Pierre Vogel Hells Angels

Pierre Vogel Hells Angels Walter und Pierre Vogel: Der Sohn ein Salafist, der Vater ein Hells Angel

Mönchengladbach – Der Vater von Salafist Pierre Vogel (37), Walter Vogel (63), ist Mitglied des Mönchengladbacher „Hells Angels“-Charters. Über diesen Kommentar zur Meldung, sein Vater ist ein Hells Angel, regt sich der islamistische Prediger Pierre Vogel in einem Video bei. Pierre Vogel zieht als Hassprediger durch Deutschland. Der Vater des radikalen Salafisten ist Mitglied der Rocker-Gruppe Hells Angels. Gegen. Im Dezember wurde aufgrund einer Mitteilung der Staatsanwaltschaft Koblenz bekannt, dass sein Vater Walter Vogel Mitglied bei den Hells Angels ist. Walter Vogel gehört offenbar dem „Hells Angels“-Charter in Mönchengladbach an. Der Sohn Hassprediger, der Vater in der Rocker-Gang?

Pierre Vogel Hells Angels

Der Vater von Islamisten-Prediger Pierre Vogel gehört der berüchtigten Rockergruppe Hells Angels an. Die Polizei in Mönchengladbach. Der Vater des Salafisten-Predigers Pierre Vogel ist Mitglied der Rockergruppe Hells Angels. Die Polizei in Mönchengladbach hatte dazu am. Walter Vogel gehört offenbar dem „Hells Angels“-Charter in Mönchengladbach an. Der Sohn Hassprediger, der Vater in der Rocker-Gang?

You must own a serious bike, something like a chopper. Ultimately, it will help you to look fierce. Photo by Ikar. Lastly, if you are not male, you can forget becoming a part of the club.

If you happen to fulfill all the criteria and still want to be a member, you still have to intern for a while, and maybe then you will get a chance to become official.

On this day the park celebrated with fireworks and over , visitors. They decided to sue Disney because the Hells Angels name and logo was used in the movie Wild Hogs without permission from or credit to the organisation.

The Angels had a strong case and deserved their victory in court. Hells Angels at Altamont Concert. Photo by William L.

The Rolling Stones once decided to hire Hells Angels to work as security for their free-entry Altamont concert. Due to the concert being free the venue was flooded with people.

What was even more bizarre is that the gang was not paid in money, but in beer. The combination of drunk bikers walking around with clubs and frenzied fans turned out to be a pathway to disaster.

A couple of fights broke out and four people from the audience died. One was fatally stabbed by one of the Hells Angels.

It is speculated that they even attacked Mick Jagger, but this fact was never proven. Later on however they did try to put out a hit on Jagger for his negative comments about them after the festival disaster.

Obviously nothing came of it though. Needless to say he regretted his decision once they actually came to visit.

Local and federal law enforcement took notice as well. The killings got big play in the news. The public and every biker in the country were aware of them.

A member of our San Diego chapter, whose identity remains a point of debate to this day, drove up in a white Rambler and parked next to the building.

The guy simply walked away untouched and unidentified. A couple minutes later, he remotely detonated a bomb concealed in the Rambler.

He had parked the car in the wrong place; otherwise, the damage would have been much worse. Still, the explosion injured three people.

Bombs were a favorite weapon among outlaw bikers. Outlaw clubs also had plenty of military veterans among their members, guys with lots of experience wiring explosives.

But I hated bombs. They were messy and cruel. People got maimed as often as they got killed. More than that, I hated the idea of civilian casualties.

It seemed stupid to bring that much attention to the club and potentially hurt people who had nothing to do with the beef. Not to mention, you could blow yourself up with a single mistake.

Explosives were just way too unpredictable for my tastes. I walked into the clubhouse a couple days after the memorial bombing to find Ray meeting with a few other members and some of the guys from San Diego.

It took me about thirty seconds to realize that they were talking about blowing more Mongols up. I saw the looks I got. He must be an informant.

