The Rule

They never stopped.

The dictator leaned over him. “¿Now why won’t you eat your grape juice? ¿Don’t you know it’ll make you e’en stronger? You’ll do much better in track if you eat your juice.”

But he couldn’t stop staring @ the fork, @ all o’ the fuzz balls, cockroaches, & rust stains hugging its sharp prongs.

There’s no way out o’ this.

But I must get out.

So he pretended to drop his fork.

E’en if they can’t see it’s obvious germs, they can’t make me use it after it’s clearly fallen on the floor.

“O, here you go,” said the dictator, handing the fork to him.

“But… but it fell.”

“& I picked it up.”

“But I can’t use a dirty fork.”

The dictator smiled, his yellowing teeth showing.

“10-second rule.”


Desk, fork, juice