Episode 1── The Biker Who Saved a Small Town Bakery

◼️The Beginning — Jenkins Bakery

Once upon a time—
In a quiet little town in the American South,
there stood an old bakery.

Its name Jenkins Bakery.

The smell of warm wheat and butter floated down the street,
wrapping the town in something that felt like a quiet hug.

Locals loved the place.
Mr. and Mrs. Jenkins—kind-hearted, humble—served up bread that warmed the soul.

But their son...
Johnny Jenkins was a whole different story.

◼️The Black Wind — “Johnny!”

Johnny twisted throttles.
He didn’t care about bread—only bikes.
Wearing a leather jacket and riding with the local crew,
Iron Blaze, Johnny tore through dusty roads with a growl and a glare.

He didn’t shape scones—he shattered silence.
He didn’t fire ovens—he burned rubber.

Soon, the town had a name for him:
“Johnny Blackwind.”

Just hearing it made grown men frown and kids run for cover.

But no one knew his secret.

Because Johnny carried a strange, beautiful gift.

◼️The Gift – Art That Breathes

Johnny could paint.
No—he could breathe life into images.

Dragons he drew looked ready to roar.
Skulls on gas tanks?
They didn’t look painted—they looked summoned.

It wasn’t long before the crew lined up:
“Paint my jacket, man.”
“Put flames on my tank.”

Word spread:
“Johnny’s art protects you.”

It wasn’t just badass.
It was a charm, a spell, a mark of soul.

◼️ Soul Roast – When Fire Fades

But even the strongest symbol can't stop life’s darkest turns.

One day, bad news hit like a hammer:
The bakery’s main bank collapsed.
Then, the oven—old and tired—gave out.

No fire.
No funds.
No more bread.

Mr. and Mrs. Jenkins sat in silence.
“Maybe… maybe it’s time to close up.”

But the next morning—
a roar echoed outside the shop.
Tires screeched.
Johnny didn’t take off his helmet.
He just slammed open the door.

“…I’ll fix that damn oven.
And while I’m at it, maybe Dad’s eyes too.”

For once, Johnny came home.

◼️ Born to Knead

After hearing the story, Johnny said nothing.

This wasn’t about money.
It was about the bakery’s soul, its fire going out.

—The scent of butter from childhood
—Dad’s back, hauling bags of flour
—Kids giggling, cheeks stuffed with bread
—Mom scolding him for choking on a scone

All of it... lived inside that shop.

He grabbed his tools.

The way he fixed that oven—
it was like he was rebuilding a bike’s engine.
Precise. Focused. Intense.

“These fists?
They’re not for fighting anymore.
They’re for kneading.
For shaping what’s next.”

When the oven’s flame lit up again,
something shifted inside him.

That night, Johnny quietly took off
the invisible jacket of Iron Blaze’s leader—
and left it behind.

◼️ The Bread Rises Again

In a corner of the garage, Johnny sat on the steps,
alone with the kind of stillness that only comes when something’s ending.
No engines. No shouting. Just a heavy silence resting on his back.

From a distance, Fatboy Rick muttered,

“If Johnny hadn’t shown up that night…
I’d be sleeping in a freezer like leftover ham.”

They all knew.
They were men who only knew how to speak in noise.
But that night, in the spaces between the sounds, they heard Johnny’s heart.

Johnny stood up.
Put his hand on the old steel shutter.
Creak.
The wind rolled in, along with the scent of the world outside.

From behind, Rick shouted:
“Johnny… you goin’ alone!?”

The air tightened.
Johnny’s right hand, Bailey, stood.

“Just tell me one thing…
What’s the shop look like now?”

“It’s burning.
And if we don’t move…
it’s not just the building that’ll turn to ash.
It’s my old man’s soul too.”

“…That’s all I needed.”

Tools clattered.
Engines fired up.
A heavy roar cracked the silence.

“We can’t bake bread.
But if you bake it—we’ll take it to the damn world.”

Johnny grinned.
“That’s why I can never quit you bastards.”

Then, he said it:

“I’m gonna save that bakery.
Even if the whole world thinks I’ve lost it.
We’re carving meaning into this town—our way.”

With one hard kick, Johnny threw open the warehouse shutter.
A plume of rebellion rose into the sky.

◼️ The Rebellion Bakery Road

The first thing Johnny did?
He changed the name of the shop.

– BIKER'S BREAD –

The new sign? A loaf of bread wrapped in flames, roaring alongside a bike.
It didn’t look like a bakery. It looked like a legendary rock band's tour logo.
Inside? More like a garage bar than a bakery.
Engine parts melted into the shelves, the menu renamed like tracks on a metal album.

They tried the first prototypes.
Leather-clad riders chomping down on melonpan.
It was… a nightmare.
Everyone stared, wide-eyed.
“What the hell is this?”

But their noses—no, their hearts—picked up something deeper.

“This… this is the beginning of something.”

The ignition was lit.
Johnny’s fists weren’t just kneading dough—they were kneading the future.

◼️ Mark of the Soul

New name. New vibe.
But something was still missing.

Johnny walked the shop, looking for something he could use.
Old ledgers. Empty flour sacks.
A mixer with battle scars. Worn-out mitts.

Then his eyes landed on it—
his leather jacket. Tossed aside, half-forgotten.

“…This is it.”

He jumped on his bike.

Destination?
Hank’s Workshop—on the edge of town.
Hank didn’t just forge bike parts. He carved brass into leather.
A place where sparks danced and steel roared.

The door creaked open. Smoke and fire.
Hank looked like he’d just crawled out of the underworld.

