I take money out. Simple. And but to a predator, it’s a watering hole. They hide in the dark. They wait for the gazelle to come drink. They think nobody is watching. They forget one thing sometimes. and the lion is drinking at the same watering hole. Let me tell you about Millie. Millie is 85. She’s got these thick glasses that make her eyes look big and she wears a knitted hat even in the summer.

She’s sweet, the kind of lady who calls everyone honey or sugar. She lives in that senior complex on Oak Street and fixed income. Every penny counts. She doesn’t use debit cards at the store. She likes cash. She says it helps her budget. It was a Tuesday. Tuesday is her night and her son comes to visit on Wednesday.

She wanted to have cash to give him for gas. She wanted to buy cookies for her grandkids, so she went to the bank. It was late and maybe 8:00. The sun was gone. The street lights were flickering. That ugly orange light that makes everything look dirty. Millie parked her car. It’s an old Ford and she struggles to get out. Her hip bothers her. She leaned on her cane. Click that sound on the pavement.

She walked up to the machine and it’s an outdoor walk up exposed. She didn’t see the guy in the gray hoodie. I did. I was parked around the corner. My bike was cooling down and I needed to deposit the club dues. I was walking up to the bank, sticking to the shadows. It’s a habit. You don’t walk in the light if you don’t have to.

I saw him and he was pacing, bouncing on his toes, nervous energy. He wasn’t there for money. He didn’t have a card in his hand. He had his hands in his pockets, fists balled up, and he watched Millie. He saw the cane. He saw the vulnerability. I stopped. I leaned against the brick wall. I just watched. I wanted to see what he would do and I hoped he would walk away. I hoped he would find a conscience. Millie got to the machine. She fumbled with her purse.

She pulled out her card. She typed in her PI and she moves slow. Her fingers are stiff with arthritis. Beep beep beep. Then the machine started worring. The sound of cash shuffling and that sound is a dinner bell for a rat. The guy in the hoodie moved. He didn’t walk. He lunged. He closed the distance in 2 seconds. He came up right behind her and he got into her personal space. He breathed down her neck. Millie jumped.

She turned around. Her eyes went wide behind those glasses. Excuse me, she said. And her voice was trembling. You’re too close. “Shut up,” the guy hissed. He sounded young. Maybe 20. Desperate. “Give me the cash,” he said. “Don’t scream and don’t make a scene. Just give me the money.” Millie froze. The machine spit out the bills. $60.

Three 20s. She reached for them. He slapped her hand away and he grabbed her wrist. He squeezed hard. I saw Millie wse. I saw the pain on her face. I said, “Give it to me.” He yelled. He pushed her. She stumbled back and she hit the wall. Her cane fell over, clattered on the concrete. She looked terrified.

She looked at the empty street. She looked for help. She thought she was alone. “And please,” she whispered. “It’s for my grandchildren. I don’t care about your grandkids,” he spat. “I want the money now.” He reached for the cash slot and he was going to take it. Then he was probably going to push her down just for spite. That was it. That was the line.

And if you think a man who attacks an 85year-old woman deserves a painful lesson. If you think cowards need to be exposed, hit that like button. And we are about to ruin this guy’s whole night. I stepped out of the shadows. I didn’t run. I didn’t yell. I just walked. My boots are heavy. They make a distinct sound. Thud and thud. Thud. The guy didn’t hear me. He was too focused on the 60 bucks.

He was too focused on bullying a woman old enough to be his grandmother. And I walked right up behind him. I’m 6’3. I weigh 250. I was wearing my cut. The leather creaked as I moved. I stood directly behind him and I was close enough to smell him. He smelled like fear. He smelled like cheap desperation. He grabbed the cash. He turned around grinning. He thought he won and he thought he was going to turn around and run into the night.

Instead, he turned around and ran into a wall of muscle. He bumped into my chest. He bounced off and he looked up. He kept looking up. He saw the beard. He saw the scars. He saw eyes. My eyes weren’t angry. They were cold, dead cold. His grin vanished and his mouth fell open. He looked past me.

He saw nobody else, just me. Going somewhere? I asked. My voice was low like gravel in a blender. He swallowed hard and I saw his Adam’s apple bob. He clutched the $320 bills in his fist. I He stammered. “You got something that doesn’t belong to you?” I said, “And I took a step forward. He took a step back. He bumped into Millie.” Millie looked at me. She didn’t look scared of me. She looked relieved.

