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Back to Part One

The next time he woke, Mikey knew he’d been asleep, because his tongue was stuck to the roof of his mouth and his eyes felt like gritty pissholes.

He could actually smell himself, sweaty and rank, over the raw green smell of the burnt-out fire and the soggy weed. It was still hot, the chilly breeze of last night long since burnt off by the equatorial sun.

It took him a couple of seconds to get up the courage to fully open his eyes. His head was throbbing and all he wanted was to go back to sleep, or drown himself in a glass of Perrier. Either would be fine.

He looked around the cabin of the plane.

Frank’s machete was gone. So was his bullwhip, and his backpack.

So was Frank.

Mikey’s heart pounded in his chest. “Oh fuck,” he said, sitting bolt upright.

A hand clamped down over his mouth from behind and someone grabbed his arm.

Mikey struggled, tried to call out, but whoever had a hold of him was way too strong.

“Shhhhh, shhhhh, Mikeyway. It’s me. Just...” Frank’s voice and breath were against his ear.

Thank. Fuck.

Mikey wriggled out of Frank’s grip and turned on him.

“What the…?”

Frank’s hand shot out and clamped over Mikey’s mouth again.

He pressed a finger to his lips and then pointed at his ear.

Mikey listened. Outside the plane there were men talking, high and fast, in Spanish.

Frank scrambled down the plane to one of the windows. Mikey followed and Frank teased a few of the vines blocking the open hole in the fuselage aside with the tip of a finger.

He pointed two fingers to his eyes, then at the gap in the greenery and then held up three fingers and shook them.

Mikey looked at all the greenery and thought about the thing Frank had pulled almost out of his hair yesterday. He shook his head.

Frank closed his eyes slowly, took a deep breath and made the gesture again, emphatic and fast.

Mikey pushed his glasses up his nose and shrugged. No.

Frank rolled his eyes, reached out, grabbed Mikey's head like a melon and turned him towards the gap before giving him a push.

Mikey knocked Frank's hands away. Frank pinged the back of Mikey’s head, which resulted in a few seconds of silent yet fervent slap fighting, only stopped by the sound - sudden and chilling - of a twig breaking, as if it had just been stepped on, just outside the vine curtain.

Frank grabbed Mikey's hand and held his finger to his lips again, eyes wide.

He pointed at the gap again and this time Mikey relented, leaning forward, and peering between the leaves. He could see two men, one with some kind of weapon... Oh, yeah, that was definitely an Uzi. And here his mom had always said three years playing Call of Duty would never amount to anything. pfft.

The other guy had some other kind of, well, it looked a lot like a fucking sword, and he was hacking into the undergrowth with it and thrusting into the dense bushes, before kicking them out of the way. They were searching for something, or someone.

Then a third man stepped into view, turning his smooth, smarmy face towards the plane. Mikey fell back against Frank’s chest. He felt Frank’s arm come up to catch him and his other hand come up to smother the shout of fear that Mikey had almost, almost let loose.

Nally.

Mikey turned in Frank’s arms and Frank let him go.

Frank nodded, eyes wide, and squeezed Mikey’s shoulder. “It’s okay,” he mouthed. Mikey looked down to see Frank was gripping Nally’s gun.

Mikey nodded. It really wasn’t okay. And Mikey, for sure, was not okay.

Frank nodded to the back of the plane and started crawling towards open door. Mikey followed him. Frank pulled Mikey close again, their shoulders pressed tight together.

"The brother of yours must be pretty rich, honey,” he said, his voice the merest breath against Mikey’s ear, as they crawled out of the plane.

But Mikey didn't get to reply, because a thick bunch of vines hanging from the tree next to them above exploded just by his ear.

"Oh fuck!" Frank was shouting, grabbing Mikey by the arm and hauling him into the undergrowth. "Run for it!"

People, goons even, were fucking shooting at him again. Mikey took off in the direction Frank pointed, diving into the dense greenery and just going for it.

He heard rapid shots pelting into the trees and bushes around him as he ran. Shattered twigs and bits of leaf flew in his face and the whizzing pop pop pop of bullets flying so close, too close, assaulted his ears. He heard the sharp crack of Frank firing back and then the sound of Frank shouting at him to keep going.

Mikey glanced back over his shoulder. Branches and vines tore at his face and hands. Frank was just behind him.

Mikey reached out and tore a bushy sapling out of his way and flung his arms out wide to grab the nearest tree and stop himself from falling.

A gorge, all but covered by the dense over-hanging canopy with crashing white rapids about thirty feet below opened out in front of him. "FUCK!" he shouted, waving his arms for balance as Frank almost ploughed into his back.

"Frank!” A bullet whizzed past Mikey's head and he ducked. He could hear the goons shouting to each other as they crashed through the jungle behind them.

"The fuck," Mikey said, taking deep breaths and keeping his voice low. "The fucking fuck are we gonna do?!"

Frank stared at the ravine, and back at Mikey. “Stay here, stay low.”

He disappeared into the foliage. Mikey panted, scanning the wall of greenery in front of him for the goons. Moments later Frank leapt out of the trees, a long thick grey- green branch trailing after him.

"You ever hear of the Strangler Fig, Mikeyway?" Frank said, hauling Mikey to his feet. Frank thrust the branch into Mikey's hands. "Hold this," he said, and he tugged a few more feet of the ropey wood out towards them and slung it around Mikey’s waist.

Oh, hell no. Mikey breathed hard through his nose and shook his head.

"There's a tribe of South American Indians," Frank continued and shuffled them both up to the edge of the cliff. "They use it to bungee into deep ravines on spirit quests and shit."

Mikey looked at Frank. "No fucking…"

"Hold on tight," Frank said with a grin and pushed Mikey off the edge.

Mikey screamed.

He realized, as he plummeted to what was almost certainly his death, clinging to a fucking Strangler Vine in the mother fucking Amazon, that he had never actually screamed before in his whole life. Screaming wasn't his style. Pfft, hmmmm, gah, ungh; These were the kind of non verbal communication Mikey preferred. The hysterical wailing coming from him now was not a noise anyone who knew Mikey Way would have associated with him. But he really couldn’t think of anything better to say just at the minute.

