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Candy’s pink Softail died with the drama of a soap-opera diva fainting on a staircase. One second she was tearing down Texas FM 2920 toward Galveston and the Lone Star Rally, wind whipping her platinum hair into a cotton-candy cyclone, double-Ds doing the Macarena against her rhinestone-studded bikini top. The next second: pfffft. The engine coughed, backfired loud enough to sterilize nearby cattle, and rolled to a dusty stop outside Bugtussle (population 43, one blinking yellow light, and zero fucks).She kicked the stand down, stomped a glittery heel, and let loose a shriek that peeled paint off a nearby barn. “Like, are you kidding me right now?!” The bike answered with a sad little drip of oil that looked suspiciously like it was crying. Cue the tumbleweed. Cue the crickets. Cue the distant bark of a dog that sounded like it was laughing at her. Ten minutes later, salvation rumbled over the horizon in the form of a rat-rod trike the size of a small yacht. The driver was “Beef” Jericho—six-foot-seven, 320 pounds of tattooed, bearded, beer-soaked Texan glory. His cut read “President – Satan’s Saddle Sores MC.” His beard had its own zip code. His trike had a confederate flag airbrushed next to a naked mermaid riding a mechanical bull. Subtlety was not Beef’s strong suit. “Well butter my butt and call me a biscuit,” Beef drawled, killing the engine. “Ain’t every day a Barbie dream bike shits the bed in front of my cousin’s feed store.”Candy spun, hands on hips, boobs defying several laws of physics. “Hi! I’m Candy! My baby broke and I’m supposed to be in Galveston by tonight for the wet T-shirt contest! I have, like, sequined pasties and everything!”Beef’s eyes performed a cartoon boing. “Wet T-shirt, huh? Darlin’, you’re already winnin’ and you still got clothes on.” Flattery achieved. Five minutes of giggling and hair-flipping later, Candy was perched on the trike’s queen seat—basically a leopard-print La-Z-Boy bolted to the rear axle—clutching Beef’s spare helmet (bedazzled with a skull wearing lipstick, naturally). They roared off toward Houston, her skirt fluttering like a surrender flag made of dental floss. First stop: Beef’s “clubhouse,” which turned out to be a double-wide trailer behind a strip club called The Fuzzy Taillight. Inside: a dozen bikers playing beer-pong with motor oil, a stripper pole welded to a transmission, and a mechanical bull named Karen (because she never lets you finish).Candy took one look and squealed, “OMG group project!” She hopped on Karen the bull, cranked it to “Epileptic Bronc,” and immediately lost her top. The room erupted in cheers so loud the trailer actually rocked on its cinder blocks. Beef caught the flying bikini top like it was the game-winning touchdown and hung it from the clubhouse flagpole. Tradition, apparently. Two hours, three shots of something called “Unleaded,” and one very confused stripper named Mercedes later, the club voted unanimously: they were escorting Candy to Galveston in full parade formation. Twelve bikes, one trike, Candy riding bitch on Beef’s monster, topless except for two strategically placed Lone Star beer coozies that read “Hold My Beer and Watch This.” The convoy hit I-45 doing ninety, hazard lights blinking like a strip-club marquee. Every semi they passed laid on the horn in religious ecstasy. Candy waved like Miss America on molly, occasionally flashing truckers with the coozies for extra applause. Somewhere near Conroe a state trooper tried to pull them over. Beef just handed Candy a bullhorn. She leaned out and purred, “Officer, if you ticket us I’ll cry, and these are waterproof mascara tears—very expensive!” The trooper took one look, turned beet red, and waved them through. Texas justice. They finally limped into Galveston at sunset, the rally in full chaotic glory: burnouts, babes, and beer for three counties. Candy leapt off the trike, coozies still in place, and charged the main stage where the wet T-shirt finals were already underway. The MC took one look and declared an emergency bonus round: “Special guest—give it up for Candy and the Beer Coozie Couture!” The crowd lost its collective mind. Beef and the Saddle Sores formed a human barricade so Candy could mount the stage unmolested (well, mostly). Someone handed her a five-gallon bucket. She dumped it over herself like a baptism in cheap light beer. The coozies floated away like pastel lily pads, revealing the grand finale: nipple tassels shaped like tiny Texas stars that actually twinkled (LED pasties—because of course she had those).The judges didn’t even pretend to deliberate. First place, a custom trophy shaped like a giant chrome dildo on a pedestal, was hers. Candy grabbed the mic, soaking wet and triumphant: “This one’s for my baby that broke down in Bugtussle and for Beef’s magic trike that totally vibrated in all the right places!” Later that night, in Beef’s rally tent the size of a circus big-top, the celebration reached biblical levels of debauchery. Candy rode Beef like he was the mechanical bull, the trophy, and the entire state of Texas all at once. There were accidental elbows, a near-concussion with a bedpost shaped like longhorns, and at one point someone’s beard got stuck in her navel ring. Highlights included Candy discovering Beef’s Prince Albert piercing and yelling “It’s like a built-in handlebar—vroom vroom!” and Beef discovering that silicone really does bounce (science!).Morning found them tangled in a pile of empty beer cans and American flags, Candy using Beef’s beard as a pillow. She kissed his forehead, leaving a perfect pink lip print. “Thanks for the rescue, cowboy. Next breakdown, I’m aiming for your zip code on purpose.” Beef just grinned, scratched his belly, and fired up the trike. “Sugar, anytime your bike shits the bed, you just whistle. Hell, I’ll sabotage the damn thing myself.” And somewhere back on FM 2920, Candy’s pink Softail sat quietly under the stars, oil pan still weeping, secretly proud it had played matchmaker to the greatest Lone Star hookup since the Alamo. Candy: 1. Texas highways: 0.Long live the breakdown. A Bimbo Named Candy: Lone Star Breakdown Bonanza Motorcycle club in need of donations Biker gang member faces prison for multiple probation violations in deadly bar shootout OUTLAW MOTORCYCLE CLUB SHOOTOUT 3 DEAD and 3 WOUNDED (JUDGEMENT DAY) Update: Shooting between Rock Machine and Vagos MC Press Release

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