Unchained Rebel: An Outlaw Biker's Toughest Fight

UNCHAINED REBEL

Outlaw biker and notorious brawler, Jordan JD Delgado, learns that God’s word cuts sharper and deeper than the knife used to earn him 10 years in prison. At his lowest point he looks up and finds freedom in Christ, but remains tormented and bound by guilt and bitterness as he struggles to forgive and be forgiven. JD finds that killing his old self is a tougher fight than any he had ever experienced. Once released from prison, JD is conflicted between his old club life and his new faith. He must find a way to leave his old club without losing the life that he has been given a second chance at living.

Unchained Rebel offers a rare glimpse into the intimate, dangerous and often humorous world of motorcycle clubs and motorcycle club ministry. This book is dedicated to all the men and women that are thankful that Jesus can reach down further than we can reach up, and those that understand that they may be the only Bible that some will ever know.

About the Author

Patrick Slo-Roll McKinney is a National Officer for Soldiers for Jesus M.C. Unchained Rebel draws on the experiences of the author’s personal journey from secular motorcycle club member to working in the ministry trenches, riding alongside some of the roughest and most loyal characters on two wheels.

Special thanks to my wife, Michelle, and to all of my SFJMC brothers and sisters that helped with and believed in this book. Thank you for your support and your love for Jesus. 

Love and respect,

Slo-Roll

A percentage of all proceeds from the sale of this book will be donated to Soldiers for Jesus M.C, a 501 (c) (3) non-profit charitable organization.

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For more information about

Soldiers for Jesus Motorcycle Club

Visit:  WWW.SFJMC.COM

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This is a work of fiction. Other than as specified (*) all names, characters, businesses, places, events and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental. *Any mention of Soldiers for Jesus Motorcycle Club, also referred to as: SFJMC, SFJ, Soldiers, and Soldier Nation is used with the consent of SFJMC International.

Forward

Pablo Villa is a founding member and now International President of Soldiers for Jesus M.C.

In the early days, Soldiers for Jesus M.C. never expected the growth that it has seen over the past quarter of a century. We started out trying to reach people in our Southern California community. Each of us had come out of lives filled with gangs and drugs, or just crazy living, and we knew that there weren’t many people trying to reach out to knuckleheads like us.

As the club continued to grow, we kept doing life together and built relationships with other clubs. Looking back, I think the greatest strength of Soldiers for Jesus M.C. is that we have remained a family of believers that truly love one another and those that we have been called to serve. We provide bikers that come to Jesus a place to belong and to grow in their faith. I encourage Soldiers to get out beyond the church campus and into the communities, because that’s where we have a chance for God to use us most. Every conversation we have is an opportunity to meet someone where they are, not to judge or condemn, but to encourage and provide hope.

In reading Unchained Rebel, I am reminded of the stories and testimonies of so many that have been loved by Soldiers for Jesus. Sin is an addiction, and recovery from that addiction is a lifelong process that starts with redemption and requires discipleship partners that are relatable and in love with Jesus.

Unchained Rebel

An Outlaw Biker’s Toughest Fight

Chapter 1: Feeding the Dog

Jordan Delgado, known throughout the Eastern Carolina biker community as JD, was headed south to Myrtle Beach for a week-long rally with his motorcycle club. This event was one of the MC’s mandatory annual runs where all the club’s chapters from surrounding States would gather to reunite with brothers, party together and hold a few business meetings. Nobody liked the business meetings, mainly because those required to attend had to show up completely sober. Showing up to a meeting drunk would get you removed from your leadership position, and showing up high on any type of drug would result in an automatic out-bad from the club. Being out-bad meant the former member could never join another club, and in some cases it meant that physical violence was to be enacted on the out-bad member anytime they were seen by a current member. These strict rules and protocols are what separates the motorcycle clubs (MC’s), from riding clubs (RC’s) and riding groups or associations. MC bylaws are enforced, and in certain clubs they are brutally enforced. JD’s motorcycle club was the type that leaned heavily on the side of brutal enforcement. His club’s National Sergeant at Arms picked up the road name Chainsaw because his weapon of choice was a chainsaw chain that had been folded back on itself and the open end padded and taped to make a handgrip. If he swung this chain and struck flesh then the return pull of the chain would bring chunks back with it.

