El Rauncho (ManxMan)

El Saucy

El Saucy

Mason jerks his head at the sharp aroma that’s assaulting his senses, and it seems to get stronger the more he breathes.

The distinct odor of something bleached so overpowering that he can taste the acidic quality cloying down his throat. And with a few more sharp intakes of breath he comes around gasping, coming up for air, turning to his side to manage the blow of oxygen into his lungs through proper respiration.

His half-lidded eyes slowly open to make sense of his surroundings, and the first thing he sees are a set of hands that are shoving textured grains of salt up his nostrils.

Out of impulse Mason bats the hands away, registering that they belong to someone perverted enough to pull the trick of pushing smelling salts into his nose to drown his breathing.

Irritated and completely cross, Mason rouses into consciousness, his sights zooming in on the small jar of ammonia in the hands of the man whose face is hovering his in an effort to take a closer look.

You don’t look fine. Let me take a look at you.

The words come back to haunt Mason as he bolts to sit upright.

“Hey man. Welcome back,” a big hand pats Mason’s back, knocking the air out of him.

He sneezes out the pebbles of salt clogging his nose, “Jesus, man, what the fʊck!? That’s not how you use smelling salts!” Mason fumes, smiting Blake’s hand, “Smelling salts are for smelling. Not for snorting!”

“Atta’ boy,” Blake drawls with a Cheshire smile, and then rises to offer his big hand, “Come on, man. Markets be waitin’ on their meat.”

A strong headache wraps Mason’s skull as he remembers the job he came here to do. The depressing thought topples him with a wave of nauseating fatigue, churning just below his chest as his body groans in protest of doing any physical movement.

“Come on, dude, stand up,” Blake stretches out his hand and Mason takes it to pull himself up.

Bending at the waist, Mason recollects himself, shaking off whatever it is that’s making his head throb. His breathing stutters for a while as he looks to gaze at the boots of the man standing in front of him.

Big boots, large feet, he thinks to himself, and it makes him compare Blake’s size with his. They’re about the same, but Blake’s looks like an inch longer.

Just kick me back to sleep with those big ole boots is what Mason wants to say out loud. Never has he felt so comfortable lying down on the ground without a mattress. Waking up on rough concrete from a fainting episode feels somewhat relaxing. It’s like waking up after a long hibernation.

Blake clacks his tongue to get Mason’s attention, “Tsk, you like a delicate fʊcking flower ain’t ya?” he pulls his thumb and index together in a gesture of a pinch and says, “I was this close to peeing on your face just to wake you up.”

“Not if I pee on you first.”

“Heh, you got a tongue. Nice.”

Yeah I got a tongue. And you’ve no idea the things I can do with it.

“Blake, right?”

“The one and only.”

“Blake.”

“Yeah?”

“Shut the fʊck up and let’s go.”

“Right on, right on,” Blake remarks, and it momentarily stops Mason in his tracks, realizing that Blake too makes use of his expression, “What?” Blake asks, noticing Mason’s pause.