Asngar "Gar" Johannessen

I was born in Norway, in 1979 during the night at the Rikshospitalet hospital in Oslo. My mother, a beautiful twenty three old woman named Agna and his father, a thirty four years old Khan Oslo chapter member named Christoffer decided to name me Asngar, in honor of another Khan member who gave his life for the sake of three promising prospects in a fight with the Hells Angels chapter members.

I grew up in my parents house along with my mother and father, having a normal life, going to school to get my proper education. I was well raised, mostly by his mother considering my father was mostly busy doing club business, running errands for my mother then finally coming back home for a well deserved sleep. I always wished to be a doctor, my father also recommended it to me while we were having one of the few deep conversations we had togheter before my final high school exam.

Right some days after my graduation, during my summer vacation, I decided to visit my fathers club as I was dying of curiosity due to my old man never talking about what he was doing for the club, not even mentioning it, or complaining about it. My father caught me immediately, as one of the club prospects told him that there was a kid outside, peeking over the fence, looking towards the bikes. Christoffer came rushing out of the clubhouse with a bat in his right hand as he was alarmed by the child, he thought he was some Hells Angels scout. I was fifteen years old at that time, and I was looking pretty old for my age. The moment he saw me, the grasp onto his bat began to weaken, until the point where the bat fell onto the floor as his face formed a completely astonished facial expression. He then walked slowly towards me, embracing me forcefully using both his hands as he mumbled for himself: "Asngar, I never wanted you to see this." But Christoffers regret was useless by this point, as I was staring directly towards the motorcycles parked on the other side of the fences, looking towards them with a completely amazed expression. Shortly after, my father had no choice but to introduce me to the club members, and ofcourse, I saluted each one of them with great respect and a smile on his face. That is the day when I rode a motorcycle for the first time in my life. I was amazed by the form of it, the ape hangers, the customly installed chrome spoiler trembling at the engines vibrations, but my father was not as happy as I was. He was afraid, afraid I might accept the curse of the skull one day and become the one and only person which he never wanted his son to become, a Khan member.
Later on, I started taking boxing lessons from the brigadier of the chapter who was giving me intense training each day. He took me jogging, to the gym, sparred with him until I got decent at fighting. I then started to teach the new people that would just come visit, or hang around. But that didn't happen very often, since the Brigadier, whom I cannot remember the name, loved doing it. Shortly after though, I got a bit busy with other assignments that the patched members gave me, and simply didn't have enough time to continue teaching others.

Not too long passed before I demanded to have a motorcycle for myself, from my father. As Christoffer didn't have too much money, he bought me a cheap Road King offered at low price by the club itself. As Christoffers anger and fear became worse, my love for riding a motorcycle and the idea of making part of a brotherhood increased. I was already hanging with the club for around two years and the vote to finally gave me the prospect vest was suggested by the club's vice president, Dagmar, who was sponsoring me and was guiding me further into the MC culture as I had almost no knowledge of it back then.



" Dagmar: He's ready, he said as he tilts his head towards his right, towards the president, casting an upward nod, motioning him to speak his mind.

Edvin: Aye, I agree, he's ready to take the next step into joining the brotherhood. What do you think, General?

Erling: He's got my vote, says the general as he forms a rather proud facial expression, looking blankly towards the table as he nods multiple times.

As the votes went through, my fathers fears and and anxiety grew more, and more, until the last person who spoke asked him to speak. All the votes were positive so far, so he knew that if he voted no, he would be standing in a bad position in the eyes of the club. He raised himself up, occasionally tilting his head towards the different club members sitting around the table while sweating horribly and said on a low and hesitant tone: "A-... Aye." "



That day, marked the beggining of a very long journey for me, a journey that led me into Los Santos after the horrible tragedy that occured to the Oslo Khan chapter.

