“Now bang it. No, no. Right there. Give it a good whack. No, no, with the wrench.” Chancho shifted his grip of the custom carburetor he had built for the purpose of mixing oxygen with methane gas and feeding it into the combustion chamber. “Wait, wait.” He wiped the sweat from his brow, leaving a smudge of grease and manure across his face. “Okay, now.” Muddy whacked the side of the carburetor with a wrench in an attempt to drive it properly into place.
“¡Excelente, mi amigo!” Chancho released his grip on the carburetor and rubbed his hands together. “Bueno, bueno. Now we just need to attach the fuel tank.”
“What, that big barrel of shit?”
“No, no. Not the barrel of shit, my crude friend. But the barrel on top of it has been filling with methane gas for the last two days. With the ninety degree heat it should be full by now.” Chancho spit on his hands and rubbed them in the dirt before slapping them together. “Here, give me a hand. It feels so good to get greasy again. You know, to make something from nothing. To give life to a heap of rusty metal.”
The men each took a grip on the thirty gallon drum. “What are we going to do with it?” Muddy did not share Chancho’s eager confidence.
“Simple. We carry the methane barrel over to the harvester and attach it to the valve beneath the seat. You hold it there while I tighten the straps to keep it in place. ¿Si?”
Muddy sighed. “Okay.”
“Uno, dos, tres.” The two men yanked the drum free from the manure barrel. Half the valve kept the methane gas inside the fuel barrel, but the goat manure was exposed to the air. Muddy caught a good whiff.
“Ug. Manure should not be collected in a single vessel.”
“I don’t know.” Chancho continued as the two men waddled toward the eight-foot-tall harvester cannibalized from former farm equipment. “Have you ever used one of those fancy new toilets? I’ve heard you can squat right next to the kitchen without even putting your boots on.”
“Why would anyone want to squat in their own house? Sounds lazy to me.”
“Indoor plumbing, mi amigo. It isn’t lazy, it’s innovation. Soon, you won’t even need to wipe.”
Muddy grunted. “Hmm. I guess that wouldn’t be so bad.”
“Okay, now I’ll help you hold the tank while you shimmy into position. Then I’ll clamp the valves together. No problem.”
“No problem? So I lie down underneath this contraption holding your thirty gallons of fart gas on my chest while you monkey around on top of it?”
“Si.”
“Alright.” Muddy shimmied gradually under the harvester until he held the tank directly below the seat. Chancho clamped the valves together easily and tended to the leather straps meant to hold the tank in place. “Are those straps going to hold this thing? I mean, once it gets going?”
Chancho shrugged. “Sure. Why not?”
Muddy shook his head. “You’re riding this thing, right?”
“Absolutely. This is a delicately tuned machine.” He lovingly patted the steering wheel. “¿Listo?”
“What? You’re the one in charge here. I’m just holding the fart gas.”
“Excelente.” Chancho jumped down. “And you’ve done a fine job of it. But we’re ready now.” He grabbed Muddy by the heels and pulled him out from under the machine. Muddy stood up wiping the dust from his backside. Then the two men admired the completed harvester.
YOU ARE READING
Fistful of Reefer
ActionA spaghetti-Western, refried alternate history, Fistful of Reefer features goats, guns and the camaraderie of outcasts. Set along the Texas border during the waning years of the Mexican revolution, you'll meet a group of unlikely heros and their unl...
