Episode 51: Cantina Finally Reopens
By Robin Technologies |
Yeah, they closed the Cantina last October, almost a year to the day. Bandit went to work for the VA while going to court every couple of months fighting for his liquor license, and Marko packed up and flew to Iraq to train security forces. Some of the girls were forced to take jobs at Canatti’s Fish and Chips joint. The Chinaman took over the galley at Shamrock’s Fish Market and got fired six months later for improving their bland salsa.
Here’s what happened: Just a week before Biketoberfest on the east coast, Bandit’s Cantina gang was celebrating the end of the summer, preparations for Halloween parties, the full moon, who gives a fuck. They celebrated every weekend it wasn?t raining. The joint cranked from dawn to after midnight every day. The crowds grew, the girls flocked and fucked after- hours and life was good until Jerry started to hang around.
A squat local biker with a bobber built by Bandit cruised up to the Cantina, rapped his shotgun straight pipes and rattled the windows. He scrambled off the bike and yanked open the heavy arched Oak door to the saloon and dining room.
“Where you headed?” Frankie shouted from across the parking lot.
He was sweeping leaves and cigarette butts from the freshly laid, dark surface with a broad push broom. Jerry knew Frankie from his alcoholic days and Frankie knew Jerry as a wise-ass kid from the ghetto.
“What’s it to you, old man?” Jerry shouted.
“You don’t drink,” Frankie said.
“Neither do you,” Jerry said. “At least you?d better not.”
“Seven years straight,” Frankie said.
Frankie was less than 50 years of age, but looked 90, whereas Jerry crested 40 and still looked a pudgy 30 with a sharp goatee and thick matted hair that never needed combing.
“Yeah, yeah,” Jerry spat at the curb and pulled on his drooping denims over tan leatherwork boots. He worked construction off and on.
“Don’t bring your wives around here,” Frankie said, thinking back to Jerry’s last visit to Bandit’s Cantina, and turned back to his broom.
Frankie didn’t have much going and Bandit saved his scurvy ass with a menial job fixing and sweeping around the Cantina. Jerry just shook his head and pulled at the big thick door.
Inside the place was smokin.’ There were wall-to-wall girls, in addition to the hot-looking barmaids. The bar was packed with riders and happy patrons. Marko immediately approached Jerry with a stern stare.
“We don’t need your trouble around here,” Marko said.
“No problem,” Jerry mutter, but his phone went off in his pocket, screaming, “Where you at?” Rap music followed.
“She’s not a problem,” Jerry said and saw a riding partner belly up to the bar. “I promise, no problem. Sorry about the last time.”
Marko shook his head and wandered off. It was happy hour on a Friday and the Cantina was rapidly filling up as the sun drifted over the harbor and the sunset streaked the sky to the west, another knockout day on the coast.
Jeremiah’s phone rang again and this time he answered it.
“What are you doing?” Carla quizzed.
“I’m just hanging out with some pals,” Jerry returned. The phone went quiet for 10 seconds.
“You’re at the Cantina!” Carla shouted. “I knew it! I told you to never go there again!”
“Give it a break, will ya?” Jeremiah said.
“I want to take the kids to the movies,” she snapped. “I need you to bring me 50 dollars, right now.”
“Later,” Jerry said.
“Right now!” Carla spat.
“I paid child support,” Jerry said.
“What difference does that make?” Carla said. “I’ll call child services.?
“Gimme an hour,” Jerry said.
“Bring it now!”
Jerry hung up and returned to the bar. Nyla looked particularly sexy this Friday evening with her soft creamy boobs spilling out of her gathered blouse. A dark-haired girl approached Jerry and Bad Brad and started talking bikes and the Horse Smoke Out rocking the Arizona hills 50 miles from Sedona a few weeks prior.
She wasn’t the floozy type or the needy broad who wanted everything, every minute of the day. She seemed upbeat and ready for some fun. She reeked of a tomboy edge, but she was voluptuous, like Jerry preferred in women. Wearing a light flannel shirt unbuttoned to the center of her chest, her tan, abundant cleavage was delightfully visible and Jerry went for it like dog after a steak bone.
Chinaman, wearing a stained white chef’s frock delivered steaming chips, salsa and fresh cool spicy guacamole in a pottery dish. Everything dazzled Jerry’s eyes like a kid under fresh Christmas pine needles and dazzling Christmas tree ornaments.
An hour passed and his cell phone screamed, but Jerry paid little attention. Jerry bought Amanda another Gold Cadillac Margarita and her big dark eyes glistened in the waning sunlight off the harbor. She attended the local community college and worked at Home Depot in San Pedro. They talked of construction, hardware and building tools. She was making Jerry’s day as she smiled and the edge of her soft natural areola showed under the hem of her shirt. She drove him nuts.
Between numerous repair jobs and remodeling kitchens and baths, Jeremiah struggled with two ex-wives and three bastard kids. Plus his home situation with his brother and wife lacked cohesiveness and calm surroundings. Amanda’s smooth gaze, brilliant white teeth and mountains of curves took him away from all the heartache and turmoil to a soft, delightful escape.
Tina dropped a tray of margaritas as she headed to a new, large table of patrons. The Cantina erupted in laughter and applause. Tina did that every night and Marko suspected that it was a scheme to show off her new giant boob job as she leaned to clean up the mess. Or he assumed Bandit worked it out with her to break the edge, if the Cantina went quiet or to distract patrons barking fighting words. Whatever, it always worked.
The new group of eight jammed around the large table as if to celebrate a birthday. They were new to the Cantina and Marko overheard one guy who looked like a suit mention Long Beach.
Tina returned to the bar to reload her large bar tray with Margaritas. She apologized to the group for the delay and gave them all an additional shot of Quervo Gold. The Chinaman’s busboy delivered fresh salsa chips and guac and the party began.
By the second round of Margaritas, the cameras came out and were flashing mostly around a young blond broad while she sipped her drink and smiled with tanned surfer-girl features.
Marko grabbed Tina by the arm. “Did you card her?” he said.
“Yeah, but she didn’t have her purse,” Tina muttered spinning past Marko to collect another order. “Her boss vouched for her.”
Just then, Marko’s walkie-talkie squawked. “Undercover cops,” Frankie said, as Marko approached the large table in the center of the sprawling adobe dining room.
“Excuse me,” Marko said to the suit. “I need to see an ID for before we serve any more drinks to her.”
The lanky gent stood up abruptly, “Too late,” he said and pulled his wallet from his slacks, flashing it open to show his ABC (Alcohol and Beverage Control) badge, just as the front door burst open, and several undercover cops blazed in, flashing badges and shouting.
