Cereal Disorder

A sequel to Froot Loop Assassins, written not long after it. There were several others, but those are lost to space and time.

* * *

You should remember me as the author of the shocking annals of The Froot Loop Assassins. This is the tale of the events that followed the publication of said story. A few days after it came out, strange things starting happening across the country. Boxes of pre-sweetened breakfast foods started disappearing from the shelves in supermarket chains all over. A week after it all started; it just as suddenly stopped. Things were quiet. Too quiet. On November first, a month after my story hit print, three thousand club wielding Cheerios overran grand central station in New York City. There were only three survivors. The stories they told of the incredible atrocities committed by those demon-O’s made Dan Rather shake his head in disgust. Peter Jennings broke down into tears on air. I prepared for war. Three days and six hundred dollars later, I looked into the mirror and tied my red bandana. By this time, the rioting had spread throughout the country. The White House had fallen, followed closely by Disney World (over three hundred kids had been killed, and Mickey has been hanging from the top of the MGM water tower ever since). The Alamo was the last to go. The Cereal Army Battalion no. 4, “the lucky losers” were marching on Hollywood. Lucky Charms were running amok in Biloxi. Breakfast foods had come to life and taken over! Armed to my cavity-holed teeth and accompanied by my faithful dog Princess, I planned my offensive. Padding softly down the street on Chuck Taylored feet, I had my first run in with the enemy. A half-dozen Wild Cherry Pop Tarts with sharpened #2 pencils came charging out of a 7-11, screaming their little crumbs off. A pencil buzzed by my ear just as I dispatched a wicked pastry. I stomped two more and was then distracted by a yelp from behind. I spun around, catching the last three barbarian tarts with my bat. There lay Princess, pencil in her nose, dead from lead poisoning. I snapped. I started walking strait towards New York City, leaving a path of milk and crumbs (not to mention destruction). Nothing could stop my deranged mission of vengeance. I had become a machine, able only to destroy. No sugarcoated, mass-marketed, cardboard-packaged imitation food product could stand up to my wrath. Ahead of me lie my vengeance, my goal. Behind me lay the wreckage caused by hundreds of thousands of Hell-spawned, demon-loving, evil snacks. I had mastered a new art, the art of demolishing these anarchists from Acme. Nothing could stop me, not their toaster strudel mercenaries, not their Raisin Bran Rambos. I was the Gods’ avenger. I was undefeatable. I was Supreme. Well, I was pretty pissed, at least. The final day had come. I was ready, and so were they. I charged strait for grand central station, lobbing milk filled waterbaloons at their positions, letting loose with my super soaker, and stomping, STOMPING the little hate-filled horror mongers. I rearranged the station and plunged into its depths, obliterating as I went. I entered a dimly lit room. There was a throne, lit by crimson lights. A round figure sat in this chair. He looked up, his face streaked with black war paint. An M&M! A freaking giant candy! So the breakfast foods weren't alone. “You have destroyed me, human. And so you must perish.” He said with a wave of his hand. I found myself surrounded by foot-tall dog bones with pointy sticks. The silence was broken by a bark. We all spun, and there stood Princess! “Of course," I thought" how could she die of lead poisoning from a graphite pencil?” She lunged, and within thirty seconds, the bones were torn apart. The M&M screamed and lunged. I found myself pinned on the ground, his steely grip choking the life from me. In a flash of inspiration, I raised my head, and took a huge bite. “Mmmm.chocolaty goodness” I mumbled The chocolate M screamed and ran, right into a wall. In a half-second I was on him, pounding him with my bat, chocolate goo flying everywhere. I wiped my hands off and walked outside, wondering how chocolate had gotten into my underpants.

Froot Loop Assassins

 Written some time during my freshman year of high school. Entirely silly.



                                                                                           * * *


I shall now recount the events of today for posterity, because I believe the little demon-spawns known to me as the frootloop assassins are still out there, stalking me, even as I write this.

It seems like only this morning that all this happened. Probably because it was this morning. I was sitting at the kitchen table eating my usual bowl of Fruity Pebbles, and of course, reading the back of the box when I noticed something strange. There, close to the center of the bowl, clinging to a purple Pebble, was a cherry red Frootloop. I thought to my self “Boy, That’s not normal, is it?”.

As I peered through my Late-night-job induced morning haze, I noticed little black things floating adjacent to the Froot Loop. As I leaned closer to investigate, I thought “eew, that's really not normal”.

When my face was a mere seven or eight inches from the milk, close enough for my breath to make little waves for the Pebbles to surf on, the little demon-Loop launched out of the milk and landed on the table a good foot from the bowl.
“HOLY SHI...” I exclaimed aloud, stopping myself before I woke my mother. My dog, Princess, trotted over to see what all the commotion was. She eyed the Froot Loop suspiciously from a sitting position on the floor, head cocked to one side.
“This is MOST DEFINITELY not normal.” I thought aloud. Almost as if on cue, the evil-O pulled a large (for his size) dagger from nowhere and sprang at my head, emitting an ear-piercing little battle cry. Owing to my cat-like reflexes (and a little luck), I snatched up a nearby wooden spoon and sent the little bloodsucker sailing.

