100s Of Bikers Buried The Little Boy Nobody Wanted Because Dad Was Murderer

There were hundreds of bikers in attendance at the funeral of a young boy who was not wished to be buried due to his father’s incarceration for murder.

After lingering in the chapel for two hours, the funeral director contacted us to request that we come and bid farewell to Tommy Brennan.

The child had succumbed to leukemia after a three-year battle. His grandmother was his sole visitor, and she suffered a heart attack the day before his funeral.

The foster family claimed that they were not responsible, the church stated that they could not associate with the son of an assassin, and child services stated that they had fulfilled their obligation.

Therefore, this innocent child, who had spent his final months inquiring as to whether his father still loved him, was about to be interred in a potter’s field with only a number on a headstone.

Big Mike, the president of the Nomad Riders, made the call at that moment; “No child goes into the ground alone.” “I am indifferent to the identity of his father.”

None of us were aware that Tommy’s father, who was confined to his maximum security cell, had just received the news of his son’s murder and was preparing to take his own life that evening.

He was placed on suicide watch by the officers, but we were all aware of the typical outcome. The events that followed would not only provide a fitting farewell to a deceased youth, but also rescue a man who believed he had no reason to live.

The call was received while I was enjoying my morning coffee at the clubhouse. Frank Pearson, the funeral director at Peaceful Pines, appeared to have been in tears.

“Dutch, I require assistance,” he stated. “I am unable to manage this situation independently.”

Frank had buried my wife five years ago and had treated her with dignity when illness reduced her weight to 80 pounds. I was obliged to pay him.

“What is the matter?”

“There is a boy present.” Ten years of age. Yesterday, he passed away at County General. No one has arrived. No one is expected.

“Is the child being fostered?”

“More detrimental.” Marcus Brennan is his father.

That’s a name that I recognized. Each individual participated. Marcus Brennan was responsible for the deaths of three individuals in a drug transaction that went awry four years ago. Life without parole. The information had been widely disseminated.

Frank continued, “The boy has been dying of leukemia for three years.” “His grandmother was his sole source of support, and she suffered a heart attack yesterday.” She is currently in the intensive care unit and may not survive.

The state has instructed that he be buried. The foster family cleansed their hands. My employees are also unwilling to provide assistance. Burying the child of a perpetrator is considered unlucky.

“What is it that you require?”

“Pallbearers.” An individual to… to serve as a witness. Dutch, he is merely a child. He did not select his father.

Standing up, I made my decision. “Allow me two hours.”

“Dutch, I only require approximately four individuals.”

“You will have a greater number than four.”

I terminated the conversation and activated the air siren in the clubhouse. Thirty-seven Nomad Riders had assembled in the primary room within minutes.

I addressed them as “brothers.” “A ten-year-old boy is about to be buried alone due to the fact that his father is incarcerated.” The child passed away due to malignancy. He will not be claimed by anyone. He will not be mourned by anyone.

The chamber was devoid of sound.

“I am en route to his funeral,” I continued. “I am not soliciting anyone to attend.” This is not a matter of club business. However, if you are of the opinion that no child should be left unaccompanied in the ground, please meet me at Peaceful Pines in ninety minutes.

Old Bear was the first to speak. “My grandson is ten years old.”

Hammer concurred.

Whiskey said quietly, “My son would have been ten.” “Had the drunk driver not…”

He was not required to complete the task.

Big Mike rose from his seat. “Contact the other clubs.” Call each and every institution. This is not a discussion about territory or sections. This pertains to a child.

The messages were dispatched. Screaming eagles. Iron Horsemen. Disciples of the Devil. Clubs that had not communicated in years. Clubs that were the subject of genuine blood feuds. However, upon learning about Tommy Brennan, each individual expressed the same sentiment: “We will be present.”

I initially traveled to the funeral home to converse with Frank. He was standing outside the small chapel, appearing bewildered.

“Dutch, I did not intend to—”

He was abruptly interrupted by the rumbling. The first to arrive were the Nomads, which consisted of forty-three bicycles. Then, the Eagles, a contingent of fifty. Thirty-five horses were transported by the Horsemen. There are twenty-eight disciples.

They continued to arrive. Clubs for veterans. Christian cyclists. Weekend combatants who were informed via social media. Motorcycles were parked in the Peaceful Pines parking lot and on every street within three blocks by 2 p.m.

Frank’s irises were ablaze with curiosity. “There are at least three hundred bicycles present.”

“Three hundred and twelve,” Big Mike corrected as he approached. “We conducted a count.”

Frank guided us into the diminutive chapel, where a single, diminutive white coffin was situated in isolation, with a single, diminutive bouquet of grocery store flowers placed beside it.

“Is that all?” Snake inquired, his voice being gruff.

“The flowers were sent by the hospital,” Frank acknowledged. Standard operating procedure.

Someone murmured, “Fuck standard procedure.”

Then, the chapel began to fill. The small coffin is passed by these gruff men, many of whom are already weeping. A teddy bear had been delivered by an individual.

An additional example is a miniature motorcycle. The coffin was soon encircled by offerings, including flowers, toys, and a leather harness emblazoned with the words “Honorary Rider.”

However, it was Tombstone, a weathered veteran from the Eagles, who caused everyone to break. He approached the sarcophagus, placed a photograph against it, and stated, “This was my son, Jeremy.”

He was the same age when leukemia claimed his life. Tommy, I was also unable to rescue him. However, you are no longer alone. Jeremy will provide you with a tour of the area.

The motorcyclists rose to speak one by one. Not regarding Tommy; none of us were acquainted with him. However, it is important to consider the loss of children, the destruction of innocence, and the fact that no child should be left to perish alone, irrespective of their father’s sins.

