Candy’s pink Softail was supposed to carry her triumphantly into the Laughlin River Run, the biggest biker bash on the Colorado River. Instead, it decided to throw a full-on tantrum halfway across the Mojave Desert on US-95. A loud BANG, a cloud of glitter-scented smoke (she’d added strawberry oil to the tank for “vibes”), and the bike limped to the shoulder like a drunk showgirl after last call.

Candy hopped off, yanked off her helmet, and let her platinum mane explode in the 110-degree heat. Her outfit was pure desert delusion: a white crop top that read “Free Samples” in rhinestones, denim hot pants cut so high the pockets hung out like surrender flags, and cowboy boots with pink flames. She kicked the tire. “Traitor! I waxed my cha-cha for this rally!”

An hour of thumb-out posing later, salvation arrived in the form of “Rattlesnake” Ruiz and his Gut Busters MC crew rolling six deep on chopped baggers. Rattlesnake was a 6’4″ ex-linebacker turned 1%er with a shaved head covered in prison tats, a goatee sharp enough to open beer bottles, and a laugh like a Harley with no muffler. His vest read “President – Gut Busters MC.”

He killed the engine and grinned. “Well, damn. The desert just served up a mirage with double-Ds.” Candy twirled. “Hi, scary-hot strangers! My pony died and I’m late for wet T-shirt glory. Can a girl get a lift to Laughlin? I pay in gratitude… and maybe glitter.” Rattlesnake didn’t hesitate. “Load that pink Barbie bike in the chase truck. You ride bitch on my sled.” The convoy thundered toward the Colorado River with Candy clinging to Rattlesnake’s back, her implants pressed against his cut like twin airbags ready to deploy.

Every time he downshifted, she squealed louder than the straight pipes. At a gas stop outside Searchlight, she “accidentally” bent over the ice machine, flashing half of Nevada. Three truckers walked into the same pole. They hit Laughlin at sunset, the river glittering like a cheap stripper under the casino lights. The place was a sea of chrome, leather, and bad decisions. The Gut Busters MC crew claimed prime real estate outside the Aquarius Casino.

Candy immediately became the unofficial mascot. She danced on picnic tables, judged a burnout contest by how much rubber smoke matched her nail polish, and started a conga line that ended with her crowd-surfing over a hundred drunk bikers. The real chaos erupted at the midnight “Anything But Clothes” party on the riverwalk. Candy showed up wrapped only in caution tape and two strategically placed Gut Busters MC patches. The crowd parted like the Red Sea on Viagra. Rattlesnake, now three sheets to the wind on tequila and testosterone, declared an impromptu “Queen of the River” contest.

Candy vs. three veteran rally girls in a mud-wrestling pit made from a kiddie pool and fifty gallons of chocolate pudding (don’t ask).It was less wrestling and more slippery porn. Candy slipped, slid, and somehow ended up motorboating the runner-up while the crowd chanted her name. She won by technical knockout when the other girls tapped out from laughter. Prize: a custom crown made from beer tabs and a bottle of Crown Royal that she immediately used for body shots off Rattlesnake’s abs.

Later, in the crew’s rented penthouse suite overlooking the river, the afterparty hit legendary status. Candy rode Rattlesnake reverse-cowgirl on a balcony chair while the Colorado rushed below, his Gut Busters brothers cheering like it was pay-per-view. There were wardrobe malfunctions, a near-miss with the hot tub jets, and at one point Candy mistook lube for sunscreen—cue fifteen minutes of hysterical sliding across marble floors like a sexy penguin. Rattlesnake’s goatee ended up with glitter in places glitter should never go. Come sunrise, Candy was curled against his chest, river breeze cooling the sweat. She traced a skull tattoo on his pec. “You’re like a sexy cactus—prickly but I still wanna hug you.” Rattlesnake chuckled. “Darlin’, you’re trouble with a capital T and an ass that should be illegal in all fifty states.”

She kissed his cheek, leaving a perfect pink print. “Fix my bike today and I’ll let you keep the caution tape as a souvenir.” As the Gut Busters MC crew kickstarted their hogs for the ride home, Candy’s Softail—miraculously resurrected by a hungover mechanic—rumbled beside Rattlesnake’s bagger. She blew him a kiss and gunned it toward the horizon, pink exhaust trailing like cotton candy smoke.

Laughlin River Run 2025: officially the year the river ran pink.
And Rattlesnake? Still finding glitter in his beard months later. Worth it.

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