Cereal Killer, in the form of:
Asesino en cereal Zeta
Cereal? Pfauh! You spit out cereal, what fetid, unwelcomed effluviums, what snickling, brabbling, wickedly waggling, uninvitable pleonasms, nor wheat nor oat nor rice shall accost your finedangling senseness! Begone, you say, and you prepare to torch them all to Hades. A diet of meat, for you, morning or evening, meat, yes! More meat! You are cereal killer Zeta.
::)::
A night like any other, you are wandering an idle street when you think you hear a voice mumbling something about… despots? What despots? Their words sound grandiose and absurd, but you are shaken. You immediately rush home, and by the time the front door closes to your back you are drenched in sweat. Something has awoken in you, as though a key were turned in a lock deep within the recesses of your soul, and you can never go back. Or, maybe… If you destroy that voice. Maybe then, you will find peace. Yes. You must. You must destroy all cereals.
You win when all cereals have been incinerated or nothing can stop the same.
(Modnote: this means they were Mafia Goon.)
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Flavor fakeclaim
Vanilla cereal, in the form of:
Chex
Your family tree, when divorced from a series of lines on a page and thrown into the living and breathing breakfast bowl, is a chaotic mess that you would prefer not to involve yourself in. Some members are hazardous assortments of pretzelish oblongities. Others might be miniature bread sticks (you’re not even sure, yourself), and with them are unpleasant semisquare shapes that annoy the teeth and make you half wonder if you aren’t part of a bad dream dreamed by an airplane. Raw almonds, delicious in other contexts, perhaps, with limitations or specifications, and other nuts. There they all are, distressing, brittle textures all crammed in alongside you, you the tiny baby waffle with a gentle, inoffensive heart. You aren’t quite sure what to do about the situation. You are Chex.
::)::
You’ve always been afraid of death. Please don’t kill me, you whisper prayerfully to the night, but you know it ignores you. Sometimes a strange longing takes you, and for a moment you believe you’re about to meet your end. “Aquí está,” you say out loud. “Los asesinos en cereales me llevan.”
One day, as the rising sun peeks through your huddled cardboard covers, you have an epiphany, or at least a thought. “Soy le defensore de les despoetices,” you proclaim convincingly. “Y nadie puede silenciarme. ¡Adelante, mi arma es mi voz!” You emerge from your dusty fortress into the dawnlit lands and set out ayonder with tongue in hand. You may be a little bland, but you certainly have an appetite.
You win when all threats to cereal have been eaten.
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