A World of Grime

Daily Duties

Right opposite his house was where he started every morning, slowly pushing the wagon along towards it, leaning it alongside the front, and giving his fabled knock:

Don, don dondon don... DON DON.

He waited for a little while, before he heard chains upon chains loosen and fall from the inside. There was a creaking, and the door slowly pulled back, revealing a tall burly man in unbuttoned shirt and oversized trousers. He took a puff of his rolled cigarette, billowing putrid smoke above Manuel's head, flexing his muscles all at once. A large smile enveloped him, and Manuel gave it back. "Morning Max. May I come in?" he looked down, and huffed again, leaning back and gesturing for him to enter.
The house wasn't grand, but it was something else, that Manuel was certain of. Its walls were black and felt newly painted somehow every day, and the grass Max grew was the freshest he'd ever seen. The two rooms that split off from the hallway, the kitchen and the seating area, were both the same appearance, grey in colour and wooden in texture. Manuel sat down, and Max came out 2 minutes later with a fresh cup of coffee to hand him, with a small amount of milk and 1 sugar. "New tea set?" Max nodded, throwing away his now burnt up cigarette and slowly gripping only his right leg. "you're right, we should get to business. How're you feeling?" Max began to laugh, a great belly laugh, or more of an 'ab laugh' in his case.
"You know what, Manny?" Manuel looked up, and Max leant forward, "How're you feelin'?" he was taken aback to say the least, but smiled. Seeing Max, he always knew when he was jesting and when he wanted an answer. 

"I am doing fine, thank you for the new towels, by the way, they're very comfy!" he mimed scratching his back, and Max grinned, chuckling slightly.
"Alright, I'll take your word for it. How's the coffee?" he looked over to see how much Manuel had drunk.
"Perfect, as always, Max." He drank the whole thing, despite its scalding temperature, and immediately knew he'd regret that later. "But now, how are you feeling?" Max put his hands up in defeat. 

"Alright, ya got me, there is something wrong." Max looked down at his left leg, and Manuel went to pull up the trouser leg, before Max pulled back. "Manny listen, before you pull that up, I want you to know that... that I've been holding back telling you for a few days now." Manuel gulped, and pulled up the trouser leg in fear.

The trouser leg did not come up quick, rather it slid up, leaving a long yellow streak up his leg, to which Max howled in pain, slamming his hand on the seat cushion. The wound was about as long as the calf itself, and not one, but three claw marks, all open to the air and dust, coated in a black fluff and discoloured yellow from pus and grime, were seen on the side of his left leg. Manuel gagged and had to forcibly beg himself not to vomit to keep the environment as sterile as possible, he was turning green from the smell, the look, the fact he could practically feel it, and eventually, he couldn't take it, and quickly spouted "Wait right here please Max-" before rushing outside into the dirt by his house to throw up the still warm coffee he'd just ingested. He quickly stood, composing himself, grabbing out a few different supplies and a mat for the floor around Max's leg, plus a surgical mask, which was just a piece of cloth wrapped around his nose and mouth he'd coated in peppermint, which burnt, but was highly effective at creating nice thoughts in his mind. When he re-entered the room, Max sat there with a look of abject terror in the thought of losing a leg. "Is it bad?" he muttered, and Manuel couldn't help but let out an ironic laugh, grabbing a spray bottle and filling it with a solution of alcohol and water. Once the room had become sterile, he got to work, snipping away at the remaining cloth stuck to the clotted yellowish-brown pus, causing Max to repel in agony, throwing his head back and letting out a most ungodly screech. "think happy thoughts, no dirt or grime here, nope" Manuel had to constantly remind himself, as to not throw up again, it was bad enough the first time. He grabbed out a small bottle of hydrogen peroxide he'd swiped from a pharmacist a few years ago, and a small brush. Max looked on, and all remaining colour in his face began to pack its bags. "Bite down on something-" he put a hand up, before adding "And preferably not my arm." Max could only let out a weak frail laugh, before shutting his eyes, grabbing a stick off Manuel and placing it in his mouth. he braced himself.