Jax Teller:
“You know what, brother? The only ones who ever showed me love, who gave me respect, were the Angels. Not the cops—they just see another outlaw to cage. Not the politicians—they sell their souls for votes and power. Not the head-shrinkers—they wanna dose you up ‘til you don’t even recognize yourself.
But the Angels? They’re the ones who kept me whole. They’re the only family that never broke on me. Tony the Chop—yeah, that’s an Angel I can trust. A man who’ll bleed for me, same as I’d bleed for him. Out here, that’s worth more than gold. That’s the only truth that matters.”
[Night. A warehouse meeting spot. The air is thick with exhaust, leather, and tension. The Hells Angels, Mongols, Mayans, and smaller street crews stand around, watching. Jax Teller walks to the center, cigarette in hand, kutte on his back. He looks calm, but the room hums with danger.]
Jax Teller:
“Look around. Every patch, every cut, every color you see in here? We’ve been spilling each other’s blood over ‘em for decades. Turf, respect, ego… same damn story, different body bags.
But I keep thinking—what if we’re playing the wrong game? What if while we’re busy tearing each other apart, the real enemy—the suits, the politicians, the feds, the corporate bastards—are laughing? They got the money, the guns, the power. And all they gotta do is sit back and watch us slaughter each other for scraps.”
[Murmurs in the crowd. A couple of Mayans shake their heads, but some Hells Angels nod.]
Jax:
“I’m not saying forget the past. I know the blood between us runs deeper than ink. But I’m saying there’s a bigger war out there. And if we keep fighting like this? We lose. Every one of us.
But united? United, we become something the world can’t ignore. Stronger than the cops. Stronger than the cartels. Stronger than Wall Street. A brotherhood of brotherhoods. Like the old stories—The Warriors. One army, not a hundred little gangs tearing themselves apart.”
[He pauses, looking around, locking eyes with Angels, Mongols, Mayans, and smaller crews.]
Jax:
“Ask yourself: what do you want your legacy to be? Another wasted patch on the wall… or the men who built something bigger than any club patch ever dreamed?
The streets are watching. The next generation’s watching. We can keep killing each other for neighborhoods that don’t belong to us anymore… or we can take back the whole damn city.
So I’ll ask once, and only once—”
[He spreads his arms wide, defiant but calm.]
“—are you ready to ride together, or die apart?”
NO GODS NO MASTERS
By Jax Teller
The old kings and queens are gone. Their crowns melted down, their castles turned into tourist traps, their bloodlines reduced to soap opera scandals for tabloids. We tell ourselves that humanity shook off the chains of monarchy. That we traded the throne for democracy, liberty, and the right to live free. But the truth is harder. The royalty didn’t vanish. They just changed uniforms.
Corporate mega-bankers replaced them. Instead of crowns, they wear custom suits. Instead of thrones, they sit in glass towers that scrape the sky. Instead of armies of knights, they’ve got lawyers, lobbyists, and private security contractors. Their kingdoms aren’t carved up by rivers or mountains but by markets, assets, and balance sheets.
The royal families of the past claimed divine right—God’s will gave them the crown. The mega-bankers don’t need God. They’ve made money their divinity. They don’t kneel at altars, they kneel at ledgers. And the rest of us? We’re still peasants. Only now the tax is hidden in debt, inflation, mortgages, student loans, medical bills. They don’t send soldiers to kick in your door. They just let the bank do it when you miss a payment.
We used to have banners to rally under—flags, saints, even revolutions. Now, they’ve taught us to rally under brands. We pledge allegiance not to nations but to corporations. Apple, Amazon, Tesla—these are the new coats of arms. We wear them on our clothes, tattoo them on our skin, buy into the illusion that owning their products gives us a piece of their power. It doesn’t. It just means we’ve been branded cattle.
But here’s the thing: kings fell before. The guillotine proved that crowns aren’t immortal. The mega-bankers aren’t either. They look untouchable, but their empire runs on paper promises and digital code. Their castles are made of numbers. And numbers can collapse.
“No gods, no masters” isn’t just a slogan. It’s a reminder. A warning. We don’t need to worship the old royalty or the new. Freedom doesn’t come from trading one set of chains for another. It comes when we stop bowing our heads—whether to a crown or a corporate logo.
History keeps repeating. Kings fall. Empires burn. And every time, it’s the people who rise from the ashes.
