You know all those dreams you used to have of showing up someplace important, but naked?
Yeah, those aren't nearly half as bad as the potential for disaster here...
You find yourself standing near the door of the biker bar without a stitch to your name. As the singer on the juke box curses a blue streak, all eyes in the bar drift to you. The bikers, all of them fat like everyone else in this weird town, but sporting muscular arms and legs too, look at you hungrily. And not the kind of hunger they have for the platters of food in front of them, but for your wet and glossy little rear...
You realize there there are scant few ways to get out of this situation smelling like a rose and not like engine grease...
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