A Cool Bob Studios Collection
Forged in Fire, Laughter, and Legend
Cool Bob was headed south, dust curling behind his old truck as the Rockies gave way to open skies and rolling mesquite. The air thickened with heat and memory as he crossed into Hill Country, where cicadas sing like warning bells and the sunsets burn the color of old whiskey. He was off to visit his sisters—yep, the Twisted Sisters—two fierce cowgirls known far and wide for their lasso-twirling, tale-weaving, whiskey-sipping ways. The sort of women who didn’t walk into a room—they claimed it.
They weren’t just local legends. They were lore.
Junebug and Jolene.
Junebug once rode bareback through a flash flood to rescue a stranded calf, just because someone said it couldn’t be done. Jolene once talked a county sheriff out of a standoff with nothing but a harmonica and a six-pack of Lone Star. Between the two of them, they could outshoot, outdrink, outdance, and outstory anyone from Bandera to Big Bend.
And the stories? Lord, the stories. Some say Junebug carries a pocketknife etched with runes that only show under lightning. Others swear Jolene’s turquoise ring glows when she lies—which is why she took it off when testifying in court. Whether those tales are true or not hardly matters. The Sisters never confirm or deny. They just smile, pour another drink, and let the fire crackle.
Cool Bob—Grandmaster silverworker, mountain mystic, artisan of the old ways—was the quiet one in the family. While they were setting the plains on fire with laughter and riot, he carved calm into chaos, shaping silver with patience and prayer. His workshop, nestled high in the Rockies, overlooked a valley where wildflowers danced with the seasons and snowmelt carved silver veins through the land. He was the still point in the turning world.
But family is family. And when the Sisters called, he came.
He arrived with a gift: two matching cuffs. Moon-forged and river-cooled. Each one engraved with glyphs he’d seen in a dream—twisted vines, coiled serpents, laughing stars. He didn’t know what they meant, not exactly. But he knew who they were for. The kind of women who wore their power plainly, who didn’t ask permission and sure as hell didn’t wait for an invitation.
Junebug and Jolene took one look and said, “About damn time.”
They wore those cuffs like war paint—at rodeos, fire circles, county fairs, courthouse showdowns, full-moon dances, and anywhere else a little chaos needed to be stirred. And wherever they went, those cuffs soaked up stories. Fights. Love. Dirt. Moonlight. Wildness. They weren’t just jewelry. They were armor.
And Cool Bob? He thought he was done.
But no. That was just the beginning.
NOW.
The Twisted Sisters are still riding hard. Junebug runs a roadhouse called The Buzzard’s Nest, where the beer is cold, the music’s loud, and the jukebox only plays outlaw country and 70s soul. Jolene teaches trick riding on a ranch that’s not officially a sanctuary for runaway brides and retired rodeo queens—but sure seems to attract both.
And they’ve become relentless.
They call Cool Bob every week with ideas. Sometimes it’s a dream they half-remember.
“Bob, make me a pendant shaped like a scream and a promise.”
Sometimes it’s a memory.
“Remember that rattler we danced past in ‘88? I want a ring that hisses.”
Other times, it’s just a vibe.
“This one needs to feel like heartbreak in a thunderstorm—got it?”
Junebug once mailed him a handful of scorched mesquite bark with a note that said:
“This is the texture I want. Figure it out.”
Jolene left him a voice memo during a tornado warning, yelling over the wind:
“I had a vision! Lightning bolt earrings. But delicate. Like dangerous poetry!”
Cool Bob never says no.
Not because he’s afraid of them (though a wise man should be)—but because somewhere deep in his forge-warmed soul, he knows the world needs this energy. It needs women who can carry fire without apology. Women who don’t ask if they’re too much—they ask, “You sure you can keep up?”
So he works. Late into the night, mountain wind howling past the shutters, silver glowing like moonlight in his hands. Each piece in the Twisted Sisters Collection is born of that sacred tension—between chaos and craft, wildness and intention, rebellion and ritual.
It’s not just a collection.
It’s a summons.
The Twisted Sisters Collection
For the wild ones. The sharp ones. The women who wear their stories like spurs.
Cuffs that hold the storm. Rings that bite back. Pendants that hum when the music’s right. Every piece is an echo of Junebug and Jolene—a living reminder that wildness isn’t something to be tamed. It’s something to be worn.
This collection isn’t for the faint of heart.
It’s for the ones who ride hard, laugh loud, kiss deep, and throw glitter on their scars.
Cool Bob may live quiet, but his sisters? They make sure his work sings.
And if you listen close when you open the box,
you just might hear spurs on hardwood
and a voice saying,
“Well look at you… ready to ride.”