She saw the patch on my vest and motor mafia. Jax, she whispered. See, Millie knows me. She buys her lottery tickets at the same gas station where I get coffee. We talk sometimes. Hey Millie, I said and I didn’t take my eyes off the thief. You okay? Hey, he hurt my wrist, she said. That was the wrong thing for him to let the air around us changed. It got heavy. And I looked at the thief. I pointed at his hand. The one holding the money. You made a mistake, kid, I said.

A big one. He looked for a way out. He looked left and he looked right. There was a brick wall on one side, the ATM on the other and me in the middle. Move. He tried to sound tough, but his voice cracked. Get out of my way. An old man. Old man. I smiled. It wasn’t a nice smile. Make me. I said he panicked. He tried to shove past me.

He threw a shoulder into me and it was like a toddler trying to tackle a tree. I didn’t budge. I reached out. My hand is the size of a catcher’s mitt. I grabbed him by the throat and not hard enough to crush it. just hard enough to lift him up onto his toes. I pinned him against the brick wall.

His feet dangled a few inches off the ground and the cash fell out of his hand, fluttered to the pavement. “You like pushing old ladies?” I asked him. “You feel tough now?” He clawed at my hand and his eyes were popping out. “Let go,” he wheezed. “I’m just getting started,” I said. Millie picked up her cane. She stood up straight. She watched. “Don’t kill him.” “And Jax,” she said softly. “I won’t kill him, Millie. I promised. But he’s going to wish I did. I leaned in close. Nose tonse. You took her money, I said.

And now you owe a debt. And I’m the repo man. He squirmed like a worm on a hook. I loosened my grip just a little. Enough for him to breathe. Not enough to run. And you know who she is? I asked. He shook his head wide. Terror. She’s somebody’s mother, I said. She’s somebody’s grandmother. I pointed a finger at Millie and she was standing there shaking, clutching her cane. She looked small against the cold brick wall. Look at her. I ordered.

He didn’t want to. He wanted to look at me and he wanted to look for an exit. Look at her. I roared. The sound bounced off the brick walls. He flinched. He looked. She’s 85, I said, voice low again. And dangerous. She worked her whole life. She raised kids. She buried a husband. She earned that money. I leaned closer.

He could probably feel the heat coming off me. You and you didn’t earn nothing. You just took. He started crying. Actual tears, snot running down his nose. It was pathetic. I’m sorry, he blubbered. I needed it and I have debts. Please, we all have debts, kid, I said. But we don’t pay them by robbing Grandmas. I dropped him. He hit the pavement hard.

He scrambled back and crab walking away from me. He scraped his hands on the concrete. He looked at the street. He thought about running. He tensed his legs. Then he heard it, the rumble, and it started low, a vibration in the concrete. Then it got louder. Twin V twins, pipes that wake the dead. Tiny and Breaker turned the corner. And they were just coming to make the posit. Pure luck or maybe karma. They saw me. They saw the kid on the ground.

They saw Millie looking shaken and they didn’t need a diagram. They knew Tiny parked his bike on the sidewalk. He stepped off. He cracked his knuckles. It sounded like dry wood snapping. And the kid looked at me. Then at Tiny, then at breaker. His math changed. One biker is a problem. Three is a nightmare.

Please, the kid whispered. I’ll give it back. And I swear you don’t have it, I said. I pointed to the ground. The three $20 bills were fluttering in the wind. Just pieces of paper, but to Millie, and they were everything. “Pick it up,” I said. He reached for the money. “Fast, too fast. Slow down,” I snapped.

He froze, hand hovering over the asphalt. “And pick it up,” I said, “Like it’s glass. Like it’s the most precious thing in the world.” He picked up the first bill, and his hand was shaking so bad he almost dropped it again. He picked up the third. He held them out to me. I didn’t take them. I crossed my arms and not to me, I said. I stepped aside.

I cleared the path to Millie. Give it to her, I said. And you better apologize. You better make her believe it. He stood up and legs wobbly. He looked like he was walking to the electric chair. He walked over to Millie. He kept his head down. He held out the money. “I’m sorry, Mom,” he squeaked.

“And I can’t hear you,” Tiny rumbled from behind him. Tiny’s voice is deep. “It rattles your chest.” The kid jumped. He almost wet himself. “I’m sorry,” he yelled. and I shouldn’t have done it. I was desperate. “Please take it.” Millie looked at him. She adjusted her glasses. She looked at the money. Then she looked at me and he’s just a boy, Jax, she said. He’s a criminal, Millie, I said.