Or a cop. I know that they were thinking all that and calling me a coward behind my back. But it was getting out of hand. I left before I heard any more.

Days later, word went around the clubhouse that they had put a bomb down a roof vent in a Highland Park motorcycle shop called the Frame-Up.

The shop was owned by two Mongols. Something went wrong with the detonator or the bomb. Old Man John, a former Hells Angels leader and the man who brought me into the club, took me aside and told me I had to retrieve it.

The club has to come first. Now you got to convince them. Belonging to the Hells Angels means doing dangerous things. Your participation becomes your credentials.

Waver in any way and you become suspect. This was one of them. Jesse and I were coming up through the ranks together, both in our twenties with a lot left to prove to the established members.

I knew that, in his own way, John was looking out for me. He wanted to show everyone that I was the stand-up guy he saw, that I would get the job done no matter what.

So at ten that night, Jesse and I headed over to the Frame-Up. The shop was in a neighborhood of auto body repair places, metalworking shops, and junkyards.

A pull-down roof ladder was attached to the back wall, and Jesse boosted me up so I could grab it and climb up. I found the vent hood easily enough, and the rope holding the bomb had been tied off to a rooftop vent pipe.

I untied it and slowly begin pulling the bomb up. It was impossible to do without the bomb swinging side to side.

It was like a game of Operation, and every time the bomb clanged into the sheet-metal vent wall I thought it would go off. I got it out and carried it carefully to the roof edge, right above where Jesse was standing.

I started to lower it by playing out the rope. When it was inches within his reach, the bomb started swinging, bumping into the wall.

We were both freaked out. I climbed down and we carried it to the car. It was a good question. I looked at Jesse and shook my head.

We still had to take it for a thirty-minute drive. We found a blanket and nestled the bomb on it, as if that would somehow stop the thing from blowing up.

We both straightened up and looked at this bundle of dynamite sticks held together with duct tape. It looked cartoonish, like a bad movie prop.

We burst out laughing. The absurdity of the situation, along with sheer tension, had built up to the point that laughing was the only way to deal with it.

It was hysterical, crazy laughter. We were bent over, tears running down our faces. We calmed down long enough to get settled in the car. I fired it up and moved out and down the street.

A block later we went over a set of railroad tracks that was a much bigger double-bump than we expected. It really rattled the car.

We looked over at each other and burst out laughing again. It took us the rest of the trip to stop. We drove the bomb back to the garage and then dropped the car off at the clubhouse, where I picked up my black Harley Davidson flathead.

When I finally pulled into my driveway, I took a moment to just breathe. G ive the club credit for persistence.

Brett Eaton had rigged a bomb inside the tire, so that it would detonate when the tire valve was unscrewed.

After an hour, Heath called the shop and asked if the tire was done. He talked to Mongol Henry Jimenez. They had a heated exchange, Heath pressing for the tire to be fixed so he could get it on his bike before nightfall.

Jimenez finally told him he would get it done. Raymond Hernandez, the fifteen-year-old brother of another Mongol, was hanging out in the shop.

He was hanging out with this guy he must have looked up to. He was changing oil or helping out as best he could.

Thinking about how, soon, he would have his own bike. This kid knew exactly what type of Harley he was going to have. Maybe a beat-up bobber he could trick out right there.

Like every other teenage boy with a biker brother or father, he knew exactly how his own bike was going to look, and how cool he was going to look riding it.

But he never got a chance to build or ride a motorcycle. Henry Jimenez held the tire steady and began unscrewing the valve.

The bomb contacts came together, and Mongol and teenager were instantly killed in a blast that blew the windows out of the buildings on either side of the shop.

Heath called again, an hour later. Someone else answered. The sounds of sirens and chaos filled the background.

Heath hung up and laughed. It was a joke to him. I bet his ears were ringing. John finally had to tell him to shut up about it.

War was war and collateral damage was to be expected. Days later, the president of the San Fernando Valley Mongol charter, Luis Gutierrez, went out to his driveway to get in his van.

