Epic Portions

Everyone seated at the small square table could feel the tension rising in the air. The battle of the century was about to unfold before their innocent, naive eyes, and they all knew it. A glare across the table and the battle begun. The clashing of plastic cocktail swords rang through the vinegar-ridden air and tiny droplets of orange juice splashed off of their blades with each strike. I was gaining the advantage, my opponent was quickly losing confidence when the unthinkable happened. It only took one over-powerful strike and the sickening sound of breaking plastic echoed through the anxious crowd that had assembled to watch history being made. I watched with baited breath as my faithful comrade, my only weapon, fell disgraced and defeated to its final resting placed on the pristine white paper napkin. I looked up in time to see the last of the prize disappear through my opponent’s jeering teeth. The French fry was gone.