Rivals Waaa: Waaaaa

Magnus staggered. His ears rang. But he was a professional. “Is that all you’ve got?” he snarled.

The annual "Golden Conch" decibel competition was the Super Bowl of the absurd. Two rivals stood atop the foam-padded arena, facing off for the championship title. On the left: , a burly man with a handlebar mustache and lungs like bellows. On the right: Lil’ Squall , a tiny, unassuming woman in oversized overalls who had never lost a single match. Rivals WAAA WAAAAA

Lil’ Squall walked over and offered him a tissue. “Good match,” she said. Magnus staggered

The rules were simple. Face your opponent. Scream your loudest, most pathetic, most reality-shredding until the other one cracks. “Is that all you’ve got

“Not even close,” she whispered. Then she closed her eyes, thought of every minor inconvenience she’d ever suffered, and let out the triple-crescendo: