Paul wagged a weary fist.
“Paper, scissors – "

The man shrieked from behind his mask, then coughed violently.

“It’s rock, paper, scissors, Paul.” His hoarse voice echoed through the dark theater.

Paul gazed up wearily. The man was hidden behind layers of ashen cloak and that strange mask – it was a perfect replica of Paul’s own face.

“Do it again, Paul.” the man urged, “You win, I cut a rope. I win, I cut something off.”

Those vacant, burgundy eyes – Paul knew them from somewhere.

“Fine,” Paul said, squirming in his chair. The rope was wound so tight that it burned his forearms and thighs.

“Rock, paper, scissors.”
“Rock.”
“Rock.”

“Rock, paper, scissors.”
“Paper,” said Paul.
The man held rock – a losing hand.
“Bomb,” he screamed. “Bomb destroys paper.”
Paul winced as the man drew scissors from his cloak and kneeled.
“I’m joking, Paul.” He began cutting the rope off his left leg.

“You’re up. Two in a row, and you get a toe.”

Paul looked down at the man’s bare feet – he only had two toes left.