DIABETES ON THE MOVE

On the left: White.  White and fat, thinning wisps of blonde hair on top of an egg-shaped head, mud-dull brown eyes, a button nose, and a mouth slack from the effort of chewing.  Chest pains.  On the right: Black.  Also fat, close-cropped black hair going gray, mocha skin moist with sweat, deep brown eyes just a touch too close together, a long hook nose that had been broken once or twice in the recent past, and a mouth clamped shut.  A mouth chewing in grim satisfaction.  Chewing slowly, in victory.  On the left, a defeated man.  A man, slumped forward in sadness against the edge of a table strewn with bent aluminum pie plates in various states of disarray.  On the right, a man triumphant!  A champion in the making, sitting up tall and straight as he doggedly smacks his lips against the remnants of a blueberry pie, fighting back the ever-growing urge to vomit.  The table: a mass of excess and filth and wasted food, fruit filling and broken crusts sodden with the saliva of fully grown men possessing no self-respect whatsoever.  This was no mere competitive eating contest.  No, this had been a war.  The belts had come off thirty-five minutes ago, and this was a thirty minute challenge.