The nights are cold, getting very cold. Weather broadcasts are saying it'll get even colder. This has to be the worse winter I've ever known.
Nobody has been able to ride for days now. Since I've gotten my prospect patch and vest, only thing I've been doing is clearing out the roads infront of the headquarters and bringing hot coffee to the members of the club.
The other prospect, Helsing, says he cannot take it anymore. I agree with him. The days are getting colder, and colder. Tonight we were allowed to rest in the clubhouse headquarters as the guerrila strikes from the Hells Angels became more efficient. Three days ago, we lost Barber in one of the attacks in a local café. Police said they had nine milimeters. It was quick and efficient, in and out, one shot in the head from the back. The bartender was covered in blood and brains, he was traumatized. I was there, when it happened, in the bathroom. Those pills that Barber put in my beer to make fun of me eventually saved my life. Poor old man, he will be missed.







Norway - Oslo - 2007 - January 31st - "Party"

It's very cold. No one can sleep. Prospects are supposed to be sleeping in a different room than the patched, but no one is sleeping. The three of us sat there for more than two hours staring at the TV as we talked about different subjects.
Eventually, I got my journal out and started writing some of the events that happened during the past few days, adding and removing some of my sayings in the previous pages.
Ghoul, another prospect who was in the bed right next to me, eventually spotted my journal and took it away from me, started making fun of me, calling me a coward, saying I take refuge by writing in my private journal. I simply punched him in the face, which obviously, started a fight.
As the other two guys who were in the same room with me and Ghoul started cheering, one of the patched kicked the door opened. All of us instantly ran into our beds like little kids, all but me. As I was bending down to reach for my journal, Pain kicked me in my back and yelled: "You damn retards, go to sleep already!". I stumbled forward a bit, hitting my head onto one of the beds before taking my journal and going back to my bed. Pain then turned off the TV and the lights as he said: "Now go to bed, and don't make me come here again or I'll kick all of your asses, one by one.". The door was shut closed instantly after he left the room and everybody went to sleep.

Rats, the definition of a pure coward relieved of all his honor, a rat. Someone ratted, someone told them and I cannot do anything about it anymore.
I am currently writing from the Oslo airport, sitting on a bench with my normal clothes on, my vest stuffed at the bottom of my bag, wrapped around some of my clothes and covered in duct tape.
As we were sleeping, roughly around three or four in the morning, Angels rushed in, wielding fully automatics and some glocks at their waistline. They had masks, but I'm sure it was them! They killed everyone, everyone, including the poor old man who was just randomly walking outside our compound at that time, for some reason.
As they came in busting the front door opened, I heard some patched yelling, screaming in pain. Everybody woke up, instantly reaching for their guns.
I reached for my revolver, quickly loading it up, sliding bullets inside the chamber as I looked around, scared. Ghoul was hiding underneath his bed, his palms brought togheter. He was praying, praying for his life. Gunshots could be heard constantly, screams of pain and agony, the bullets hitting the walls.
Dagmar rushed in our room and quickly said: "Run for your lives pro-..". He was gunned down at that very moment. As I saw that, I just jumped outside through the window. The fall was quite harsh, as we were sleeping on the first floor. I was in pain, crawling slowly towards the fence infront of me. I looked up, Ghoul was hanging outside the window his hands reaching towards the ground, blood pouring from the top of his head. All I can remember after that was just getting up, throwing the revolver on the ground and running for my motorcycle at the back of the compound. All I did was get on it, turn the engine on and roll out, like a coward.
I went directly to my fathers house, grabbed some clothes, stuffed them in the bag and dressed myself up. I then rode on my frozen up old piece of shit Road King to the airport. And here I am, sitting on a bench, my fingers blue from the cold and my feet frozen up. Someone ratted, it's all I know, someone gave them the code for the gate, but who? It sure wasn't me, that's one thing ruled out, but who could've traded it all for some money, or something.

