A little girl sits at the breakfast table, poking at the brick on her plate.

“What’s the matter, sweety?” her mom asks. “Don’t you like your breakfast?”

“No,” sighed the girl. “Breakfast is boring. When are we gonna get a rad breakfast?”

“Well, if you’re going to be like that, then maybe you should make your own breakfast from now on, you little bitch!”

A black convertible—polished with wax and flames painted on the sides—ran through the wall next to the sink. Cups, plates, cleaning implements, and a microwave all flew in different directions. Both the mother and child ducked for cover to avoid the shrapnel.

The driver stood up in his seat. He was dressed in blue denim jeans and a greaser jacket. His head was an explosion of fire, cool guy sunglasses where his eyes would have been, and an ivory grin.

“Kablam!” said the fire-headed man, pointing finger guns at them and wiggling his thumbs.

“Arson Jack!” shouted the both of them in delight.

“That’s right, ladies,” said Arson Jack, slamming the car door. “Your breakfast is boring, and I’m just the rad rockstar to help.”

“But how, Arson Jack?” asked the mom, slipping on a stray plate on the floor before catching herself on the counter.

“Why, with a rad cereal, like Arson Jax!”

He pulled out a server’s plate from the car’s trunk, setting it on the table after sweeping it clean of debris with his free arm. On it was half a grapefruit, a sugar bowl, slices of buttered toast, a milk bottle with a rag stuffed halfway through the top, a cereal box with his face printed on the front, and a bowl. In the bowl were red and black grains that sizzled in the milk.

“Wow!” exclaimed the girl in wonderment.

“Arson Jax is the raddest cereal for only the raddest kids! Are you rad, kid?”

“You bet I am!” said the girl, grabbing a spoon.

“Um, sweety, are you sure you should eat that?” asked the mom, not liking the heat refraction surrounding the bowl.

“Shut up, Mom,” said Arson Jack with a hearty chuckle.

“Yeah, shut up, Mom,” her daughter parroted. She took a bite of the cereal. “It’s really good,” said the girl, her throat dry all of a sudden. “It’s sweet and yummy and, and…”

She coughed. Sweat poured off her forehead, her whole face now a concerning red. Her next cough spat a cloud of smoke from her lungs.

“Mommy, I don’t feel so—” and the girl’s head caught fire.

“Oh my god!” screamed the mother.

The girl ran around the kitchen, screaming her little matchstick head off while slamming into the walls and table.

“Arson Jax is the ultimate breakfast cereal that no kid can resist,” continued Arson Jack.

The mom was now chasing after her half-immolated daughter. She grabbed a kitchen towel to put her out, only for the flames to catch onto her dress.

“With spicy strawberry, charcoal cinnamon, and diesel delight in every bite, Arson Jax will put the pedal to the metal!”

The mom was now swatting herself with the towel, itself also ablaze, and fell backward out of a nearby window with a crash.

“Arson Jax. Part of a complete—woah!”

The girl tripped Jack from behind before crashing into the camera. The camera guy stopped, dropped, and rolled when his denim vest caught fire, tripping the boom operator. The boom mic snagged the kitchen drapes and knocked down the kitchen wall along with it.

Now the whole set was on fire. The fire alarm screamed and flashed. Script doctors, technicians, prop stockers, and catering all made a run for the fire exit but found themselves unable to use it because it was also on fire. The director barked commands, trying to regain some semblance of order, before passing out from smoke inhalation.

Fire-Rescue axed through the exit from the outside and escorted the cast and crew out of the building. Paramedics rushed oxygen to the victims. Studio execs tried to find someone who would tell them what happened, while their lawyers were already drawing up plans for a lawsuit to sue whoever made the studio’s bogus sprinkler system.

“My God. What could have caused such a catastrophe?” asked the Fire Commissioner, watching as his men tried to hose down the burning studio, the glow of the fire reflected in his aviators.

“Chief, sir, I think I found the culprit,” said one of the firefighters. He held up a bowl of Arson Jax in his gloved hands. The cereal was still glowing, all of the milk now evaporated, what remained carbonized in a creamy ash.

“Arson Jax. Of course.” The Fire Commissioner took off his sunglasses with a flourish. “With spicy strawberry, charcoal cinnamon, and diesel delight in every bite, it was only a matter of time before it would have taken more lives.”

“But, sir,” pleaded the Fireman, “Arson Jax is the raddest breakfast cereal around!”

The Fire Commissioner put his sunglasses back on and put his hands on his hips.

“You’re goddamn right it is.”

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