He did it again for good measure.

"Waaaaah HOOOO!" Mikey heard Frank holler behind him and Mikey made the drastic mistake of opening his eyes; the entire world was rushing at him.

The vine twisted and Mikey could see Frank, leaping out into the void; a long, ragged length of Strangler Fig wrapped round him like rope. His grin was huge; he was laughing, and he wasn't falling.

And neither was Mikey. He was flying! His vine swung out over the ravine, hanging from the mile-high canopy, which all but covered the river from the sky. And Mikey mother fucking Way was swinging with it.

"Mikey!" Frank called, and Mikey had a few seconds to look behind him and see the far side of the gorge racing up to meet him. "FUCK!" he shouted, and let go of the vine, tumbling over the lip of the cliff to sprawl in the rocky dirt.

A few seconds later Frank landed beside him. And a second after that, a bullet blasted into a tree trunk next to them.

"Go!" Frank yelled, pushing Mikey up and into the cover of the undergrowth. Frank stopped and turned back to the edge. He held the tip of his thumb up to his nose and waggled his fingers. "Na na na naaaa naaaa," he shouted back across the gorge. A hail of bullets answered him and Mikey grabbed his arm and hauled him into the bush with him.

*

Mikey didn’t really know what the hell was going on, but he could not stop smirking. At least, it felt a little like a smirk, kind of smug and happy and stunned. Yeah, he was smirking. Almost a grin or something, anyway.

Because he was alive. And it made his cheeks hurt from all the smiling! Because they were alive too.

Alive after swinging on a mother fucking vine, across a goddamned gorge, running from frikken armed goons and not dying.

He thought about his little desk in his stuffy study in Manhattan. Then he watched Frank hacking into the bushes, clearing a path for them. Mikey’s smirk got a little bigger.

God, Frank was hot. He was fucking - Frank’s arm swung up and he slammed the blade down again and a gain on a knot of twisted vines - so hot. Mikey took a deep breath and tried to stop staring at Frank's lean arms and the way the muscles in Frank's back rippled every time he lifted the machete.

He readjusted himself in his jeans - he didn't want to chaff - and fished the last of his water out of his bag and took a swig.

His eyes fell on Frank again. He just looked so, so good. His skin was so tan and lush and rich looking, like, like honey. Honey... Mikey smirked wider.

"You called me honey,” Mikey said.

Frank’s chopping arm faltered. He started hacking a little harder.

"No," Frank said, glancing over his shoulder, eyes wide.

"Yes, you did. You called me ‘Honey.’"

"No, I didn’t,” he said again.

"Okay," Mikey said.

"I did not. Call you. Honey." Frank countered. Then more quietly after easing up on the bush he was massacring, “I did not.” He looked left and right and then started hacking them a path up hill.

"Okay,” Mikey said easily, and pushed his way between some heavy vines and Frank where Frank'd somehow, gotten himself stuck.

“Why would I call you ‘Honey’?!” Frank whined, pushing into the jungle after him.

“I don’t know,” said Mikey, with a great deal of nonchalance. “Why would you call me ‘Honey’?”

The outraged noises Frank was making behind him made a little bubble of glee rise up in Mikey’s chest. He parted a thick bunch of banana leaves.

“I wasn’t calling you ‘Honey’,” Frank ranted. “It might have fucking sounded like that, but that was not what I was saying. I was probably saying...”

But Mikey didn’t get to hear what Frank was ‘probably saying’. Mikey was far too preoccupied with the guy behind the banana leaves pointing a gun at Mikey’s head.

*

“Fuck,” said Frank, who Mikey figured had just seen the whole face-gun situation. The big, shiny, gun. Right there, about an inch from his forehead.

“You guys make a lot of noise,” the guy - a blond, stony faced behemoth of a man - with the gun said.

“Um,” Mikey replied, sensibly. Because really, ‘Um’ was pretty eloquent for someone with a fucking gun at his forehead.

Frank stepped out from behind Mikey. He reached up and gently pushed the barrel of the gun away from Mikey’s face. “Hi, hey! Okay, let’s just... take this down a notch, huh big guy?” he said.

The Behemoth raised an eyebrow.

Frank raised his hands and took one slow step in front of Mikey.

Mikey felt himself start breathing again. Frank dropped one hand behind his back and seemed to be trying to slap Mikey’s balls.

Mikey frowned down at Frank’s hand. Oh, Mikey realized and took a step back.

The Behemoth laughed, a loud, sudden bark that made Mikey jump. “You guys have any idea where you are?” He asked.

“No,” said Mikey.

“Yes,” said Frank. “Ha Ha. Ignore my friend, he has Jungle Fever,” Frank said, raising his voice. “This is Despuesa. Right?”

The big guy nodded.

Holy shit, Mikey thought. Frank did actually know what the hell he was doing. Mikey was impressed. More impressed.

“Yeah, I was leading Mr. Way here to the nearest phone, isn’t that right Mikey? I said, just over that rise is Despuesa and we’d find a place to call your folks or whatever from there. I mean also, it’s a really nice part of the country, right? And I thought, let’s get a little jungle hiking in too...”

Holding his hand up in front of Mikey, the Behemoth said, “Your name is Mikey Way?”

Mikey nodded.

The guy smiled slowly. His eyes were kind of twinkly. Mikey liked his beard. The guy started chuckling. “No shit?”

Mikey shook his head. Oh, Mikey thought. Oh dear.

“We’re just looking for a phone, man,” Frank said.

“Well, you found one,” he said, and nodded for them to follow him out of the jungle and onto a dirt road. The road ran down hill to a small collection of white-washed buildings in the distance. "Despuesa," he said.

The guy pointed towards the biggest building at the far end of the town. "There's a phone there,” he said. “Tell ‘em Bob sent you.” He laughed again.

