Abram sat and stared at the milkshake.
The milkshake sweated.
Abram’s left hand darted forward, but it was a clever ruse. The milkshake didn’t even have time to move before Abram grabbed it with his right and lifted it off the ground. It struggled, but to no avail.
Abram grabbed the straw with his left hand and placed it in his mouth. He began a hearty suck, bleeding the life from the drink. It fought, valiantly, but as its soul ebbed away, it lost energy, ability. Abram kept sucking, draining the thing dry.
Finally, it was dead, and Abram, victorious, felt the milkshake slosh around in his belly, granting him its power. He slammed the cup down on the table in front of him, gave thanks for its sacrifice, and rested, sated. Tomorrow, another.