Frank, shirtless, sat bare-chested in the sun of a well lit train car as two drops of sweat hung like jewels from the tips of his engorged nipples, so excited he was for the competition to take place. Like the dual nature of man and woman, Frank and Taeryn were bathed in light and darkness over and over again to some dramatic effect, to the author’s best approximation and attempt to class up this piece with visual imagery.
Repeatedly, the train went through mountain tunnel entrances and came out into the light again and back in again into mountain tunnels on the way to the contest site, the phallic vaginal sexual imagery readily apparent for anyone who seeks to grab it, though whether this is a victory sex kind of metaphor or some kind of screwing over foreshadowing remains to be seen, even for the author who is kind of flying by the seat of his pants at the moment.
“Did you say to put the salt on the right?” Frank asked, pointing with his right arm, and flexing as he did so, revealing the sexy “cuts” in his muscle definition simply because he could do so, “Or the left?” he continued, pointing towards the left in a different arm holding but equally tantalizing pose, for the sake of variety. He held this pose unnecessarily so that anyone who liked male bodies could appreciate him for a bit.
“Naw silly! Ya put it in the middle, cause it’s important,” Taeryn answered playfully, hip checking him, the velocity of that movement causing his chest to jiggle slightly, in spite of its hot firmness. She admonished him encouragingly, pressing her cleavage together with her arms as she said, “Now git yer game face on, cuz it’s bout ta git HAWT.”
Reassured by the sight of her winning face and encouraging words and not her bosom, though that was a nice bonus, not that he was trying to look that way, Frank put on his Nintendo Entertainment System playing face; pensive, attentive, undivided. Which was pretty much the only way you can beat a Nintendo Entertainment System game.
After a perhaps excessive amount of mountain tunnel entering and re-entry, Taeryn and Frank, Taeryn slightly in front because she was the leader of this expedition, entered the fairgrounds of Mega Oil Magnate Landing LLC (Formerly known as Goldenrod Fairgrounds) and headed to their station, Number 4, which had been prepared by a lot of those same townsfolk who have supported her time and time again but the author hadn’t had time to flesh out.
“Good luck to y’all!” The crowd collectively called out, while simultaneously leaving, saving the author time and mental energy, instead of forcing him to make up characters on the fly/read back a bit to remind him of some names.
Taeryn pointed at things and barked orders in a meaningful and purposeful way, and Frank got to work helping her set up the mise en place. Frank wiped his barrel chested barrel chest torso, more sweat gleaming down his pectorals and biceps and abdominals as he stood in the hot Texas sun, even though there was a perfectly good canopy there.
Taeryn queried in a drawling fashion, “Aren’t ya hot out there?”
Frank smiled at her, assuming it was a compliment, “It’s kind of you to say that.” He pecs flexed reflexively, subconsciously showing off how hot he was for her, before he consciously realized the true meaning of her statement, “Oh, right. Force of habit.” And with that he shifted into the shade, effortlessly, like a sleek jungle beast sliding back into the bush.
Time lazily passed, like a high school senior in June who had received his college acceptance letters from his backup school already and was resigned to living closer to home than he wanted, and they waited until it was time to throw down.
For the sake of adding wordcount, Frank and Taeryn gazed around at their competition at their own stations, a pretty motley assortment of competitors.
There was the requisite newbie at Station 1, also known as the “one and done” table. This year it was Waid Ayed Inos Cente, who would in a normal year be destined to see the corruption of the competition, go home, and then probably get a job as an accountant, having his or her or their dreams of being grillmaster crushed underfoot like the notion that a bachelor’s degree is all it takes to secure a good job in modern times.
Huffily, the officiant, Fauxsef Pallehgreengo, shouted, “Let the Big Jim Bob Joey’s Mega Meat Mountain Competition begin!”
There was Peligro Infierno at station 2, the stoic latino competitor of the open air barbecue joint, Fiesta Del Chorizo, known for his bounty of sausages. He nodded respectfully at Taeryn, conveying with a gaze that he wanted anyone to win except for the dick at station 3. “Good luck to you Ms. Yewanewon.”
Taeryn smiled back at him, grim and respectful, knowing that the outcome was probably beyond their control, “Y Usted, Senor Infierno,” she said in his grandmother’s tongue (He was born here, and his parents, but he did appreciate the language, as they were friends in the trenches together and this was a good thing, and not just appropriation/showing off her language skills, which is still nothing to be ashamed of).
Such pleasantries were not exchanged with the dick at station 3, almost interchangeable each year, the main commonalities being that it would be an entitled male with blood ties to the Barbecuerporations that had taken over the town. This dick will be described later because the author had already written the description and it doesn’t quite fit here, so sit tight reader.
As though cued, a shot fired through the air, ringing with promise and anticipation as competitors raced to their stations, eager to deliver an excellent product deserving of a win, except for the one smarmy looking brat that vaguely looks like the reader’s nemesis from high school, named Chaz Bradding Sanjeevingtodd, and pronounced in the most annoying and insistent way possible to the reader (options include nasally, self righteous, entitled, self important, etc).
As Taeryn blazed through the initial steps to assembling her ketchup and rub by rote, Frank competently kept up with her, grappling with thick, hard wood, and setting it ablaze with his practiced lighter, and then got to working on the meat, sawing through the ribs with a keen eye and steady arm, going back and forth with intensity and care, stacking the sausage with the precision of a master log cabin builder, and massaging tenderness into the pork butts with his strong, masculine hands.
Frank was extremely confident and competent, and it is clear this is not the story where the assistant bumbles through and does lots of stupid things only to come through at the end with some kind of clinch accident and reveals himself to be the hero who saves the day, because the readership should be really tired of that crap by now.
“Ribs! Ready?” Taeryn shouted at him to reach through to his ears in the rising chaos of grillmasters working loudly and in a hurry.
“Yes! Ready!” Frank asserted, holding two whole racks of ribs before him, and Taeryn rubbed her hands herb fortified salt up and down this meat, and Frank threw it into their large oil drum smoker. The sausages, already seasoned, were slid in with care onto a rack to cook and drip onto the other meats, and the butts went to the bottom.
The crazed work over, Taeryn and Frank smiled at one another.
“Well, now we keep an eye on it for a while.”
“Good work Taeryn, we’ll get through it and get you that prize.” Frank said, with more confidence than anyone else, because he was a Dieselwang, and because he hadn’t seen the corruption of the competition firsthand. In the distance, Peligro Infierno shook his head sadly, as though he had heard.
Taeryn set her jaw. “Sure hope so Frank. Sure hope so.”
To be continued.
