7/16/2020
A lone cow shudders in fear as her rural grazing field is directly across from a well-established motorcycle watering hole. Sporting leather boots, chaps, vests, jackets, and hats, the clientele proudly ‘coat racks’ the former hides of cattle past. Even the females of the gangs, have stuffed their pair of enhanced breasts into a leather halter top that may have housed 5 udders at one time. With scooping techniques, one never knows where breast begins and back fat ends. When the summer sun employs temperatures that run up the biker’s core climate and sheds thermal layers of clothing, the tattooed artwork on the human canvases are revealed. Da Vincis, Rembrandts and Picassos, are portrayed like a mobile art gallery. Sweat and spilled cold beer cool off the rowdies and amplify the rainbow inks permanently etched into the hides of the hot heads. Laughter and loud voices permeate the tavern timbers that house the rambunctious crowd as their blood alcohols climb. Outside, the stories surface of great times past, and anticipation grows that today will be a fantastic, future memory. Displaying their chrome and horsepower to another member of the 2-wheeled terrorists will only agitate the 2 parties, but respect and a disciplinary look from the leaders will quell the younger members who are looking for a gain in the pecking order. With the biker chicks aboard, this will be a peaceful rally. As the bar till fattens and friendships are forged, the order is given to mount up and ride on. As the one gang dons their colors emblazoned on the back of their leather jackets, a head count is made to ensure that no member is left behind. A quick scan of the highway looking for stray cages (cars) and cops, and it’s off to the next bar. Acceleration is standard protocol in an exit formation, as the intense rumble bounces off buildings and hillsides. For half a minute, tranny shifts and throaty engine sounds fill the air as Betsy the cow runs away, leaking milk profusely.
Torked Truth 