“Was that you?”

Lewis scrunched his face and spat a brown spray of chew spit. “Naw.”

“Get off me.”

It came again: a rumble, a vibration, tickling the saddle. And then the stench.

Jonathan shook and took off in a gallop, to the extent he could sprint his hefty triceratops frame, snorting and heaving to expel the scent.

“Whoa, Johnny!” Lewis was perturbed. “It’s just a bit a beans is all!”

“You’re walking.” Jonathan’s voice was a deep rumble, unhurried, patient. He stopped.

“Now listen here,” Lewis’ thin, small voice whined, “it’s ninety miles still across this wasteland and I ain’t walkin’ it. Hey. Hey. You want them Ketz-al-coat riches as much as I do, an’ I’m the only one EQUIPPED”–that said like a trial lawyer–“to pull the trigger.” He cupped his hands like hooves around his pistol and feigned like Jonathan wrestling to handle it, deepening his voice and making pathetic “maw maw maw” sounds.

Brandon Vernon
Excerpt from The Treasure of Ketzalkotal