Becoming Juliet - Paula Marinaro

Associated Press: Federal officials report numbers in the thousands attend Prosper Worthington’s Memorial Service.

The service for Prosper Worthington, founder and international president of the Hells Saints Motorcycle Club was held on Saturday, April 7. An Army veteran and recipient of the Purple Heart, Worthington was best known as the founder and president of the Hells Saints, an international motorcycle club whose connections to syndicated crime are well known.

Although the event was marked with a heavy federal and state law enforcement presence, no incidents of unrest were reported. Sources say that Worthington’s grandson, Prosper McCabe, will follow his grandfather’s legacy and will be appointed by the HSMC’s executive board as Worthington’s successor.

P.J. McCabe sighed, stubbed out his cigarette, folded up the yellowed newspaper article and put it carefully back into his wallet. Although it had been several years since his grandfather’s passing, P.J. read the obituary every day. It had become a ritual, a meditation of sorts, and a way to pay homage to the greatest man who had ever lived.

Prosper Worthington was the hero in every one of P.J.’s stories.

Sure, P.J.’s dad, Reno, and his uncles all wore the patch. They all had their place in the dark, underbelly of society; Reno had raised P.J. to love, honor, and respect that world.

But it was Prosper who had created it.

He had taken a handful of lost, dangerous, depraved souls, and banded them together to form a brotherhood. That brotherhood existed on the margins of society and now numbered over a thousand strong.

Prosper had been a complex man, who ruled with a steel spine, a strong heart, a fierce will, and a complicated sense of honor.

And when Prosper had died, he had left big shoes to fill.

P.J. had stepped into those shoes determined to live up to the legacy. However, P.J. had been quick to realize that building an outfit from the ground up and growing along with that organization was one thing. However, stepping into the leadership role of a vast, lucrative, and largely criminal enterprise with widespread law enforcement and political connections? That had been an undertaking of massive proportions.

But P.J. had risen like the leader he had been groomed to be. He had answered the call with ferocious pride and strength of purpose.

Under Prosper Worthington’s rule, the Hells Saints Motorcycle club had grown to become a fierce lion in the outlaw underworld. Under his grandson’s leadership it continued to dominate and control that world.

Now, several years after Prosper’s death, the HSMC had become a veritable giant. It was richer, fiercer, and better connected than ever before. The tentacles of the club’s influence were strong and far reaching. The symbol of the broken winged angel was widely recognized and highly feared.

P.J. had lived up to the legacy of the club.

But he had not lived up to the legacy of the man.

P.J. found that he did not have the strength of conviction, the depth of character, or the innate sense of justice that his grandfather had had.

Prosper had always been able to separate the good man that he was, from the bad things that he did.

So, while his grandad had been able to rise above the muck and mire of an outlaw lifestyle, P.J. found himself drowning in it.

The never ending stink of corruption.

The deep, penetrating stain of blood on his hands.

The target on his back.

But worst of all, P.J. had lost his perspective. He had lost sight of the message and was blinded to the vision that his grandfather had once held most dear.

The violent acts, the lack of humanity, the depths of depravity, and the heinous crimes that P.J. had commanded, committed, or bore witness to, had taken their toll.

P.J.’s moral compass no longer existed. It had been smashed to smithereens and lay in glittering shards of sharp glass on the side of destiny’s road. Compassion, empathy, grief, guilt, and sorrow were all heaped together in a pile of dust and rubble.

P.J.’s spirit had crashed and burned. Now it lay at the crossroads.

One road led to salvation, and the other to damnation.

And P.J. McCabe had absolutely no idea which way to turn.

But now, as he set out for the bowels of hell, he was pretty sure he was headed in the wrong direction.

Whoever had coined the phrase It’s a good day for a hanging never had had to sit outside in the goddamn pouring rain at the gates of a federal prison P.J. grumbled to himself as he made his way to the press tent. He stood under the protective