JD’s MC chapter had been pushing hard towards the beach and it had been nearly 160 miles since their last stop. Fuel tanks were starting to slosh near empty and the men’s bladders were nearing capacity of full.  Simply rolling into a fuel stop with his club caused JD to sit a little taller in the saddle. He felt pride, and a sense of superiority, as heads turned at the noise of more than 40 big bore v-twin motorcycles down shifting in unison as the pack reduced speed to make the turn into the gas station. The string of bikes wrapped into the fuel point like a giant obnoxious thirsty snake that had just crawled from the desert in search of a drink. It was hard for JD to not feel impervious to the outside world when he was with all his brothers; for him it was the best kind of isolation. JD knew that motorcycle clubs were something that many only saw from a distance and few understood. He and his brothers looked hard and unapproachable, and for many of his brothers this wasn’t just a look. They felt as if they had been rejected by the world and wore this rejection as a badge of honor. Some went as far as tattooing the letters FTW, which stands for F*** The World, on their bodies as a permanent vulgar expletive to how they viewed the mundane existence of the uppity outsiders in their four-wheeled cages. For JD this hardened collective exterior protected him, not from the people of the world because he didn’t fear people. This group protected him from having to look into himself or at his past. None of these men cared where he had come from or what he had done, they only cared about his loyalty to the club and his actions as a member. He was able to immerse himself in the here and now, with complete disregard for anyone or anything outside of this very tight circle.

When JD was younger he enjoyed riding alone, especially to clear his head after a blowout with his old man, but whenever he would be passed by a large pack of bikers speeding off to some unknown destination he knew he wanted to be in a motorcycle club. JD spent his Middle School and early High School years in and out of the principal’s office. The County Sherriff’s Deputy that served as the High School’s resource officer knew him by name. JD didn’t have a temper as much as he just liked to fight. He had an anger inside of him that seemed to calm after he unloaded a fury of punches on somebody. Then that anger would slowly build up again and JD would find an excuse to fight another. He also had a certain business acumen that made him feel empowered and independent. He started out buying packs of cigarettes from a local tobacco shop that didn’t check identification. JD would then sell the cigarettes to other Middle School students as singles. By the time he was in High School, kids were getting their own cigarettes so JD started buying and selling weed. The pot smokers and sellers looked up to him. For JD the selling of pot and some pills wasn’t as much about the money as it was about the social status and acceptance he felt, even if that acceptance was coming from kids that others thought were losers. JD didn’t see losers, he saw friends and from them a sense of loyalty because they all shared the same secrets and agreed to never rat each other out. The school’s administrators suspected JD and his friends of bringing drugs into the school, but had a hard time catching them. This only made JD feel more powerful. In his mind he was beating the system that, by their measure, he was failing at.

JD managed to make enough cash off of his fellow students that he was able to buy an old Harley Sportster. The bike was a beater and needed work, but to JD it was the coolest thing he had ever owned. He told his dad that he got it from an old man that he had been helping out after school. His dad knew he was lying, but by this point he also knew that he had already lost his son and believed that hitting him had stopped having an effect years ago. The time JD spent working on the bike actually gave his mom some hope that he might be taking an interest in something other than the troublesome friends that he rarely brought around the house. JD didn’t bring friends around the house because he knew they wouldn’t be welcomed by his dad, and that his dad would only put on his nice guy show until after they had left.

JD started to think he was immune to any real trouble, but his evasion from consequences came to an end when he walked across the room during a math class and bloodied the face of another student because the student had made the mistake of taunting JD by saying he wouldn’t do it. JD had always been quick to take teasing as a challenge that he couldn’t let go, and as a result found himself facing expulsion from school and a transfer to what the State called an alternative school. Some State’s called them reform schools. JD called it a school that he wouldn’t be attending. He left home during his senior year of high school following another bad incident at home that, for JD, was the final straw. He found his way to the military town of Fayetteville, North Carolina.

Fayetteville borders Fort Bragg, home of the U.S. Army Airborne and Special Operations Forces, and the local community was a glut of various retail, service shops and restaurants. This unskilled labor market made picking up odd jobs fairly easy for JD. He started hanging out in local biker bars and getting to know the clubs in the area. JD knew enough about buying and selling low level drugs to make some cash outside of real work without upsetting those that were moving large quantities of product. Before long he was more interested in making money on his own than he was in working a real job. Most of the clubs in town were veteran’s clubs which were made up of young men that served in the Army or Air Force and rode with their clubs during off-time. These were good guys, but JD couldn’t earn off of them because they were all required to take urinalysis tests and stayed clear of any drugs that would show up on what they called a wiz-quiz. A few of the young guys were using synthetic drugs, but those could be easily purchased at smoke shops in town, so there was no money in it for JD. There were also a couple of clubs called one-percenters in town and JD started hanging around and getting to know them better. In 1947 the American Motorcycle Association (AMA) famously stated in its magazine that 99% of motorcyclists were law abiding citizens. Those bikers and clubs that the AMA was trying to minimize proudly self-identified as the other 1%.

