security guys to come down from their post and get the Bandido. “Take him to the dog pound,” he ordered, watching his men drag the unfortunate thief through the gravel and behind the clubhouse.
As the van’s trunk doors closed, Frank faced Weyland again, nodding in respect and shaking the man’s hand again. “Pleasure doing business Weyland, give your father my best.” Concluding business, Frank started back towards the clubhouse but was stopped in his tracks when it appeared Weyland was not. “Don’t forget our deal Frank. Favors aren’t free anymore and I expect you to keep your word.” Frank expressed an unfriendly facial appearance and watched as the man and his crew loaded the vans and pulled out of the gates. When it was all clear, Frank confined back through the clubhouse doors into the fray. He didn’t say anything to anyone, simply started for the deliberation room - a private room where only patched Angels gathered to make executive club decisions. Everyone in the club knew that if their President headed for that room you were meant to follow and that was expected.
As a throne, Frank sat at the end of a large table - President’s patch stitched firmly on his vest. He crossed his arms and waited for his members to join him as the club prepared to make some tough decisions for the future of the club. The actions the club took were decided on a simple majority/minority voting system. Members got the opportunity to speak their minds on certain topics and agree or disagree on club matters. A majority agreement meant decisions could be executed, a minority meant decisions were void and another club vote was mandatory.
Tonight the club would vote on how to proceed with the loss of their supplies.
Interactions
Bullyboy Squad
Fern
WantYourSoul
Conloth
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