"I headed out to my oldest son’s place for his daughter’s birthday party with my youngest son. Vance and his wife and their friends like to drink hard cider with cinnamon whiskey, so I brought a case and a bottle. The stick fighting drills and shadow boxing had taxed me to the max, so as I hobbled up to the front door a muscular tattooed arm pushed it open, and I heard that easy drawl, “Hey old man, how is life treating you?”

"I looked at the new tattoo of his daughter on his arm and figured something was amiss and said, “How about you?”

“Did some time this winter—a month, dealing with the old lady bullshit of not letting me see my daughter unless I pay more every month.”

“I’ve got this suit against a customer—a big fat black man and his big fat black wife—who owe me five thousand. Court does not rule in my favor because they point at my muscles and tattoos and say they are afraid of me. So I have a job near him and I dump the leaves and grass in his yard—get caught on video. Guy can’t pay to have his grass cut but has a surveillance system.

“The judge doesn’t like me. It’s funny how they hate you when they figure their wife or daughter would pick you up!

“The judge looks at me—you know—I figured I had a five hundred dollar dumping fine coming. But he doesn’t like me. The judge says, ‘Mister Justine, do you consider yourself above the law?’

"Hey, my old man [Banno] always told me not to lie—except to your old lady—so I told him the truth, ‘Well, your honor, in this case I’m standing far above the law. And if this niցցer over here doesn’t stop lying about me I’m about to be standing over him too.’

"I know that was a stupid thing to say, and I felt kind of bad when those big fat black people started cringing and crying—his fat wife trying to hide from me like I’ve got the death eye or some shit! So I got thirty days. No big deal. They did me a favor. I turned the heat off at home. By brother cleaned out the fridge. I wasn’t making money—it was the dry season—don’t do snow removal anymore. What’s the point in making money when everybody’s taking it, when the evil old lady is raising the number every month and won’t let me see my daughter?

“Now you only do twenty five because you get a day off for every week you don’t start any shit. I gained twenty pounds. I walk around at one eighty. But when you are climbing trees, training, giving the necessary attention to all these upscale wannabe biker bitches, then you can’t keep weight on. I came out a sold two hundred.”

[Dante wrestled at 135 and boxed between 143-154, which gives you an idea of what you are looking at when you see ‘little guys’ fighting in the pros.]

“First time I went to jail I was the youngest guy there. This time I was the oldest. They were just a bunch of dorks. Not stoners. I can deal with stoners. These are straight up dope fiends—crack, heroin. All they talk about is how much crack they’re going to smoke when they get out.

“There's this one giant black dude who basically owns the gym. He sees me coming to train and he wants to make it competitive. No problem, he likes chin ups, so we buck out five, six hundred chin ups a day, mostly in sets of ten. He’s got them big gorilla arms, so that’s his thing, so I’m like, ‘Hey, how about pushups?’

He’s cool with that, until we hit a thousand, and he’s like, ‘I’m goin’ to church. I can’t train today ‘cause I got to go to church.’

“It was a good time really. After that I’m on my own training for a week—was bucking out a thousand handstand pushups a week. Came out feeling good.

“While I was in lockup the club got taken down. Now we’re not an outlaw biker club, we’re a prospect club. We are under an outlaw club. They take dues from you but have no association. Its worse than prospecting. Then one day they prospect you.

“Since we’re just a club, all I had to do to get my patch was go to the karaoke bar and sing ‘It’s Raining Men.’ Of course the dude I’m singing worth is coming off strait up gay. I thought he was going to suck my dick. You just never know when you’re going to scratch the surface and find a faɡɡot underneath.

“The main reason for being in the club is girls. These rich bitches out here all want to be biker sluts. We brought a couple back to the club house the other week and they’re blowing us while we tell them what whores they are and their alright with it, love it. Well, I filmed it, and forgot to erase it from the smartphone and my new old lady is going through the phone while I’m asleep—you remember what that’s like right old man! Next thing I know she’s waking me up and saying, ‘Who the hell was that whore blowing you?’

“I had screwed up by not erasing it so there was no sense in lying, so I said, ‘Some whore, who was blowing me.’

“She’s like, ‘What’s this whore’s name?’

“I said, ‘I just called her whore, besides she was kind of busy to be having a conversation. If you ever go through my phone again we are done, you can take your shit and go.’

“And she did, so now I get to have a good time playing with my daughter and talking to good friends instead of putting up with her. I am going out to seek her ninety year old grandfather for his birthday. He’s a cool old dude.”

“Of course, we have these one-pecenter duchebags who want to commit crimes so that they can get accepted into the outlaw club. Now I ask you, if you can afford a twenty-thirty thousand dollar bike, why do you want to get into crime? But that’s the mentality.

“In the outlaw clubs there are no cops. But the riding clubs, we have cops, a decent amount of cop members. You need the cops to commit the crimes because they give you all the information you need to commit the crime because they’re all crooked as shit. Well these wannabe one percenters and the cops all get busted at this field party. I was glad I was not there. Now we have surveillance on us. What bullshit, so you can say you’re a criminal?

“The reason for bringing me on was to coach these guys. The chapter president loved me. His guys can’t fight worth shit and there are beefs coming—other prospect clubs looking to beat us down.

The vice chapter president is this big fat piece of shit who doesn’t like me, was always slapping me in the chest, in the back. He’s six two three hundred—you know, bowl of jelly. We are outside the clubhouse and I tell him, ‘You slap because you can’t fight. Let’s put the gloves on.’

Well, he slaps me, so I heel sweep him, push him down, get the mount, sink in the grape vine, and dude, he can’t take the grape vine. There was no sense in even hitting the guy. He was tapping from the grapevine. He’s like, ‘Get off or I’m gonna shoot you!’ so I let him up.

“Other big boy—there all big tattooed people—he decided to throw hands with me, throws the meat hook punch and I duck it. He can at least fight a little, so he keeps his hands up figuring I’m going to pop up in the pocket since I didn’t weave—just bobbed. Unfortunately for him I put him in a fireman’s carry and slammed his ass—basically raped him in the ground.

“Now the president, big fit muscle dude, six four two-forty, wants to learn how to box. I put the gloves on him, and then me, and he’s like, “No the bag. I’m not boxing you.’

“I set up the camera so we can watch the video and I can point out his faults and he’s panicking, afraid of a You Tube post of me beating his ass. So, I finally get him to man up. How I do it, is the first round, I don’t throw. He throws. The second round I one hand it, just jab him. And you know, I’m weak on the jab, I’m a puncher. The third round, if he’s a man I throw it all but lightly. In this case I stuck with the jab for the third round and he couldn’t handle that.

I told Dante about the guys I was coaching and invited him to come out and train. He was thrilled, asked about the particulars, and then grinned, “You mean there are still Men?”