But today, today he’s a student and class is in session. She took the money and she put it in her purse. Carefully, she zippered it shut. “Zippy, thank you,” she said to him. Not with anger, with dignity. The kid let out a breath and he thought it was over. He turned to leave. He took a step toward the alley.

I stepped in front of him. I blocked out the street light. Who said you could go? I asked and he froze. I I gave it back. You said you gave back what you stole. I said that just makes you even. It doesn’t fix the damage. I pointed at Milliey’s wrist and it was starting to bruise. A dark purple mark where he grabbed her. It looked angry against her pale skin. You hurt her, I said. You put a mark on her and I looked at Tiny.

What do you think, Tiny? What’s the penalty for bruising a grandmother? Tiny scratched his beard and he looked at the kid like he was looking at a broken spark plug. I think Tiny said slowly. He owes her a little more than 60 bucks. The kid emptied his pockets and he pulled out a crumpled $5 bill and some change, a lighter out.

This is all I have, he cried. Take it. We don’t want your money, I said. And we want your time. I looked at Milliey’s car. The old Ford parked under the light. It was dirty, covered in pollen. One of the tires looked low. And you see that car? I asked the kid. He nodded. It needs a wash.

I said it needs a wax and that tire needs air now. He asked. It’s night time. And right now, I said, there’s a hose around the back of the bank. There’s a bucket. You’re going to find them, but I can’t see the dirt. And then you better scrub hard. I said, so you can feel it. I looked at Millie. You in a rush, Millie? She smiled.

A little sparkle came back into her eyes, and she leaned on her cane, relaxing for the first time. I have nowhere to be until bingo tomorrow, she said. Good, I said. I turned back to the kid and I pointed to the back of the building. Get the bucket. He found the bucket. It was cracked. A bright yellow plastic thing sitting by the dumpster and he found the spigot on the side of the bank wall. He dragged the hose over. It was stiff with cold. He didn’t want to do it.

I could see it in his eyes. And he looked at the alleyway again. Tiny cleared his throat. It sounded like a growl. The kid turned the water on. It hissed, sputtered. Then it shot out, freezing cold, and he filled the bucket. He didn’t have a sponge. He looked at me. Helpless eye shirt. He whispered. What? I asked. I I don’t have a rag.

And then use what you got? I said. He took off his hoodie. He was wearing a thin t-shirt underneath. The wind hit him. He shivered instantly and he dunked the gray hoodie into the icy water. He started on the hood of the Fordis slap, scrub, slap. It was dark. The street lights barely reached the car and he had to lean in close to see the dirt. We watched me, Tiny, and Breaker.

We sat on our bikes, engines off and just the sound of water dripping and the kid’s heavy breathing. You missed a spot, Breaker said, pointing to the fender. The kid scrubbed harder and Millie stood on the curb. She leaned on her cane. She wrapped her coat tighter around herself. She wasn’t smiling anymore. She was watching a young man freeze. And she’s a mother. It’s instinct. Even when the kid is a rat, she sees a child. Jax, she said quietly.

It’s cold. He’s shaking. I know, I said. And he’s learned his lesson, she said. Let him go. Looked at her. Her glasses were foggy from her breath. Millie, I said, he pushed you. He bruised you. And if we weren’t here, he would have taken your money. He would have left you on the ground. Maybe with a broken hip. She looked down at her shoes. She knew I was right. And cold water dries off.

I told her, “Disrespect that sticks. He needs to remember this night. Every time he sees an old lady, every time he sees an ATM, and I want him to feel that cold water in his bones, I crash. If you agree that sometime a little tough love is the only way to teach respect.

Hit that subscribe button and we don’t let bullies off the hook. Easy f sex. The kid moved to the doors. He was shaking violent now. His teeth were chattering. Clack clack clack. His hands were red, raw, and he washed the handle. He washed the trim. He got down on his knees in a puddle to wash the rocker panels.

He looked up at me and tears were mixing with the dirty water on his face. “I I can’t feel my fingers,” he stuttered. “Keep scrubbing,” I said. He finished the driver’s side and he moved to the trunk. “Tiny walked over. He inspected the work. He ran a big finger along the hood. He checked for grit.” “Passable,” Tiny grunted. “The kid looked hopeful.

