I stare at Beau, my enemy, with his full plate of pancakes, 

slathered in a brown liquid.

My allies cheer my on as I drag my sword into the butter,

and then dunk the once cherished delight into syrup.

“He’s on his seventh,”Macey, my loyal spy, states.

I nod, gulping down my carton of cool milk.

“Number?” Beau asks, staring at me from across the table.

“Ten,” I say, though I'm on my twelfth.

Beau’s allies cheer him on, as I ask mine for more pancakes.

“What are you on?” I ask Beau. He is on fifteen.

My stomach feels like it's going to burst on my nineteenth,

the milk being served to me no longer helps me swallow. I want to surrender.

I look at Beau. His eyes look full and sick.

“I am done,” he says, his allies waving their white flag.

“You win,” Macey cries out

as I look across the green ordinary lunch table.

I smile in victory.