“You’re the best around!” Quaid yelled to Mash as he made his way closer to him.
“My moves–aren’t what they–used to be Q, not–even–close.” Mash said so slowly Quaid thought he’d never get all of the words out.
“I seen how you handled that course out in Shortsville,” Quaid paused to relieve his jaw of tobacco juice. “I ain’t never seen nobody handle a Lavendar like you did that day Q!” Quaid declared proudly to his sack race partner and life-long friend.
“Eh, I haven’t trained in months—plus I’ve only a partial cap on my knee ever since that boched run out in Briksby.” Mash said in a discouraged kind of tone. “Won’t bend a lick, I look like a damn gimp, Q!”
“Shit!”
“I AM A GIMP!”
“Look at my leg!”
“The Lavendar is the most diff’cult sack in the ind’stry! Why, the only other man that could nav’gate Browing Ridge with one of ‘dese was Jay “Hopper” Getty, and he dead a legend par’ner!” Quaid yelled again.
“I can’t barely walk Q, how in the fuck am I going to run a sack again?” Mash asked, his agitation now a factor.
“Easy par’ner, leave that to me.” Quaid said as he pulled a small metal tin not much larger than his fist from his pack.
“What’s that?” Mash asked semi-compelled.
“Suc—cess.” he answered.
“Success.”
“What are you talking about now?” Mash asked bewildered.
“I ain’t sure ‘zactly, but I seen it do stuff that ain’t from this side of the ‘sippi river, nor the other side fo’ that matter.” Quaid said, his eyes unnaturally wide as he spoke.