After all these years that I return to this island, come back to the clubhouse and find your corpses, littering it like you were gunned down, or torn apart by ravenous freakers, it never entered my mind. Not even once, we all been through some serious shit, jailtime in San Quentin, all the gunfights, the stabbings. We all took some very close calls, lost few brothers in this life of ours, but for all of you to be here and gone… I have no words to express this shit. Almost wish my harley still worked, I’d ride the fuck outta this place and keep going until I hit all those mothafuckin freakers, probably turn into one myself.

I spent the night burying all you fucks, you’re all heavier then you look. I took the Pres and V.P patches, buried all of you with your kuttes though, a warriors burial, an honorable one, I guess, least in a way. Better buried then laying out for maggot food, right. I don’t know wha the fuck happened, but shit bruva’s, wish I was here, never shoulda went on that fuckin run, never shoulda got separated in all that fuckin mess. Woulda, coulda, shoulda, fuck… Wha the fuck am I gonna do now; rebuild this in a broken world?

Be the Pres, and recruit some mothafuckas, be in another brotherhood? Fuckin hell, all this shit in my head, all the craziness round here, I barely know how I’m survivin, except what I learned on the streets in my youth. Before the club, before the bruva’s. Fuck it, I’ll try it anyway, be what I was meant to be here, get some more bruva’s, maybe ride again. The Dogs will ride; this is promise, in blood.

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=lSLXS0bjSCs