The Mission: Part 2

  Pablo

  ?

  "Don't make a mountain out of a molehill."

  Was that the saying? Whoever came up with it never had to push a barrel up an actual fucking hill. But Pablo had to. And somehow survive six hundred pounds of tree meat trying to squish him flat into the world's sexiest pancake.

  On the other hand, the idea was tempting. He could just let the barrel crush his bones and force Garrett to carry him like a newlywed. That would show the barrel who's boss.

  Pablo scraped his finger against the barrel's prickly rope and drove his feet deeper into the dirt, trying to ground himself as the barrel pushed back. The airport was closer. Even in the dark, he could make out Sansi standing in front of it.

  Garrett shoved his barrel up the same hill. Not having a fucking problem. And talking. For the love of steel, and all that is good, make that damn cocksucker shut up.

  "How many Supra does it take to start a campfire?"

  It had been nothing but jokes that seemed to fly out of his ass and not make any sense. Pablo ignored them. The asshole still kept talking, like it was making him push faster.

  "Just one to make the fire start itself."

  Pablo caught himself in a scoff. Supra were lazy bastards who expected handouts from everyone, like it was owed to them, without having to lift a finger. Garrett glanced at Pablo like he wanted to see his reaction. Too bad Pablo had the best resting bitch face.

  "Pablo's going to win!" Sansi bellowed.

  Wait. Win? What the flying fuck? When had it turned into a goddamn race? Unsolicited.

  Pablo padded across loose dirt, leaving faint footprints imprinted into the barrel's trail. Let Pablo be the goddamn tortoise. He didn't really need to win. All he wanted to do was sit the fuck down while his arms and legs were shaking and his body wanted to collapse. Garrett had to be feeling it too. But he was quiet.

  Garrett's hood was around his neck. Pablo could see Garrett's face, but his expression didn't say anything. Figures. That Meathead was always straight-faced except when he was acting a clown. Fake as fuck. Obsessed with weird shit. A total sweetheart. He was a nice guy under that greasy bear-like exterior.

  Garrett didn't seem to be taking Sansi's loaded bait, but Pablo couldn't be too sure he wouldn't flip a switch. Garrett glanced at Pablo, then kept rolling the barrel, just as before. Thank steel.

  Then Garrett's loud, blubbering voice broke through the air. "What do I get if I win?!" he called out to Sansi.

  Pablo's head whipped so fast in his direction his neck strained. "What the fuck, Garrett?"

  There was a pause like Sansi was trying to think of something that would be worth the two men fighting over. Pablo could possibly be motivated by a day off work. If only the others knew how to actually do shit cleanly and correctly in his place.

  "You'll have beat Pablo!" she called. What?

  Pablo took his hands off the barrel, and it rolled into him, knocking wind from his chest. "What the fuck, Sansi?!" He yelled even louder to reach her. What was going on here?

  She just shrugged like it didn't matter.

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  Beat him? What kind of fucking twisted motivation was that? Wasn't anything to fight over. Right?

  Pablo turned to Garrett, but the man wasn't paying attention. He was fucking lifting that large-ass barrel over a dirt mound like it was a log he was tossing into the fire. Goddamnit.

  If King Kong and the old lady in the Arcan commercials had a child, this buttery Goliath baby would be it. Then the damn barrel started to roll faster than Garrett's brain probably operated. He jogged behind it, keeping the barrel rolling with his hands.

  Pablo picked up the pace, shoving the barrel in front of him harder into a smooth, thunking rhythm. Sweetheart, his sweaty ass.

  He'd pulverize him.

  Damn, Sansi had given him the status of a winner, so he really had no choice. He needed to defend his honorary title of fastest barrel roller. Fuck. He hated these people.

  Pablo pressed his hands hard into the coarse wood of the barrel. His triceps ached. He sturdied his feet into the ground and shoved the barrel, putting his weight into it. Pablo found that there was more to barrel rolling than strength. There was a technique. Sansi's was great for the truck, but wouldn't be a quick way to get them to the airport. The easiest way was to use the land. Roll down hills, avoid going uphill. Use your legs. Push at an angle to try to keep the damn thing going straight. Why did Pablo know this shit? Fucking waste of brain space he could have used for more important things like retaining the names and shoe color of the side-baddies in Radical Man. Always got them mixed up.

  The barrel took off faster using Pablo's technique, which worked with the grooves in the land. Good. Sansi was waiting by the airport, watching him. Smiling. Still lovely to look at. Still made Pablo pissed as hell. He pushed the barrel up a small hill, and it was smooth sailing when it rolled down. Sansi looked closer now. And next to her was a tall chick who looked lost. Cass.

