john and the beanstalks

Men lurking around a field because they’re going to go at each other with swords, blades, knives, shields, helmets, mace, rocks, sticks, name-calling, basketball hoop, these dudes are going to win, either them or they.  Blood or sweat will flow or both.  Someone yells out “Peace!”


“Peace, gentleman,” is called from one of the sides of the green grass meant to darken with evil sky and rivers of blood.  A technical is called.  Generals rear up their horses, plans are dashed and folded, computers start crunching long, big, heavy numbers.

“We call for peace between both of our sides!”

“Fuck off, we need to eat,” says the others.  Instantly branded criminals, they kick the shit out of the other dudes until they scream bloody murder.  Howling as they receive the eternal beatdown.

No.  Wiser and cooler heads prevailed from the other side.  It is just a mirage, a bloodmist that falls over the eyes and minds of both teams.

“Why should we relent of our contest?” or some words depending on where this is and what exactly is going on.  “Why should we not fight?” they say, for clarity.

The reason these guys are going at it is circumspect, here.  Obviously, they feel a need to beat.  These are the lines drawn in the sands for men.

“Because we don’t need to, anymore.  The reason to do this has been called off.”

Everyone packs up the stage equipment and lighting and they all go home, no blood thirsty necks torn today.  They go home to their wives and children and live great lives.


The End