Mikey and Frank said thanks and staggered off down the road.

Mikey looked back over his shoulder and waved at Bob, who was still laughing and pointing up the road. They kept walking.

“We are in deep shit, dude,” Frank said and they both looked back to see Bob still watching after them.

“Hmmm,” said Mikey.

*

Considering it was 100 degrees out, Despuesa was kind of chilly.

As they walked past the white-washed buildings, doors and shutters closed.

Mikey sketched a wave at a little old lady sitting outside her little house. She hurried inside, slamming the door behind her.

“That would be some of the charming local color your travel agent told you about,” Frank said.

At the huge wooden gates of the hacienda, Frank rounded on Mikey. “Listen,” he said desperately, “whatever happens next, will you let me do the talking before you end up with your head in bits? That was our, you know, agreement, remember?”

"Whatever you say," Mikey shrugged. "Honey."

Frank screwed up his eyes, shook a finger at Mikey, turned his back on him and knocked.

A little hatch opened in the door. “¿Que?”

Frank fidgeted a bit and looked back at Mikey, who made the locked up tight gesture against his lips and smiled at him with just his mouth.

“Um, hola?” Frank said. “Estamos buscando un teléfono.”

The long, solid steel barrel of a shotgun poked slowly out of hatch and pressed against Frank’s cheek.

“Okay, well, thank you for your time!” Frank said and started to back up slowly, his hands raised.

“My name is Mikey Way,” Mikey called over Frank’s shoulder. “Bob sent us.”

The gun barrel disappeared.

“Mikey Way? Mikey Way Mikey Way?” said a voice beyond the hatch.

Mikey waved.

Seconds later the door whooshed open.

Standing there, with his arms thrown wide and a huge toothy grin that took up half his face, was the most magnificent head of hair Mikey had ever seen. And Mikey knew from hair.

“Mikey Way!” The head of hair said.

“Si,” Frank blurted, grabbing Mikey’s hand and pulling him forward. “El es escritor realmente grande de América!”

The man threw his arms wide, his face split into that truly massive grin.

And he threw his arms around Mikey’s neck.

“Oh! Ah,” Mikey said, his voice rising a little in panic. The guy wasn’t wearing a shirt. He was really big. “Um, Frank? Frank!?”

“Ponga por favor al autor abajo como el sufre de un maÌ caso de la palmada,” Frank said, his voice going a little tight and forced, as he tried to prise the man’s arms from around Mikey’s shoulders.

“¿Soy invisible de pronto? escucha la bola de pelo, nosotros apenas quiere un teléfono,” said Frank.

The guy ignored Frank but let Mikey go anyway. He held him at arm’s length and shook his head like he couldn’t believe what he was seeing. He lit up that huge smile again. Mikey couldn't really help smiling back.

The guy stood back and waved them in to... a palace.

Parquet floors, white leather sofas, potted palm trees and long, low lacquered tables covered in objet de crap or whatever that stuff was. Mikey had seen places like this before, but only in his mom’s House&Garden mags.

“Welcome to Casa Del Toro,” the guy said ducking his head to tuck stray tendrils of his awesome hair behind his ears and nodding. "I’m Ray. And, man, this is amazing. Mikey fuckin' Way, in my very own home!” He leant in a little. “I’m a bit of a fan.”

Mikey gave Ray a half smile and turned to introduce Frank. But Frank was staring wide eyed up the long, galleried hall they were in. Mikey followed his line of sight. To an enormous poster of Mikey – the black and white one from his Moon Over Mountains book tour, yech - hanging above the fireplace.

"You don't say,” Mikey said, blinking.

“Mi dios. Estamos a través del mother fucking vidrio de Mirada,” Frank breathed.

“Do you translate for him?” Toro asked Mikey with a wince. “My folks spoke Spanish at home sometimes, only, I never picked it up. I’m from New Jersey really. Born and bred.”

Frank spun round. “Oh, thank fuck,” he said, with a whoosh. “We thought you were the local drug baron or some shit!"

Holy… Mikey rolled his eyes. "Um, didn't we stop assuming everyone down here was a drug dealer like, I don’t know, after the Reagan years or some shit? Or at least after Miami Vice went off the air.”

Ray scrunched up his nose. “Oh, no I am the local drug baron," he said holding up both hands. "Just, I do six months here, six months there.” He shrugged. “Jersey Winters are a bitch.”

Frank opened his mouth to say something, but before he could, Ray had turned to Mikey and drawn him by the arm into the sumptuous drawing room.

“So what brings you to Colombia, man?” Ray said, sinking into one of the leather couches and patting the space next to him. “God, I loved that short story you wrote for Anne Rice’s birthday last year. Cemetery Drive? Tell me a little about that."

Mikey didn’t look at Frank. Mikey just smiled politely at Toro and sat down. He knew how to handle this situation.

Toro wasn’t just a drug baron. He was a Moonie.

*

"It's kind of like that scene in Moon Over Mountains," said Ray as they strolled through the gardens and under the loggia a little later.

They were taking a tour of Ray's 'compound'. Ray had been really excited to show them his water feature. "When Edgar says he can no longer protect Ella from his unnatural lusts, and Ella says to Rosalinana that she couldn't give Edgar up for anything, you know?"

Mikey nodded.

Ray’s eyes went unfocused as he recited, “He is the star that guides me, the breeze that fills my sails, the song that fills my head. Oh, how shall I know I am alive if I am not by his side?!" He smiled at Mikey.

"Perhaps by punching herself in the face?" Frank muttered under his breath.

Oh, ah, yeah, I remember writing that,” Mikey said, trying to talk over him. “Admittedly one of my more over-dramatic moments,” he added with a wry smile.

"Oh," Ray said, looking somewhat deflated. "Well, I thought it was, you know, romantic."

Mikey winced. Ray was actually a pretty nice guy, not to mention something of a closet geek.

They had ended up talking - well Ray talked, Mikey nodded and Frank scowled - about vampires and Dungeons&Dragons, and Mikey’s childhood crush on SheRa which had Frank in fits of giggles.

