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.

Youtube Video

Cereal 1-shot Vigilante, in the form of:
Nutri-grain
Sweat pours from your clean-shaven body—hair negatively impacts aerodynamic flow—but you barely notice; the rocky terraces of an old floodplain passing beneath your feet have your full attention. Beyond the next rise, you will mount a bicycle and cross the old floes like a majestic seal of the arctic, before you plunge into the crisp waters, newly cleared by an exploratory vessel, and swim several miles warmed only by the ferocity of your complex amino acids. Your journey comes to its end atop a rope tower stretching high above the frigid ocean. No one can deny you glory. You are Nutri-grain.

::)::

You’ve always been afraid of death. When you were a child, it took your best friend. But you were not born to be unhappy, and so you traveled into the underworld and struck a deal with Hades: you would find your friend and leave the underworld with them. At last, you were reunited with your friend, left that dank place behind, and it was there you learned that fear held nothing to the power of love and friendship.

I learned something, while I was trapped in the underworld, your friend told you, and you asked them what it was, and they told you it was the art of Noh. “Soy une sacerdote que viene de un pueblo de montaña en Kiso,” was just one of the many mysterious things you could hear in a Noh performance, according to your friend. The true secret, though, was that as long as you were performing Noh, you had power over the night. Your friend put on all manner of masks and toiled at teaching you, but you only managed to memorize a single ritual of sorts before you began to worry that you might die of old age. “Tengo que irme,” you said abruptly, one day, and left without looking back.

Once per game, during the night phase, you may target a player to bring death to them.

You win when all threats to cereal have been eaten.