“We’re closing this establishment until further notice and a hearing to investigate under-age drinking,” the officer bellowed across the room. Other officers began to handcuff Tina, Shiela and Nyla.
Marko stepped to the side and behind a pillar. As a cop handcuffed the big round Chinaman, Marko slid outside through the galley and disappeared over the wharf wall to the briny water below where he kept a kayak tied to a pier leg. Bandit was never seen or arrested, but he bailed out all of his employees before the night was over.
Jerry tried to stay with Amanda as the crowd hurried out the front doors, but she slipped away and he found himself standing beside his bobber as other riders talked about the uproar and mounted their bikes. Most were afraid of DUIs and walked across the street to buy energy drinks at the liquor store.
Jerry’s phone rang again. “Where you at?” it shouted and he pulled it free from his Levis.
“What?”
“I told you I wanted money,” Carla slurred in her snotty fashion. “Now you might as well bring me the money. I closed your bar.”
“You what?” Jerry spat.
“I called the ABC and told them I’m 18 and drink there all the time,” Carla said and hung up.
“Fuck,” Jerry said hanging up his phone and straddling his black and gold bobber.
“You brought one of your bitch ol’ ladies again,” Frankie said watching all the patrons leave.
“I suppose you’re right,” Jerry said kicking the Shovelhead. “I’m sorry man.”
“You need to take control of the situation, not let the situation control you,” Frankie said and pushed the broom toward the shed behind the Cantina.
The Easyriders Hunt For Miss Fusion
By Robin Technologies |
When Mr. Dave Nichols of Easyriders magazine gave us the “green light” to shoot the Fusion Chop, we were stoked. The first step was finding the perfect model who would fit the Fusion girl part. The search began.
Let me tell you, it was no easy task. At the time, someone was working at the shop who claimed to have a “Keamoku connection.” If you’re not familiar with the area of Keamoku, it’s an area located on the outskirts of Waikiki that caters to Strip Club patrons.
Once the dark side of the island area was discovered, it was time to assemble the dedicated posse to hunt down the perfect Fusion Scientist model. The first eager hunter was Roger, the “Mad Doctor,” myself, “the Planner,” George, the “Banker” (and his three bodyguards), and Scotty whose claim to fame is that he had the inside track on some of the most gorgeous lady dancers. As soon as we gathered the posse, we hauled ass to the clubs to hunt down our next Miss Fusion.
Naturally we choose a weeknight because the weekends are too crowded, and it would make it easier for us to get a better, much closer look. As we stumbled into the first club we were swarmed by ladies all asking the same question, “buy me drinky?” After getting seated, drinks in hand, our first contestant danced her way onto the dank stage.
Even though it was a bit dark, we all knew there was something wrong with this picture. The girl wasn’t ugly but she looked like she could husk a coconut with her bare hands. After watching more dancers with less masculine qualities, we saw some beautiful babes, but like most beautiful women, we couldn’t afford the heavy price tag slapped on them.
So it was on to plan B. You know the story–I know this guy who knows this guy who knows this girl, blah, blah, blah. It was another plan that would get us nowhere. So it was on to plan C, which would include trying some bikini models and seeing where that would get us. We had several girls stop by the shop to show us their stuff. But as soon as we told them it was a topless shoot, the price jumped up and we jumped off!
The final plan came down to George contacting some old acquaintances. After a few phone calls, we finally had our models. That’s right models, with an “S.” We had two models, one willing to go topless and the other willing to do the bikini. Either way, we were in good shape because the hunt was over and we could finally shoot the bike.
When the day finally arrived, we all sat around Raymond’s Studio eagerly awaiting the arrival of the Fusion bike. Of course, what’s a bike shoot without a little drama? Before the bike arrived, we received a phone call from George telling us that the bike fell over on the trailer.
Roger and I jumped in the truck and went to assess the damage. We first made a note: never let the banker lock down a ground-up bike on a trailer. Sweatin’ like pigs we arrived on the scene. The damage wasn’t tragic and luckily, it could be fixed and touched up for the purpose of the shoot.
After properly securing the bike, we finally arrived at the studio where two, not one, but two models awaited our return. It may have been a little awkward, but it was definitely the best of both worlds!
The Easyriders Hunt For Miss Fusion
By Robin Technologies |
When Mr. Dave Nichols of Easyriders magazine gave us the “green light” to shoot the Fusion Chop, we were stoked. The first step was finding the perfect model who would fit the Fusion girl part. The search began.
Let me tell you, it was no easy task. At the time, someone was working at the shop who claimed to have a “Keamoku connection.” If you’re not familiar with the area of Keamoku, it’s an area located on the outskirts of Waikiki that caters to Strip Club patrons.
Once the dark side of the island area was discovered, it was time to assemble the dedicated posse to hunt down the perfect Fusion Scientist model. The first eager hunter was Roger, the “Mad Doctor,” myself, “the Planner,” George, the “Banker” (and his three bodyguards), and Scotty whose claim to fame is that he had the inside track on some of the most gorgeous lady dancers. As soon as we gathered the posse, we hauled ass to the clubs to hunt down our next Miss Fusion.
Naturally we choose a weeknight because the weekends are too crowded, and it would make it easier for us to get a better, much closer look. As we stumbled into the first club we were swarmed by ladies all asking the same question, “buy me drinky?” After getting seated, drinks in hand, our first contestant danced her way onto the dank stage.
Even though it was a bit dark, we all knew there was something wrong with this picture. The girl wasn’t ugly but she looked like she could husk a coconut with her bare hands. After watching more dancers with less masculine qualities, we saw some beautiful babes, but like most beautiful women, we couldn’t afford the heavy price tag slapped on them.
So it was on to plan B. You know the story–I know this guy who knows this guy who knows this girl, blah, blah, blah. It was another plan that would get us nowhere. So it was on to plan C, which would include trying some bikini models and seeing where that would get us. We had several girls stop by the shop to show us their stuff. But as soon as we told them it was a topless shoot, the price jumped up and we jumped off!
The final plan came down to George contacting some old acquaintances. After a few phone calls, we finally had our models. That’s right models, with an “S.” We had two models, one willing to go topless and the other willing to do the bikini. Either way, we were in good shape because the hunt was over and we could finally shoot the bike.
When the day finally arrived, we all sat around Raymond’s Studio eagerly awaiting the arrival of the Fusion bike. Of course, what’s a bike shoot without a little drama? Before the bike arrived, we received a phone call from George telling us that the bike fell over on the trailer.
Roger and I jumped in the truck and went to assess the damage. We first made a note: never let the banker lock down a ground-up bike on a trailer. Sweatin’ like pigs we arrived on the scene. The damage wasn’t tragic and luckily, it could be fixed and touched up for the purpose of the shoot.
