The hellfire raged around the edges of the field. Billowing clouds of smoke rose from the blackened and burnt ground, covering and choking out the sky in a dark haze. Red rivers of blood ran through the black sand and into the ground in all directions. From all sides of the field hissed the constant chanting of demons, whole hungrily roamed around, waiting for their next meal. In the center of it all was Pooh, struggling to keep the baseball aloft amidst all the carnage. And there, standing before Pooh, was HIM.

The horrible creature that had caused all this destruction in the first place. The king of all the demons, the lord of hell. Few dared even to whisper his name, Christopher Robin.

He was standing on the pitcher's mound, his eyes sunken and full of hate. Again and again those horrible arms would throw the ball, and Pooh would just barely manage to hit them. But he was weakening, and they both knew it.

"Ball 40."

Pooh only needed 3 more home runs to beat the monster, but he wasn't sure if he could manage it. By now, the sweat was coming in earnest, his arms arched, and blood oozed from the many cuts and bruises from where stray baseballs had left their mark.

Again, Christopher Robin threw the ball. Pooh knew as soon as he hit it that it wasn't good enough; the ball sailed off the field, but in the wrong direction.

"Foul. Ball 41."

Pooh shook himself. He had to be strong. He had to win this.

The next ball came and he swung, connecting with it at just the right spot. The ball flew out of the field and into the inferno.

Only 2 more now.

"Ball 42."

He swung again, sending it out of the field.

"Ball 43."

The zig-zagging nature of the throw, combined with its sudden speed, caught him completely off guard. It struck him directly on the side, making him scream and drop the bat. This wasn't like the other times he had been hit; this hurt way too much. Had he broken a rib?

"Strike. Ball 44."

Pooh struggled for the bat as the ball whizzed past his head; the bastard wasn't giving him an inch.

"Strike. Ball 45."

The next two balls went right by him as he forced himself to raise the bat again, despite the agonizing pain in his side. And yet, even though he only needed one more home run, winning now seemed futile. He was going to lose. He had failed.

"Strike. Ball 47."

There was no way he could bring himself to hit another, in this condition. Robin was going to take his soul.

"Strike. Ball 48."

What kind of fool had he been, as a mere mortal, to challenge a god?

"Strike. Ball 49."

A tear slid down his cheek. It just wasn't fair.

"Strike. Ball 50."

The sadness inside him turned to fury as the futility of it all struck him again. With a strength he didn't know he had, he roared and swung the bat in a fit of rage for one last time. The ball rose in the air and over the field.

Christopher Robin stared at him in shock. "YOOOOOOUUUUUUUUUU-"

A great roar rose in the air as the demon's magic became undone. The hellfire shrunk and was extinguished, the blood soaked away into the ground, and the clouds broke and allowed sunlight to touch the woods once again. Christopher Robin screamed, and crumbled away into nothingness.

Pooh collapsed, defeated, to the ground. He had won.

But as he remembered the broken bodies of the masters of baseball he had killed, he asked himself, "But at what cost?"