It blew up as he opened the door. He was luckier than the fifteen- year-old; he escaped with his life and his body intact. The violence drew even more attention.

A few nights later, I got home before the kids were in bed. I had been gone for two days and they were overjoyed to see me. We had a little ritual.

My place in the living room was a big old black easy chair with gigantic, rounded, thickly padded arms. I would sit one kid on each side and wrap my arms around them.

Six-year-old Moriya had just taken a bath and she pressed in on me, reading a picture book, humming to herself.

I held the baby, Georgie, close on the other side as he played with a toy car. I was just so glad to be home.

The moment was sanctuary. Nobody was asking me to juggle dynamite or shoot someone or cover up a felony. There were no psychotic drug dealers here.

I had always held a romantic view of the outlaw as hero, but that view was being put to the test.

It all started with the idea of having a simple good time. Partying with brothers, hanging out, building and riding bikes, and living our own version of the American dream.

The club seemed to have gone a long way from that in the blink of an eye. I sat in my little four-foot-by-four-foot square of contentment and wondered how I missed getting shipped out to Vietnam only to wind up at home in the middle of a war.

I thought about a fifteen-year-old boy who had probably never enjoyed a stiff drink, a drag race, or sex — and never would.

A month and I could be in prison. I could be dead. Cheryl could come to the end of her rope and kick me out. I squeezed the kids closer.

Georgie squirmed in my grasp. Love this Narratively story? Sign up for our Newsletter. Send us a story tip. Follow us. After my parents got divorced, Dad began a slow slide into isolation.

Eventually he found consolation in the darkest corners of the web. Can I help him get back out? Photos of my brother, sister and I when we were younger are there too, along with drawings we made in kindergarten.

Beneath this green plastic being, mechanic tools litter the ledge. Dust covers everything: nuts, bolts, wrenches, ratchets, sockets and the pickle jar.

As the years have gone by, its green color has blended into the water, giving the alien a murky appearance. The alien is isolated from the rest of the world by thin glass.

Viewers can peer in and see its suffering. Someone could easily untighten the lid, pour out the water, and the alien would finally be free, but no one ever has.

Much like the alien trapped in the pickle jar, my dad has become trapped, not behind glass, but in his own mind.

My dad is a conspiracy theorist. Among other things, he firmly believes that aliens exist and that the government is keeping that fact from the public.

This interest has grown to consume his thoughts, and his idea of reality has become distorted. Isolation, a lack of close friends and family, the internet, and poor influences have caused him to doubt the reality of the world.

This network is destroying his life and relationships with those around him. It is known as QAnon. QAnon is a far-right conspiracy theorist group with enough influence and reach that the FBI has called it a domestic terrorism threat.

Its members were the driving force behind Pizzagate, the conspiracy theory that posited that Bill and Hillary Clinton were running a child sex-trafficking ring in the basement of a pizza parlor in Washington, D.

Since then, the child sex-trafficking ring conspiracy has grown to become an all-encompassing theory of global power, supposedly involving the Obamas, the Bushes, the Vatican, Disney, Hollywood, the CIA and many others — including the FBI , following the release of their document identifying QAnon as a terrorism threat.

There have been other instances of QAnon members making headlines for acting on their beliefs. In Staten Island, a man killed a high-profile mob member because he believed he was a member of the deep state.

In Sedona, Arizona, a man vandalized a Catholic church because of his belief that the Vatican is tied to the deep state. And in Tucson, a man interfered with water tanks left out for migrants by a humanitarian group because he believed the water was left out for members of the deep state.

She was detained for making death threats and found to have more than a dozen illegal knives. The storm had begun.

During a Trump rally in Tampa, Florida, which was broadcast on all of the major news networks, QAnon followers stood behind Trump holding up a giant letter Q and signs in the shape of a Q imprinted with the American flag.

What is that? Eventually, he no longer saw Q posts on 4chan and wondered what happened to them. After doing some investigating, he found Q on the imageboard 8chan, an even more unruly version of 4chan where anti-Semites, homophobes, white supremacists and other hostile groups thrived.