” “And am I done?” “Tyrus,” Tiny said, pointing. “Rims, brake dust,” the kid groaned. A sound of pure misery, but he knelt down again. He scrubbed the wheels and black suit covered his hands. It took him 40 minutes. 40 minutes of freezing, 40 minutes of shame. When he finished, the old Ford was dripping wet and it wasn’t perfect.

It was dark, but it was cleaner than it had been in 10 years. The kid stood up. He put his soaking wet hoodie back on and it clung to him like a second skin. He was miserable. I’m done. He whispered, “Please.” I walked over. I looked at the car. I looked at Millie. What do you think? And Millie? I asked.

Is it clean enough for bingo? She walked up to the car. She touched the door handle. “It’s beautiful, Jack,” she said. She turned to the kid and she opened her purse again. “That same purse he tried to rob. She pulled out a 20, one of the bills he tried to steal. She held it out to him.” “Hair,” she said. And the kid froze. He looked at the money like it was a snake.

“No,” he said, backing away. “No, I can’t take it,” Millie said. Her voice was firm for a hot meal. And you did a job. I pay for work. I don’t pay for robbery. He stared at her. He couldn’t believe it. after he pushed her. After he threatened her and she was offering him a wage, he reached out.

His hand was purple from the took the bill. “Thank you,” he choked out. “I I’m sorry.” “I know,” she said. “And now go home. Get warm. And don’t you ever let me see you lurking in the dark again.” “Yes, mom,” he said. He turned to run. “Hey,” I barked. He stopped, flinched. “And one more thing,” I said. I walked up to him.

I put a hand on his wet shoulder. “You see us?” I asked. I pointed to my patch as motor mafia. He nodded. And why ain’t the police? I said, “We don’t write reports. We remember faces. If I hear about you bothering anyone, anyone in this town again. I let the threat hang there. And I won’t,” he promised. “Never again. Get out of here,” I said. He ran.

He didn’t look back. He sprinted down the alleyway like that. The devil himself was chasing him. And we watched him go. “Tiny ch” chuckled. “He’s going to have a cold tomorrow.” “Good,” I said. I turned to Millie. She was holding her keys. Her hand was still shaking a little. And you okay to drive, Millie? I asked. She looked at her hands. I I’m a little shaken up, Jax, to be honest. Tiny, I said. On it, Tiny said.

And Tiny will drive your car home, I told her. I’ll follow on the bike. We’ll walk you to your door. You don’t have to do that, she said. And we’re going that way anyway. I lied. We weren’t. We were going the opposite way. Thank you, she said. She looked at the shiny car and she looked at the three big bikers standing guard. “You boys are angels,” she said. Breaker laughed.

Don’t let our parole officers hear you say that, ma’am. And we loaded up. Tiny squeezed into the Ford. I fired up my bike. We rolled out of the bank lot. The night was quiet again, but the message was loud and the streets don’t belong to the predators. Not tonight.

You ever see a gorilla drive a go cart that was tiny in the Ford? His knees were up against the dashboard and his head was brushing the roof liner. He looked ridiculous, but he drove that car like it was made of glass. He used his turn signals and he came to a complete stop at every sign. He drove 10 mi under the lin I rode behind him. Breaker took the rear.

We formed a diamond around that old clean sedan and we rolled through the city. The street lights flashed over the wet pavement. People stopped to look. They saw a beat up Ford Escort being escorted by two menacing Harleys and they probably wondered who was in the car. A diplomat. No, a celebrity. We turned on to Oak Street. The senior complex is a quiet place and one-story brick apartments, neatly trimmed hedges. It smelled like rain and dryer sheets.

Tiny pulled into her spot. Number 4B. He put it in park. He turned off the lights and I killed my engine. The silence rushed back in. Tiny opened the door. He groaned as he unfolded himself. His back popped. A crack. Tate fit? I asked. And worth it? Tiny grunted. He walked around to the passenger side. He opened Milliey’s door. He offered her his arm.

A big tattooed arm that could crush a brick. and now acting like a railing. Millie took it. She stepped out. Her cane clicked on the sidewalk. She looked at her car. It was shining under the porch light and the kid did a good job. The rims were silver again. The mud was gone. I haven’t seen it this clean since my husband was alive. She whispered. We aimed to please.

And ma’am, Breaker said leaning on his bike. We walked her to the door. Me on one side, Tiny on the other, a human shield. The curtains in the other apartments twitched, and I saw faces peeking out. other seniors probably wondering why the motor mafia was invading their flower beds.