Mikey couldn’t seem to stop himself from asking insane questions about drug mules, small arms shipments and how he bet none of the coke-heads back in Manhattan knew their gear came from such a pretty countryside, for god's sake - Inside he was facepalming, but Ray had taken it in his stride.

It was only because Mikey kept trying to steer the conversation away from his books and onto less embarrassing more neutral territory like The Dark Knight or the DC reboot or the petrol to coca ratio in an ounce of uncut coke. But eventually it couldn’t be helped and the conversation turned back to romance, which seemed to make Frank go quiet all of a sudden, much to Mikey's relief.

"I mean, I loved a woman like that once," Ray said, still talking about Edgar and Ella’s eternal dance. "But man, she was a heartbreaker."

Mikey made a sympathetic noise and Ray nodded, looking wistful.

Mikey absolutely did not look at Frank peering over Ray's shoulder because if anything was actually gonna get them shot, it was Frank making ridiculous cut-throat signs and saucer eyes behind Ray's back.

Besides, Mikey was starting enjoying being in his element again, talking about books and movies sitting on a sofa eating pop corn, and not in the middle of the jungle sweating for his life with a distracting machete wielding midget.

There were real toilets and soap here - which Mikey never even knew he cared that much about until he'd had to wipe his ass on a banana leaf. For God's sake, Ray had even given him a clean tee shirt. Mikey tugged it down. D.A.R.E. To keep kids off drugs, it said. Rad.

“You know, between you and me,” Ray said pulling Mikey close as they walked back down the long galleried hall - Ray had chosen not to draw attention to the 3 foot face of fantasy romance’s number one literary star hanging above his fire, so Mikey had let it slide too. “I really hate the drug business. People keep dying; my mom worries, and it’s really been hell on my relationships."

Mikey could, well he couldn't relate, but he'd seen Traffic, and, like, a season and a half of Weeds. It was a shitty business.

“I mean," Ray went on. "I’m just like Edgar, in a lot of ways. I just want to find the right girl so I can give up my life of international organized crime settle down. To be honest,” he said laughing and glancing at Frank, who had managed to stop making ‘OMG’ eyes at Mikey just in time. “And you can’t breathe a word of this to anyone. But I haven’t sold drugs in years. Not since Bob - you met Bob?”

Mikey and Frank nodded in unison.

Ray put his hands on his hips and nodded. “Yeah, Bob is really great. I haven’t run a single drug since he came on board and convinced me to get into piracy,” Ray said.

“Well,” said Mikey, mostly to cover the sound of Frank choking. “That sounds very... adventurous?”

Ray laughed. “Oh, I don’t mean like, ‘Arrrgh! Captain Jack’, kind of thing. I mean like...” Ray threw open another set of doors.

Frank squeaked. “Music!” He took two huge steps into the room filled floor to ceiling with boxes over flowing with cds, albums and dvds.

"Exactly," Ray continued. Mikey raised his eyebrows. "Government duty on imported stuff is so high the kids can't really afford new music down here,” Ray said. “And the broadband is for shit, so,” he shrugged, “I fill the gap."

Frank spun around. “Mr. Toro,” he said in an awed hush. “I take back everything I’ve been thinking about you.” And pranced off into the room to rifle through the racks. “There's a punk section, Mikey!” He hollered as he disappeared.

Ray’s eyebrows went up and he grinned.

“Ha ha,” Mikey said wincing at what sounded like Frank throwing himself face first into a stack of crystal cases. “So, you said you had a telephone we could use?”

“I’ll go you one better, Mikey Way,” Ray said with a wink. "You can have my little mule!"

*

“YAAAAAAAAAAAHOOOOOO!" Frank hollered, as Ray’s ‘little mule’ - a monstrous souped up four wheel drive jeep - tore up a rise, sailed into the air and landed on two wheels. "Mad Mother Fucking Max!"

“Dude,” Mikey said, willing some blood back into his face so he could adequately express his horror at Frank’s driving.

He found himself wishing he was back in the hacienda with Ray and his semi automatic weapons, and his broad capable hands - Mikey had noticed them right while Ray was putting on a shirt - and not here, on the edge of his seat, knuckles white as he hung on for dear life.

“Now this, this is travelling, Mikey,” Frank said, ignoring the sound of Mikey sucking in a terrified gasp as Frank narrowly missed a boulder jutting out into the road.

Mikey decided he didn't need to see where they were going and shut his eyes. Frank drove like a fucking insane hyperactive three year old on acid in a thunder storm. The jeep flew over the edge of another rise and landed on the dirt road with a shuddering crash. “Please?” Mikey said again.

They’d left Ray in something of a rush when the village church bell had started ringing. Ray had said it was a sign from Bob that someone was coming. Frank and Mikey could pretty much guess who. Nally, that asshole, was still on their tails.

And now here they were speeding away from Despuesa towards, well, certain doom, Mikey thought as the jeep left the road again, sailing through the air, crunching down and careening along on its way.

Frank hollered again. "That was rad!" he laughed. “Ray, man, what an awesome dude.”

Mikey opened one eye and looked at Frank. Frank glanced at him. “What?”

“You didn’t think he was so great before the cds and the-" he waved a hand at the jeep. “Whatnot.” Mikey shut his eyes again as a low hanging branch raced towards them.

“Yeah well,” said Frank, as the jeep swerved. "Ray's awesomeness aside, somewhere in Bogota there’s a CIA operative opening a file on you right now. You know that right?”

Mikey peeled his eyes open to see Frank watching him. Frank shrugged. “But, actually what Ray’s doing is kind of cool. With the music and all.”

Mikey closed his eyes again. His nostrils flared.

“Aw, come on Mikey,” Frank said, easing up on the gas. “Relax for crying out loud. We got away from the baddies, we made friends with a drug baron and we’re... we’re gonna get to Cartagena and find your bro. Okay? ”

When Mikey didn’t respond after a couple of minutes, Frank said, “Come on. You want to drive?” and slammed his foot on the brakes.

