I got into journalism because I’m really interested in prying. I think it comes down to that. I get curious about the story behind things, whether they’re twisted people or shady places. Optimally both. I have an inquisitive mind, a trait that is valued in grade school but later becomes an irritating character flaw.

This is probably a common thread for journalists, certainly ones who are interested in doing investigative work. Woodward and Bernstein didn’t uncover the biggest political scandal in American history by minding their respective businesses. They got their hands dirty. Same goes for any number of other successful news breakers and whistle blowers. Hunter Thompson certainly had an eye for the truth, though his style often took an unorthodox and roundabout path to it. It’s this thirst for uncovering hidden truths that separates true journalists from public relations people. It’s not that PR doesn’t have its own important place in the world, but there’s a definite distinction.

The biggest badasses in Hollywood cinema often have this gift/curse: see Bullitt (Steve McQueen) and Dirty Harry (Clint Eastwood) for two examples. Granted, these characters are often cops, but PIs and journalists have a healthy representation as well.

And so it’s the desire for background information and new facts that leads me to hang around places I probably shouldn’t be, like the abandoned complex of greenhouses near my house. Deserted locations are particularly enjoyable. The mystery surrounding them is intoxicating. I may never know what exactly happened to the people who are no longer inhabiting the area, but the thrill is in trying to figure it out.

There’s something in the air in Southwestern Pennsylvania.

It’s the stench of oil-soaked denim, gasoline, smoke and death.

The Pagans Motorcycle Club, a group of iron horse outlaws and rivals of the Hell’s Angels, has been making some noise in the past few years.  It’s been enough to attract police attention.

Maybe you thought the one-percenters were dead, a product of the late ’60s that had long gone out of style.

But the outlaw spirit can never die.  As long as there is human nature, as long as there is an establishment, the fringe elements will be there, lurking in the shadows.

They’re loners, reactionaries, criminals and rebels, all bound by their bikes and society’s unwillingness to accept them.  Some of them, if not for the MC, would have no friends at all.  And yet, they stand by their ideals like most others cannot.

They’re marauders on smoke-belching steeds of steel and leather.  They favor big, loud and heavy American bikes with gigantic engines.  They wield wooden axe handles and motorcycle chains. 

The Pagans are outlaws even among outlaws, perhaps the most dangerous of the one-percenters.  They’re elusive and secretive, forgoing patches that might tell the cops where their chapter is located.

The Pittsburgh Tribune-Review reports that two members of the Pagans, currently based in Washington County, Pennsylvania, are going to court.

Law enforcement officials have been building a case against the club for over three years.  Cops even staked out a Pagans run at the Yukon picnic area in Westmoreland County.

Several members of the club were arrested on charges that included motorcycle theft and drug trafficking.

Though the cops are getting involved, these arrests only prove the Pagans are regrouping.

Hunter Thompson would be proud.