Young Gunnar | Savage Nomads MC Origin Story

Cleveland, November 2001

The warehouse district in Cleveland looks like Detroit's ugly cousin fucked a junkyard and left the bastard to rot. Gunnar steps over a passed-out vagrant, boot crunching on broken glass. The whole neighborhood reeks of piss and desperation. Yeap he's in Cleveland alright.

"Shipment's set for Tuesday," Miguel's boys say they're good for fifty keys." Brick's voice cuts through the wind. "Clean stuff, not that stepped-on shit."

Caleb spits. "Better be. Last batch had more baby powder than blow."

They round the corner past a burned-out Chevy, windows shot out and tagged to hell. Brick jerks his chin at a half-collapsed building bleeding mortar.

“That’s it. Klem’s shooting gallery.”

Gunnar snorts. “What’s the usual in there? Lost dreams and hepatitis?” He already knows, it's the same shit, different gutter. Every city’s got one of these holes, dark, rotting, and full of ghosts that haven’t died yet.

“Junkies shootin’ up, suckin’ dick for half a hit, dying with a needle in their arm.” Caleb shrugs like he's listing lunch specials. “Sometimes all three, if you’re lucky.”

The door’s barely hanging, one hinge rusted through, the other screaming for mercy. It creaks open with a groan like it knows what’s inside. The stench hits immediately—thick and rancid. Shit, puke, rot and death pretending to be asleep. Bodies are scattered across piss-stained mattresses like trash no one bothered to bag.

Needles crunch under Gunnar’s boots, and something wet seeps up through the sole. Yuck. In the far corner, a scrawny fuck in a wifebeater is kicking something.

Someone.

A woman, pants yanked down, unconscious in a puddle of... fuck knows what. Her face is turned away, bruised legs splayed. No pretense what went down here. No effort to hide it either.

Gunnar doesn’t flinch. Doesn’t blink. He’s seen worse. Hell, he’s done worse. This world doesn’t give you scars without taking a few pieces of your soul with it.

"Klem."

The dealer’s head jerks up, rat eyes going wide. Recognition floods in like piss in a sinking basement. "Oh shit—"

"Yeah. Oh shit." Gunnar stays by the door while Brick and Caleb advance, no hurry, no mercy.

“You thought you could skim off Cervantes?” Gunnar exhales slow, like the smell in the room personally offended him. “What did Roach promise you? A slice of Jackal pie? A little cut of their shit pipeline?”

He scoffs.

“Yeah... we know. All of it. Every backroom deal you and that rotting bastard made with the Jackals. Message chains. Drops. Rev traced every fucking one.”

He takes a step in, just one, but it’s enough to make Klem flinch like a kicked dog.

“Cervantes isn’t happy. And I get real fucking pissed when my friends aren’t happy.” Gunnar’s slate-grey gaze sharpens, voice colder now. “You really think any of it’s gonna matter when you’re six feet under, feeding worms next to Roach?”

Klem scrambles backward. "I don't know nothing about—"

Brick's fist connects with his jaw. The man ain't waiting for jack shit. The crack echoes off concrete walls. A couple heads turn, then turn right back. If it ain’t their business or their next fix, no one gives a fuck.

"See, that's funny." Gunnar lights a cigarette, watching Caleb grab Klem by the throat. "Like I said, our boy Rev found all kinds of interesting shit on your computer. Chat logs. Wire transfers. Real stupid of you, putting that online. Jackals ain't the only one with a boy genius."

Another hit. Blood spatters the wall.

“Aww. I’m sorry... did Roach promise you protection?” Gunnar’s voice is a low growl, more smoke than sound. He exhales slow and steady, letting the haze curl between them, lazy as a noose.

He leans in close, too close until Klem can see the cold calculation behind those slate-grey eyes. The kind of dead calm that comes after the decision’s already been made.

“Let me tell you what happens to rats in this club.” His tone doesn’t rise. Doesn’t need to. It’s not rage, it’s scripture. “We don’t shoot ‘em clean. We don’t make it quick. That’s not how this works.”

