Bobby stared down the tarmac, his heart pounding. He stared down the commercial airliner that stood opposite him, half a mile away. He growled softly. Oskaloosa, the undefeated champion of the runway, growled back. Bobby knew his time had come. He started down the pavement, jogging briskly. He looked up to see the jet rev it’s engines, holding his stare. He began to sprint.
On the other end of our story, Oskaloosa began his descent, all the while thinking, “Jeunesse dorée stupide. Me faire faire cette chose que je déteste. J’espère que Bobby me tue. Aussi, mon traducteur est cassé et même pas exactes. Je déteste ça."
They met head-on in the center of the runway. Metal, blood, oil. Fire. Gastric juices. Butter. A small Guatemalan. Nothing.
The aircraft stood over his dead opponent, the great wooly mammoth they called Bobby. He cried in French, and then Korean. Because he had no other choice.
A note from the author: I realize that there are gaping spaces in between the French words. I have no idea why, as they do not show up in my draft. However, I think it adds to the story, so I have no real desire to fix it.