Shakespeare and Dickens

Somewhere in my head Dickens and Shakespeare were squaring up.

     

The challenge had been brewing for some time. Shakespeare said that he was the best writer. People quoted him more and his plays were never off the stage. Dickens thought he was the best writer. His work had never been out of print and they kept producing his stories for stage, screen and television. 

They would have tried to establish dominance over the other by being the most attractive but neither were particular specimens of beauty. Shakespeare, with his head the shape of an egg, his pointy beard and his tired puffy eyes. Dickens with his pointy nose, his overly bushy beard and his round tummy. Both had hair that was wild in some places and balding in others. The stalemate retained.

It was then that Aristophanes, who has only recently joined the community in my head, came up with a fantastic idea.

    “Arm wrestle,” Aristophanes said. 

Shakespeare rolled up his flapping sleeves and tried to secure them around his elbows, Dickens fiddled with the buttons around his wrist. A crowd was beginning to form. There was Bryon and Henry James and Moliere and a bunch of other people and they were picking sides for the decider. The combatants both knelt on the floor and put their elbows on a stool. Aristophanes blew a whistle and the arm wrestle began.

Shakespeare was winning.

Dickens retaliated. Dickens was winning.

Shakespeare retaliated. Shakespeare was winning.

Dickens retaliated. Dickens was winning.

Shakespeare retaliated. Shakespeare was winning.

Dickens retaliated. Dickens was winning. The crowd started to place bets.

Shakespeare retaliated. Shakespeare was winning.

Dickens retaliated. Dickens was winning.

Shakespeare retaliated. Shakespeare was winning.

Dickens retaliated. Dickens was winning.

And so it goes on, in my cranium, till a winner is decided.