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Honestly, whether in space or on Earth, Lance can always wholeheartedly admit that the mall was one of his favorite places and Dios , the Space Mall was literally the best place for him mentally, emotionally, physically, and yes. Even spiritually. What made his day even better (or worse) was the fact that he managed to find a pair of hard, very distinctly hispanic-styled chanclas. He gasped, instantly grabbing the only pair off the shelf and going to the counter of Terra to buy them. When he stepped out of the store, he saw Keith looking around cluelessly and a sly grin lifted his cheeks, remembering how exactly these wonderful chanclas can easily be morphed into a weapon. And he threw them at Keith’s head, assuming his mullet would cushion the blow.
However, it did not. Keith’s skull felt the full brutal force of the almighty chancla, bouncing off of his stupid mullet and falling onto the floor with a clatter. Clasping the back of his head, Keith whipped around, teeth clenched furiously.
“Hey! What was that all about?!” he demanded.
Before Lance could respond, Kaltenecker came out from behind him and started to eat Keith’s mullet. “Moo,” she said.
His. His mullet. His stupid, valuable mullet. It was… was ruined… devastated. Completely in disarray. Keith had a mid-life crisis and he was barely an adult.
He immediately went into the Earth department store and returned with a belt buckle the size of his head, in the shape of Texas. This had the profound effect of not only emphasizing Keith’s accent, but making him 200% more Texan in ‘tude and mullet, too. Keith regarded Kaltenecker with a smirk, hands tilting his buckle just enough for it to catch the light and glisten.
“Well, howdy, young lady,” he murmured, eyes narrowing dangerously. “I reckon y’all’d make a fine double-double patty, I tell ya hwat.”
At that, Lance jumped between the mullet and his precious cow, swinging around pretend-nunchcuks. “Hands off mi esposa, tonto,” he hissed, pointing his air weapon at Keith threateningly.
Keith cocked a brow at Lance’s display of machonismo.
“Yer lady is that fine bovine o’er yonder?” he asked. Keith mulled over it because since the Kaltenecker Nation attacked, he had lost the ‘et’ part of his ‘mullet’. So just plain mulling would do. He performed the greatest demonstration of an IRL thinking emoji that he could possibly muster, then his lips parted in a grin.
“Figures. Reckon y’all wanna keep her to yerself, don’t’cha, pardner?”
He reached for the nonexistent holster at the side of his belt and twirled an imaginary pistol, training it on Lance. Keith closed one eye.
“This cow ain’t big enough for the two of us.” He looked to the side and quietly, affirmatively whispered to himself in a soft voice, “yeehaw.”
Lance’s eyes narrowed menacingly, jaw jutting out tensely. He dropped his five-thousand-six-hundred-and-fifty-four Japanese-type weapons and whipped out his pretend rifle-shaped bayard. “ Lo siento, muchacho , but my Kaltenecker’s got eyes para yo y solo yo . Muévate and no one has to get hurt, amigo.”
Keith met Lance’s gaze with cold indifference, but also jealousy. Mad jealousy. Mad. He reached into his pocket and stuck a novelty fake mustache above his lip, twitching his mustache furiously.
“You can talk Mexican at me all y’all like, but freedom’s never free, pardner,” he said with another twitch of his mustache. “Put down the weapon and no one gets hurt.”
Suddenly, he changed the direction of his air pistol, pointing his finger at… KALTENECKER?! Oh, god. “Not even yer lady.”
At first, Lance gasped at the Mexican comment and he didn’t hesitate to hiss out, “Soy cubano!” But the moment the other’s finger pistol turned to his beloved esposa, his blood shot ice cold and suddenly he couldn’t feel his own heartbeat, drowned out by the dull terrified expression on Kaltenecker’s face as she let out a calm an alarmed, “Mooooo.”
Gritting his teeth and tightening his grip on his pretend bayard. “You wouldn’t dare…”
Existential horror gripped Keith’s chest like someone eating without remembering to wash their hands first. Oh, god. What had he done? Not only had he let a girl come between him and his best friend, but here he stood, threatening them both with senseless violence.
Keith gritted his teeth. His eyes watered from the scent of onions being grilled nearby.
“Yer right, compadre. I wouldn’t. This ain’t me.”
There was only way to pay for his mistakes. He… turned his finger gun on himself, pressing it against his chest.
“Keith, no...”
