These confessions of a Hell's Angel who reformed after trying to gouge out his eyes are not for the squeamish; in terms of sheer chain-rattling, boot-stomping horror, they leave Hunter Thompson's Hell's Angels (1966) lagging. Wethern sneers at the blissed-out hippie version of the club that grew out of the pastoral mingling of Oakland Bikers and Ken Kesey's Merry Pranksters. From their death-head logo to their swastika earrings, 45's, and gang rapes, the bikers were heavy--and heavily into drug dealing besides. Wethern, a blue-collar lather by trade, claims to have been the chief distributor of psychedelics for the Bay Area, raking in $40 grand a week and partying, Angels style, almost non-stop despite a tough little wife and the two kids going to Catholic schools. His fun times ended with a bad trip on animal tranquilizer PCP during which he plugged seven bullets into a club ""brother."" After that, says Wethern, a matter-of-fact and oddly believable fellow at the worst of times, the joy went out of the Angels' male bonding rituals, and he retired. But he was still expected to perform favors for the club--like stashing three corpses on his property. You'll suspect all along that Wethern's not trashy enough for the sort of life he's leading and be glad when he goes straight arrow. Otherwise, it's as ugly as any righteous outlaw might wish.