He flicks the cigarette away, doesn’t even watch where it lands. His full attention is on Klem now, like a butcher deciding where to make the first cut.

“First thing I’m gonna do is take your hands. Can’t steal from brothers if you’ve got nothing to grab with, yeah?” He crouches slightly, voice almost thoughtful. “Then maybe your tongue. You talked too much anyway. Roach did too. Right up until the end.”

Gunnar stands tall again, towering.

“And then we leave you somewhere real quiet. Let the cold eat at you. Let the rats finish what you started.”

He tilts his head, expression blank.

“It ain’t a threat, Klem. It’s the order of things. Roach fucked up. Now you’re next in line.”

Klem gurgles, shaking, through broken teeth. “P-please—”

Gunnar just stares.

“Don’t beg. It’s embarrassing.”

He turns to Caleb. "Dump him when you're done." flicking ash on the floor. "Somewhere visible. Let Detroit know the Nomads are coming."

He turns for the door, stepping over the unconscious woman again. Pretty thing under all that filth.

Shame.

Detroit, December 2001

The Low Road’s security monitors flicker like they’re about to short out, casting pale light across the back office. Gunnar sits at the desk, counting dirty bills into clean stacks. Money from the door, the girls, the backroom deals, every dollar with a history, every crease a story. His fingers move with calm precision. Methodical. Efficient. Expansion’s rolling smooth as planned. Cleveland's already bent the knee after a little fire and blood. Detroit’s next, if only Jackals woudl just roll in the ditch. No matter, Just a matter of pressure, apply the right amount, in the right places, and cities crack like ribs. Part of the plan.

A flicker of movement on the top-right screen breaks his rhythm. He pauses, eyes narrowing. Some chick at the bar catches his eyes, all nervous energy and hollow cheeks. Familiar. Though he can't place it.

"Brick."

His VP looks up from where he’s field-stripping his .45, wiping it down with a stained rag. “Yeah?”

“Tell Eddie to hire that one. Could use another pair of hands.”

Brick squints at the grainy monitor, clearly unimpressed. “The junkie? She looks like she’d blow a customer in the storeroom and empty the register after.”

Gunnar doesn’t look away from the screen. Doesn’t blink.

“Just do it.”

Twenty minutes later, Gunnar emerges from the back. She's behind the bar now, fumbling with a beer tap like it's rocket science. Foam everywhere. Eddie's showing her the basics, but she's shaking too hard to pour straight.

Pretty though. Even with the track marks crawling up her arms like prison tattoos. Even with the fading yellow-green bruises on her throat.

He slides onto a barstool directly in front of her and watch her freezes.

"You pour drinks like you suck cock?" The words come out casual, like discussing the weather. "All enthusiasm, no technique?"

There was silence as he watched her eyes go wide. Pupils blown. Maybe high or scared or both, Gunnar couldn't give a fuck.

"Relax." He leans back in the chair, spreading his legs like a man with nothing to prove. "I'm Gunnar. I run this place. You don’t need to impress Eddie. You need to not piss me off."

She seems to open her mouth then close it again. Recognition sparks. Good. He likes it when they know who he is. What he can do.

"Here's the thing, sweetheart." He drums his fingers on the scarred wood. "You're pretty enough that the shit job don't matter. But you keep shaking like that, people gonna think we're running a methadone clinic and we both know that ain’t the vibe isn't it?"

His gaze drops to the bruises blooming across her throat, they're finger-shaped. Someone had fun with her. Recently.

"You need product to keep steady, we can work something out." He doesn’t smile. Just looks at her like it’s already decided. Then Gunnar's voice drops into that low, gravel-laced growl, the one that shuts prospects up and makes grown men think twice. "President's got privileges. Back room's got a couch. You come suck my dick nice and slow, I'll make sure you get what you need. Keep you functional."

She's still frozen. Deer in headlights. But not running.

Smart girl.

He leans back, spreading his legs slightly like he’s giving her space, but they both know it’s not a question. When the president of the Savage Nomads tells you to do something, you do it.

Or you find out what happens to people who say no.