His keys clatter as he reaches for the lock to his sandwich shop. It has been two months since Basir quit smoking, an addiction he has carried with him for twenty years, and every precise movement he makes is followed by trembling, which -- of course -- is followed by the sudden and severe urge to smoke.

"Just another day," he mumbles to himself, eyes closed, waiting for the click of his lock.

"Just one more damn--," *click*. He sighs with relief.

He walks in to find everything in its right place until he flips the light switch. In the distance, a shimmer of what seems to be broken glass catches his attention. Alarmed, he walks closer and feels a chill pierce through him. Atop the shattered glass sits a brick and a note that reads, "Sand N***er BEWARE, there is a threat out there. To serve the Angels of War, is a threat we cannot ignore."

"How poetic." He mutters.

He sweeps up the shattered glass and tapes the windows over, readying his shop for the day.

The clock in the shop ticks 9 p.m. and Basir flips the sign on his door over to "open." He can hear the footsteps and shouting of people next door. Soon the shouting becomes louder and the voice of Randal -- a lieutenant of the Angels of War -- fills the shop with a highlight from his weekend, "And I said 'Hey f****r! If you can't handle getting chain whipped, don't ride a rice rocket in these parts!'"

Basir stands behind the counter and takes Randal's order.

"Say poppa, how come your windows are all taped up back there?" Randal says as he reaches for his sandwich.

"I'm not too sure, but they left me a lovely note. They even tied it to a brick; old school." Basir places the brick onto the counter.

"'To serve the Angels of war, is a threat we cannot' -- What, did you get your windows bashed in by Dr. Seus? What kind of shit is this?" Randal paces around frustrated. "Look poppa, I'm really sorry about this happen--"

"Don't worry Randal, just make sure you keep making those meetings. I'm not only doing what I do for you." Basir says assuredly.

"I know our deal poppa."

My mother enters the shop and announces, "I dropped them off!"

"On time?"

"Of course, dad!"

"Alright, get your apron on. I think we might get an early rush."

Randal leaves the shop and returns with men in vests. On their backs read "Angels of War West Chapter," in red block lettering; merely received as words to some, a statement to others. They order food, paying their respect to the man they know as poppa. The bikers sit around a corner table of the room, evaluating potential brick poets.

"What are they doing dad?"

Basir lays wax paper over the brick now hidden from view, "Something that neither you or I would be able to talk them out of."

Editors Note: This is a work of creative non-fiction, based loosely on real events.