  Her long black hair tossed in the dust, tangling the strands while brushing them with dirt. Wasted. Something fucking ironic about that. She was staring into the wide open entrance door, waiting. Should've guessed. What else would she do besides wait for Miles at the door?

  A shadow crossed Pablo's vision for just a moment. A figure in the second-story window.

  "Garrett wins!"

  What?

  Garrett was in the corner when Pablo stopped just short of a line dug into the dirt. Sansi's finish line. His breathing was loud. Obnoxious. He turned around to face Pablo. His brown hair had come loose from the tie and draped around his face and shoulders, greasy and shiny as ever. His face was red, dripping with sweat. Gross.

  "I think..." he breathed, "I'm going to die." He huffed again.

  "You're fine, you big gratey Fatey," Sansi told him, then she turned to Pablo. "Hey, why'd you stop? Did something happen?"

  Why? He hadn't realized he stopped pushing. But maybe it was because that Ogre of a man just won anyway. Or because of Cass. Or maybe it was because he had just seen Miles dart across the window of the second floor.

  "Garrett won." Pablo walked up to Garrett to commend him. His large, pathetic ass wasn't standing as tall, slumped over like a 300-pound lard sculpture melting. Pablo patted his bulky shoulder. "Congratulations." His coat was wet with sweat. Nasty. Pablo slid his hand off fast.

  Garrett pulled his hair back out of his face. It wasn't even Pablo's hand that touched it, but he could feel that wet hair anyway. "Thanks, man. Didn't think I was going to win."

  Yeah, you did. Prick.

  Garrett's face returned to its normal color. His beard made him look much older than he was, and his eyelashes were too fucking long. Eyebrows growing every which way. Green eyes came and went with rapid blinking.

  Garrett threw his head back. "I need to lie down." Liar.

  "Uh, no, you don't. We still have to place the barrels," Pablo told him. Garrett's hood still swept across his back. Looking untouched. Had he not worn it all night? Pablo lifted his hood and put it over his greasy head to cover his loose hair. There.

  "You can sit down over here," Sansi said, stepping between both men like she was protecting one of them. Why, thanks, Sansi.

  Sansi started leading Garrett's whiny bitch ass to the barrels.

  Whatever. Slacker.

  Sure, Pablo's limbs were about to go on strike, but he'd make sure things got done. He grabbed a barrel. Then he rolled it down the walkway to the entrance.

  He touched his shoulder. Fuck. It felt damp like Garrett's. Didn't want to compare to that slime lord. Disgusting. Pablo hoped he didn't smell bad, too.

  Pablo pushed the barrel past Cass on his way inside, grunting just a bit to get her attention. She was wearing Frey's hood over her shoulders now. Good. She kept looking through the door and checking herself. That figures. Wanted to make sure she looked nice for Miles? Not a fucking chance.

  "Do you know when I can go inside?" the princess asked and started to follow Pablo as if he were her ticket to ride.

  Pablo smirked, walking past her. He didn't want to look at her since it might look like he was giving her permission. "You're not going inside. Vocate said to wait out here." Felt so fucking good to say that. Just passing the word. The Vocate asshole ended up saying it instead of him. Maybe he wasn't as stupid as Pablo thought he was, or he just really wanted Cass's company. Probably the first.

  Pablo felt a heaviness at the back of his head like he was being watched. Figures. Cass had to be jealous that Pablo was going somewhere she couldn't follow. Hilarious.

  Well, Cass could stand out here, looking as worthless as her contribution, silently seething and wanting to see her brickhead boyfriend.

  Pablo was going to go talk to the little imp.

  *** Character-specific extras included in post author's note*

  Pablo finally gets to talk to Miles in the next one.

  Thank you for reading!

  Rule # 6: Sayings. Never believe sayings. They were probably written by some dumbass who thought it sounded poetic. Ever hear, "what goes up, must come down?" Must've never heard of bubbles. Idiot.

  Rule # 53: Brew is not just for drinking. Forget drinking brew. Keep that shit for your pits. Doesn't hurt to give your balls a nice wash either. Keeps you smelling fresh and kinda fruity. Who doesn't like fruity? Are you giggling? Shut the fuck up.

  Rule # 122: Competition. If anyone tries to get you to participate in a competition you didn't ask for, politely decline. Then proceed to smack a bitch. (Unless it's Sansi. Then act normal. That usually pisses her off.)