After properly securing the bike, we finally arrived at the studio where two, not one, but two models awaited our return. It may have been a little awkward, but it was definitely the best of both worlds!
You Have Mail!
By Robin Technologies |
Damn that would make a good movie title. Oh well, I will ponder that later. You see, there is a reason I do not leave the computer speakers on all the time–that little damn noise my computer makes when I get mail. Today is a perfect example, started at 7:40 AM with an e-mail from the Johnny Humble asking me to send him the GOB feature Bandit told him I had ready. Hell at 7:40 in the morning I have just gone to bed, besides Bandit was goofing off in Nepal or wherever the hell they went this time!
Second, it’s the weekend and that means time to number my socks! To say the least, I do not have the GOB ready, ‘cause I was prepared to submit it when Bandit returned. Figuring I handled the situation and knowing I had plenty of time before they return back to the US of A, I went riding for the day. Upon my return that evening, another e-mail arrived, this time from the boss inquiring about the GOB feature and why I didn’t sent it? Cause it’s not done. I did mention this right?
So I figured that fate of the world must be riding on my GOB submission. I stood at attention and faced the task of hours upon hours in front of the computer preparing the pictures. Ah, but looking at these images of the lovely Ranell sitting upon the Lucky Devil Metal Works – Blue Devil made my week sparkle.
You might ask yourself what could possibly need to be done to these images to make them suitable for viewing?
Not only is the lovely Ms. Ranell Oh So Sexy and a terrific model who follows direction extremely well, “You sure seem to enjoy telling me to take off my clothes,” she said…(evil grin).
She is also not afraid to throw down in a bar parking lot when some bitch pisses her off, so while she has a 21 year old body, I had to spend time fixing the concrete rash on her side and the numerous bruises. I guess when babe’s fight there must be some genetic thing that keeps them from leaving battle scars on each other’s faces? By the way she won!
The fine little blue machine Ranell is draped upon, is from Lucky Devil Metal Works in Houston, Texas and while they will build you any ground up custom you desire or even modify your current ride into any shape you choose, the devil is also a licensed manufacture and this machine is just one of 4 production models they produce and sell through Lucky Devil Custom Cycles. Each of the production bikes is based upon the basic platform for that model, but with the devils own custom touch placed on the sheet metal and pipes. It may be based on a Lucky Devil production bike, but it sure doesn’t need to look exactly like the one that came before it. It got the Devil’s touch.
This little blue beast is powered by an S&S 96-inch motor with a Rivera-Primo 6-speed transmission, as well as a Primo 3- inch open belt drive. The custom made oil bag and hidden battery box is the devil’s own creation, along with some special attention given to the Mustang tank as well. Even the brake rotors have the not escaped the devils hand with Lucky Devil’s own Devil Tail rotors front & rear and Performance Machine calipers providing the bite.
You might have also noticed that this bike has some attitude with the Ben Hur styled front-end rocker spikes, did you notice the “devil horns” on top of the springer front end?
So in the wee hours of the morning after finally getting the images touched up, I figure I might as well send some contact sheets to the boss to see what images he might want to use so I can get them sent over the Internet to Bikernet HQ located in a plush doublewide somewhere in Bakersfield. Hell at this hour the only one going to be there anyway is the janitor. And what do I get for all my trouble…an e-mail from Bandit, “I’ll handle it when I return to the states. Go back to bed.”
So upon the return I sent e-mail inquiring as to the required image size to help speed the process along. “Oh just make them roughly this size,” he replied.
OK, no problem, images resized, CD burned & labeled, send a couple teaser images in an e-mail to share, headed for the mailbox and another e-mail! This time with the message is, “Well if your gonna send a CD then make the images this size now.”
Are you kidding me? OK, once again images resized, CD burned and labeled and finally mailed!
Finally I can kick back, enjoy an adult beverage and I’ll be damned, another e-mail, “Where’s the goddamn story?”
Till next time,
–RFR
Regular Stuff
Owner: Jim Sutherland
Bike Name: Blue Devil
City/State: Houston Texas
Builder: Lucky Devil
City/state: Houston Texas (holly@luckydevilcustomcycles.com )
Fabrication: Lucky Devil Metal Works
Manufacturing: Lucky Devil Machine Works
Welding: Lucky Devil Metal Works
Machining: Lucky Devil Machine Works
Engine
Year: 2005
Make: S&S
Model: Evo style
Displacement: 96″
Builder or Rebuilder:S&S
Carburetion: S&S super E
Transmission
Year: ‘05
Make: Primo
Gear configuration: 6-speed
Final drive: Chain
Primary: Primo 3″ open Belt
Clutch: Primo
Frame
Year: ‘05
Make: Santee / Molested by Mr Devil
Style or Model: Rigid Chopper
Stretch: Yup
Rake: 38 Degrees
Modifications: removed standard neck gussets and fabricated new tubular gussets, top motormount, oil bag mounts and battery box cover, seat mounts, molded side plate/taillight mount and sissybar.
Front End
Make: Sam springer
Model: flame engraved springer
Year: ‘05
Length: 8″ over
Mods: custom headlight mount
Sheet metal
Tanks: stretched and molded mustang tank
Fenders: RWD rear fender reshaped and trimmed with round stock.
Panels: L.D.M.W side switch covers
Oil tank: Lucky Devil Metal Works
Paint
Sheet metal: Lucky Devil Paint Works
Molding: Chino
Base coat: Mike Landburg
Graphics: Ken Hill
Frame: Lucky Devil Paint Works
Molding: Chino
Base coat: Mike Landburg
Wheels
Front
Make: DNA
Size: 21″
Brake calipers: P.M.
Brake rotor(s): Lucky Devil Tail Rotors
Tire: Avon Speedmaster
Rear
Make:DNA
Size: 16″
Brake calipers: P.M.
Brake rotor: Lucky Devil Tail Rotors
Pulley: PBI sprocket
Tire: Maxis classic
Controls
Foot controls: Legend
Finish: Chrome
Brake lines: Magnum Platnum
Handlebar controls: BDL
Finish: Chrome
Clutch Cable: Magnum Platnum
Brake Lines Magnum Platnum
Shifting: foot
Electrical
Ignition: Dyna 2000i
Ignition switch: Toggle
Coils: Dyna Mini coils
Regulator: CCI
Charging: CCI
Wiring: Lucky Devil Metal Works
Headlight: CCI
Taillight: V- Twin
Switches: No stinkin' switches
What's Left
Seat: Joe Noack / Lucky Devil Seat Works
Pipes: Lucky Devil Metal Works
Exhaust finish: Polidyne
Gas caps: Hot Match pop up
Handlebars: CCI 18″ apes
Grips: Legend
Pegs: Legend
Oil filter: perform
Oil cooler: Perform
Oil lines: Maximum platnum
Fuel filter:CCI
Fuel Lines:CCI
Throttle: Ness
Throttle cables: Maximum Platnum
Fasteners: Gardner Westcott
Specialty items: Custom fabricated deviltail exhaust mounts.