With a bizarre crunch, he shattered against the fridge. His Dagger was flung from his hand, embedding itself in Princesses’ nose. When I got to her, she was hiding under her bed. I coaxed her out with a treat, then pulled the dagger out while grasping her head.

When I told the story to my mother, she looked at me funny and said “enough crap Mike, what happened to Princess?”.
“But mom, its the tru...”

“Don’t give me that crap.” She replied.
I sighed and hoisted my backpack to my shoulder as I walked down my steps on the way out. Little did I know what awaited me outside.

When I reached the first street, I turned around to check for cars and saw, out of the corner of my eye, three little purple things. Looking closer, I saw that three purple FrootLoops with long daggers were waddling after me with evil looks on their, oh wait, they didn't have faces. I grabbed a curtain rod from a nearby trashcan and turned to face my assailants. They split to flank me. I sent one sailing into a passing El-Camino with a golf swing that whistled like a locomotive. The other two watched their companion catch air and looked at each other. One of them pulled another dagger and charged. I caught him with a size eleven Chuck Taylor to the head that shattered him on impact. The other one fled into the street and was smooshed by a passing trolley.

That, thankfully, was the last I saw of those minions of evil spawned by Satan himself. Hey, you little green monster, get off my pencil! Ack! They’re back! Take a computer keyboard to the face, evil demon from the darkest corner of the lowest level of Hell! Oh my god, they’re everywhere! Quick, Jack, hand me that yardstick. Die, Die, Die!

A Bedtime Story

Written by me roundabout fifteen or sixteen years ago, when I was in High School, after my friends and I started catching flak from the school administration over a self-published "Independent School Newspaper"a bunch of us worked on. What's funny after the fact is I found out some of us were actually being watched by law enforcement, which I suspected at the time but didn't find out for sure until mentioning it to my mother a decade later.

Warning: Full of teen angst and righteous anger at adults who didn't get it.

* * *

 

Gather round, children, and listen well. Tonight I offer you the story of one Beanpole Jack. Now you must remember that jack was what most would call a freak, what with his purple hair, tattered shirt, and ratty trenchcoat, he was a downright disgrace, at least to his parents. He, of course, could have cared less. He had his music, his rhythmic antidepressant, and that was enough. He drifted through school, hardly aware, as he considered it barely a part of his reality. He was almost unaware of the teachers telling him he could do better. If he could, why didn't he? He was almost able to ignore the normal kids as they tortured and abused him. Almost. He lived simply for the weekends, when, in the nightclubs and houseparties, he could truly thrive, surrounded by friends, freaks like him. Here, there was no ill will, no fists from the crowd, only music, and acceptance. One late April day, at the end of his last year in high school, he walked into a pawn shop off Market street, and purchased a slightly used Beretta model 92 from the unscrupulous merchant, and a box of 9mm shells from the gun shop at the end of his block. For his father, of course. A week later, on a mild, cloudy morning, he walked into the cafeteria at his high school, the sight of a PTA bake sale, and began shooting the parents of those who had tormented him, those upon whom the blame truly fell. He, of course, did not aim away from his teenaged oppressors either. As the body count rose, the local police arrived, equipped as if for war. The snipers’ bullet entered his body just to the left of his heart, shredding his lung, and clipping his spine. Lying on the cold tile floor, his blood mingled with that of his victims, all of it red. Fighting against the creeping cold of unconsciousness, his body growing numb, he brought his pistol to his chin and pulled the trigger. On paper at least. Pouring his hostility into a notebook, he committed his killing spree in text alone. Still, this was enough to land him in court. Found in a "random spot check" of his locker, and his locker only, this tale of righteous retribution was taken as a dangerous plot. Even with his hair returned to a normal shade, a new suit and a good lawyer he couldn't make the jury believe it was a work of fiction. And so, children, today jack sits in a cold cell, having learned his lesson, learned that difference is punished, that thought crimes can be brought to trial. And sometimes, at night, alone in his bunk, he almost wishes he had carried out his plan. Almost.

A Beginning

I like to think I can write. So I write things. With this mentioned, I get to the point: I was looking through my various backups and doing some file-purging when I noticed a ton of stories I started and didn't finish. Which got me thinking about putting them online somewhere so someone other then me could read them. So, this blog is started in earnest. Most of the first posts will be stories I wrote in the past, starting with a few I wrote in High School, and a bunch of 'Bluebooking' stories, which basically describe downtime events of my various RPG characters. After I burn through my stock of those, I'll be posting any new work here. I might even start a serial-type story or two, if I can come up with something that works.

If anyone wants space to post their own work, I'm open to setting up access for them to do so. Just get in touch and ask.