Hell’s Angels. A Strange and Terrible. Saga by Hunter S. Thompson

Many of the riders headed south and kept going. Some stopped at the Sports Center. Police were sent to clean out Murry Park. Night spots were checked by police.

Leaders of the three major clubs represented were taken to police headquarters for questioning, while remaining riders were held at the Sports Center. There were threats from the Hell’s Angels that if their arrested members were not released they would come and get them.

Torigian said the only way to get them was to bail them out. Officers with riot guns were ready if a jail break was attempted.

Around 2:30 A.M. some of the riders headed back toward Porter­ville. Torigian stopped them at the Main Street bridge. He told them to turn around and get out or they would be arrested and their motor­cycles impounded, chained together six at a time, and drug off.

By daylight a few scattered riders were still in the area. But the threat of violence and damage had been met and broken.

A man that should call everything by its right name would hardly pass the streets without being knocked down as a Common Enemy.

— Lord Halifax

A less glaring example of the way police reports tend to over-dramatize the Angels is this account of a July Fourth 1964 run to Willits, a lumbering town of about thirty-five hundred in northern California. The official version follows an account from a San Francisco housewife, Mrs. Terry Whitright, whose husband is a native of Willits. The two versions are not contradictory, but the difference in point of view suggests that the Hell’s Angels reality often depends on who describes it.

Here is what Mrs. Whitright said in a letter dated March 29, 1965:

Dear Hunter,

The first time I had ever seen the Hell’s Angels was on the 4th of July celebration in Willits, Calif. Willits is a very small town approximately 100 miles North of S.F. Every 4th of July they have a Frontier’s Day Celebration, which includes a carnival, parade, dances, etc. We went up for it, and on Willits’ Main Street, the Hell’s Angels were lined up for a block and a half, coming in and out of a very populated bar. We (Lori, Barbie, Terry I), were walking down the street and one man, wearing a black leather jacket, boots, dirty black Tee-shirt, etc., grabbed Lori by the hand, and talked to her for awhile, asking her name, all the time being very gentle and very nice. This was around 2:30 in the afternoon. Later that evening we went to an elderly woman’s house where we were staying while we were in town. She has a nephew by the name of Larry Jordon. He is a Wilackey Indian about 27 or 28. He is also a brother to Phil Jordon, a professional basketball player who played for New York Knickerbockers and also the Detroit Pis­tons. Well, anyhow, to get back to Larry Jordon; about 7:30 that evening a girl came to the door crying and shouting, Eileen, Eileen, help me. I came to the door, and there stood Larry, blood pouring down the side of his neck, and from his temple. Eileen, his aunt, completely fell apart, so I had to take him to the bathroom and clean him up. He had been cut severely with either a razor blade or a knife by the Hell’s Angels. Now, the reason never was established, why he was jumped by 6 or 7 Hell’s Angels, but he’s the type of guy who looks like he thinks he’s better than anyone. But this isn’t the way he is, he holds himself very aloof, never looks for trouble, but never backs away from trouble either. It’s rather hard to explain, you’d have to know him, I think. If you know any Indians well, maybe you understand.

Terry came back (he had been to the store) and after some talking and persuading he got Larry into the car and to the hospital. Of course everyone was drinking and they all wanted to get a bunch together and run the Hell’s Angels out of town, but they didn’t.

One other acquaintance of ours by the name of Fritz Bacchie also got beat up by them. He went home to get a gun, and the local police threw him in jail for the nite.