But then 8chan disappeared from the web altogether. The real reason 8chan was removed from the web , in August , was because its network provider, Cloudflare, cut service after a mass shooter in El Paso, Texas, posted a racist manifesto on the site days before his deadly rampage — not the first mass shooting connected to 8chan.

The bread crumbs usually feature abbreviations and acronyms, which make them difficult for followers to decipher, while some information, Q followers say, is intentionally false.

Now, the thinking goes, major news networks were being manipulated to cover up the fact that Hillary Clinton was in detainment.

Nemos relates the Q posts to a game. Because the posts are cryptic, and deliberately contain false information, Nemos believes QAnon is able to avoid government officials going after them.

The channel was a success, gaining 50, subscribers, but by February of it had been banned from YouTube. The primary belief of QAnon followers is that the deep state is working against President Trump.

Nemos reestablished his presence on YouTube in March of and has since amassed nearly , subscribers. In , Westall learned that a group of Anons were planning on publishing a book of their findings.

She offered her interview with Rothstein, and it was accepted. QAnon: An Invitation to the Great Awakening was released on February 26, , and went on to become among the top 15 books sold on Amazon.

Nemos, who also contributed to the book, was not surprised by its success. M y dad has always had an interest in aliens — a fascination with their possible existence.

I remember watching science fiction movies with him late at night when I was very young, which often gave me nightmares.

When I was about 8, we watched one that involved a young man in the military being abducted by aliens. During one, a group of gray aliens stood at a control deck, taking notes, while the man was chained naked and a drill closed in on his urethra.

He let out a chilling cry. My dad watched our old box TV with intrigue as the cheap sci-fi flick played.

My heart raced, and I covered my eyes. At this point though, it was a casual interest for him. He kept the same box TV, phone and poor internet service for years.

He developed paranoia about social media and the possibilities of tracking. He gradually isolated himself from the outside world.

Research suggests that conspiracy theorists tend to be isolated from their peers and turn to conspiratorial beliefs for a sense of community.

This feeling of belonging, the psychological trait of wanting to be a part of something larger than the individual, is believed to be due to a lack of self-certainty.

This research rings true when it comes to my dad. After 10 years of not living with my dad, my sister and I moved back into his house in My older brother had already moved out on his own.

After we moved back in, he decided to purchase a new TV. Shortly afterward, the internet, which at the time was so slow it hardly existed, was upgraded to high speed.

The fast internet and new features of the upgraded TV made the outside world much more available to him.

The ability to search through endless amounts of information has not opened his eyes to different possibilities. It has closed them.

T ravis View, a conspiracy theory researcher and co-host of the podcast QAnon Anonymous , tells me that he became concerned about the conspiracy group after Charlie Kirk, founder and president of the conservative nonprofit Turning Point USA, retweeted a Twitter post from QAnon on July 7, The tweet falsely claimed that the Department of Justice had released a chart showing that the number of human-trafficking arrests under Trump had been far greater than under Obama.

Kirk deleted the retweet the next day, after receiving criticism from other prominent Twitter users like David Frum of The Atlantic.

They believe that members of the Cabal record each other raping or eating children and use it as potential blackmail against each other.

QAnon members tend to see every major event through this same lens. Everything leads back to the Cabal.

Many who follow Q attach their own conspiratorial ideas to the theory, which has led to some divisions in the ranks.

The most notable division is about whether John F. Kennedy Jr. Furthermore, they believe JFK Jr. While visiting a Trump hotel, he spotted Vincent Fuska and sized him up.

Yet the JFK Jr. Now you can make a tweet that JFK Jr. While I was taking an astronomy course at my local community college, we learned about the moon.

In I moved out to attend the University of California, Irvine. Each visit though, he seems to be falling deeper into the conspiratorial abyss.

