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| THE ANIMAL ANNIVERSARY PROJECT by PASTOR DALE FREEMAN Ten years ago I wrote the book ANIMAL, THE GENE CULVER STORY. This compelling and inspirational true story about Gene Culver, hated leader of the Hell's Angels, truly struck a nerve with people everywhere. It's amazing, but after all of these years, it is still the most popular book that I have ever written. I guess a vivid account of the limitless grace and life-changing power of God is really needed in our world today. I am constantly contacted by people requesting copies. I'm scrambling to come up with the funds to do a Fourth Printing. I am also meeting with some media people about the possibility of doing a DRAMATIC RADIO VERSION of the story that would potentially carry the Gospel creatively into thousands of homes. That, coupled with a major simultaneous distribution of the book, would allow us to plant a truck load of Gospel seed throughout Oregon. I'm asking the Lord to place the vision and burden of this project on the heart of someone who can help make it possible financially. Pray with me about it. Now...once again...here are the opening moments of a dramatic story that has been used to lead hundreds to Jesus during the last ten years... The morning sun was already warm as Animal sat before the cracked full length mirror leaning precariously in the corner. It was time to get dressed for a new day. He allowed himself to rest uncharacteristically on the sagging edge of the unmade bed and pulled the greased streaked black denim Levi's upward until they fastened with a brittle snap almost halfway up his six foot, seven inch frame. He stood, inspected them for a moment, and then wrapped a long-sleeved black shirt around his muscular torso. Slumping to the mattress once again he pulled one steel toed boot into place and then the other. So much for the essentials. Now, walking to the closet, he took forth the uniform of that and every day. It was time to put on "the colors." The denim jacket was adorned on the back with the visage of a winged skull wearing a motorcycle helmet. Just below the wings were the letters "MC" and over it were the words "Hell's Angels." Along the bottom of the jacket was the final cold geographical designation, "Venice, California." Once again Animal inspected himself, turning from right to left to make sure that all credentials were in their proper place. Now it was time for the accessories. A gold earring was affixed, a black wristband was carefully positioned, and finally his frame was topped by a red bandana wrapped securely in place to keep the long greasy hair from blowing into his eyes. A thin blade knife was slid into the right boot, a forty-five caliber pistol was positioned behind the waistband, and a multipurpose chrone-plated primary chain was wrapped around the waist to serve as a belt and deadly weapon as needed. Animal was now dressed for the monthly War Council of the Hell's Angels Motorcycle Gang. He, as Sergeant of Arms, was number three man in the state of California, and it was his job to be sure that he was present at all such meetings. He could hear the rumble of choppers outside his window as he made the final adjustments. It was a good day to live...and maybe a better day to die. Either way, he was ready to get on with it as he walked out into the light to be greeted by his three companions. The Harbor Freeway was alive that morning. It was a river of brightly painted metal and flashing glass separated by sporadic islands of asphalt and worn yellow lines. The rush hour traffic had begun to subside, but even now the torrent of humanity continued to rage, often overflowing its banks at preordained tributaries with strange names like Figueroa and Alvarado. Animal felt the throbbing heat of the engine straining beneath him as he urged the Harley through the honking obstacles that surrounded him. His usual official position at the back of the pack gave him a unique vantage point, and watching his comrades weave from lane to lane reminded him for a fleeting moment about his own dangerous situation. According to the law, his bike had as many rights as any vehicle on the road. But he had learned from experience that his very presence often elicited harsh responses from his fellow sojourners. They often took perverted delight in cutting him off and forcing him to and fro in the midst of the metallic flow. The same basic rule applied on the freeway as it did in life as a whole. The strong ruled the right-of-way, and the supposed weak yielded or paid a heavy toll. A primal alarm shook Animal to full attention as he realized that the car next to him was deciding to change lanes. He could feel the cycle beneath him swerving out of control, and he began the process of skidding 350 feet down the harsh pavement. "I'm going to die!" There were no prayers taught by loving parents to be remembered at such a moment. There was no thought of Heaven, or Hell, or eternity. There was a bestial reality that linked him with all of the temporal brotherhood of man. "I'm going to die!" The chopper settled on top of him at the end of a trail of burning rubber. A stinging pain shot through his leg as the red hot cylinder scorched his flesh. He had seen the sea of machines reflected in his rearview mirror only moments before and he stood to confront them, expecting to be crushed and mangled in the midst of the blurred stampede. To his amazement, no traffic was bearing down upon the scene. It was apparent that a semi truck driver, upon seeing him hit the pavement, had run his eighteen wheeler from one side of the freeway to the other, smashing cars into silence and stilling the impending doom that was rushing to meet him as he lay there. Gene stood for a moment looking at the twisted metal. Then, amidst the honking of horns and the distant cries of police sirens, he returned to inspect his fallen "hog." "I was lucky today," Gene thought to himself as he raised the machine to its deflated perch. "I was very lucky today...and I'll live to fight another one!" |
