The Loa Calaveras bordered the Southern portion of town, a few miles out of Newsom city limits. Family oriented, they had a well known affinity for minding their own business. They’d formed a M.C. around the same time as the Dueling Devils, about fifty years ago. After immigrating into the southwestern town from Mexico, the members banded together for safety. They quickly earned themselves respect and a safe place to raise their families. It made sense for Los Calaveras and the Dueling Devils to be allies, so they struck a deal to stay on their side of the city limits. When motherfuckers rolled in looking for trouble, they came together to put them down. The room seemed quiet. People lay passed out at tables, on couches and the floor. Speedy, the President stepped up and offered his hand. “You missed one hell of a party brother, but I’m guessing you aren’t’ here for entertainment.” The burly man grinned. His once coal black hair had turned silver. But the sharpness in his eyes remained.
