[ WP ] An ordinary competition being done `` To The Death '' .

Cyclical eyes bore down the length of the splintery table. The exasperated cheers reverberated through my ear canal, banging the drum with tribal succession. 
 I heaved, nearly losing my cool ( whip ) and my life. 
 
 To my left, Jackson Felcher, the undisputed champion of the competitive pie eating circuit gobbled his fifth blackberry pastry in as many minutes. I was only on my second. The son of an Italian pastry chef, I never pictured this life for any of my younger siblings, and never once for myself. The price had to be paid, and it was my turn to pick up the check. 
 
 “ Five minutes remain my little piggies! ” the diabolical screech from microphone feedback cracked my skull like an egg. Mayor Templeton was loving this too much. 
 
 I covered my mouth in time to quell another heave of blueberry vomit. I was running out of time. 
 My father hid his face in the crowd, all but realizing the extent of his son ’ s defeat. I kept my eyes fixed on the prophetically surreal rotundness of my third blueberry pie. It was over, I had nothing left to give. 
 
 Just when I finished my final prayer and reconciliation for a larger than average Playboy collection underneath my mattress, a collection of voices suddenly cried out at once. I heard a thud and the clanging of pans. My neck snapped to my left to see Jackson Felcher lying lifeless in his sixth pie. 
 
 The rules of the annual “ Pie Until I Die ” contest allows for each head to head participant to choose their favorite pies to eat in rapid succession. Upon completion of their chosen pies, the final pie is that of the variety chosen by each participant for the other to inhale. 
 
 I had chosen wisely. 
 
 Boysenberry always gets his man. 