He proceeded to show me pictures of a military base that has supposedly been established on the moon. The pictures were grainy, and to my eyes they were clearly of rock formations that merely looked like buildings, but he genuinely believed them to be proof.

He had stopped watching major news networks entirely and was now consumed by information about numerous intersecting conspiracies.

He began talking about the Vatican, top government officials being involved in a pedophile ring, the significance of JFK Jr.

My sister continued living with him after I went away to school. None of you want to know the truth about how the world works!

Then my older brother came to visit our dad, along with his wife and two daughters, one of whom was born late last year.

It was shortly after the news had broken that Jeffrey Epstein had committed suicide. Frustrated, my brother told him to stop.

Which he did. Then he asked if he could show them something. He played a YouTube video that showed images of violence and destruction, along with an ominous message: The government is trying to kill everybody.

At the time, my sister was planning a trip to Spain to hike the Camino de Santiago, a mile trek through the northern part of the country.

While I was visiting, she finally built up the gumption to tell him, a week before she was supposed to leave. He was taken aback and seemed in disbelief.

Your life is stuck? He hounded her, trying to look her in the face, as she stared at the cement floor, tears falling. He stuck out his index finger, while clutching the others, and pointed it directly at his temple.

My sister went to her room, crying, and I stayed with my dad in the garage. He was audibly annoyed, but still expressed worry about his daughter.

After some time, he pulled out his laptop and showed me another conspiracy theory. This made me consider that, perhaps, conspiracy theories were a way for him to escape his surrounding world, allowing him to avoid the reality of his life.

My dad had had a lonely childhood. His own father had left the family when my dad was young, and his mother was emotionally detached.

He was a skilled mechanic even when he was still in high school. This shop owner, an older man with red hair and a Scottish drawl my dad still likes to poke fun at, became a source of guidance for him.

He gave my dad the opportunity to practice his future profession, and also offered musings on life and provided alcohol.

I imagine my dad standing in the garage of the auto shop, sipping a beer, with this Scottish man standing before him.

Drills blare and hydraulic jacks move cars up and down. I imagine my dad in that pivotal moment. The blue pill will keep him ignorant, returning him to the world as he has always known it, while the red pill will strip away the facade and awaken him to the shocking truth about reality.

The parallel of political party colors is obvious as well, as followers of Q tend to be Republican. One prisoner decides that he wants to see the outside, breaks free, and goes on an intellectual journey to understand the true meaning of the world.

He eventually returns to urge the other prisoners to leave, but they dismiss him and threaten to kill him if he tries to set them free.

The allegory is essentially about humans being willfully blind, for fear of learning the true nature of the world. In 21 st -century America, the shadows on the cave wall are mass media networks, which the general public, who are the prisoners, are forced to watch because of the Cabal.

The Anons view themselves as those who have escaped the cave. The modern world has become insular, and people are able to dictate what information they feed themselves.

Anons choose Q. I try to imagine: What would it be like to believe in this alternative narrative? Would it be terrifying? As COVID has taken hold of the world, major news networks have tirelessly reported on its unfolding.

Although Q has been silent about the virus, Anons have decided to construct their own narrative about what the outbreak implies.

While some Anons believe lockdown restrictions have been put in place for the deep state to exercise their authority, and have taken to the streets to protest, others say COVID was introduced to the public as a military operation to weed out members of the Cabal.

The only people who can be affected by the virus are those who have drunk the blood of children. Some followers have gone a step further and said that the stay-at-home orders are in place so that the military can rescue children who are being held captive underground by the Cabal.

On one Q-focused website my dad visits, the creator made a meme of Pepe frogs wearing MAGA hats, sitting in a theater while President Trump hands out popcorn and tells them to enjoy the show.

The meme alludes to the spread of COVID, and the post that followed showed executive orders that President Kennedy signed authorizing seizures of public property in the event of an emergency.

People who are susceptible to conspiracy theories become manipulated and go into overdrive, because a person in power finally represents them.

People, like my dad, lose themselves. The world right now is a terrifying, confusing place, and the weight of it all can be crushing and demoralizing.

