They gave him sixty thousand dollars for a property worth four hundred thousand. Gave him seven days to leave. Called it “economic development.”
The sheriff dragged Walter out on a Tuesday morning while he begged for one more week. His oxygen tank tangled in his walker as they pulled him down the front steps of the home he’d built with his own hands.
Someone’s daughter filmed it on her phone. A decorated Marine who survived Iwo Jima, crying and stumbling while deputies boarded up his windows.
By sundown, every biker in three states had seen the video.
By 11 PM, the bikes started arriving.
Not one club. All of them.
The Christian Riders rolled in with the Pagans. The Iron Horsemen stood beside the Buffalo Soldiers. Clubs that hadn’t spoken in decades lined up side by side on the mayor’s street.