Mikey hurled forward into the windshield. “Ow,” he said, peeling himself off the plastic and back into his seat.

“Oh shit,” Frank winced and giggled. “Sorry. Brakes are better than I realized.” He patted Mikey, then jumped out of the jeep and ran round to the other side. “Come on, move over.”

Mikey pushed his glasses back on straight and scooted over into the driver’s seat.

Without waiting for Frank to sit down, he set off, driving at a sedate and sensible 45mph.

After a couple of minutes of Frank staring at the side of his head, Mikey said, “How’s my driving?”

“I don’t know,” Frank replied. “I think I slipped into a coma back about thirteen miles ago.”

Mikey ignored him. Ahead of them the road became a ‘T’ junction. Mikey slowed to a stop, leaned forward and looked both ways down the long, long, empty, empty road.

“Oh come on!” Frank cried.

Mikey flicked on his indicator and pulled out into the road opposite.

Frank slumped back into the seat and folded his arms in disgust. “This is no way to treat a Grade A Road Beast,” Frank whined.

Mikey adjusted his rear view mirror.

Frank pointed at Mikey. “I think it’s because you can’t go fast,” said Frank shaking his finger and sitting forward. “I think it’s coz you’re a chicken.”

Mikey snorted.

“Mikey Way can’t go fast,” Frank said. “That’s what I’d be telling Rolling motherfucking Stone magazine.”

Mikey pursed his lips. “I can too.”

“Can not.”

Mikey put his foot down.

*

Well, this is embarrassing, Mikey thought as he picked his way gingerly up the side of the road. "I'm not going to say I told you so," said Mikey, steadfastly ignoring the hole in the seat of his pants as he hobbled a little further and sat down. "But for the record, I totally told you so."

He glanced at Frank who was pressing a water bottle to his bleeding eyebrow, and grinning. “I will never question your need for speed again, Mikey.” Frank said.

It wasn’t a crash. It was a flat tire. But still, it’d sent Frank flying nearly over the windshield, and had thrown Mikey, who had never before driven anything faster than 65 on the Jersey Turnpike, right out the open side of the jeep and into a bush.

It could have been so much worse. The jeep was still intact – except for the tire - and so were they. In fact, it had been a bonus because Mikey got to sit at the side of the road and watch Frank – who said he was a dab hand with a jack and was more than happy to believe Mikey wasn't - get brutal with a tire iron.

When Frank finished tightening the bolts, he stood and pulled up the hem of his shirt up to wipe the sweat from his face. The sweat on his belly made his skin glisten, made the ink there stand out against his honeyed flesh.

Mikey stared at the curling letters and impish birds on his skin, at the thin trail of hair leading down to...

He looked up to see Frank smirking at him.

Mikey felt his face flame up.

Frank let his tee shirt drop.

After a minute or two of futzing with the jack, the tire iron and the blown tire – which seemed to involve bending over with his ass in the air a lot - he said, “If I promise not to gun it over 60 and shit, will you let me drive again?” He smirked at Mikey, raising an eyebrow.

Mikey nodded, stood and held the keys out to Frank. As Frank walked past him, he wolf-whistled, and Mikey remembered to reach behind him and hold the seat of his pants closed.

Would his humiliation never end?

*

"Hey, Frank?" Mikey said after they’d been driving for a little while. He’d seen something out across the plain. Something that looked familiar. “Frankie, slow down.”

Frank’s absolute outrage at being made to slow down from going barely 50 was pretty funny.

“Cool your jets, Turbo. I just saw something back there," Mikey said, standing up in his seat as Frank started to pull over.

Frank pulled over at a bend in the road where the lush green valley dipped away from the burn. In the distance two tall black rocks poked up through the jungle foliage like a victory sign. They were such an odd formation, and Mikey felt sure he'd seen them somewhere before. But where?

“What is it?” Frank asked, when Mikey sat back down heavily. Mikey pulled his messenger bag onto his lap. Gerard’s parcel crinkled inside.

"Oh," he said to himself.

"What?" Frank said again, bouncing in his seat a little, and peering over the top of the windscreen.

The rocks, they were on Gerard's map.

“Frank,” he said, swallowing and turning in his seat and looking at him long and hard. “What if, like, someone found something and some other people wanted to like, take it, so he sent it to someone who would keep it safe, but like... Then he got caught and had to get the thing back and so he had to call his little brother to bring it to him, and...”

“Wait, wait,” Frank held up both his hands. “What the fuck are you talking about?”

Mikey took a deep breath and fished around inside the lining of his messenger bag where he’d stashed the map for safekeeping. He took it out and stood up in the Jeep again.

“I wasn’t really honest with you Frankie. Back - back at the bus,” Mikey said. “And then people were shooting at us and Ray and you, and - I'm so sorry, but, fuck.”

“Mikey, what the hell is going on," Frank said, clambering up on his seat to stand up next to Mikey. He looked down at the map. “What the fuck is that?”

Mikey took a deep breath and handed it to Frank. “You know how I said people were after me because of my bro?”

Frank frowned down at the mottled brown paper. Mikey tapped the drawing of the rocks near the center, then pointed at the two rocks in the distance. Frank looked out at them and back down at the page. “Well they are,” Mikey said. “But it’s not because he’s rich. He just - seems to know where the rich stuff is."

Frank ran the tips of his finger of the red inked X next to the stones on the map. “El Corazon,” he whispered.

“Gerard sent this to me; it's why I came down here. And I think it’s what Nally wants.” Mikey said. "I don't know where Gee got it. Bought it at an art auction. Stole it from some monks. Fuck if I know where Gerard gets these things."

Mikey pointed at the words in the centre of the page. “X marks the spot, right?”

"Holy fuck," Frank said.

"Pretty much," Mikey said back.

*

"I can’t believe you didn’t tell me about the map,” Frank said, rubbing his face. “What am I saying? I wouldn’t even tell me about the map. But still, dude. People are shooting at me, for fucks sake.”