Comments: All Lucky Devil ground up builds are done with a high level of quality, one at a time, under a state and federal manufacturing license.
Credits: While I don’t have any full time employees, I am Lucky enough to have some of the best help in the world, when I need it, as well as some good friends and customers. All I can say is, Thank you for letting me stand on your shoulders!
You Have Mail!
By Robin Technologies |
Damn that would make a good movie title. Oh well, I will ponder that later. You see, there is a reason I do not leave the computer speakers on all the time–that little damn noise my computer makes when I get mail. Today is a perfect example, started at 7:40 AM with an e-mail from the Johnny Humble asking me to send him the GOB feature Bandit told him I had ready. Hell at 7:40 in the morning I have just gone to bed, besides Bandit was goofing off in Nepal or wherever the hell they went this time!
Second, it’s the weekend and that means time to number my socks! To say the least, I do not have the GOB ready, ‘cause I was prepared to submit it when Bandit returned. Figuring I handled the situation and knowing I had plenty of time before they return back to the US of A, I went riding for the day. Upon my return that evening, another e-mail arrived, this time from the boss inquiring about the GOB feature and why I didn’t sent it? Cause it’s not done. I did mention this right?
So I figured that fate of the world must be riding on my GOB submission. I stood at attention and faced the task of hours upon hours in front of the computer preparing the pictures. Ah, but looking at these images of the lovely Ranell sitting upon the Lucky Devil Metal Works – Blue Devil made my week sparkle.
You might ask yourself what could possibly need to be done to these images to make them suitable for viewing?
Not only is the lovely Ms. Ranell Oh So Sexy and a terrific model who follows direction extremely well, “You sure seem to enjoy telling me to take off my clothes,” she said…(evil grin).
She is also not afraid to throw down in a bar parking lot when some bitch pisses her off, so while she has a 21 year old body, I had to spend time fixing the concrete rash on her side and the numerous bruises. I guess when babe’s fight there must be some genetic thing that keeps them from leaving battle scars on each other’s faces? By the way she won!
The fine little blue machine Ranell is draped upon, is from Lucky Devil Metal Works in Houston, Texas and while they will build you any ground up custom you desire or even modify your current ride into any shape you choose, the devil is also a licensed manufacture and this machine is just one of 4 production models they produce and sell through Lucky Devil Custom Cycles. Each of the production bikes is based upon the basic platform for that model, but with the devils own custom touch placed on the sheet metal and pipes. It may be based on a Lucky Devil production bike, but it sure doesn’t need to look exactly like the one that came before it. It got the Devil’s touch.
This little blue beast is powered by an S&S 96-inch motor with a Rivera-Primo 6-speed transmission, as well as a Primo 3- inch open belt drive. The custom made oil bag and hidden battery box is the devil’s own creation, along with some special attention given to the Mustang tank as well. Even the brake rotors have the not escaped the devils hand with Lucky Devil’s own Devil Tail rotors front & rear and Performance Machine calipers providing the bite.
You might have also noticed that this bike has some attitude with the Ben Hur styled front-end rocker spikes, did you notice the “devil horns” on top of the springer front end?
So in the wee hours of the morning after finally getting the images touched up, I figure I might as well send some contact sheets to the boss to see what images he might want to use so I can get them sent over the Internet to Bikernet HQ located in a plush doublewide somewhere in Bakersfield. Hell at this hour the only one going to be there anyway is the janitor. And what do I get for all my trouble…an e-mail from Bandit, “I’ll handle it when I return to the states. Go back to bed.”
So upon the return I sent e-mail inquiring as to the required image size to help speed the process along. “Oh just make them roughly this size,” he replied.
OK, no problem, images resized, CD burned & labeled, send a couple teaser images in an e-mail to share, headed for the mailbox and another e-mail! This time with the message is, “Well if your gonna send a CD then make the images this size now.”
Are you kidding me? OK, once again images resized, CD burned and labeled and finally mailed!
Finally I can kick back, enjoy an adult beverage and I’ll be damned, another e-mail, “Where’s the goddamn story?”
Till next time,
–RFR
Regular Stuff
Owner: Jim Sutherland
Bike Name: Blue Devil
City/State: Houston Texas
Builder: Lucky Devil
City/state: Houston Texas (holly@luckydevilcustomcycles.com )
Fabrication: Lucky Devil Metal Works
Manufacturing: Lucky Devil Machine Works
Welding: Lucky Devil Metal Works
Machining: Lucky Devil Machine Works
Engine
Year: 2005
Make: S&S
Model: Evo style
Displacement: 96″
Builder or Rebuilder:S&S
Carburetion: S&S super E
Transmission
Year: ‘05
Make: Primo
Gear configuration: 6-speed
Final drive: Chain
Primary: Primo 3″ open Belt
Clutch: Primo
Frame
Year: ‘05
Make: Santee / Molested by Mr Devil
Style or Model: Rigid Chopper
Stretch: Yup
Rake: 38 Degrees
Modifications: removed standard neck gussets and fabricated new tubular gussets, top motormount, oil bag mounts and battery box cover, seat mounts, molded side plate/taillight mount and sissybar.
Front End
Make: Sam springer
Model: flame engraved springer
Year: ‘05
Length: 8″ over
Mods: custom headlight mount
Sheet metal
Tanks: stretched and molded mustang tank
Fenders: RWD rear fender reshaped and trimmed with round stock.
Panels: L.D.M.W side switch covers
Oil tank: Lucky Devil Metal Works
Paint
Sheet metal: Lucky Devil Paint Works
Molding: Chino
Base coat: Mike Landburg
Graphics: Ken Hill
Frame: Lucky Devil Paint Works
Molding: Chino
Base coat: Mike Landburg
Wheels
Front
Make: DNA
Size: 21″
Brake calipers: P.M.
Brake rotor(s): Lucky Devil Tail Rotors
Tire: Avon Speedmaster
Rear
Make:DNA
Size: 16″
Brake calipers: P.M.
