The contest was in full swing. A crowd hovered, quietly because nobody wanted to get caught. The last two contestants sat along one side of a table, while friends kept them in supplies.
John, the favorite, was ahead, four down and looking good. He was always fast. Randy slightly behind, had finished his forth, but was having trouble opening his fifth. Bumble fingers were the curse of many a contender.
John finished his fifth, and reached for his sixth. Six was usually the end, six usually brought him the win. He spared a second to glance at Randy. Just crushing his fifth, he was only an opening behind. The game was so on.
Randy’s tongue felt like it was wearing a winter coat, his throat tight, he was having trouble breathing. Bringing the sixth container to his lips, he caught the look on John’s face. John felt he’d already won! The look, a mix of mocking and superiority caused something in Randy to snap.
Somehow he opened his throat and through sheer determination alone, swallowed the entire box full in one huge gulp, crushing the box in his hand and smashing it to the table.
Seeing the box smash, John choked. Suddenly everything in his stomach lurched, flying back up, spewing out of his mouth, cascading onto the table and then splashing up on everyone standing on the other side. Panic ensued, screaming and running, a couple kids threw up.
Suddenly Mrs. Grant was there. Everyone went dead silent. She surveyed the mess, looking up at John and Randy, fully understanding the entire situation in a single glance. “Never again,” she said quietly, scarily. “Never.”
But John knew that was impossible. John had to get his dignity back. The King of Milk would not stay dethroned for long.