The corruption of my life's circumstances causes my conscience to hold me under arrest. I read my rights, denied the 5th now I must get something off of my chest. I am a Cereal Killer... in jest.
I've put to rest numerous victims. Each time I beat the system. Never a drop of evidence. Eyewitnesses never willing to exhale what their eyes witnessed. So many times I lost count. Never hesitated to go through though, never a doubt. I am perhaps the most magnificent mass-murderer of all time... or the worst. I guess it depends on your eye. Not one survivor, ever. Never left not even a piece of one. Nothing left to identify the slaughtered, not one single crumb. I do not feel bad that I took away so many lives but remorseful that every mouthful just makes me hungrier each time. For each life that I victimize I want seconds. Even when I have no weapons my bear hands prove deadly.
I started at a short age. I think I have my parents to blame. They supplied me the catch of the day until I was wise enough to catch my own prey. I remember my first... Mom sat me down at the table and put me on. She said she was waiting for this day since I was born. Told me that when she was a Young One she'd slaughter for fun, but no longer had the desire to chase. So she sent me out in the wild in her place. I wasn't even two blocks from home when I spotted my target. I was in the zone. Took my prize from two old Spanish men. I almost devoured right there in the open but I took it home. Needed to show Mama my little token. I squeezed and then pulled it by the head out of the bag... dropped it right there on the kitchen table and Mom leaned over and asked If I could share my first with her. So I prepared her place mat. My first weapon of choice? Sterling-silver teaspoon. July 12th, 1988, about a quarter past noon. Twenty-five ounces stood right there in front of my face and if I'm lying I'm flying... I killed every last one of those Frosted Flakes.
From that moment on, my life was never the same: breakfast, lunch or dinner, those golden Frosted Flakes of Corn were the dish I called my main. Everybody that knows me knows not to become between me and Tony Tone. I will fight you, I might bite you. Just stand aside and pass me a bowl. Because.. this man is a Cereal Killer, a thrill seeker, milk drinker. I am a bag tearing, flake eating, spoon toting, vitamin-d needing. Give a loud crunching, lip smacking, milk slurping, tongue lashing, until the bowl is at its end, caught the last crumb, sipped the last drop and played with the toy that comes.
These savory, sugar-sweet, honey-golden, fresh Frosted Flakes, crunchy corn-kissed by Caribbean sugar cane, give great jubilation when I crave them. And can't have? I grow so angry and so mad. It's bad for you to see me like this...Oh but then I find three dollars and seventy-five cents. Shop Rite? You DAMN right! Aisle seven has grown to become my heaven. I grab the golden flakes, walk across the floor that's golden paved, out the pearly gates to my sanctuary of dining satisfaction. Oh, the milk sees the bowl in attraction. The spoon as if magnetized swoops down to the bowl without asking. Then "choo-choo" the locomotive enters the tunnel, log into the computer. How I chew ya, Hallelujah!
As long as the earth spins on a tilt, as long as my bowl's filled. So long as I have at least one cup of whole milk... I will destroy these Frosties. I love them so much I, I can't explain. It's not a crime. They're so good. As a matter of fact... they're grrrrrreat.
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