JD learned to recognize the various clubs by the distinct patches, or club colors, worn on the backs of their cuts. These vests were called cuts because in the old days bikers would cut the sleeves off of jackets and sew on their colors. So much of the biker culture was based on tradition and legacy. This sense of heritage was a big part of what attracted JD to the clubs. JD was not a veteran, and wouldn’t have been interested in the veteran’s clubs even if he had been. These vet clubs offered acceptance and belonging, which JD felt none of at home, but JD was looking for more than a fraternal organization. JD was looking for a family that he could escape into. He was full of rebellion and rejected authority from anyone that he thought was disrespectful for daring to suggest he follow the rules. He wanted to join a club with a legacy that would allow him to make a statement to everyone that saw him by simply putting on the club’s colors and riding into town. JD desperately wanted to be a one-percenter.

JD started hanging around the Scythians Motorcycle Club. The Scythians MC was named after nomadic raiders that were of the first people to master mounted warfare. The club’s top rocker patch read SCYTHIANS, the bottom rocker held the name of each chapter’s location. The center patch was of two ancient warriors standing back to back and holding up bows with arrows drawn. The symbolism of the warrior’s stance was embraced by the members of the Scythians MC as each had sworn to always have his brother’s back in any conflict.

The club’s colors were black patches with gold embroidered letters and center patch. The black represented the viciousness of the club if attacked. The club’s members saw the color of gold as representing longevity, strength and survival. Even though the Scythian people had not existed since their last remnants dispersed in the eleventh century AD, ancient golden artifacts of the Scythian tribes had been found in remarkably good condition.

To the right of the club’s center patch was a smaller black patch that was square, and had the gold letters MC inside to denote that the organization was a motorcycle club. On the front of each member’s cut were tab patches over each vest pocket. The one over the left pocket was the club’s name, and the tab over the right was the member’s road name, or nick name. Just above the left tab patch was a small diamond shaped patch with 1% sewn in gold. The 1% diamond let everyone know that the Scythians were a top tier motorcycle club that would fight with ferocity to defend the honor of the club.

Every one-percenter starts as a hang around or associate, then they may eventually be asked to prospect. Those that get asked to prospect are the ones that, as a hang around, show up regularly and volunteer to support the club in any way they can. This is a time to demonstrate to the club that you have something to offer. For some guys it is a matter of bringing size and muscle. For others it’s certain connections and alliances that may benefit the club. For still others it may be as simple as being really good at cooking on the grill or having some bike mechanic skills beyond the basic maintenance stuff that all bikers should know. JD didn’t think he really brought anything particularly useful to the table so he committed himself to being the hardest worker out of all the others that were hanging around. For example, JD found out where the club kept a lawn mower and he mowed the clubhouse lawn for two months without being asked and without telling anyone he had been doing it. At one point JD started to wonder if not speaking up was a mistake because if nobody saw him mowing the yard then somebody else may be getting credit for the work. JD was at the clubhouse cleaning up outside the day after a party and he approached the chapter President to ask, Sir, where would you like me to stack the lawn chairs used last night?

The President smiled and replied, Just put ‘em in the shed next to the mower; I’m sure that after the past two months you know where that is, right?

Yes, Sir JD answered, knowing that his efforts had not gone unnoticed after all. He was careful not to come off as a suck up or a pushover, but he simply made sure that if something needed to be done he didn’t wait to be told. He wasn’t working for a paycheck or a boss, but was working for a family that he wanted to be a part of. JD was never comfortable with his own family and he was never at ease in his own house, but with the club he felt like he belonged and had a purpose. There were different levels of authority, but everyone that showed respect received respect. Even as a hang around, and later as a prospect, JD never minded the work that he did because he knew that everyone he was working for had at one time been where he was. Everyone paid their dues, and if he worked hard enough he believed he would be recognized and moved up. At home there didn’t seem to be anything that JD could do that didn’t upset somebody. Here he was surrounded by people that had all sorts of different pasts, but somehow they were all similar too.

JD thought of his work for the club as one might think of the differences between a family business and working for a big company. In a family owned business a man may work many more hours than if he worked for a big company, but at the end of the day all of his work was for him and his family. This attitude and work ethic resulted in JD becoming a full patch holder within two years of first meeting the Scythians Motorcycle Club. He was very proud of this accomplishment, but even more so he was appreciative of what he saw as an opportunity to be somebody and to do something that mattered to him. He would do anything for his brothers and his club. JD loved his club family, or at least the best that he could with such a limited understanding of what it meant to love and to be loved.

After refueling, the pack of Scythians rolled back onto the highway and continued their run to Myrtle Beach. JD hung his hands on his chrome 18 inch ape-hanger handlebars that sat over the forks of his 97 Harley, which he had chopped and customized to make it his own. JD took great pride in his bike and knew that because of the work he had done to it over the years that