“Take good care of the young lady, ya hear me, pardner?” Keith saluted Lance one last time. “Sayonara, Lance McClain. T’il we meet again.”
He muttered a soft “pow” beneath his breath with a hiss and squeezed the space ketchup packet beneath his coat with all his might, staining his shirt with red. First, he fell onto his knees, and then, his body hit the ground. His space ketchup-stained hand fell limp by his side.
“Beep. Beep. Beeeeeeep…” Keith narrated his own flatline.
“KEITH!” Lance screeched so loud, he thought his throat was going to tear by the velocity of his call. He didn’t waste any time throwing himself to his knees besides his best pal. The scent of freshly cut onions hit him like a falcon punch all of a sudden and soon, the Cuban was bawling over the Red Paladin’s body. He fumbled for his hand, gripping it like a lifeline, just hoping to catch any hint of a “beep” coming from Keith.
“Keith! Keith, please, don’t do this to me! Keith, buddy, pal, Mullet, muchacho …” Lance’s voice gave out at the last plea, gasping and choking on an onion-induced sob. “Keith… I should have never…” Never let a cowgal get in between their friendship… If only… If only…
Sorrowfully, Lance picked himself up and whispered to himself, “Dabs out for Mullet…” while dabbing. The crowd, confused but still moved by the scene, also dabbed.
Keith, while still pretending to be dead, dabbed back at Lance out of #Respect before returning to his performance.
Kaltenecker mooed pitifully behind him, stepping closer and sticking her giant, pink nose on top of Keith’s chest. She tenderly lapped up the red space condiment from his clothes.
From across the way, out of one of the ten Spacebucks establishments emerged the Black Paladin himself, Shiro, sporting a trendy pair of star-shaped sunglasses as he sipped from his space chai latte. Simple Earth pleasures, but in Space. He couldn’t help but notice a pair of teenagers making a commotion outside of the nearby Earth outlet…
Oh. Oh, no. It was…!
“Lance! Keith! Hold on, dad’s I’m coming!” he howled as he bolted toward them, taking a deep drink of his space chai latte in his mad dash. Shiro forced his way through the crowd to reach the two boys.
He kneeled by Keith’s side, ready to perform basic first aid when the overpowering scent of onion hit him. And then the distinctive vinegar smell of space ketchup. And then… sweat. Not a great combination. Shiro’s nose crinkled.
“Is… Is this… ketchup…?” Shiro asked, picking up Keith’s hand.
Keith’s hand tensed, and within seconds, he was up on his feet, adjusting his mustache and his belt buckle.
Lance sniffled pathetically, trying desperately to rid his senses of the foul stench of chopped onions with his sleeves. At Keith’s stand, he jumped up jovially with his hands in the air. “Ay, gracias a dios de espacio, he’s alive!” Completely ignoring their Black Paladin leader.
“Uh, yeah. Space ketchup, don’t worry about it,” he mumbled, unable to look Shiro in the eye. Keith exchanged glances with Lance. “We, um, got carried away, I guess. Yeah.”
Lance gave a half-hearted laugh and poked his fingers together awkwardly. “In my defense, Keith started it,” was his only response.
Shiro warily eyed them both, brows furrowed. After a few moments, his expression softened and he nodded.
“Well, I guess I’m glad that you two are okay,” he said at last with a gentle smile. His smile quickly turned awkward and he rubbed the back of his neck. “But, uh… Maybe we should go meet with everyone else?”
Suddenly, Keith became uncomfortably aware of all of the eyes staring at them. Watching. Waiting. Confused. Amused? A cold sweat overcame him like he was sitting in the splash zone of a sea animal show. Why did he squirt ketchup-- space ketchup--all over his shirt again?
He stiffly crammed his hands in his pockets and looked away with the distant, moody expression he was known for. Keith’s cheeks flushed a bright red comparable to his paladin color. “Y-yeah. Sounds good to me…”
Lance smirked, hands placed behind his head nonchalantly and nodded. He seemed unperturbed by the gathered crowd and in fact, took Keith’s hand within his own and raised it up with the other. “Thank you all for watching! Hashtag Team Voltron, peace out, amigos.” He gave them all a peace sign and ran ahead of the two Broganes, laughing.
“Hashtag Team Voltron,” Keith mumbled, sighing.
Shiro waved to the crowd as well before heading off with his fellow paladins. “By the way, what does this... ‘hashtag’ mean? Is it related to the hashbrown?”