Millie fumbled with her keys and her hands were still shaking a little. The adrenaline was wearing off. The fear was setting in. That’s how it works. You survived the moment, but the shakes come later. And here, I said, I took the keys gently. I unlocked the door. Click. I pushed it open. I reached inside and flipped the light switch. I wanted to make sure it was empty and I wanted to make sure it was safe. Clear, I said.

Millie stepped inside. She turned around. She looked at the three of us standing on her welcome mat. And you boys, she said, her voice cracked. You saved me tonight. I don’t know what I would have done. You would have been fine, Millie, I said. You’re tough and I’m old, she corrected. And I was scared. When he pushed me, I felt like I was going to break. He won’t push you again. Tiny said. Nobody will. Then she looked at her purse. She pulled out the envelope of cash.

The $60, this money, she said. It wasn’t for me. It was for my grandson and it’s his birthday tomorrow. He’s turning 10. She looked up at us. Tears were swimming in her eyes behind those thick glasses. If he had taken it, and I wouldn’t have had a gift for him, I would have shown up empty-handed. That hit me. It wasn’t just 60 bucks. It was her pride. It was her ability to be a grandmother and to show love. That punk didn’t just try to steal paper. He tried to steal memory.

He’s going to have a great birthday, Millie. I said, “You make sure of it.” And I will. Thanks to you. She reached out and grabbed my hand. She squeezed it. Her grip was surprisingly strong. Would you like some tea? She asked. And I I have chamomile. It settles the nerves. I looked at Tiny. I looked up a breaker. It was late. We were cold.

We had club business. And but you don’t say no to a lady who just got mugged. Tea sounds good, Millie. I said we stepped inside. The apartment was warm. It was full of knickknacks and photos of kids and grandkids covering every inch of the walls. A ceramic cat on the TV. We sat on her floral sofa.

Three giant bikers in leather vests and trying not to knock over the lamps. Millie bustled around the kitchen. She put the kettle on. She hummed a little tune. It was peaceful and but I couldn’t stop thinking about the kid in the alley. I couldn’t stop thinking about how many other Millies were out there alone, vulnerable. The kettle whistled and she brought us cups.

Delicate china with little pink flowers painted on them. Tiny held his cup with two fingers, looking terrified he was going to crush it. And to safety, Millie said, raising her cup. To family, I said. We drank. The tea was hot. It tasted like flowers and sugar. We stayed for an hour.

We let her talk and we let her come down from the shock. We made sure she felt like the queen of her castle again. When we finally stood up to leave, she walked us to the door. “Jax,” she asked. “Yeah, Millie, that boy,” she said. “The one who robbed me.” “Yeah, do you think he’ll be okay?” I looked at her after everything and she was still worried about him. He’s cold.

I said he’s tired and he’s probably scrubbing grease off his hands right now. I zipped up my vest and he’ll be fine. I said, “He learned a lesson tonight. Sometimes the teacher uses a ruler. Sometimes the teacher uses a hose.” She smiled. You’re a good teacher, Jax. And I try. We walked out into the night air. It was crisp. The stars were out. We walked to the bikes.

Tiny got on his Harley this time and he looked relieved to be out of the compact car. She’s a sweet lady. Buckling his helmet. Yeah, I said. She is. I looked back at her window and the light was on. I saw her shadow moving around safe. But the night wasn’t over for me. I had an idea. See, Millie mentioned her grandson turning 10.

And then I started thinking $60 buys a nice gift. Sure. But you know what a 10-year-old boy loves more than anything? Noise, chrome, and motorcycles. And I looked at the boys. You guys busy tomorrow? I asked. Tiny grinned. He knew exactly what I was thinking. My schedule is wide open. Boss, Tiny said. And same here, Breaker said. Good, I said. Because I think Milliey’s grandson needs a proper birthday escort. We fired up the engines. We didn’t just save the night.

And we were about to make the morning. You know, a 10-year old boy remembers two things. He remembers the time he got hurt. And he remembers the time he felt like a king. And we wanted to make sure he felt like a king. The next morning, the sun was bright. A perfect Saturday. We didn’t just bring three bikes. I made a few calls. I told the boys and we got a birthday run.