“What d’you want, baker? Ain’t got no honey here.”

Word had reached him.
Johnny wasn’t baking for fun—he was trying to save the old family shop.

Johnny pulled out a simple loaf.
And on it, he sketched a bike—
not just any bike, but one wrapped in flames, ready to tear through the streets.

“I want this… as a branding iron.”

Hank stared at the image. Silent.
Then scoffed.

“…Still the same pain-in-the-ass dreamer, huh?”

He grabbed the loaf and turned toward the back.

“So, how’s kneading dough feel?”

“I used to punch the world, man.
Now? I feel like I’m hugging it—with every batch.”

“…I can live with that.”

The hammer rang out.
Steel began to remember its purpose.

◼️ The Living Emblem

Fwoooosh. CLANG. CLANG.
Flames howled.
Metal screamed.
Johnny stood in the corner, silent—
his chest echoing the sound.
It was the same rhythm…
as a bike waiting at the red light before tearing off.

Then—SSSSSSHHHHHHH!!!

Red-hot steel met cold water.
Steam rose like a holy offering.
The air turned sacred.

“…Johnny. This here… is your mark.”

Hank handed it to him—
a branding iron, etched with a flaming bike in full throttle.

Johnny held it.
Still warm.
Water still dancing on the iron’s surface.

Proof it was alive.

“Burn it into everything.”

Hank watched him leave.
No words. Just a silent salute.

◼️ Roar of the Streets – Birth of the Soulbread

Johnny kneaded dough.

Flour swirled.
Moist air rose.
And in it, flickered memories—
Fistfights in the rain.
City nights.
A youth carved in scars.

The loaf baked.
Golden. Radiant.

Johnny knew—it was time.

He heated the iron.
And in one bold motion—

SsssZZZZZZTTTT!!!

The brand pressed deep.
Smoke rose—a scream of the soul.

An old lady, passing by, saw it all.
She wasn’t just a bystander.

She remembered Johnny—
bloody, bruised, fists raised to protect his sister from street punks.

But now?

She saw a man kneading peace into bread.
Delivering warmth, not war.

Her face tightened.
Hands shaking, she took the bread.

A bite.

A pause.

Eyes widened.

“This… this is the devil’s bread… but…”

Tears welled up.

“It’s so damn good!!!”

Her voice echoed through the streets.
Like church bells for the rebel risen.

And in Johnny’s smile,
she saw the boy he once was—
and the man he’d become.

◼️ The Rebel Bread Delivery Riders

“You ready, boys?
Now the real show begins.”

Johnny and his crew hit the streets—
free bread in hand, engines roaring.
They tore through every corner of town.

But this wasn’t just some marketing stunt.

This was a communion of souls—through bread.

Each loaf wrapped in paper,
bearing Johnny’s flaming-bike logo, hand-drawn.

At first, people were skeptical.
Then they took a bite.

“…What is this… why do I feel like crying?”

“My grandpa smiled. First time in years.”

“No one ever told me bread could hit like this!”

Children walking to school opened their mouths like baby birds.
The milkman stopped mid-route, bought a loaf, and forgot his deliveries.

◼️ Fermentation of Miracles – The Golden Spirit Awakens

Then something strange started happening.

Johnny’s logo—
it had a power of its own.

People who ate that bread felt it.
They didn’t just feel full—they felt alive again.

“This bread… it’s different.”
“Every bite gives me strength…”

An old man who had been bedridden kicked off his blanket.
A failed artist picked up a pen again.

A silent singer began humming melodies.
A parent and child, who hadn’t spoken in years, tore the bread together—and started talking.

What was inside those loaves wasn’t just wheat.

It was hope.

“Did your son design this?” a neighbor asked.
“Design? He didn’t just design it.
He baked it. Poured his heart into every crumb.”

It wasn’t just bread.
It was anger, loneliness, rebellion, forgiveness—
all kneaded into one dough, then fed to the fire.

And someone said:

“This town… it’s fermenting again.
Johnny—he’s making it rise.”

Locals, even rival bikers who once hated him,
began rooting for Johnny and BIKER’S BREAD like their own hometown heroes.

◼️ The Legendary Bakery – BIKER’S BREAD

Months passed.
BIKER’S BREAD became a nationwide sensation.

News outlets, travel mags, even food critics all rushed to tell the tale—
of the rebel son who saved the family bakery
with bikes, art, and oven heat.

And since that day, the town hasn’t been the same.

Mornings come wrapped in the scent of fresh bread.
And with it—the rumble of those engines.

Kids shout, “Bread Guy’s here!”
Old folks smile, “Guess that means it’s morning again.”

Johnny didn’t just protect a bakery.
He got time moving again in this town.

One day, a reporter asked him:

“So… what are you thinking right now?”

Johnny narrowed his eyes,
looked somewhere far off,
and smiled.

Then he said:

“I baked it all, man.
The past. The regrets. The version of me I couldn’t stand.
The anger I never got to throw.
The gratitude I never said.

I threw it all into the fire—
the feel of my dad’s hands kneading dough,
the sweet scent of my mom’s kitchen.
Everything. All of it.

Slow heat. Careful timing.
Right on the edge before it burns.

And when I opened my eyes…
it had become bread.”

BIKER’S BREAD lived on—
not just as a bakery, but as legend.

And everyone knew:

Whether it’s a tire rolling or a loaf rising—
it’s the fire in your soul that makes it move.

→　Fire Up the Next Loaf...

Episode 2──Johnny and the Legend of the Fart Bread