Oxygen source has bad breath.

Accessing the latest map required a confounded intricately complicated encrypted pass code.  Lucky sat under the shadow of the rig, sharing his immediate space with a circus troop of insects; not altogether enjoying their clumsy, chaotic, precision aerial maneuvers; or that particular, bug brand humor, that required them to crawl into his nose,ears,and eye's; the bugs had finally found their audience and were doing their best to keep his attentions focused on the breath taking, hilarious, drama of the insect follies.  In an eloquent fit, lucky gave a review in the form of a monologue, orated before the ranks and rows of corn.  They just stood there, moving ever so lightly, in the wave of halitosis that would've been called a breeze on a tropical island; exhaling an oxygenated perfume of corn, hot, humid, and sweet; not sweet as in fresh water, but sweet as in a rotten lump of cane sugar.  The map was open and lucky made sure it was to date by zooming in to his location at the cut out, making sure it was his rig and his feet, sticking out from under the row hog hive in the thorax portion of his mother rig.