Think about: why have they shunned themselves into a world of lies? And what can we do to help them? I n February, I texted my dad to ask if I could interview him about conspiracy theories.

I am ready for it. I meet with him on February 27, , and he is eager to talk. The pickled alien looks over it all.

Before he delves into our talk about conspiracy theories, he tells me to look up a song. The song opens with a guitar strum and a lonely harmonica that pulses with low tones.

Keep listening to the lyrics. Now, what happened to Ken Baker? I hope you can find your way back home. Next stop for Blair Cobbs: world champion boxer.

At 33, the elder Cobbs was already a seasoned veteran of the drug trafficking trade. He was flying solo to his hometown of Philadelphia, having taken off from Compton Airport near Los Angeles.

After a quick fuel-up in Missouri, it was somewhere over West Virginia that things began to go bad for the self-taught pilot. He was flying above a snowy, wooded landscape when mechanical problems compelled him to scramble for the nearest landing strip.

He was forced to attempt an emergency touchdown at the Wheeling Ohio County Airport. It was going to be a tricky landing, as the tower was closed and lighting was limited.

Eugene descended late, missed the runway, and skidded on the ramp, before regaining altitude and hurtling into a ravine in the woods surrounding the airport.

Miraculously, he exited the aircraft basically uninjured, save a minor head wound. But he had little time to linger. When he came to a road near the airport entrance, he flagged down the first driver he saw.

The driver said that Eugene, who asked where exactly he was, had a gash on his head. Airport officials would not discover the wreckage until early the next morning, when a worker on a routine field check noticed that a section of the eight-foot perimeter fence near runway 21 was damaged.

The plane was then spotted, and proper authorities and responders were dispatched. The second thought responders had was that there sure was a hell of a lot of cocaine on board.

He stayed for one night before making his way out of town. Meanwhile, investigators began piecing things together at the crash site.

With no pilot present, they moved on to the plane itself. The invoice was signed without a personal signature, only the name of a company, Pacific Designers Inc.

The Federal Aviation Administration FAA had also been keeping an eye on Eugene, who was described as a notoriously bad pilot known to frequent small, quiet airports where he could fuel up and depart quickly.

According to the Post-Gazette, the FAA had put his plane on a watch list, having cited him on four occasions since , offenses including reckless flying, disregarding air traffic control signals, and lying about his medical status.

The FAA had ordered him to retake his flying exam. He continued to fly, however, using his plane to deliver drugs all over the country.

Prior to the crash, federal agents in Philadelphia, Los Angeles, Phoenix and Chicago had all been looking into his cocaine distribution business.

He had ties to Philadelphia and California, so pretty much the span of the United States. And nobody was able to find him at the time … Mr.

Cobbs was a fugitive from justice. Eugene Cobbs went on the lam. Back in California, his son, Blair, was about to have his world changed forever.

A t the time of the crash, Blair Cobbs was He remembers vividly the day he learned that something was wrong.

He had been living easy with his father and stepmother, along with a younger sister, in a grand, white Victorian mansion in the Hollywood Hills.

Blair attended the Beverly Hills school that served as the inspiration for the high school in one of his favorite movies at the time, Clueless.

I have an airplane. We all got a Bentley. His mother died when he was 11, and his grandmother, whom he was close with, died the same year.

He and his stepmother never really bonded. As a young teenager, Cobbs, who is mixed race, was picked on relentlessly. In middle school, he was perceived as the white kid in a predominately black school, with red hair to boot.

But by , after a change of schools, those days were behind him. Then one day he came home to a DEA raid. His stepmother was crying, and all he knew was that something really bad had happened.

Maybe his dad was alive, maybe not. The strange feeling of being under surveillance actually stirred some hope inside the young teen.

S ix months after the crash, it was summer in Beverly Hills, and his dad was still gone. Then Blair experienced another day in which everything changed.

His stepmother instructed him to pack everything he could fit into one duffel bag. His sister did the same. His stepmom drove south toward Mexico.