Brake rotor: Lucky Devil Tail Rotors
Pulley: PBI sprocket
Tire: Maxis classic
Controls
Foot controls: Legend
Finish: Chrome
Brake lines: Magnum Platnum
Handlebar controls: BDL
Finish: Chrome
Clutch Cable: Magnum Platnum
Brake Lines Magnum Platnum
Shifting: foot
Electrical
Ignition: Dyna 2000i
Ignition switch: Toggle
Coils: Dyna Mini coils
Regulator: CCI
Charging: CCI
Wiring: Lucky Devil Metal Works
Headlight: CCI
Taillight: V- Twin
Switches: No stinkin' switches
What's Left
Seat: Joe Noack / Lucky Devil Seat Works
Pipes: Lucky Devil Metal Works
Exhaust finish: Polidyne
Gas caps: Hot Match pop up
Handlebars: CCI 18″ apes
Grips: Legend
Pegs: Legend
Oil filter: perform
Oil cooler: Perform
Oil lines: Maximum platnum
Fuel filter:CCI
Fuel Lines:CCI
Throttle: Ness
Throttle cables: Maximum Platnum
Fasteners: Gardner Westcott
Specialty items: Custom fabricated deviltail exhaust mounts.
Comments: All Lucky Devil ground up builds are done with a high level of quality, one at a time, under a state and federal manufacturing license.
Credits: While I don’t have any full time employees, I am Lucky enough to have some of the best help in the world, when I need it, as well as some good friends and customers. All I can say is, Thank you for letting me stand on your shoulders!
The last Rebel
By Robin Technologies |
Editor’s Note: We flew this feature in from Europe. I tried to leave the vocabulary alone. I gotta say that this is one helluva feature, as you’ll agree. It’s a street ride with a nasty looking babe and the photography is killer, enjoy.–Bandit
The sun sets over the dusty old freight depot. Thousands and thousands of cows had been moved from here to the industry-cities everywhere. It was the thin line between the open prairie and the manmade iron track, the connection between freedom and ratsrace.
Such is the bike for its owner and builder Jo from Duisburg, Germany. The vehicle for escape, for transportation and the medium to feel free. He built it free from all forces and duties. Nobody would’ve ever told him how it has to be built. He followed his own thoughts and dreams, attaching parts that symbolize freedom of spirit. Leaving behind the need for chrome and polish, color and poor shine.
The history of the bike is somehow complex and unclear. Fact is that it came to light in the not so famous AMF-era, dated in 1976. Then it went through hands in Massachusetts and Wisconsin before in late ‘90s it was shipped to Germany. Somewhere on the tour the papers got lost. For that reason, the bike was held back by German authorities for quite a while. Then it was declared free and came to a Duisburg customizer as “carrier of parts,” just with the little difference that all parts were assembled and so they made a complete bike. But as the Germans say, “if there is a will there will be a way.” It was possible to get that bike out of customs-jail tagged as different parts.
Reaching the customizer’s garage his chief-mechanic at once fell in love with that old bike. Okay, it was light blue and lots of things attached that weren’t necessary for riding at all, and the condition was quite poor. But Jo looked into the heart of the old Shovel and was caught. You should know that in those days, Jo started a homepage with the address www.shovel-head.de, a fan-site for the enthusiasts for the Shovels. Running that site for quite a while he made a lot of needful contacts to reanimate that bike again.
First of all he disassembled the parts to get an idea how possible a recreation could be, and he was impressed. The engine showed good condition but the transmission’s teeth came up with heavy caries. Jo changed it and decided to replace it with a used but good ratchet top. He changed the pistons and valves, did some fittings replacements and finally attached a Dyna-ignition for a smoother run. That was all and it didn’t even take too long. While working on the bike he did investigations via web and phone to gain information he needed to get new papers and make the bike street-legal later on.
After he cleaned-up the frame and painted it shiny black, he attached the reengineered motor back to the frame. At last he combined a Super-E-carb for the intake with a 2-inch bigbore exhaust ending in Straightshooter pipes. That was the time Jo planned on bobbing that bike. An old skool bobber, biker-like ape and springer-front end it ought to be. He cut 2 inches off the Springer-Softail forks to come closer to the ground, and modified the middle-shock. Much more ultimate, he modified the rear suspension. He cut out a little of the chromed FL-shocks and welded the parts together. That made a hardtail with an FL-view. Hard but nice.
To stick to the cowboy image he used several gimmicks to underline that. Starting with the sheriff’s mirror, it not even ends with the cartridge-strap around the primary drive. Everywhere you can find more cowboy-designs as the 6-shot-clip at the caps of the footpegs and the revolver-shaped pegs themselves. The right gun even includes the mechanism of the brake-controls. The seat Jo took from his 43 WL he owned before and was covered with brown suede.
The girl is not so old movie-actress specialized on costume- and fetish-erotic films. Zara Drake is known in the business for acting extravagant and showing lots of fun while being in front of the camera. Now she often changes sides and works behind the camera as well. We definitely love her in front of the single eye, matching perfect with black and shiny bikes in her shiny leather garment. She enjoyed it a lot to show her things in that old facility. So I hope you enjoy as well. The two last rebels, maybe on the run now…
The Basics
Owner: Jo Beyer
Home: Duisburg, Germany
Builder: Jo himself
Year/Model: HD FLH 1200 from 1976
Time to Build: three months
Cost to Build: 3000 Euro (4500 $)
Chromer: Jo’s Garage
Painter: Jo
Engine
Engine: reengineered OEM FLH
Pistons: new, 1st oversize
Carbs: Mikuni HSR
Air Cleaner: W&W Cycles
Exhaust: straightshooter 2“ bore
Final Drive: chain
Chassis
Frame: OEM FLH
Front Suspension: Springer Softail, 2“ cut, chromed, modified shock
Swingarm: FLH
Rear Suspension: FLH shocks, inwards cut and welded together, hardtailed now!
Wheels
Front Wheel: 3×16 rim with 130/90-16
Rear Wheel: 3×16 rim with 130/90-16
Front Brakes: HD Springer Softail
Rear Brake: calipers HD modified, rotor STD
Fenders: heavily modified, rearfender with railings for fastening bags, railings made from VA-rods and Gericke-mirror-mounts
Accessories
Accessories: custom mirrors, revolver-footpegs, rearfender-medal made from belt-buckle, several revolver-sixshot-clip-designs, kicker-pedal from mountainbike
Headlight: custom
Taillight: selfbuilt attachment, lamp cateye
Fuel Tank: 4-gallons-HD
Handlebars: Fehling Ape 45 cm (18”)
Seat: 43 WL
Pegs: OTC revolver, the right one’s clip-case-pin is the brake-mechanism. The OTCs forgot that a Harley has a sidestand, that didn’t fit anymore and had to move backwards
Hand Controls: HD
Mirrors: Rebuffini
Foot Controls: OTC revolver
Tag Bracket: sided custom self built arm, light and plate
Specials: For the battery was made a VA-housing attached to the engine’s transmission-support-plate.
