Candy throttled her bubblegum-pink Harley into the Devil’s Dust Rally like she was late for a gangbang at the pearly gates. Her bleach-blonde mane flapped like a flag of surrender in a wind tunnel, and her leather vest—zipped lower than a trust-fund kid’s morals—barely corralled her gravity-defying double-Ds, which jiggled like overinflated whoopee cushions. “Easy, boys,” she’d coo to the slack-jawed outlaws, “these puppies bite back.
“The rally was a three-day clusterfuck of Harleys, hernias, and herpes handshakes. Candy, self-proclaimed “Queen of the Chrome Cleavage,” spotted Big Bubba—president of the Iron Cocks MC, whose beer gut hung like a deflated blimp over his belt buckle. “New tailpipe?” he belched, leering at her fishnets stretched tighter than a nun’s knickers.
Candy popped her gum—flavored like regret and Red Bull—and flashed a grin whiter than her roots. “Bubba, sweetie, I’m not tailpipe. I’m the exhaust that leaves you gassed.” The bet hit like a bad burrito: Candy vs. the MC’s finest for a 100-mile death drag. Loser forks over their hog and a lap dance from the winner’s choice of inflatable doll.
Dawn cracked like a cheap condom, and they blasted off. Bubba led, but Candy played dirty—honking her horn while mooning with one cheek (the non-motorized kind). At mile 20, Slick Rick wiped out chasing her skirt’s updraft, embedding his beard in a cow patty.
“Moo-ve over, buttercup!” she cackled. Mile 50: Bubba’s bike seized, overheating from her “accidental” tit-flash that blinded him like a solar eclipse in stilettos. The rest domino’d—chains snapping like spinster spin classes, tires popping like champagne corks at a divorce party.
Candy whooped across the line solo, vest flapping like a victory flag on Viagra. She claimed Bubba’s Softail, mounting it sidesaddle with a wink. “See? Brains over brawn—mine’s just in my boobs.
“Twist? A state trooper sirens in, all mustache and misplaced authority. “Ma’am, that’s a felony felony.” Candy batted lashes like faulty windshield wipers. “Officer, ever pull over a girl who can rev your engine and your ego?” He holstered his cuffs with a grin. “Rally’s busted. But my bunker’s got room for one more rider.
“Candy revved off, cackling. In biker lore, every finish line’s a false alarm. Hers? A full-throttle felony with fuzzy dice.
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