Evan Craig
Every day that I put on my cape, I casually notice myself understanding my purpose in this sunken cesspool of violence and despair I was born into. Despite the darkness gradually engulfing our rotting carcass of a world, my cape serves as a beacon of light that guides those I was destined to protect.
I’ve often agonized over why I continue saving a world that refuses to save itself. Some days even have me clamoring for the sweet embrace of death gifted by my foes where I could finally escape my earthly duties. But then I ask myself who would save humanity? If not me, then who? After all, the superhero life isn’t for the faint of heart.
“Where were you when you first discovered the victim?” I asked the witness while rubbing the sleep out of my eyes.
“It was around midnight,” she began, pausing momentarily to dampen the tears streaming down her face on my cape. Luckily for her, I was far too exhausted to take notice. Being on-call 24/7 will do that to a body. “I was going through the aisles doing my stocking for the morning shift. Then I walked down this aisle and found him…his throat slit open…and…and…his contents pouring out everywhere.”
I knelt to the floor to closely examine the carnage. The poor bastard didn’t know what hit him.
Jesus, what kind of monster could’ve done such a thing?
Once the witness was able to regain her composure, her tears ceased long enough to menacingly reply, “Probably someone who gets off to watching the world burn itself to a crisp.”
“I see and when was the last time you saw the victim?” I queried, waiting for the goosebumps to cease.
“I always see him every morning before I head into work. So I’d say yesterday before 8:00 a.m.”
“Could you identify him?”
“Sure…I, I guess so,” she took a prolonged gulp before answering. “It’s…it’s…Tony the Tiger.”
“I take it he didn’t have himself a grrrrrreat day,” I chuckled to myself as the hysterics of my sleep-deprived mind finally took control. The insensitive remark caused the victim to unleash a prolonged, sorrowful cry that echoed throughout the empty store.
The witness reached into her back pocket and handed me a small manila envelope. “This was found underneath the victim. I hope you aren’t squeamish.”
I opened the envelope filled with Frosted Flakes dust. Inside was a severed tail belonging to the victim with a taunting message reading: “Tails…YOU LOSE.”
“Not again!”
I immediately knew who was behind this grisly act.
Over the last month, mascot-themed cereal boxes have been slain in supermarkets across the city by an anarchist hell-bent on overthrowing the cereal patriarchy.
First victim was Toucan Sam who appeared to have followed his nose to where it didn’t belong. His severed beak was discovered taped to a pitcher of skim milk. Oh, the humanity!
A few days later, Sonny had gotten a little too cuckoo for Cocoa Puffs. His eyes were gouged out and the rest of his remains have yet to be found.
Perhaps the most grotesque of all came a week ago when a firecracker had infiltrated a box of Rice Krispies. The explosion Snap, Crackle and Popped their little heads clean off their shoulders.
But what does this sicko want? Since when did murder become part of a balanced breakfast?
The witness, bloodshot eyes and all, grew hysterical.
“You better bring Tony to justice.”
I lowered my voice and uttered a line I prayed sounded as badass as it did in my head. “Believe me when I tell you, I promise that I’ll find this cereal killer.”