Infos and contacts
Bike and builder: www.jos-garage.com
Model: www.zaradrake.de
Author: www.wikinger.com
The last Rebel
By Robin Technologies |
Editor’s Note: We flew this feature in from Europe. I tried to leave the vocabulary alone. I gotta say that this is one helluva feature, as you’ll agree. It’s a street ride with a nasty looking babe and the photography is killer, enjoy.–Bandit
The sun sets over the dusty old freight depot. Thousands and thousands of cows had been moved from here to the industry-cities everywhere. It was the thin line between the open prairie and the manmade iron track, the connection between freedom and ratsrace.
Such is the bike for its owner and builder Jo from Duisburg, Germany. The vehicle for escape, for transportation and the medium to feel free. He built it free from all forces and duties. Nobody would’ve ever told him how it has to be built. He followed his own thoughts and dreams, attaching parts that symbolize freedom of spirit. Leaving behind the need for chrome and polish, color and poor shine.
The history of the bike is somehow complex and unclear. Fact is that it came to light in the not so famous AMF-era, dated in 1976. Then it went through hands in Massachusetts and Wisconsin before in late ‘90s it was shipped to Germany. Somewhere on the tour the papers got lost. For that reason, the bike was held back by German authorities for quite a while. Then it was declared free and came to a Duisburg customizer as “carrier of parts,” just with the little difference that all parts were assembled and so they made a complete bike. But as the Germans say, “if there is a will there will be a way.” It was possible to get that bike out of customs-jail tagged as different parts.
Reaching the customizer’s garage his chief-mechanic at once fell in love with that old bike. Okay, it was light blue and lots of things attached that weren’t necessary for riding at all, and the condition was quite poor. But Jo looked into the heart of the old Shovel and was caught. You should know that in those days, Jo started a homepage with the address www.shovel-head.de, a fan-site for the enthusiasts for the Shovels. Running that site for quite a while he made a lot of needful contacts to reanimate that bike again.
First of all he disassembled the parts to get an idea how possible a recreation could be, and he was impressed. The engine showed good condition but the transmission’s teeth came up with heavy caries. Jo changed it and decided to replace it with a used but good ratchet top. He changed the pistons and valves, did some fittings replacements and finally attached a Dyna-ignition for a smoother run. That was all and it didn’t even take too long. While working on the bike he did investigations via web and phone to gain information he needed to get new papers and make the bike street-legal later on.
After he cleaned-up the frame and painted it shiny black, he attached the reengineered motor back to the frame. At last he combined a Super-E-carb for the intake with a 2-inch bigbore exhaust ending in Straightshooter pipes. That was the time Jo planned on bobbing that bike. An old skool bobber, biker-like ape and springer-front end it ought to be. He cut 2 inches off the Springer-Softail forks to come closer to the ground, and modified the middle-shock. Much more ultimate, he modified the rear suspension. He cut out a little of the chromed FL-shocks and welded the parts together. That made a hardtail with an FL-view. Hard but nice.
To stick to the cowboy image he used several gimmicks to underline that. Starting with the sheriff’s mirror, it not even ends with the cartridge-strap around the primary drive. Everywhere you can find more cowboy-designs as the 6-shot-clip at the caps of the footpegs and the revolver-shaped pegs themselves. The right gun even includes the mechanism of the brake-controls. The seat Jo took from his 43 WL he owned before and was covered with brown suede.
The girl is not so old movie-actress specialized on costume- and fetish-erotic films. Zara Drake is known in the business for acting extravagant and showing lots of fun while being in front of the camera. Now she often changes sides and works behind the camera as well. We definitely love her in front of the single eye, matching perfect with black and shiny bikes in her shiny leather garment. She enjoyed it a lot to show her things in that old facility. So I hope you enjoy as well. The two last rebels, maybe on the run now…
The Basics
Owner: Jo Beyer
Home: Duisburg, Germany
Builder: Jo himself
Year/Model: HD FLH 1200 from 1976
Time to Build: three months
Cost to Build: 3000 Euro (4500 $)
Chromer: Jo’s Garage
Painter: Jo
Engine
Engine: reengineered OEM FLH
Pistons: new, 1st oversize
Carbs: Mikuni HSR
Air Cleaner: W&W Cycles
Exhaust: straightshooter 2“ bore
Final Drive: chain
Chassis
Frame: OEM FLH
Front Suspension: Springer Softail, 2“ cut, chromed, modified shock
Swingarm: FLH
Rear Suspension: FLH shocks, inwards cut and welded together, hardtailed now!
Wheels
Front Wheel: 3×16 rim with 130/90-16
Rear Wheel: 3×16 rim with 130/90-16
Front Brakes: HD Springer Softail
Rear Brake: calipers HD modified, rotor STD
Fenders: heavily modified, rearfender with railings for fastening bags, railings made from VA-rods and Gericke-mirror-mounts
Accessories
Accessories: custom mirrors, revolver-footpegs, rearfender-medal made from belt-buckle, several revolver-sixshot-clip-designs, kicker-pedal from mountainbike
Headlight: custom
Taillight: selfbuilt attachment, lamp cateye
Fuel Tank: 4-gallons-HD
Handlebars: Fehling Ape 45 cm (18”)
Seat: 43 WL
Pegs: OTC revolver, the right one’s clip-case-pin is the brake-mechanism. The OTCs forgot that a Harley has a sidestand, that didn’t fit anymore and had to move backwards
Hand Controls: HD
Mirrors: Rebuffini
Foot Controls: OTC revolver
Tag Bracket: sided custom self built arm, light and plate
Specials: For the battery was made a VA-housing attached to the engine’s transmission-support-plate.
Infos and contacts
Bike and builder: www.jos-garage.com
Model: www.zaradrake.de
Author: www.wikinger.com
Girls of Saxon Motorcycles for 2007
By Robin Technologies |
As we taxied the twin-engine plane I saw the waves of heat rising off the tarmac and could tell this trip into the AZ desert was going to be a hot one. The pilot planned to escape over the border, and I didn’t care. I was on a mission. The high commander at Bikernet gave me strict instructions: Saxon bikes and babes, nothing less than the best of both. The heat penetrated through the soles of my boots and the air hit my face like a blast furnace as I stepped out of baggage claim. It was a dry as a popcorn fart.
The only sizzling hot advantage revolved around persuading babes to take their clothes off. A hired goon showed up, tires squealing to a halt across the hot asphalt. “Get in, we’re burning daylight goddamnit!” He yelled as the door flew open. I hopped in the convertible and knew the ride would be blistering to Saxon Motorcycles secret testing facility deep in the desert, hidden by Sonora cactus, rusty, bullet-riddled car bodies and cattle skeletons. I took the opportunity to get some rest before, what I knew, was going to be an exhilarating day. What’s better than Saxon chopper, glistening in the sun while wrapped with soft flesh, bright eyes and voluptuous curves? Not a goddamn thing. Oh, maybe a couple of iced Coronas might help.
