My name's Virgil Beretta.
Born and raised out of Alderney, Liberty City. Man, I miss that city...or rather, the way it used to be. Maybe I'm just a sucker for the nostalgic.
Y'see, my mother was a nurse who worked out of Sweeney General out in Portland View. My father held a "managerial" position at a certain 8-Ball's auto shop in our home burrow of Alderney. The truth of it was my father never worked for 8-Ball but rather he managed an illegal chop shop enterprise for him. Providing him with intercontinental connections and security to ensure none of the other Families would try to move in on the lucrative racket. Sylvester "Sly" Beretta, my father, was a capodecina who commanded a small Mafia outfit for the Ancelotti Crime Family. Sylvester had turned the chain of auto body shops into a family racket with the aid of an MC, by the name of 'The Lost', to steal highly desired vehicle models and keep their inventory from depleting.
During those years I spent more time mingling with The Lost than I did any of my father's soldiers. They were all so uniform. Professional Italian mafiosi... silent slaves more or less. But these men that made up The Lost were nothing of the sort. They weren't always the brightest bunch but they were all so animate. Alive, affable, free....American.
The racket dissolved not long before the eruption of the China Town Wars. My father was shot in the street and mother died a few years later from illness.
Now I'm here in Los Santos. Just like the Saints this city derives its name from I, too, have wandered Lost. Never quite finding a place that felt right for me. That was until one fateful country drive where I encountered a group of familiar misfits I had once envied.
The faces were new to me but they upheld the same old American virtues I had always envied about the MC.
Industry. Independence. Fortitude.
"It's a long way to the top if you wanna Rock-n-Roll." - Bon Scott of AC/DC
I was quickly introduced to Noa Mercer, the Club Secretary, where I was given the freedom to hang around The Range and assist Oliver Ross with maintaining business operations for a time. After a short while the Church pulled me off to the side and it was then that Clyde Mercer, the Club Road Captain, handed me a cut bearing 'The Lost' insignia at its center-pie. Noa Mercer handed me a sewing kit and two patches which read "1%er" and "Prospect".
"We sew our own patches here. But know that this doesn't mean you're one of us yet. We appreciate the things you've done around The Range. Keep it up Prospect." Noa said, turning her attention back Butch and Jax.
I sewed the Prospect patch first before threading the eye of the needle and turning my attention to the 1% patch. I held it for what seemed like an eternity. Knowing what this patch represented I contemplated what it was I was leaving behind. The Sheriff's academy. Friends in Law Enforcement and other Government agencies. I looked up for a moment at the rag-tag group in front me pondering what the road on the horizon might bring. Andreas, Gotti, Villain, Rico, Jax, King, Everett, Panther, Tobias, Noa, Clyde, Ryan, Ashley, Aleksei, DeShawn, Johnny, Charlie, Tomash, Adam and the Jackson Family. I took one last look at the 1% patch in my hand having the epiphany that the patch represented more than just lawlessness. It signified all that you were willing to do for the one's that would call you "Brother", share their campfire with you and call you "Family".
And so I asked myself, what would I do for this new family of mine. The answer was simple.
"In the days of my youth, I was told what it means to be a man. Now I've reached that age, and tried to do all those things the best I can." - Good Times, Bad Times by Led Zepplin
"Anything."
And so, I put the needle to the leather cut and became a 1%er.
Maybe it's their way of life that intrigues me or maybe it's just the classic rock-and-roll and the roar of the choppers. But then again, maybe I'm just a sucker for the nostalgic.
"I'm on the Highway to Hell" - AC/DC
----To Be Continued...----
Nailed it. Cant have it both ways. When rowdy gangs start to shakedown the public over apparel or some other identifier they believe is theirs, the cops use those same identifiers to crack down on that gang.