‘Winner winner chicken dinner’ said the first boy as he touched that make believe finish line, all panting and bruised. His feet were bleeding, sweat and tears lodged icicle-like in his eyes, hurting and blinding, and his clothes were ripped.
A monstrosity approaching from behind, another approaching from ahead, two other approaching from the sides all looked at him, judging, judging, judging. Eyes like lavaholes, nostrils flaring up as if they were racehorses and not demons, their overall blackness draping the first boy from all sides in darkness.
‘didn’t say it right’ said one.
‘said it all quicklike’ said another.
‘said wiener, not winner,’ said the third.
‘is here too fast. Where are the other raceboys?’ asked the fourth demon.
The boy, panting, huffing, bleeding, crying, looked all four in the eye with that look that preys and predators share before a hunt and said, ‘killed em all. killed em. killed em.’
‘little boy, there were only ten boys to the race.’
Scared, careful, the demons began backing away from the boy. They had promised to spare his life were he to win but now they feared for their own. In doing the bid of the monsters, in being their plaything, winner boy, chicken dinner boy had become himself a monster.