𝐋𝐢𝐚𝐫, 𝐋𝐢𝐚𝐫 | 𝐉𝐉 𝐌𝐚𝐲𝐛𝐚𝐧𝐤

78. a vomit conga.

S E V E N T Y - E I G H T
a vomit conga.

Somehow, this plane journey is not my worst. Despite it being cold and changing out of the Kitty Hawk uniform behind a box of weed so Fishy boy doesn't perv, it beats the time I got thrown up on by a baby.

I felt so bad for that poor mother, she looked like so was on the verge of tears. I did almost throw up myself. Could've been a vomit conga.

And it obviously beats the time the plane I was on crashed.

Jumping out of the plane once it lands, I take a look around, being hit in the face by hot humidity.

It's a pretty country. Rolling hills of forest, you could so easily get lost in those. I'd be hopeless.

"Damn, Barracuda Mike's got this whole import-export thing down," JJ observes. Numerous men walk back and forth, taking off the packages of drugs.

I refuse to compliment him. He's a prick. And he smells of fish.

JJ looks at a small van; it looks more sketchy than the Twinkie, and that says something. People surround it, I think, waiting to get on.

"Yo, Barracuda, is that our executive coach to Tres Rocas right there?" JJ asks.

"It is, smart-arse." Fishy boy nods, his hands resting on his hips. He really thinks he's all that. "Hey. We have a deal, remember? You still owe me for that lost load."

"I remember, all right?" JJ nods.

Turning to walk away, we get a few paces away before Fishy boy needs to say another thing, "Hey, JJ."

"What?" JJ asks, sick of his shit, not even stopping walking away.

"This ain't Kildare. Try to lay low." He gives a slightly ominous piece of advice.

"No shit, Sherlock," I mumble, trudging through the long, dry grass.

"Sure thing, chief," JJ shouts back as we get further away. I look over him, and he looks back at me, shaking his head. We both agree Fishy boy's a prick.

JJ and I get on the bus and enjoy the views. We drive through dirt roads that don't have any houses or buildings; they simply cut through vast fields. The roads there are worse than the ones in Barbados. I grab onto the edge of the bus, where a window would usually be. Trying not to give myself a concussion on the roof.

This country feels inexplicably big; I think mainly because beyond the small city, it's an open expanse of woodland.

"So right here, you have Tesoro." A random man begins drawing on a dusty surface. "And here, Orinoco, right?" He asks. I got lost a second in. I can't read a normal map; one drawn on a dusty table gives me no chance. He slides his finger right across the table, "And they say, right here, El Dorado."

JJ is leaning against the seat the man sits on, and he's turned to look at us. "Wait." He seems confused; if he is, we're fucked.

"Who says?" I ask, probably getting caught up in the wrong information.

"All the world." He man looks around the bus, I'm trying to decide if it was for dramatic effect or not.

"If all the world says it, why hasn't it been found?" I question.

"Some people say it doesn't exist. Some people say it's hidden, and only one very special person can find it." The man recites the local lore.

"Uh-huh," JJ nods, not taking a bar of it. "Mabel here is very special."

The fuck is that supposed to mean? 

"But most people say it's maldito." I love the faith he has that I can speak Spanish.