The Contest

But coming back was different, they carried him between the two he'd swallowed forty-seven pies, the contest had been won for him but now the bloat had set itself into a strong expansive motion. His boots were dragging, lifeless and flecks of foam saliva drifted and settled on his Wrangler jeans. Then he threw up, one pie did follow the one before, all half digested and smelling of appalling sourness. They crossed the railway bridge and briefly let him go, to dodge the scum, that's when he rolled and tumbled, down the brown embankment to the tracks below, and landing with a screech of joyful liberation. Which did get stifled by the shiny train. Was followed by the sounds of nothingness.