They looked at each other with death eyes. There were other players at the table but the end-game came down to these two. The others slipped aside under the sheer force of the need of this last two.
It was a dark irony that these last, two fighters were father and son. Both equally stubborn, both desperate to be the last man standing. One of them would lose. There was no alternative.
Finally, there were just the two of them and the circling began. There was 1/2 a container left but one must be the last. One would win. What possible weapon could they use in this social situation? What deceptive politeness could hide the fact that both men were determined? Determined to be the last man on the cream container - the last man to drip out the last few precious drops on the waiting bowls of tinned friut.
Pathetic but true.