“I know,” Mikey said wringing his hands. “I know, but I didn’t know if I could, like, trust you. And Gerard is in so much trouble and I just - I didn’t fucking care about El Corazon. I just wanted to get to my brother.”

Frank stared at Mikey. They were still sitting by the side of the road where Mikey had told Frank everything - the phone call, what Nally had wanted, why he was in this mess in the first place. Frank was taking it pretty well, considering what Mikey had gotten him into.

“You trust me now?” Frank asked, looking into Mikey’s eyes.

“Yes.”

"Are you sure?"

Mikey leaned his head back. “You could have left me there when those guys were shooting at us,” Mikey said, dropping his chin and looking at Frank. “You could have dumped me on Ray.”

Frank frowned.

“You didn’t,” Mikey finished.

Frank gave Mikey a level look. “That map, it might be real, Mikey.”

Mikey shrugged. “Whoever has Gee wants it.”

“Maybe, maybe they sent Nally to, like, make sure you didn’t get any funny ideas and go after El Corazon yourself?”

Mikey nodded. “I guess," Mikey sighed. "So what do we do?”

“Isn’t it obvious?” Frank said frowning.

“Call the police?”

Frank nearly choked. “Are you fucking kidding? Nally probably is the police. No. Dude, we get El Corazon.”

Mikey blanched. "I don't…"

“C’mon,” Frank said, whacking Mikey’s thigh with the back of his hand before starting the jeep and setting off. “There’s a town about five miles up this road. We can debate treasure hunting after we eat something and get you some new pants. Colombia doesn’t need to see your butt, Mikeyway.”

“Thanks,” Mikey said. Frank giggled and put his foot down.

*

There was a motel in the town called Traiga Más Cuchillos, which Frank said was hilarious because it meant Bring More Knives. Mikey wasn't too thrilled about that name, but it looked like a nice enough place, and it was near the market where Frank insisted they both buy new clothes and Mikey some boots.

At the motel Mikey had showered quickly, only to end up waiting out front - all self-conscious in his new, ill-fitting tee shirt and pants - for Frank for ages. Apparently for every hour Mikey needed to get ready, Frank needed two.

It was pretty spectacular to be really clean though, Mikey thought. He made a mental note to try being really clean all the time in the future, in honor of this epic moment of cleanliness, but he was pretty sure it wouldn't last. Not if they were going treasure hunting, anyway.

On the drive into town Mikey had fretted a lot about Frank's 'plan' to go after El Corazon.

“We don’t even know what El Corazon is, Frank," Mikey had said after a while.

Frank shook his head. “No, but I’m willing to bet it’s worth like, heaps.”

“Enough to get my brother back?”

“Yeah,” said Frank, eyes fixed on the road. “Yeah, of course.”

After a minute Frank said, "Okay, share and share alike and whatnot."

Mikey tilted his head at him.

Frank took a deep breath. "When I was a kid, my mom had this friend. They ran a dance school together, and Mom couldn’t always get a sitter for me and stuff, so I had to go to the fucking school and be, like, master of ceremonies.”

Mikey snorted.

“I was four, dick face,” Frank said. “Anyway, this friend of my mom’s, she was from Colombia." He laughed. "Man, I had the biggest fucking crush on her.”

“Oh,” said Mikey.

Frank smiled to himself. “Yeah man, fuck. Anyway, she used to tell these stories about home, right? And she always said the mountains here were filled with hidden treasures.”

Mikey looked out the window as Frank spoke. A pink dusk was creeping up on the hills around them.

“So when I quit school I came down here to like, I dunno, figure shit out. See the world, find my fortune, maybe make enough money to do the thing I really want to do. Which is, you know, the shop. That I showed you." Frank stopped talking. Mikey noticed that his cheeks were kind of pink and his eyes were dreamy.

"You came down here to hunt for treasure? So you could go home and run a shop?"

Frank frowned. "Well, when you put it like that," he said, “It sounds mental. Ah, but yeah. Pretty much.”

"Oh man,” Mikey said. "You and Gee are gonna get on so well."

Frank looked at Mikey out the corner of his eye.

Mikey had waved a hand at Frank. “Gerard's Plan B was to be a caped crusader.
Frank had thrown back his head and laughed.

The memory of Frank’s laugh warmed Mikey. He hoped he could make Frank laugh like that again tonight. Frank’s laugh was infectious, and made Mikey feel like he was sharing in something illicit with him. Which, if Frank got his way tomorrow, would pretty much be true.

Mikey tugged at the hem of the tee shirt and pulled up the jeans, checking himself out in the big ass motel window. His boots were pretty Tomb Raider. His name was Mikey, just like in the Goonies. And he was travelling with Indiana Jones Mark II. He was about as ready as a guy who spent his life shut in his apartment writing pseudo-porn was ever gonna get to go questing for treasure.

He turned when he saw Frank bounding down the stairs in the window’s reflection.

At least, it looked like Frank, only this guy’s hair was all black and shiny, and his skin, even with all that ink, was scrubbed pink. He was in tight black jeans and skinny red tee shirt with the words Kill ‘Em All, stretched over his chest. He looked so much like some ordinary guy from Jersey that without the bullwhip and the machete that Mikey almost didn't recognize him.

Except for the grin - the grin was all Frank.

Mikey felt his face heat up. Holy shit.

"What are you staring at?” Frank asked when he jumped the last couple of stairs to land at the bottom next to Mikey. “Quit it."

Mikey shrugged and tried to look anywhere but at Frank.

"So," he said.

"Yeah," Mikey said back.

After a few seconds of awkwardness and trying to surreptitiously fix stray hairs in the window's reflection, Frank sort of scuffed his toe and tugged at the bottom of Mikey's sleeveless tee shirt. "This is, " he coughed. "This is cool. You look…"

Mikey nodded. He really hoped his face wasn't as red as it felt hot. "Um, yours is too, you know." He shrugged one shoulder and looked away. Dear God. Be lamer, I dare you.