When they got to the border, the children were dropped off by their stepmom, given minimal instructions, just a list of checkpoints about where to go — and with that, the kids walked into a foreign country alone.

First a taxi, then a bus, deep into Mexico. Would they live or die? Only the task of taking care of his younger sister drove him.

They could breath easier, but only a little bit. There, using a fake name, Blair enrolled in a high school with an intense Spanish program, to try to get him up to speed on a language he did not speak.

The fact that they were all using aliases triggered a deep sense of loss in Blair, a loss of self.

No identity, no roots. The Americano in Mexico. Sticking out like a sore thumb. Eugene Cobbs had shaken U.

Then he met a friend. On a lonely Mexican basketball court, he ran into year-old Rodney Pinz, who was from the States and spoke English.

I had him meet friends, meet girls, good stuff, teenage stuff. He would come to my house.

My family made him food. B lair Cobbs had long revered the sport of boxing. But while he was eager to learn, he was short on skill.

He had no idea how to block or defend. He took a shitload of punches. I got tired. Black eyes were a constant companion as a result of his new hobby.

It mattered not. One Saturday, after about a week at the gym, Cobbs had an opportunity to box a real bout. An old trainer at the gym started tutoring him, working to bend him into fighting shape.

Cobbs began working out at the gym from sunrise to sundown, sparring and learning combinations. The trainer put him through to round full-body sparring sessions.

Cobbs was still just a kid, but he was already fighting professionals. At nightfall, he would grab an agua fresca or something to eat at a taco stand and then return.

In reality, he simply had nowhere else to go, and nothing else he cared about. Fighters showed up looking to make an impression.

Cobbs was an outsider, and the spectators were usually not on his side. But he learned how to work the crowd.

How to win their favor. Blair kept boxing throughout his teenage years, while the darkness within him grew. He enjoyed the sport but hated life on the run.

Outside of the gym, he struggled. But inside the ring, this mentality made him dangerous. When he was 18, Cobbs had grown to around or pounds.

He was tough to beat at that weight. So for one fight he was matched up against a guy in a heavier class, a Mexican fighter who weighed about pounds.

After winning nearly every recent match, now Blair was about to get his ass kicked, and to make matters worse, his dad was in the crowd to see it, one of the few times he attended.

In the first round, Cobbs got hit hard, the punches too heavy to block. It was a small ring, and there was nowhere to run. He was getting destroyed.

The bell rang for the second round. At the time, Cobbs was watching all of the professional fights he could, and Floyd Mayweather Jr.

During the second round of his big fight, Cobbs recalled how Mayweather liked to use a shoulder roll to pick off shots and then get close, get inside and land short shots.

By midway through the second round, he was doing it himself — shoulder roll, block, defend — and the tide was turning.

I never stopped no matter how bad it got in my life. Indeed, things would get worse for young Blair before they got better.

B lair and his sister returned to the States the same way they entered: on the sly. After spending roughly three years on the run, their father sent them to Edgewater, New Jersey, back to living with their stepmom.

After an arduous bureaucratic process, they also regained their actual identities. The kids got out of Mexico just in time.

Their father was kidnapped for ransom in late When the price was met and Eugene was released by his captors, he was almost immediately arrested.

Blair Cobbs tells the story of his boxing exploits in a fever, but when it comes time to discuss his father, his cadence slows, and the discomfort he feels about those experiences is clear.

After four years on the lam, Eugene was extradited to Houston and then transferred to Wheeling, West Virginia, where he pled guilty and was sentenced to more than 12 years — months — for conspiracy to distribute cocaine and operating as an airman without a license.

After his arrest, he was discovered to have at least five aliases, with matching IDs. Blair tried to push the news from his mind. He tried to keep boxing.

So he returned to the place of his birth, Philadelphia. While his sister stayed behind with their stepmom, Blair moved into the half-abandoned house on a corner lot that his grandmother had once lived in.