Oak Street, be there at noon. When the motor mafia rides, we don’t do it halfway. 50 bikes. That’s a lot of chrome. That’s a lot of noise. And we lined up down the block. I took the lead. Tiny was right behind me polishing his mirrors with his sleeve. He wanted to look pretty for the party. And we rolled onto Milliey’s street. It was quiet. A few kids playing ball. a guy washing his car. Then they heard the thunder. Heads turned.

The ball stopped bouncing and the guy with the hose dropped it. We didn’t speed. We crawled. A slow rumbling parade of black leather and steel. We turned into the complex and the parking lot wasn’t big enough, so we lined up along the curb. It looked like an invasion. I saw the balloons first, red and blue, tied to the railing of apartment 4B.

And there was a little folding table set up on the grass, a few lawn chairs. Millie was there wearing her Sunday best. Her son was there and looking nervous as he saw 50 bikers pull up and there was the birthday boy. Let’s call him Leo. Leo was wearing a paper hat. He was holding a slice of cake and he looked up. His jaw hit the grass. I killed the engine. The silence was sudden. I kicked the stand down. I walked over. Millie saw me and her face lit up like a Christmas tree. She waved.

“Jax,” she called out. Her son stepped in front of her looking protective. “Mom, who are these guys?” And it’s okay, Robert,” she said, patting his arm. “These are my friends. They helped me with the car last night. I walked up to the table. I took off my sunglasses and I looked at Leo. The kid was staring at my vest.” He was staring at the birthday kid. I said, “Whoa,” Lee whispered.

“Are you are you a pirate?” And Tiny laughed from behind me. Something like that, little man. Land pirates. We heard you were turning 10. I said, “That’s a big number. Double digits. And that means you’re a man now.” Leo stood up straighter. Yeah, I am good, I said, because men respect their elders and men protect their family. And I looked at Millie.

She was beaming. She was holding a small wrap gift. The gift bought with the $60 she fought for. And your grandma tells me you like bikes, I said. I love Leo said. I have a poster of a Harley in my room. Well, I said, stepping aside. And why look at a poster when you can look at the real thing? I pointed to the line of 50 motorcycles. Go ahead, I said.

Check him out. Tiny will lift you up. And Leo ran. He didn’t walk. He ran to the bikes. The boys were waiting for him. They high fived him. They let him rev a throttle. A ro. The look on his face. Pure magic. And I stayed by the table with Millie. Thank you, Jack. She whispered. This This is too much. It ain’t too much, Millie.

I said, it’s just right. Did you? And did you hear anything about that boy? She asked. The one from last night. I heard he was seen at the church this morning. I said, asking about soup kitchens and I think he’s looking for a different path. She smiled. Good. She handed the gift to her son. Then she turned to me.

She reached into her pocket. And I have something for you, too, she said. She pulled out a small and it was blue. A little crooked. I knit, she said. It’s a coaster for your coffee and I took it. It was soft. It wasn’t perfect, but it was made with hands that had seen 85 years of life. I’ll use it everyday, I said. And I meant it. and we stayed for an hour. We ate cake. We let Leo sit on every single bike.

When we finally packed up to leave, Leo ran up to me. He tugged on my vest. “Mr. Jax, yeah, and kid, when I grow up. Can I be in the motor mafia?” I looked at him. I looked at his grandma standing safe and happy in the background. You take care of her, I said, and pointing to Millie. You make sure nobody ever messes with her. You do that and are already one of us, he nodded. Solemn, serious.

I will, he promised. And we mounted up. We rolled out. The whole neighborhood waved this time. They weren’t scared anymore. They knew who we were. We aren’t just trouble. We’re the Guardians. And there are people in this world who take like that kid at the ATM. They think power comes from fear.

They think strength means pushing someone down. But they’re wrong. And real strength, real power, it comes from lifting people up. It comes from standing between the wolves and the sheep. Millie walked to that ATM alone. And she won’t ever have to do that again because now she knows. She’s got 50 grandsons watching her back.

And to any other cowards out there lurking in the shadows and watching the elderly, waiting for a moment of weakness. Remember the sound of thunder. Remember the flash of chrome. We’re out here. We’re watching. And and we don’t forgive easily. So here is the deal. We are building an army of protectors.

If you believe that grandmas are off limits and if you believe in old school respect, smash that subscribe button. Join the family. Let’s make sure nobody walks alone. I’m going to go home and I got a knitted coaster to put on my table and I think I’m going to call on grandma, tell her I love her. You should do the same. Ride safe, keep your head on a swivel and and be kind. This is Jack signing