They stood there awkwardly for a bit more and then Mikey blurted out, “Burritos?”

Frank snorted. “Burritos are from Mexico, Mikeyway,” Frank said with a raised eyebrow. “In Colombia, we eat Una libra cuarta con queso.”

Frank led the way out into the square. Mikey was happy to follow.

*

“I can’t believe I came 300 miles into the middle of the Amazon to eat a fucking cheese burger,” Mikey said, before shoveling another mouthful in.

Frank smiled with his mouth full, bread and salad clinging to his teeth. He swallowed. “It’s good though, right?”

Mikey nodded. He watched Frank stuff a couple of chips into his mouth and take a slurp of his wine. Frank ate with a gusto, hell, he did everything with a gusto. It was kind of… mesmerizing to Mikey, who some days couldn't work up enough gusto to get out of his pjs. Gee had gusto. But his was a kind of manic zest for life, always racing around, searching for the next thing. But Frank wasn't like that. Frank took what was offered, however mental, dangerous or impulsive, and just sucked the mother fuckin' marrow out of it.

Mikey watched him sucking the juice of the ripe tomato off his fingers. His stomach fluttered.

“Okay, so, here’s what I think," Frank said, inelegantly picking a bit of lettuce out of his teeth. "We hack out into the jungle tomorrow, grab El Corazon - if it’s there, whatever the fuck it is - then high tail it to Cartagena. Rescue Gerard with the map, sell El Corazon. And live like mother fucking kings for the rest of our lives.”

Mikey stared. “That’s your plan?”

Frank grinned again. “It’s a good plan.”

“Except for the poison darts, runaway boulders, rusty spike impalings, ancient curses and men with guns."

Frank gave him a level look. "Steven Spielberg is not responsible for Colombian archaeology, Mikey," he said slowly.

Mikey rolled his eyes. "Okay, but if we get it or whatever, we're probably gonna have to trade El Corazon for my brother, so.”

Frank looked up. “Oh, yeah, well, I mean. Yeah. Of course. But I’m hoping they’ll just take the map for him. They won’t know we’ve already got the treasure.”

Mikey shook his head. “Anyway, we couldn’t keep it, Frank. What if they tracked us down later? Or what if we got in trouble with the government?”

Frank rolled his eyes. “Okay, Dr. Brody," Frank said, smiling out one side of his mouth.

Mikey narrowed his eyes. "Marcus Brody was the real hero of those films," he said airily, "Putting up with Indy's massive ego."

Frank snickered. "I'm going to let that one slide, Mikeyway, because I am the one with the bullwhip and the machete." He leant forward and put his hand on the table right next to Mikey's. Their fingers brushed together. “I can afford to be gracious.”
Frank's eyes twinkled in the light of the colored lanterns encircling the restaurant and the tiny candle in the middle of the table. He looked at Mikey and licked his lips.

Mikey was so transfixed he about jumped out of his seat when music filled the little open-air restaurant.

Frank laughed. “Holy shit,” he said. “Is that like, a salsa version of Smells Like Teen Spirit?”

Mikey looked around. It was a pretty young crowd, and they were all starting to get up and move out into the square, dancing.

"Hey, you wanna dance?” Frank said, bouncing in his seat a little. “Dance with me Mikeyway. Look, those guys are pogoing!"

Mikey raised his eyebrows. He looked at the kids Frank was pointing out, laughing and bouncing into each other.

Frank stood and offered Mikey his hand.

Mikey didn't just have butterflies in his tummy; they were great big luna moths, batting their satin wings against his ribs. He felt like he was stuck in the middle of some crazy 1930s oddball rom-com. Only Mikey didn't know how, because all the little asshole did was tease him and push him off ravines and make him laugh and… shit.

Mikey looked at Frank's hand, and up to Frank's face. He looked so hopeful.

Mikey let Frank pull him onto the dance floor. Other dancers pressed in around them, and Mikey could feel Frank's eyes on him, the way he hadn't let go of Mikey's hand, the way he pressed closer to Mikey than anyone else.

“Come on, Mikeyway,” Frank said, reaching up and touching Mikey’s jaw with the tips of his fingers.

A crowed of pogoing teens pushed them and bundled Mikey closer to Frank.

Mikey bent his head. Their lips touched and Frank surged up in Mikey's arms.

His lips were warm and soft, and he parted them for Mikey as soon as he touched his tongue to them. He tasted like salt and the cheap wine they were drinking. He tasted incredible. Frank’s tongue against his, licking into him, felt incredible. Frank was incredible. God.

Mikey pulled back.

"Don't fucking stop now, Mikeyway," Frank breathed against his cheek, his hands clenching and unclenching at Mikey’s waist. "Please don't stop now."

Mikey shook his head, grabbed Frank's hand and the bottle of wine, and dragged Frank back to the motel.

*

Clothes came undone, lips and tongues met, and fingers splayed across taut shivering bellies. There was the taste of wine spilled on hot, slick, skin. And it was so good. So fucking good.

Mikey’s hands shook and his heart beat so hard and fast. He felt Frank’s nipple harden against his lips, heard Frank sigh, saw him struggle to push off his jeans and spread himself out on the bed beneath the mosquito net. God.

Moonlight from the open window filtered through the net and played over Frank’s flesh, making it glow. “Come here,” he whispered.

Mikey’s head swam as he crawled on top of Frank. Every inch of his skin was on fire because Frank was naked and keening beneath him, his hand tight on Mikey’s cock.

He pulled Mikey’s hips forward, making Mikey crawl up his body to kneel - knees spread wide - over Frank’s face, his mouth.

He pressed the head of Mikey’s cock to his lips and licked, eyes closed.

“Wanna suck you so bad, Mikey. Fuck,” he breathed over Mikey’s tender flesh. And Mikey folded down over him, face pressed into the pillow as Frank did just that, sucked him in, moaning as Mikey’s hips stuttered forward.

“Yeah...” Frank whined, when Mikey’s cock slipped free of the hot wet of Frank’s mouth. “Fuck my mouth, Mikey.”

