The Littlest Angel.

I live near the Toronto Hell's Angels Chapter.

I drive past it every day, both on my way to work, and on my way home from work.
It is NOT a secret clubhouse.
If the large number of Harleys on the street outside didn't tip you off, the sign definitely would.

The clubhouse no longer has windows because (so the story goes) a rival gang shot a rocket in through one of the windows and blew the hell (ha ha) out of the place. Hence the cinder block.

There is a member of this chapter who I see quite often haunting the Eastern Ave stripe between Logan and Carlaw. He's always in a multi-zippered black leather jacket. . . and he's a midget. Or dwarf.
He walks around with his chest puffed out and his fists clenched, like a man spoiling for a fight. Dying for someone to make a crack about his height.
I'm dying to see what he rides--to ask him how he manages looking macho on what must be a minibike (like the ones we used to tear around on as kids) or have training wheels. I won't though. He's small, but I'll bet buttons to navy beans that he could stick lay a beating on my ass.
That's all my sport card needs: B-0, Midgets-1.