The hot air rushing by my face had a soothing effect and I woke up in a desert junkyard, cars lined up and girls ready to do their best to get us going. At first I just observed. The hired gun handled the photos and his lovely wife took care of wardrobe and makeup, but I knew that direction was important, yes that’s what I am, director of this goddamn photoshoot!
The talent was ready to go and the photographer was ready to shoot. I jumped out and shook everyone’s hand as the convertible disappeared in the distance. “Two guys and two girls. The odds are pretty good here huh?” said my slobbering married photographer. It was obvious he had taken to the local tequila nicely, or his wife was also into the action. “I hope you aren’t referring to us. We are together if you get what I mean?” said the blondes.
The kink level was high under the blazing sun. “Maybe they will get into it and we can watch,” whispered the photographer. Throughout the sizzling afternoon we moved bikes, blocked sun, let our imaginations run wild and tried to get glimpses of the girls as they changed. The photo shoot highlighted the new Saxon Motorcycle line-up as well as the girls’ curves. As the sun began dipping in the west, the photographer started shooting rapid-fire, like he was under attack with only his camera to defend himself. Like all the shooting he handled for the last eight hours was just practice for the last skin-melting half hour of the day.
The insane photographer barked. “I want the flame-job with this light. You, blondie, jump on that bike and make it look sexy!” Creativity and Tequila turned him into a raving lunatic. I steered the remaining sunlight, moved bikes and worked with the girls. I was thirsty, horney and frustrated. I couldn’t wait to get back to Phoenix, enjoy the AC and relax with a drink.
The sun was almost down and the girls complained of cold —a miracle in Arizona. As if by magic a limo arrived. About time these bastards started to appreciate my talents, I thought to myself. A limo ride back to town with a couple of beautiful models was just what I needed. As I walked towards the limo I noticed the goon approaching in the convertible. The limo driver snapped open the door, the girls grabbed their gear and jumped in, like they were born into royalty. The photographer swung his camera bag of his shoulder and jumped in the front seat of limo while his wife crawled in the back with the models. I stood in the desert truck graveyard alone, as the limo kicked up dust and peeled away.
Suddenly the black beast of a convertible emerged through the dust and I noticed we had company. It slid to a halt in front of me, door swinging open. I was relegated to the back because the cooler full of iced beverages filled the front seat. Surprise, I had to sit between another blonde and a wicked brunette, both of whom were dressed for the weather. The blonde grabbed me a beverage as the brunette started to fondle my shoulders. The goon looked back with a devilish smile and said, “Where to boss?”
To which I replied, “Just drive goddamnit!”
Girls of Saxon Motorcycles for 2007
By Robin Technologies |
As we taxied the twin-engine plane I saw the waves of heat rising off the tarmac and could tell this trip into the AZ desert was going to be a hot one. The pilot planned to escape over the border, and I didn’t care. I was on a mission. The high commander at Bikernet gave me strict instructions: Saxon bikes and babes, nothing less than the best of both. The heat penetrated through the soles of my boots and the air hit my face like a blast furnace as I stepped out of baggage claim. It was a dry as a popcorn fart.
The only sizzling hot advantage revolved around persuading babes to take their clothes off. A hired goon showed up, tires squealing to a halt across the hot asphalt. “Get in, we’re burning daylight goddamnit!” He yelled as the door flew open. I hopped in the convertible and knew the ride would be blistering to Saxon Motorcycles secret testing facility deep in the desert, hidden by Sonora cactus, rusty, bullet-riddled car bodies and cattle skeletons. I took the opportunity to get some rest before, what I knew, was going to be an exhilarating day. What’s better than Saxon chopper, glistening in the sun while wrapped with soft flesh, bright eyes and voluptuous curves? Not a goddamn thing. Oh, maybe a couple of iced Coronas might help.
The hot air rushing by my face had a soothing effect and I woke up in a desert junkyard, cars lined up and girls ready to do their best to get us going. At first I just observed. The hired gun handled the photos and his lovely wife took care of wardrobe and makeup, but I knew that direction was important, yes that’s what I am, director of this goddamn photoshoot!
The talent was ready to go and the photographer was ready to shoot. I jumped out and shook everyone’s hand as the convertible disappeared in the distance. “Two guys and two girls. The odds are pretty good here huh?” said my slobbering married photographer. It was obvious he had taken to the local tequila nicely, or his wife was also into the action. “I hope you aren’t referring to us. We are together if you get what I mean?” said the blondes.
The kink level was high under the blazing sun. “Maybe they will get into it and we can watch,” whispered the photographer. Throughout the sizzling afternoon we moved bikes, blocked sun, let our imaginations run wild and tried to get glimpses of the girls as they changed. The photo shoot highlighted the new Saxon Motorcycle line-up as well as the girls’ curves. As the sun began dipping in the west, the photographer started shooting rapid-fire, like he was under attack with only his camera to defend himself. Like all the shooting he handled for the last eight hours was just practice for the last skin-melting half hour of the day.
The insane photographer barked. “I want the flame-job with this light. You, blondie, jump on that bike and make it look sexy!” Creativity and Tequila turned him into a raving lunatic. I steered the remaining sunlight, moved bikes and worked with the girls. I was thirsty, horney and frustrated. I couldn’t wait to get back to Phoenix, enjoy the AC and relax with a drink.
The sun was almost down and the girls complained of cold —a miracle in Arizona. As if by magic a limo arrived. About time these bastards started to appreciate my talents, I thought to myself. A limo ride back to town with a couple of beautiful models was just what I needed. As I walked towards the limo I noticed the goon approaching in the convertible. The limo driver snapped open the door, the girls grabbed their gear and jumped in, like they were born into royalty. The photographer swung his camera bag of his shoulder and jumped in the front seat of limo while his wife crawled in the back with the models. I stood in the desert truck graveyard alone, as the limo kicked up dust and peeled away.
Suddenly the black beast of a convertible emerged through the dust and I noticed we had company. It slid to a halt in front of me, door swinging open. I was relegated to the back because the cooler full of iced beverages filled the front seat. Surprise, I had to sit between another blonde and a wicked brunette, both of whom were dressed for the weather. The blonde grabbed me a beverage as the brunette started to fondle my shoulders. The goon looked back with a devilish smile and said, “Where to boss?”
To which I replied, “Just drive goddamnit!”