Mikey couldn’t help himself. He fucked, dragging the head of his cock over the soft-hard of Frank’s lips, pushing it into Frank’s throat.

Mikey slipped one arm down between them and cupped Frank’s neck, leaning his weight on his other arm. Frank’s fingers slipped behind Mikey’s balls to tease at his hole.
When Frank pressed a finger inside, slick with sweat and saliva, Mikey came with the long hot lance of his orgasm ripping through him as he groaned into the pillow.

Frank licked him clean as Mikey shivered and keened above him, and then slipped out from under him before Mikey collapsed onto the bed. Holy fuck.
“Frank, fuck... your fucking mouth,” Mikey whined, face still pressed into the pillow.

He felt sucking kisses across his back, his thighs, and heard the sound of Frank’s voice, harsh and deep, chanting his name, and “Up, up, Mikey. Get on your knees for me?”

Mikey pushed back into Frank’s kisses, raising his ass, spreading himself wide. He was rewarded with the soft, squirming pleasure of Frank’s tongue at his hole. “Oh, God, Frankie,” he hissed, eyes squeezed shut.

“Yeah?” Frank breathed against the puckered flesh and kissed his ass.

“Yeah,” Mikey groaned. “Fucking, yeah.” He pushed back more, and Frank’s tongue was on him again, flicking over the tight muscle, pushing inside.

Then the sharp spear of delight as Frank’s finger slid into him, pushing and pulling against his rim, slowly, so slowly. A second finger, and Mikey felt so full already, but he wanted more.

“Please...”

“Mikey?”

“Please Frank...”

“I can’t - I can’t fuck you Mikey,” Frank whined, bending down and pressing his forehead to Mikey’s hip. “No condoms.”

“Fuck.” Mikey wanted to cry. He panted and pushed back. “I-it’s okay. Just your fingers. It’s... God, come on.”

The feeling of Frank’s pushing into him was so good, just on the edge of painful and too full. Then there was the sound of Frank spitting, and the slick wet sound of Frank jacking himself.

Mikey looked back over his shoulder. Frank was watching Mikey’s ass take his fingers while his hand moved furiously on his cock.

“Oh Mikey, Mikey, Mikey... Want to push it in, Mikey-- Fu-uck.” Frank knelt up and rubbed the head of his cock on Mikey’s hip and came, spurting over Mikey’s ass and lower back.

Mikey’s cock twitched. Fuck, he wanted... He wanted...

Frank fell to one side of the bed. “Hold on,” he panted, stroking Mikey’s side. “Just gimme one second. I’ll get you a cloth.”

Mikey squirmed in the bed, feeling the come siding down the hollow of his back. It was a little gross, but then Mikey remembered how it’d felt hitting his skin, hot and wet, with Frank saying Fuuuck, and Mikey’s face warm with a renewed arousal.

“Gimme a second and I’m gonna want to go again,” he said, stretching out on his stomach and looking at Frank over his shoulder.

Frank giggled. “Better get you cleaned up then,” he said and scrambled out of the bed.

Mikey reached behind him and touched a little of the quickly cooling puddle of come on his back.

Ungh. He wanted to suck Frank. That’s what he wanted to do next and then maybe go out and find some fucking condoms and fuck him right into next week. He licked his finger and shuddered, reaching for the still full bottle of wine on the bedside table and taking a swig. It’d been so long since Mikey had been touched. He didn’t want to waste any time now. It was going to be a long night.

*

Oh, oh God... Mikey was awake, which was terrible. It took him a few moments to figure out where the hell he was and what parts of him hurt. It was pretty much all the parts of him, and he had no idea where he was except that he was hanging half off the side of a bed.

The floor, which he was sure he'd never seen before, was a blur. Moving only his arm, he reached for where he hoped there was a bedside table. There was, and he found his glasses there, thank fuck. He put them on wincing. They were a little sticky with what smelled like wine.

Mikey looked back over the side of the bed. Yeah, no, he'd never seen that floor before. He rolled gingerly onto his back. Ceiling was pretty new too.

He ran his tongue over his furry feeling teeth. "Ungh," he moaned. Grim.

Slowly the night before came back to him in dribs and drabs of bright, lurid color. Frank. They'd gotten another bottle of god knows what, local firewater from reception and then. There were condoms. And he recalled trying to taste the ink on Frank's belly, his knuckles, the scorpion on his neck. He remembered the feeling of Frank holding him down, the taut, hot strength of his arms, his cock. God, his cock. Mikey's ass ached – compared to the rest of him, that felt fucking fantastic actually.

Mikey grinned, and gave himself a fist pump and then touched his throbbing temple gingerly. Sex with a jungle-hardened flesh maestro was motherfucking awesome.

He wondered where that jungle-hardened flesh maestro might be right now and if he might like to have another go at whatever the hell they had a go at last night, but the bed beside him was empty.

Maybe Frank was in the bathroom? But the bathroom door was wide open. The room was empty.

Mikey hauled himself out of bed, grabbed his boxers from - Jesus, they were hanging from the ceiling light - and pulled them on. The room spun a little and he had to lean against the wall for a couple of minutes until it stopped. Frank, fucking Frank.

His backpack was gone, so were his clothes. And this time, really, so was Frank.

Mikey's heart sank. He searched the room for his messenger bag. The bag and the map were gone too.

Minutes later, dressed and pissed, Mikey took the hotel stairs two at a time and strode across the motel parking lot. Colombia wasn't that big a country, Mikey thought. The fire of outrage, humiliation and indignity burned ice cold in his veins.

He'd find fucking Frank fucking Iero eventually. And when he did, he was going to, well, he didn’t know what, but Mikey was from New Jersey. He’d think of something.

“Mr. Way?” A man in dark glasses and a 100 degree Colombian-heat-defying three piece suit stepped onto the footpath in front of him.

“Oh fuck,” Mikey said as he felt someone grab his arms from behind and a sack came down over his face. Something hard and heavy connected with the back of his head. Lights out.

Part Three