The police barricade couldn’t stop his bike. The bullets grazing the paint couldn’t stop his bike. Hell. An alligator pit and UFOs throwing rabid cowboys at his head couldn’t stop his bike. Holy Bubba was a tornado: silent on the inside, ferocious on the outside.
His chopper roared like a Viking kitten jacked up on meth and Skittles. When he revved his engine, all the sharks in the ocean shed a single tear.
“Been too long for this mother,” Bubba grumbled. One-handed, he donned his alligator glasses, sped up to 110 miles an hour on one wheel.
Out on the road, every man and beast got out of his way when they heard Holy Bubba bike jabbering from miles away. The slower ones, old ladies with bad hearing and d-bags on their phones, they ran themselves off the road no matter if it was into a tree or off a cliff. Holy Bubba’s bike wailed with the song of a thousand dying Godzillas.
Which is why Holy Bubba raised an eyebrow to see an alligator in the middle of the road. Even a dead one would have come back to life just to get out of H.B.’s way. The alligator raised her head and he saw a the flesh carved out around her eyes. He’d seen this bitch before. She was the 20-foot gator he’d used to make his glasses.
The alligator opened her pink maw to swallow Bubba whole.
“Wrong move, Jack.”
Holy Bubba bit down on his toothpick, rode right into her mouth so hard he bruised her ovaries. The gator skidded across the highway for about 3000 miles. She burned and cooked and fell apart, right into a village of hungry orphans in Kenya.
“Later gator,” Bubba smirked. Someone in London spontaneously combusted into a raging pyre of flames. Holy Bubba rode on.
Awesome Pie! 