The children are outside, playing a game of rock, paper, scissors. They say the words with great concentration as they beat their fists into their palms. The little boy wins more often than the little girl does, but is more frustrated when he loses.
The girl is frightened of his emotion, and because she only wants to have a little fun with her brother, she is trying her best not to win.
“You’d do better if you threw something other than paper,” he tells her. All the same, he throws rock in their next round and loses. “God damn it! You’re not even trying!”
He slaps the air in front of her face, and she backs away.
“I’m sorry,” she says.
Kicking the ground, he mutters, “Paper shouldn’t beat anything.” He seems to get an idea, and runs to the house, and back with a pair of scissors and a sheet of eight and a half by eleven. He sets them down in front of her, and picks up a rock.
“I dare you to choose paper,” he says, winding up with the stone in his hand.
The girl crouches down, watching the boy carefully. She picks up the pair of scissors, and when the boy comes charging to break her, she swings the object toward him. It grazes his cheek, and he stands back, shocked.
“You lose,” he says, and takes the scissors from her. She turns and runs.
From inside, they look as though they’re playing a game of tag. Their parents see them running out of the corners of their various eyes and take symmetrical sips of Coca-Cola.
“It’s good to see the children playing,” the father says.
The mother doesn’t say anything, only carbonated gulps.
Coca-Cola: Your Only Responsibility
Post Modern Existential Horror 