40 page zine of never before seen photos from the infamous Monterey incident, Labor Day weekend 1964. Photos by Mother Ruthe, and Lil Bit from the Coffin Cheaters. Printed on 100# paper. Orders will ship out May 15, 2016
From Hunter S. Thompson's book "Hell's Angels: A Strange and Terrible Saga"
The destination this time was a big tavern called Nick’s, a noisy place on a main drag called Del Monte, near Cannery Row in downtown Monterey. “We went right through the middle of town,” recalls Terry, “through the traffic and everything. Most of the guys knew Nick’s, but not me because I was in jail the other time. We didn’t make it till about three because we had to wait in a gas station on the 101 for some of the guys running late. By the time we got there I guess we had about forty or fifty bikes. Berdoo was already in with about seventy-five, and people kept coming all night. By the next morning there were about three hundred from all over.”
The stated purpose of the gathering was the collection of funds to send the body of a former Angel back to his mother in North Carolina. Kenneth “Country” Beamer, vice-president of the San Bernardino chapter, had been snuffed by a truck a few days earlier in a desert Hamlet called Jacumba, near San Diego. Country had died in the best outlaw tradition: homeless, stone broke, and owning nothing in this world by the clothes on his back and a big bright Harley. As the other saw it, the least they could do was send his remains back to the Carolinas, to whatever family or memory of a home might be there. “It was the thing to do,” Terry said.
The recent demise of a buddy lent the ’64 affair a tone of solemnity that not even the police could scoff at. It was the sort of gesture that cops find irresistible: final honors for a fallen comrade, with a collection for the mother and a bit of uniformed pageantry to make the show real. In deference to all this, the Monterey police had let it be known that they would receive the Angels in a spirit of armed truce.
It was the first time in years that the outlaws had been faced with even a semblance of civic hospitality – and it turned out to be the last for when the sun came up on that bright Pacific Saturday the infamous Monterey rape was less than twenty-four hours away from making nationwide headlines. The Hells Angels would soon be known and feared throughout the land. Their blood, booze and semen-flacked image would be familiar to readers of The New York Times, Newsweek, The Nation, Time, True, Esquire, and the Saturday Evening Post. Within six months small towns from coast to coast would be arming themselves at the slightest rumor of a Hells Angels “invasion.” All three major television networks would be seeking them out with cameras as they would be denounced in the US Senate by George Murphy, the former tap dancer. Weird as it seems, as this gang of costumed hoodlums converged on Monterey that morning they were on the verge of “making it big,” as the showbiz people say, and they would owe most of their success to a curious rape mania that rides on the shoulder of the American journalism like some jeering, masturbating raven. Nothing grabs an editor’s eye like a good rape. “We really blew their minds this time,” as one of the Angels explained it. According to the newspapers, at least twenty of these dirty hopheads snatched two teen-age girls, aged fourteen and fifteen, away from their terrified dates and carried them off to the sand dunes to be repeatedly assaulted.”
AGED 14 AND 15…
STINKING, HAIRY THUGS