Next, Frank received a telephone call. He exited the room and returned with a flushed visage.

“The prison,” he replied. “Marcus Brennan is aware.” Regarding Tommy. Regarding the funeral. He is currently under suicide watch by the security. He is inquiring as to whether anyone was present for his son.

The congregation fell silent.

Big Mike stood. “Place him on the speaker.”

Frank hesitated before dialing. A moment later, the chapel was filled with a fractured voice.

Greetings? Is anyone present? May I inquire as to whether anyone is accompanying my son?

“Marcus Brennan,” Big Mike’s voice was firm. “I am Michael Watson, the president of the Nomad Riders.” I am accompanied by three hundred and twelve bikers from seventeen distinct organizations. We are all present to support Tommy.

Silence. Sighing ensued. From a man who had lost everything, deep, gut-wrenching sobbing.

Marcus choked out, “He used to… he used to love motorcycles.” “Before I made a mistake.” Prior to that, I… He possessed a miniature Harley. Every night, I slept with it. He expressed his desire to become a rider when he reached adulthood.

“He will ride,” Big Mike assured. “With us.” Tommy rides with us on every Memorial Day, charity run, and occasion when we mount up. That is a commitment made by each and every club in this area.

Marcus murmured, “I was unable to bid you farewell.” “I was unable to restrain him.” I was unable to express my affection for him.

I stepped forward and said, “Tell him now.” “We will ensure that he is informed.”

The chapel was flooded with the sound of a father’s farewell for the next five minutes. Marcus discussed Tommy’s initial strides, his fondness for dinosaurs, and his remarkable fortitude during treatment. He issued numerous apologies for his absence and for the decisions that had led to his departure.

He concluded, “I am aware that I am not deserving of forgiveness.” “I am aware that I am in my rightful place.” However, Tommy was exceptional. He was unadulterated. He was entitled to superior treatment than I was.

“He was entitled to a father who cherished him,” Big Mike stated. “And he possessed that.” A father who adored him, despite being flawed and broken. That is of significance.

Marcus said quietly, “I am supposed to take this on by myself.” “I am expected to die with the knowledge that I have failed him.”

Snake responded with a firm “no.” “You are alive.” Three hundred strangers arrived to support your son, and you continue to live in that knowledge. You live with the knowledge that he was significant. You continue to live because his memory is dishonored by giving up now.

“However, what is the purpose?” He has departed.

Old Bear approached the telephone. “The point is that there are other boys in that prison whose fathers are making the same mistakes as yours.” You remain alive and inform them.

You inform them of the cost. You prevent other children from becoming you by preventing their fathers from becoming you.

We were under the impression that he had terminated the call due to the prolonged silence on the line. Then: “Will you…will you bury him properly?” Would you be so kind as

“Brother,” I said, “your son will be honored with a funeral fit for a warrior.” I assure you of that.

We transported Tommy Brennan to his final repose after Marcus terminated the call. The small coffin was carried by six bikers from six distinct organizations. The earth was shook by the rumble of three hundred motorcyclists, whose engines were running at just above idle.

Chaplain Tom from the Christian Riders served as the celebrant at the gravesite, in lieu of a cleric. His statement was straightforward: “Tommy Brennan was cherished.” By his grandmother, by his father, and today, by each individual present. Love is impervious to errors. Love surpasses the confines of prison walls. Death is not a barrier to love.

We revved our engines as they lowered the sarcophagus. The sound of three hundred and twelve motorcycles revving together was likely audible at the prison, which is located fifteen miles away. A final ride for a child who would never experience his first.

However, the narrative does not conclude at this point.

Two weeks later, I received a telephone call from the prison chaplain. Marcus Brennan had initiated a program known as “Letters to My Child” to assist other detainees in maintaining connections with their children, writing to them, and serving as a father from behind bars. It had infiltrated twelve prisons within six months.

Tommy’s grandmother made a full recovery. She currently cycles alongside us on the back of Big Mike’s bicycle, donning a vest that bears the inscription “Tommy’s Grandma.” She brings pastries to each meeting.

Additionally, Tommy’s grave. Never vacant. Someone is always present, leaving a toy motorcycle or a flower, or a bike is always placed in the vicinity. According to the groundskeeper, it is the grave that receives the most attention in the cemetery.

A woman accosted me at a gas station last month. She stated that her son had been in the foster system with Tommy. They had been acquaintances. She had desired to attend the funeral, but she was apprehensive due to Marcus’s reputation and the stigma.

“I heard what you all did,” she said, her eyes welling with sorrow. “My son also heard.” He is interested in learning… Is it possible for him to visit Tommy’s grave?

“At your convenience,” I replied. “He is now a member of our team.”

She affirmed and then presented me with a diminutive toy motorcycle. “This belonged to Tommy.” From his apartment at the foster home. It was preserved by my son. He believed that Tommy should possess it.

The miniature motorcycle is currently displayed in a prominent location within our clubhouse. A plaque is located beneath it, which reads, “Tommy Brennan – Forever Ten, Forever Riding, Forever Loved.”

Marcus remains incarcerated. This will continue until his death. However, he is alive and has facilitated the reunification of more than two hundred detainees with their children.

Every month, he sends us a letter in which he expresses his gratitude for our assistance in saving two lives that day: Tommy’s memory and his own conscience.

I am convinced that I can sense him every time we are on the road. Little Tommy Brennan, who had always dreamed of riding a motorcycle, eventually did so. He was accompanied by three hundred and twelve bikers who stood up when the world turned away.

Due to the fact that this is our occupation. We are present for those who have been overlooked. We advocate for those who have been abandoned. Those who are without anyone else to bear them are carried by us.

Even if it is merely a small white coffin and a child whose sole transgression was having the wrong father.

Particularly during that period.