I stood alone under a relentless downpour, rain soaking my jacket and streaming down my face, as I lowered the ashes of my brother — my real brother — into the cold, wet earth. All around, the world seemed indifferent. The people who shared his blood had decided he wasn’t worth this moment. They said bikers don’t deserve funerals. They said he wasn’t family. They called him trash. But I knew the truth. His name was Daniel “Wrench” Morrison. Fifty-four years old. A war veteran, a devoted father, a man who would give you his last dollar without a second...
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