The crowds shouted and cheered as Harold stepped into the ring. He raised his arms, showing off the “golden thumb” that had put a victorious end to eleven thumb wars running. This twelfth would be the one that would get him into the record books. No one had ever taken twelve thumb wars in a row in the entire history of Thimbleton High.

And the word on the street was that the thumb of his greatest rival, Billy, had been injured by a cat the day before. Not that Harold was worried in any case. Billy might be good, but Harold was “The Kid with the Golden Thumb”.

Billy was already in the ring, waiting. And sure enough—there was a band-aid on his right thumb. Harold grinned. “You sure you don’t want to concede?”

“My thumb can still pin yours any day!” Billy declared.

“All right, it’s your funeral.”

They sat down, gripped hands over the table, and began the ages-old chant. “One, two, three, four…”

Harold was too focused on his thumb to notice the way Billy’s eyes were starting to glow red…