The Bootlegger
Y’all may be forgiven to think that the only Harleys round our back porch are at least 30 years old, the older the better. Well, there yer wrong, folks. Jes' the other day we got us a mighty fine late model 883 Iron Sporty for them pesky trips to the post office, down to the station, to the lumber mill or over to the liquor store.
Still, that day-in-day-out
toiling didn’t do no good to the ornery little bugger. So, one day, we had it settin’ right here in the workshop for some row-tine TLC. When we were standin’ there, and were takin’ a long, good, hard look at her, and had a sip of grandads home made moonshine, we had some genuine inspiration.
Whyn’t fiddle with them
there handlebars? Why not change that seat fer something more righteous? Why not grab that hacksaw, cut off the rear end and install one of them racer whatchamacallits?
Weyll, even in our one horse town
out here in the boondocks we heard about them new fangled „café racers“. Us not being dudes what go from one café to th'other on our motorsickles (besides havin’ only one darn café in the whole place to boot) sure don’t care for some big city fad like that.
On the other hand,
the day may come when we feel the need to show the sheriff’s red’n’blinkies our tail pipes, and some added cubic inches never did hurt no engine. So we got some ass kickin’ hardware from our warehouse, popped in some heavy duty studded tires to keep us going when skirtin’ a road block and bingo, had our little bootlegger up and running.
And whaddaya know:
the number of dudes volunteerin’ for them trips to the liquor store went straight through the roof.
