randomeer: Random_Guy
After Katniss Everdeen finally hung up her crossbow for the last time, the world needed
a new sport. “What about Hunger Games… but with dogs?” she remarked. Stupid idea? Of course.
But imagine it: the Sloober Games, one representative of every breed battling it out in a giant bone‑shaped stadium.
Round One is short and savage. The toy breeds—Chihuahuas, Pomeranians, Maltese—are dismissed as squeaky appetisers. Some try to hide under benches, others yap defiantly, but most are swallowed up in the chaos before the crowd has even finished its nachos.
Round Two belongs to the sprinters. Greyhounds, whippets, collies—they streak across the arena like lightning, weaving between lumbering giants. For a moment, speed looks unstoppable. The crowd cheers as they dart past jaws and paws, untouchable blurs of fur.
But then the heavyweights lumber awake. Mastiffs, Rottweilers, Alsatians, and one smug Saint Bernard thunder after the sprinters. The chase is spectacular: drool flying, paws pounding, commentators shrieking like football fans. The big dogs burn through their stamina in pursuit, tongues lolling, legs faltering, until exhaustion drags them down.
That’s when the Greyhounds strike back. With the giants too tired to defend themselves, the sprinters circle, dart in, and topple them one by one. For a moment, speed conquers strength. The titans lie sprawled, defeated, while the Greyhounds stand tall.
But victory is cruel. With no heavyweights left to chase, the Greyhounds and whippets turn on each other. Speed against speed, stamina against stamina, they clash until nothing remains but panting bodies collapsed in the dust. The arena falls silent.
It seems no champion remains. The stadium looks like a battlefield of fur and slobber.
Commentators whisper: is this the end?
And then—from beneath the bleachers—comes a sound. A bark. Tiny, shrill, absurdly loud. Out creeps the last survivor: a Chihuahua, eyes blazing with manic defiance, tail wagging like a metronome on caffeine.
It struts into the centre, climbs atop the fallen Saint Bernard, and declares victory with a squeak that sounds suspiciously like a kettle boiling. The imagined crowd erupts. The underdog is literally the underdog.
In this thought experiment, the champion is not the fastest or the strongest, but the smallest, loudest, and most stubborn. Proof that in the strangest scenarios, tiny rage wrapped in fur can outlast them all.