An Island Girl Meets Agent Zebra
By Robin Technologies |
Oh Jesus! I awaken at the crack of noon after a weekend of sexual experimentations, the kind only a seasoned physician like myself could even perform, on South Beach, an area in desperate need of all acts desperate, a depraved hairnet of bums and models and naked trollops from Poland posing as decent citizens and then this, this whining, sniveling plea lobbed from that whatever it is— one assmes a house, a residence, a living quarters of some sort— that enormous hayloft you call 8-ball Marble Factory, and oh fuck… The pressure. My work is never done.
Is it not enough that I pushed that squeaking heap of red scrap iron you called a motorcycle and Jessica Jamison (wasn‘t that his name?) called a Red Ball Chopper (it certainly didn’t chop any vegetables or cabbage, at least if it had it would have been of some utility), all around with your very large ass crushing down, making the chore only greater, enduring your horrendous cursing and swearing all the way to Sturgis? Is it not enough that I introduced you to the very love of your (to God’s ears) abbreviated life, the kindly and unceremoniously defrocked (you hell hound) Sin Wu? I’d beg your pardon, but what weight would your pardon carry in the Court of Morality? It would only doom me to more total voltage in the electric chair of man.
Fie! Fiddlesticks! And I’m spent. I surrender. I collapse upon folding knee and relent to your endless nagging. Even great men have limits. Let me just stop the whole Profit Making Machine and scribble out some unintelligible rant, some slander against Nature and common sense (and perhaps grammar), to satiate your ugly craving for my drek, that I might return to my cigar and enjoy my goddamned rum! I fled to the farthest tropical point on the map, my beloved Miami, to escape just this type of assault, yet the assaults only doubled. Mother…
Dear god, Bandit, the strain you cause me! The agonies. Both testicles have collapsed, did you know that? The simple, pointed agonises. Was it not you who introduced me to the daft, effeminate Steve Bohnhead of Hot Rods & Pink Boys magazine? Is it Prim-media or Primedia, never got that straight. That crazed loon who did then hack and butcher and neutralize (Musn’t offend the readers, Jim, we could lose subscription or advertising dollars!) every single word I wrote after your hasty exit—which I’m sure had nothing to do with the gossipy fondling you allegedly performed on your secretary who now bears your violent larva. Fiend. And was it not you who further introduced me to that Cuban idiot, braying, lying, drunkard Puerto Rican twit, Edwardo Twatta of Fort Living Room or Lauderdale or Hell-and-Gone, a man so crass, so lacking in taste and style that he wears clamped tightly in his bed-bug-packed navel a gold-plated ring and half shirts specifically Customized to show off said niggardly ornament? A man who builds motorcycles (can you call a stationary object a motorcycle, or would it simply be furniture?) adorned shamelessly with airbrushed montages of lightening bolts and dramatic whores and twirling sombreoes? I curse your indebted soul.
Did you read Henry Miller’s Tropic of Cancer, as I recommended at our last lunch? Really a good read. Make a point of it. It will rearrange your molecules. And why not rearrange them, considering the random order that ruthless cunt Fortuna flung them in? Certainly couldn’t do any harm. Marquis De Sade isn't bad, either. It's dirty. You know the French; filthy sodomites and they do it with such nerve, such arrogance. A frog can have her finger up your ass and still carry on a perfectly normal conversation about global warming or some other unimportant trifle, ice caps collapsing and crushing polar bears to death, diddle-diddle, seals eating sailors alive, diddle-thrust.
Which leads me to the core of this pleasant writing. The whore. The Yankee dingbat, photos of whom you dared to infect my Christian Household with… our Father, who art in Sturgis, etc., etc. You ask me to rate this island catwoman? Well, allow me. One can almost hear the smart snapping of the rubber gloves as they are pulled tight and released. Ahhh, kindly lassy, come to the Zebra and let’s have a look at you. Oh now isn’t that cute? She’s shy.
Please! I need only to look at this chops-licking hussy to see what you’re trying to pull. You think by draping this Bruce, this man, this cocked cock, this brute, over a flashy motorcycle that my weakness for fast iron and filed-down engine block numbers would overwhelm me and that I’d pen some sugary love letter to this boar hog? How dare you. After all that we’ve been through. Oh sure, were he a she, of course, I’d say something that rhymed, something that pulp-culture fatmen like what’s-his-ass who runs Thundering Mountains Blackhawks up in Love-Land Colofucko (why do these names escape me so, must be the Miami heat) (Thunder Mountaineers Blackbeans?) Pheffer, I can’t remember, but that’s all besides the point. The point is this, sure, she’s a beauty. But why all the clothes? Huh?! Got Steve Bohnhead working for you now? Did he worry that some fagosexual bolt-on chrome tweaker living with granny might be put off his feed of cheap beer and June bugs by a shot of a girl with her essence clearly visible? Don’t we all have sisters? Don’t send me these women buried in swimsuits and other mountains of cheap polyester. I once knew a French woman named Ester. What a kitten. Met her on the Rue de Clichy. Red light glamor queen who said cute things in English that didn’t make sense and bit if you didn’t tip well enough. That’s back when the frogs still used the Franc to buy their pussy and had a little national pride left, before the Euro, before the cops started carrying squirt guns. Now Paris is a seething vermin trap crammed to the rafters with Muslim nutters busy building bombs out of anything under the rented kitchen sink. And don’t dare shank one of the swarthy Allah-humping geeks, it’s taboo.
Sure, send her over. I’ll have a look at her. I’ll give her a name and a place by the pool at the Republic of Literature. You remember litearture, don’t you? That idiotic process of using the lost English language to communicate with a nation of flatlined viewers? God, why am I doing this? Tears roll down my girlish, rosy cheeks. Fuck this, man, you’re setting me up. I’m armed, fucker. Armed to the teeth. I can make a water charge out of my colostomy bag, an inch of det cord and a blasting cap from WWI. So away with thee. Ruptured deviant! You sicken me. I bet you captured that helpless virgin tied to that motorcycle with rock candy and a puppy.
Oops, must run, that’s the delivery man and it’s Rum and Cigars day. Got a great new connection in Habanna. Outstanding new Corona leaf. They grind up American tourists Fidel captures sneaking in through Mexico and fertilize the leaf with communist piss and bat shit. No smoother smoke. Really.
Dear god, the population of women in this house is out of control. Can they breed, women, among each other, I mean? Do you want some women, Bandit? Because I have plenty. Dozens. I’m looking to get rid of a few of the older ones. They’re getting some odometer, if you know what I mean.
You forgot my birthday. Maybe you should send me that Jamaican chick in the photo. I’ve got room. And she’s reeeeeeeeeal pretty. I think it’s love at first sight. Does she speak or is she mute? I could make a wonderful swingarm out of her pelvis.
–Special Agent Zebra
The Republic of Literature, Miami