THIS IS REALLY STUPID,AND EMBARRASSING, BUT HERE GOES ANYWAY. THE LEGEND OF THE WESTLAKE OUTLAWS...

As a teenager, I was fascinated by motorcycle gangs. There was of course, the almighty Hell's Angels and the dominant Texas gang, The Banditos. I had never seen Hell's Angels in the flesh before, but I had seen the Banditos alot, hanging out at the Armadillo, the row of harleys guarded by a pledge in the parking lot, who snubbed us cause we were a lower life form than a pledge, who missed out on all the beer drinking and hell raising going on inside the club, only to glare at us and ignore our questions in that threatening pledge sort of way. He would not leave his post, even as we taunted him. We were 15 or there abouts, and pledge boy was probably 17 or 18, but he restrained himself and did not kick our asses, which we so richly deserved for fucking with a pledge in the (wooo!) Banditos organization.
A high point of bottom feeding around the 'Ditos at the 'Dillo was witnessing a glass pitcher being broken over the head of one member, by another, who apparently didn't appreciate this guy "fucking with his ol' lady ( a biker term for "girlfriend" and not "mom"), being that it was full of beer and that thick glass from the old days, it fucked this guy up pretty good, and he fell to the ground covered in beer and blood. Other members carried him off to a corner of the beer garden and tended to his wounds, they were not ejected from the club. It was clear that the formidible security staff at the Armadillo had enough sense to not fuck with the Banditos. They were tolerated, like chiggars on the beach, out of fear. I learned much later on in life that 3 or more Banditos was a problem, but usually one was a pussy with a conduct disorder, group type, unsocialized.
But when you're 15 and in the presence of greasy looking guys and slutty looking girls on motorcycles dressed in nasty sleeveless jean jackets and leather, you were impressed.
SIDEBAR: When I was in New Orleans, many years later, at a pool convention, I passed by 2 members of the Sons of Silence, a particularly nasty group of bikers from, I believe, Colorado. I was still impressed by their obvious belief that they were "badasses", even though they looked like speedfreak drag rats. It is the rep, people, and they had the rep going for them.
And it was that rep that feuled my fascination. I read books about motorcycle gangs, I even wrote a paper in an elective history class in my sophomore year about the Angels. I was smitten.

THE WESTLAKE OUTLAWS...

2 members,no motorcycles,short lived.

Me and a buddy (from south Austin) decided to form a gang, and we would call that gang the "Westlake Outlaws". We cut the sleeves off our levi jackets and applied our considerable artistic (seriously, we could both draw well) and fashioned "Westlake Outlaw" logos on the back of these jackets, fashioned after the Hell' Angel jackets I had seen in the books I had read, complete with the MC13 and 1%- er bullshit accoutrements. They looked authentic. Let me tell you something about Westlake Hills...Any motorcycle gang originating there would be comprised of midlife crisis deflicted dads on BMW's or Honda goldwings who thought a run to Canyon Lake for shrimp Kabobs and chiva's regal was akin to gang rape initiation and an 8 ball of coke. And it would be called a "group" and they would spend most of thier time riding around collecting toys for the underprivileged kids that lived out by the lake (read: me and my friends). But still, we thought we were cool, until one fateful day when the Westlake Outlaws met up with the very real and very fucking scary Banditos in Zilker Park.

Me and my buddy Doc were hanging out by the concession stand in Zilker, sporting our "colors" when we hear a voice behind us say..."Hey...Outlaws..." We turn around to see 4 members of the Banditos, much older, bigger and greasier than us looming over us. "Where are your bikes?" was one of the questions, we dared not point to the bicycle rack as the grilling continued...and each one was couched in that tone that said, we are this far from kicking your punk wannabe asses. They shamed us mightily and ran us out of the park, they made us take off our "colors". It was terrifying.
And that was the end of the Westlake Outlaws.
I still think I looked pretty cool in my jacket though, if you didn't know we were posers from a priviledged neighborhood that is.
I wish I still had that jacket, but my mom threw it away. That is so un- Hell's Angels...Man.
:)