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have no more. Miguel used these little chicks he had for tokens, yellow poofs with black dots for eyes and orange foam for beaks. Whenever they were attacked, Miguel would just take them off the field and put them back in his tin box where he kept his cards. “I attack another one of your little chickadees.” Ross loved to make motions for his attacks, like Fist of the North Star dramatic motions where he’d point to your face to indicate he was ordering a mythical dragon to blast your ass with an ultra-beam of light (I don’t mean to make that sound judgmental. I did that shit, too.) “Alright. Just finish your turn.” “You mad cuz I killed one of your little chickadees? Aw, you’re some kind of big momma chicken?” Ross would ask before making some ridiculous clucking sounds. “Just finish your fucking turn.” “I end my turn. Good luck.” Miguel drew a card from the top of his deck, eyes closed. He brought the card to his face and opened his eyes: it was a Cosmic Queen, a pretty badass card you could only get if you ate McDonald’s; however, you need to sacrifice two monsters to summon it and even if he could, Cosmic Queen only has 2,850 attack points to Blue Eyes’s 3,000. Miguel was essentially fucked, signaled by a tsk, exhaling loudly through his mouth, and saying, “This is some booty.” His older brother, Fernando, came to his side and inspected of Miguel’s cards, carefully reading their texts like a lawyer. “That’s why I told you to put that trap card I gave you in your deck, estupi!” “Man, it’s too late for that shit now, ain’t it?” Miguel said after punching Fernando on the shoulder. “Ya! Imma tell mom!” “Aw, is momma chicken having a domestic disturbance over there?” “Yo, shut the fuck up,” Miguel said. “Shut up and finish your turn so I can win already.” Now, there are certainly better ways to be a winner or a loser. One can win with grace and withstand the inevitable barbs from the loser, understanding that at that particular moment in time they, the winner, are ok, on top, and able to sleep knowing every decision they’d ever made up to that point in their life was correct. On the other hand, no one likes to lose, no one likes feeling that things will have to change soon. What things? Who knows. Defeat stings hardest during the examination of each and every flaw in your being. It’s a search that could last forever. What happens next is best described by a word from the ancient and very dead language Latin: hubris. “Fuck you. Your turn.” Ross drew his card, barely looked at it, summoned a Beta the Magnet Warrior, and went into an attack phase he won’t be able to take back. “Beta attacks your last stupid, little chickadee,” Ross said before he picked up the yellow poof and tossed it at Miguel’s face like a lit cigarette. Other than the obvious disrespect, remember that Miguel has 1,200 life points. Beta the Magnet Warrior has 1,600 attack points

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Blue Mesa Review Issue 36  
Blue Mesa Review Issue 36