The endless struggle that has plagued mankind since its earliest days, chronic "Mine's Bigger!" syndrome, finds new irony in the arena of miniature tabletop games. A squad of two-inch-tall model soldiers move across the battlefield, keeping their heads down while running from cover to cover. Their leader hunkers down behind the wreckage of a vehicle, pauses to catch his breath, and then peeks out to assess the situation. He is vaporized by the guns of a treading behemoth on the other side of the table.
Towering a whopping ten-inches-tall, the giant casts a long shadow. The fluorescent lighting of the game shop gleams off its armor as it marches forward, launching its weapons and killing off scores of intricately hand-painted model soldiers. The fight is one-sided, but there is still a chance for the survivors to muster a final blow.
A blast template is produced from someone's backpack under the table. It is nothing more than a transparent plastic disk- and yet, it is quite large. Everyone falls silent, save for hushed whispers as the template passes reverently from hand to hand. Perspiration breaks out on foreheads as the disk is placed over the head of the treading behemoth. A single white die, the size of a person's tooth, is rolled across the table. The die stops rolling. A series of gasps. A space ship the size of earth's moon locks its weapons-systems onto the template and unleashes a hellish orbital bombardment that wipes out all life on the planet.
And then... an argument erupts. It seems that a protocol in the extensive rulebook has been overlooked. The space ship maneuver is illegal. Tempers are lost. Cain slays Abel. Everyone packs up and goes home.
When I step through the door, my wife asks how the game went, and who won.
"Nobody."
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