ir. He has weapons.
Bacon is on a sophisticated treadmill with lots of flashing lights, and he is lean and mean and very tall. He’s Soviet bacon. He is very, very tall.
Sausage pushes a log in the snow. The log looks like Sausage, and vice versa. Sausage works with what he’s got. He’s got logs. Also, an ax.
Bacon has threads stuck to his streaked face. At his side, Brigitte Neilson. Brigitte Neilson smiles. It’s Soviet—a bit naughty. She taps Bacon’s moist forehead with a small towel and places her nails on his pork pecs.
In the ring, Bacon jabs Sausage, and vice versa.
Bacon: jab.
Sausage: jab.
It continues.
The Sausage trainer is way too old. He should be living out his golden years in a Pensacola condo. He should be enjoying beach time.
Bacon’s trainer is, well, Brigitte Neilson, and she’ll never be old.
Sausage beats Bacon, finally, because Another Sausage got bludgeoned in the show match plus revenge is a powerful thing.
Bacon should have beaten Sausage.
Bacon would have beaten Sausage if the funding, production, and distribution had been Soviet.
Bacon is better than sausage.
Bacon. Is. Better. Than. Sausage.
Communism.

Jonathan Cardew is blog editor for Bending Genres and contributing editor for the Best Microfiction series. His stories appear in SmokeLong Quarterly, wigleaf, Passages North, cream city review, Longleaf Review, trampset, and more. He lives in Milwaukee, Wis.