Billy’s thumb defensively dodged and danced away from Harold’s. Harold concentrated on the movements, looking for the perfect fake-out to pin his opponent and win his twelfth straight victory.

Billy let out a evil laugh, but Harold wasn’t phased, he refused to glance away from his thumb for one millisecond. He thought he had established a rhythm of attack, that once broken, would capture his opponent by surprise. His thumb snapped down on Billy’s knuckle and settled into place over his cuticle.

Billy growled, low and deep, and Harold, holding fast, chanced a glance at his defeated opponent’s face. At the same time, the ground began to vibrate and rumble. And when Harold’s eyes met the red, glowing spheres of Billy’s he was suddenly less happy at his victory and more willing to let go and leave for his life.

The table upon which they had been wrestling fell over and the ground split at that very spot. Billy stood and roared something quite inhuman. Harold peed himself a little.