30.11.24
After a Meeting on Saturday
The dim light of the clubhouse flickered as the clock struck noon, signaling the end of our weekly meeting. The air was thick with the scent of leather and old cigars. Rebels MC had always been a club of principles, a brotherhood bonded not just by our love for motorcycles but by a shared code of honor. Drugs were a hard no, but power and respect? Those were currencies we traded in.
Our President, Bas, leaned back in his chair, his sharp gaze sweeping across the table. “Felix,” he said, nodding toward our Sergeant, “call Gun. Let’s see what the Renegados are up to.”
Felix made the call, his gruff voice carrying the weight of a man who’d seen his fair share of brawls. A deal with the Renegados could mean steady liquor supply lines for our bars in Red County and Grove Street—a win for both sides, if handled right.
An hour later, engines roared to life. Bas led the pack, flanked by Swt, our Vice President, and Felix. Behind them rode the rest of us—Felicia, Bagetto, Reddust, Jiraak, and prospects. The rhythmic thrum of our motorcycles echoed through the streets of San Andreas, a moving testament to the Rebels’ legacy.
We pulled up outside the Renegados’ base, a warehouse on the Los Santos. Gun, their leader, stood at the door, a cigarette dangling from his lips. His demeanor was calm, almost too quiet, as if he were sizing us up.
“Rebels,” he greeted, extending a hand to Felix. “Been a while.”
“Too long,” Felix replied, gripping Gun’s hand firmly. The two exchanged nods, a silent acknowledgment of mutual respect.
"Meet with our prez, Bas" said Felix to Gun. They shook hands and greeted each other. Then they made small talk.
We leaned against our bikes, exchanging pleasantries as smoke from our cigarettes curled into the evening air. Gun seemed genuine, and it felt like this meeting might go smoothly for a moment.
Inside, the atmosphere shifted. The warehouse reeked of spilled beer and gasoline, and a few Renegados lounged around, flanked by members of allied gangs. Bas and Gun talked shop, exchanging intel on recent news and the state of the streets. The air was tense but cordial—until a group of Renegados stormed in.
Their body language was aggressive, their eyes filled with suspicion. Felix shot him a look but kept his cool.
“We're here to do business,” Bas said, his tone calm but firm. “You got what we need or not?”
Gun shot. “We can supply the liquor. Price is fair, and it'll keep your bars stocked for months.”
Just as the handshake to seal the deal was about to happen, chaos erupted. Felix wanted to check the R's because there were people selling drugs near our bars and whispered to Bas to ask them if they sold cocaine. Gun evaded this question skillfully and just as the subject was about to close, two of the newcomers pulled guns, firing warning shots into the air. The warehouse fell silent, save for the echo of gunfire.
“Whoa, whoa!” Felix yelled, drawing his weapon along with the rest of us. “What the hell is this?”
Gun seemed shocked too. Their hostility radiating like a storm about to break.
Bas stepped forward, his voice ice-cold. “We came here in good faith. “Put the damn guns down.”
But the tension was unrelenting. The deal was dead before it even began. Bas shook his head and moved for us to leave. As we mounted our bikes, a few Renegados hurled insults, their words sharp enough to spark a fight. We didn't hesitate, fired our guns that turned the quiet street into a battlefield.
It was over quickly. Bloodied but unbroken, we roared away on our bikes, leaving the Renegados' territory behind.
Back at the bar, the jukebox played an old rock tune as we nursed beers, licking our wounds and laughing off the chaos.
“They weren’t ready for the Rebels,” Jiraak said, raising his bottle of beer.
We all toasted, the clink of bootles a reminder of our unity. Whatever came next, we’d face it together—like we always had.
@Reddust115 @Bas @Felix @felicia @JiirakDaniel @Bagetto @SWT @I-Gun