Despite his vast life experience, none of what he had learned would help him deal with being alone in Philadelphia.

Because at that particular time getting a job was almost a full-time job, you know, going out applying at this place or that, I would be out all day if I needed to, for possibly one opportunity.

Then the electricity was turned off. Followed by the heat and gas. Putting on every piece of clothing he owned just to survive the night.

I was panicking. Because I was really hungry. When I find a little gold ring. It saved my life.

He took the little gold ring to a Cash For Gold joint at a nearby shopping center. And they would be pushing you, making you work hard as fuck.

I would get up at like in the morning to try and catch the first bus I could possibly get. He made it three weeks and one paycheck, and he was out.

After that, he finally found the one job that would hold him until he turned pro, at a coffee shop.

There, a bit of stability allowed him to get back to training. On June 28, , at age 24, he made his professional debut, flooring Martique Holland in the first round in Ruffin, North Carolina.

He quickly got off to a record. But then the fights stopped coming. He got a lesson in the politics of boxing.

You need support. A lot of backing. Around the time of his first professional fight, his father was also making a change.

On April 10, , Eugene Cobbs decided that prison life no longer suited him. It was the morning hours, before 10 a. But at 4 p.

He was cleaning a parking lot and just walked away. Moore was tasked with tracking him down. He was 29 years old, and despite a right arm marked in ink, he looked every bit of 16, with short blond hair and a baby face.

He openly shares a penchant for vacations to Disney World. His ambition and enthusiasm for the job are evident, and they extended to the pursuit of Eugene Cobbs.

Nine out of 10 times, the guy would scramble, nervously, maybe call a girlfriend to rendezvous at the nearest hotel, or meet up with his drug dealer.

But when Moore answered the phone this time and heard the name Eugene Cobbs, he stood on alert. He remembered the first chase.

The driver took him to a Kroger grocery store in nearby Sabraton, West Virginia, where he waited while the escapee went inside and received a Western Union money order.

The cabbie then drove Eugene an hour and a half to Pittsburgh and dropped him at a Greyhound station. And I got a call from a local cab company who advised that they had picked up Mr.

Moore started interviewing family members and acquaintances, and nobody knew a thing. She was eventually arrested for assisting in the escape.

But the account of how Moore eventually got his man is much less cinematic. The marshal was seated at his desk, the phone rang, and he was given an anonymous tip.

Simple as that. He did not put up a fight, although he did present false identification documents. Eugene was extradited from Mexico that very day and escorted to Los Angeles, where he was taken into custody by deputy marshals, then transported, once more, to West Virginia.

Back in Philadelphia, by the time Blair found out his dad had escaped, Eugene was soon back in custody. On August 11, , Eugene Cobbs pled guilty to the escape and was sentenced to 14 months, to be served consecutive to his prior sentence.

It was at that point that he decided to take a gamble on a flight to Las Vegas to try to get noticed, to try to get backing. It was a risky proposition.

He had a steady job and a girlfriend, Melissa. And to top it off, he and Melissa had recently welcomed a son of their own into the world.

He made the trip anyway. Once in Vegas he was able to get a few sparring sessions in front of some prominent eyes. But in the end, his manager at the time made a mess of things, Cobbs says.

He soon lost his apartment. His girlfriend and son stayed with one of her acquaintances, but Blair, unable to support himself, let alone a family, bounced around.

T hings in Philly remained bleak. It took him nearly a year to get back on his feet, both mentally and spiritually.

To get up and take another shot. Constantly moving from one place to the next. But dying too. Going through the worst experience I could possibly go through and surviving that to move on, to another level.

But did I really survive or did a piece of me just die in order to live on? There was a lot going on from a mental perspective. Finally, Cobbs caught a break.

He hooked up with Kenny Mason, a trainer who had worked with recent middleweight world champion Julian Williams. Cobbs began to find a rhythm with Mason.

Mason also gave him a place to crash. Sort of. It was literally a walk-in closet. But it was in that closet that Cobbs found God.

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