I am safe, I escaped, I escaped the massacre. I am currently on the plane, cannot see where I'm going to since it's all foggy outside.
I feel tired, very tired, and scared. I do not know if they will come after me. I just took the first plane I saw was available. New York was the destination so I just paid for the ticket using my fathers cash, god rest his soul.
The plane looks like shit, I wonder how the hell is it flying. There's no food on this nine hour trip, which also adds up to my wonderfull night. These idiots could barely load up my bike at the back of the plane, took five minutes just to push it up a god damn ramp.
I still feel concerned, about what happened exactly back there, and I wonder, is there anyone left apart from me? Has anybody survived that massacre? Will find out. First thing I'll do when I get off this piece of shit is make a phonecall.

Now I am definitly safe, on this bench in New York. I am unrecognisable here by the Hells Angels, nobody knows me. I can have a free start over, anywhere I want. But yet, I wonder if there is anybody left.

After this, I just got up and went to the closest private public phone, pressed on the buttons as I looked down towards my phone and called everyone, everyone that I knew back in Oslo. I tried four numbers, none of them answered. They were all gone. The fith one, Erling, the general, answered:

Erling: Uhh-... Who's this?
Asngar: Hallo, it's Asngar.
Erling: What? Where the hell are you? Did they capture you?
Asngar: No, I escaped, how about you?
Erling: I don't even know man... I don't know what to say, I'm hiding, I feel like a coward but-...
Asngar: RIght now I'm calling you from a New York public phone, so I kind of feel the same way, get me?
Erling: **Brief laugh** Sure, sure. So you fled the country huh? Smart, they won't find you.
Asngar: I know, I know-... Any tips where the hell should I go?
Erling: I do not know anybody from America, I just know the mother chapter is in San Andreas, in Los Santos. Go there, ask for help, show them the photos you got-.. If you have any. They'll believe you, Painkiller is a good man, he'll understand.
Asngar: Sure, sure eh-.. That'll be a long ride.
Erling: I know. I have to go, take care.
Asngar: Yeah, take care.

I now know where I need to go, I need to go talk to this man, Painkiller. Erling is quite sure of himself, I don't know if I should trust him on this one, but I don't really have a choice right now. I most probably won't be writing anything, I'll ride as much as I can, to get there as fast as I can. There is no time to waste.

This stupid motorcycle let me down once again. After four days of riding, sleep, riding and sleep, it let me down. I am more than halfway through this shit and the fastest I arrive, the better. This ice brain of a mechanic stared at my motorcycle for more than five minutes before finally getting closer so he can see better. I have the impression that I'll remain here for a couple of hours, not sure though.
He finally figured it out! He found out what was wrong, and guess what, it was only a loose piston! I need to learn how to repair my own hog, this has gotten out of hand.

Here's a picture of my father, riding his motorcycle when he first broke it. He was bringing it back from his friend's house.

As soon as I arrived in Los Santos, or Los Khantos as Khans call it, I finally had the courage to put my prospect vest back on as this city hosts the marvellous mother chapter. I rode and rode until I finally reached Verdant Bluffs where hopefully I will spend the rest of my life. This is how it went.

Got off my motorcycle as soon as I parked up, near the wall. Tags were there, some of them saying "R.I.P Kurt". I soon found out he was one of the founding members, like Painkiller. My "PROSPEKT" patch attracted attention very quickly. Hangies and prospects were staring as I went towards the gate. One of the patched members, Fritz, opened the gate and let me in as I told him that we needed to talk. I then told him everything, everything that happened in Oslo. He told me that he was going to send someone over there, and check it out. Even though I never found out if he did because Erling changed or abandoned his phone, I trusted him.
Later on, as I was sitting around in the garage, another patched member appeared, Stone. He asked me where I got the "cut" and since I didn't know what it was I just stared at him like an idiot before asking: "What?". He then explained and I answered. As soon as that happened, he asked me questions, and ofcourse, as a normal prospect, I answered them all.
He then offered me a joint as he got himself one and we smoked it togheter. He seems kind and pacient because I asked him multiple times to repeat what he was saying. That god damn southern accent, as he claims it to be, is incomprehensible.

Picture of Stone, from his tracebook: