The Big Race

Entry for

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The Writer's Cramp  (13+) Write the best poem or story in 24 hours or less and win 10K GPS! #333655 by Sophurky

Prompt: A race, but they aren’t racing vehicles, horses or dogs. Bets are placed, but not with money.

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The referee stood there in the sun near the finish line. ”C’mon boys, let’s see your bets.”

He stood there smirking, twirling his whistle on his finger and shifting back and forth on his feet like a marathon man readying for a race. It was disgusting looking at those chicken legs with big protruding knobs for knees.

The first guy in the red shiny basketball shorts stepped up to the table. “I’ll bet three.” He stacked them, one on top of the other, nice and neat.

The next guy stepped up shaking his head. The movement caused his double chin to waggle like a milk bag on a cow at milking time. He shuffled up and tossed a pile on the table, including the lint from his pocket.
“I’ll raise that three more, fellas.”

The last guy stepped up and made his wager.
“Six is all I’ve got, guys.” He reluctantly placed his on the table next to the others.

All three of them walked back to the starting line. No one said anything. The referee watched the group walk away from him and shook his head.
“Pitiful, they’re getting winded just getting back to the start line.”

As the three reached the start line and readied themselves, he raised the small starting pistol into the air.
“ON YOUR MARK…GET SET…GO!!!”
Pop! The little pistol fired and the race began.

The guy in the red shorts went kamikaze for the finish line, screaming like a banshee, “Ayyyyeeeeeeee!” He got about thirty yards from the start and stumbled to a halt, bent over grasping his knees and panting like a dog lost in the desert.

Mr. Double-Chin headed out from the start line at an easy pace, jogging lightly on his toes. His bloated neck looked like road kill in August. About fifty yards into the race his knee gave out and sent him rolling in the grass like a half-back in the Superbowl.

The third guy took off at a reasonable pace, stopping every twenty yards to catch his breath. He passed the dude in the red shorts who was wheezing and coughing phlem onto his shoes.

A little farther along he stopped to see if The Chin needed help. “Call an ambulance!” The guy was shrieking and rolling around like a six year old.

He went another twenty yards and caught his breath. Head up, arms swinging, he went for another twenty. He could see the goal. The jerk referee was there, laughing at them, laughing so hard his face was completely red. Gasping, he went for the last twenty.

“You win!” the referee blew the whistle right in his face. A little wad of spit flew out the hole and hit the winner on the cheek. He just wiped it off with the rest of the sweat that was pouring down his face.

“I can’t believe I did it!” he shouted. “I win it all.” He dove for the table and scooped up his winnings, pressing them against his sweat soaked shirt.

Then the champion of the “Weight Loss Camp 100 Yard Dash” sat down and devoured all his powdered sugar coated doughnut winnings.