“Get the fuck out of here!” said Preacher.
“I kid you not. 37 hours.” said Spike.
“You’re fucking shitting me.”
“You know, for someone named Preacher, you sure curse a lot.”
“You know, for someone named Spike…well… fuck you.”
“37 hours. A new record. Guy needed to piss so bad, his hair turned yellow. You want that bike, that’s what you’re up against.” said Spike.
“Fuck.” smiled Preacher.
2:36 AM. First one there. Preacher could smell that bike. A brand-spankin’ new H-D. Maximum Swagger. Forty Fucking G’s. For suckers who paid full boat. He was getting his for a lot less.
The rules were simple, spelled out on the flyer:
“KISS THE HOG” CONTEST BENEFITTING MDA!
MARCH 14TH, 2015!
$500 ENTRY FEE!
NO FOOD BREAKS! NO BATHROOM BREAKS!
It’s that time again, folks! Woodinville Harley-Davidson, in cooperation with The Motor Company and the Muscular Dystrophy Association, are holding the 9th annual “Kiss the Hog” contest!
All YOU gotta do is Kiss That Hog!
Harley-Davidson is generously donating the bike, and we’re donating the money, all for the cure! Ten bikes to kiss, come early to claim your spot. Once those lips start smoochin’, they can’t leave the bike or you’re out! Last one kissing rides off with a 2015 Harley-Davidson CVO Road Glide Ultra, a $45,000 value!
Preacher had no clue what muscular dystrophy was, never understood why you’d give someone a trophy just for pumping up their body, I mean shit, he did that just by going to work every day. None of that mattered. No wheels since his accident, his beloved ’05 Springer totally trashed right along with his body. It had taken months to recuperate. No luck and no insurance meant no bike. Preacher had spent massively on that ride, gone.
The quiet night helped calm him as the parking lot started to fill up. The line began snaking out and around the building. At last, the sun came up and the dealership doors flew open, just after the television crew set up. Preacher strode in like he owned the joint. There was the bike, resplendent, chrome screaming like a thousand sirens to all the women he’d inevitably have riding bitch. Yeah.
Ten kissing bikes all parallel, space left for officials to fit through. Preacher ran to the far end. He reached into his pocket, pulling out an air pillow. A few puffs and he had a cushion for his neck. There was space behind the front tire to lie down and slide his head in. All he had to do now was lean and his lips would be planted. Since he was leaning, his lips would stay in place even if he fell asleep.
Twenty-two hours in, he awoke from a dream of rolls and fresh-brewed coffee. The pillow strategy had worked. Listening to that hot TV reporter do her check-in, he learned that there were eighteen contestants left. At one point, she came towards him and asked how he was doing. He wasn’t about to fall for that shit. He carefully turned, making sure his lips were still on the tire, and spit out, “Fine, ain’t tired no more.”
“Don’t you have to use the bathroom?” she said teasingly.
“Nope!” said Preacher, with all the confidence in the world.
Thirty-one hours. Just two remained, Preacher and some old bag. She was a fighter; he had to hang for almost three hours more before she cried uncle. Somebody said later she had bent the rules by wearing Depends.
Preacher wouldn’t move until he heard the official announce twice that it was over. He creaked to his feet and let out a weak cry, but his eyes shone like the chrome he had won. People crowded him, whooping in congratulations.
“How do you feel, Mr…?” asked the hot reporter.
“Preacher. I feel like a guy who wants to see your fine ass perched on the back of my new bike! What do you say to meeting me here when I come get her?” he howled. The reporter’s wink told him everything he wanted to know.
Spike was waiting outside to take Preacher home. Still weak on his legs, Spike helped him into the truck. As they drove away, Preacher looked at him and said, “Hot damn! When I dropped the Springer and spent all that time in the hospital, never in a million years did I think a catheter and a colostomy bag would end up being my best friends!”
“Heard that!” said Spike.
Grammar Ghoul Press’ Mutant 750, #24!
The word prompt is Tired (In need of sleep or rest; weary).
The media prompt can be seen here.
Writing submissions may be enjoyed at http://www.grammarghoulpress.com/gg-writing-challenge-24/