The Tragedy of Battle Creek


It had been a busy week, starting with the Frog. He felt no remorse, but neither did it bring him joy. It was, he reasoned, a task that needed to be completed and he was the man to do it. No one saw him enter the home and no one saw him leave. He’d spent years practicing and preparing for that moment. Countless bowls had been consumed and gallons of milk emptied. He’d collected the prizes that sat inside the boxes and played all the games and puzzles that the manufacturers had printed on the backs of those boxes. He was ready. He’d taken out that stupid red hat wearing Frog in one blow and left only a body in a pool of blood. There was no joy, but there was exhilaration. He knew he’d do it again.

The Toucan was next. This time it wasn’t enough to leave the body. He’d cut off the multi-colored beak as a trophy. “No more following this nose,” he thought to himself humorously.

And now the Tiger. This was gonna be great! From a window across the street, the killer fixed the crosshairs of the high-powered rifle on the back of that striped head. It was almost too easy. He squeezed and a loud report filled his ears. The tiger dropped to the ground, motionless.

“Tommy, are you almost done eating? a woman called from the living room? “You’re going to be late for school.”

“I just finished mom!” Tommy yelled as he put his empty bowl in the sink and tossed the colorful breakfast food box into the trash. He began humming a nameless tune as he grabbed his backpack and left the kitchen.

The cereal killer had struck again.


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