The lambanog-soaked farmer snored, lulled to sleep by the carabao’s
steady rhythm as it navigated the muddy trail home. The coarse, broad
neck of the carabao pillowed the man’s head as he mumbled insults and
curses at drinking buddies now far away. The carabao plodded on.
Sleepily swatting the hitch-hiking flies away, the man shifted onto
his side, for a moment dreaming that he was at home on a nice soft
bed—which is why he was unable to avoid an undignified fall when the
carabao tripped on a tree root.
Covered in mud, he shook a fist at the carabao. “Watch where you’re
going! Worthless piece of… If you don’t shape up, I’m going to eat
lengua!” With that, he clambered back onto the carabao and nudged it
with his knees.
The carabao refused to budge.
He nudged it again, sharply. “Move! I’m going to give you a kick in
the behind if you don’t!”
The carabao took a few steps backward.
“Lazybones!” He jumped off with a muttered curse. The carabao munched
grass, unconcerned. He drew back to deliver a powerful kick, but
missed. Alcohol-addled senses may have failed to register the
carabao’s snort, but bruises showed the carabao had much better aim!
(In response to flashxer prompt “Motivation”: You want motivation?
Okay, okay. How about a kick in the behind if you don’t get it done?
Is that motivation enough, or do you need even more vigorous