Horror - Short

This story is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are fictitious and any similarities to actual persons, locations, or events is coincidental. This work cannot be used to train artificial intelligence programs.  No AI tools were used in the writing of this story.

All rights reserved. One Bowl at a Time Copyright © Eddie Generous 2026

ONE BOWL AT A TIME

Who loves choco-choco-chocolate strawberry, marshmallow, cookie, doughnut breakfast surprise?

The advertisement had aired for the last few weeks and Prime Minister Dunham smiled at every chance she had to catch it. Tonight, it ran during the evening news commercial breaks. There was peace in the Middle East, announced for the third time in as many decades. It never lasted, but soon enough the troubles were to be a thing of the past.

Who loves choco-choco-chocolate strawberry…?

The prime minister bobbed her head along with the tune coming from the small television in the back of her black-on-black stretch limousine; windows tinted for the additional privacy. More often than ever before, the United Nations demanded meetings with the powers of the world. The P.M. never really took them seriously, but it was part of the job. As a group, they were beyond weak: all talk and no action, all while standing in the way of progress.

Her eyes remained trained on the television; a national campaign tweaked to perfection. A personal achievement she was proud of assisting. The singsong opening began slowly once again, Who loves, and then raced, choco-choco-chocolate, strawberry…? the voice slowed again, You love… over and over the jingle pounded the sentiment as happy boys and girls danced around the screen chasing super-sized ingredients, flashing to scenes of toothy faces smacking vibrant sugary balls floating in brown-hued milk.

The commercial almost made her forget about the U.N. meeting. It let thoughts of terrorism, human rights, Third World governing, blah, blah, blah, all float away.

What the United Nations refused to acknowledge was that it all came down to capitalism, the lifeblood of proper society. The mindset that separated the lazy and uneducated from the wiser, upper classes. Capitalism wasn’t an option, it was the only way, and forcing it around the globe was the next step to peace. Remove power from the monarchies, dictators, and churches, once that was done, she’d help separate those willing to work from those expecting society to carry them from birth to death—excluding those born into wealth, they were exempt because they were the beautiful bounty of capitalism’s touch.

…doughnut breakfast surprise is an essential part…

The commercial really was catchy, a jingle like the old days, a jingle meant to attract parents and children alike. After the commercial ended, P.M. Dunham hit mute. She didn’t need to listen to understand the television programs around the commercials. Flipping stations, still muted, she hoped to catch the commercial again elsewhere. It had spots on all the stations—minor to major, local to national to international—during cop dramas, trailer park sitcoms, and paternity test shows. Across the UK, Canada, Australia, the US: BBC, CBC, The Seven Network, Fox, and so on. And that’s only English! French, Spanish, Mandarin, Malay, Portuguese, Arabic, Bengali, Russian, Hindustani, and more heard the tune in one form or another.

This thought made the P.M.’s grin widen.

The car slowed and then stopped. A door in the rear opened and a red-faced man with a slim build and stark white hair crawled into the limo.

“Madame Prime Minister, sorry if I kept you waiting. I seemed to have misplaced my mobile.” Tony MacIntosh nodded as he spoke, forcing brevity in the form of a grin.  He was the opposition leader of the country’s coalition government.

“I only just arrived.” Dunham said. “How’s Cheryl, the kids?” She continued to flip with the remote, bouncing past the news stations. There was something serious coming down in Scotland and Ireland, Eastern Canada, and a few cases in Iran. “They doing well?”

She didn’t care about his family, and no doubt, Tony knew this. The P.M. had a single-track mind like that of a freight train behind schedule.

“Is this about the sudden deaths?” he said, ignoring her question.

Within the country, 702 sudden deaths in just two days but centralized to twenty-five cities. According to news sources, although many in the medical fields refused to comment, there were several thousand more knocking on the Grim Reaper’s door.

“No room for pleasantries?” she said, one eyebrow raised.

“Fine, they’re fine,” he said. “You mentioned the plan again, what is it? By tomorrow there might be as many as a thousand casualties with—”

The P.M. lifted her hand. “Shh, listen to this commercial, I love the jingle.” She raised the volume, nodding and smiling with the song.

Who loves…?

Tony listened for twenty seconds, visibly fuming. “I need to know what you—”

“Zip it,” Dunham snapped.

… An essential part of your child’s…

“Is this a joke, Madame Prime Minister?”

Dunham shook her head. “You never did listen. You know, the beta test had a perfect score?”

…available at all Aldi, Tesco, No Frills, Food Basics, and Essentials stores. Chocolate Breakfast Surprise is a Kingdom Oil company.

The P.M. muted the commercial and turned to receive a curious look from her forced comrade in policy. Kingdom Oil funded most of her side of the race, of course they did it through dummies and subsidiaries. Had to do it that way to keep the bleeding hearts and tree huggers quiet. Kingdom Oil paid the way home for Dunham and the conservative, Bluebar Party.

“Since when is Kingdom Oil interested in breakfast cereal? Which beta test?” he said, his face pulled tight toward the center.

“It’s the plan. It’s how we’ll fix capitalism, it’s how we’ll fix the global society; a sustainable world for future generations,” Dunham said, proud and firm.

“Cereal or testing?”

“They’re one and the same, but not just cereal. Cereal, cakes, ice cream, pie, chocolate milk, fudge topping, cookies, many items. Even some for those without a sweet tooth: wieners, frozen pizza, TV suppers, potato crisps,” Dunham said.

“What?” Tony, expression tighter now.

“The world’s population has hit eight billion, four billion of them live in dire poverty, another two go without any sustenance on a very regular basis, why is that?”

A trick question. Tony shook his head in minute strokes. “Because the planet can’t sustain populations based on where they sit on the map, which means, we have to offer aid, lots and lots of aid.”

“Right across the board,” Dunham said.

Tony’s visible consternation smoothed out. They’d never agreed on what to do about the poor and hungry.

“You’re going to switch your stance on aid?”

“Not just me, we’re having a global hand-out party. All the big dogs. Only a few said no. Sweden, Italy, Mexico. But with this lineup, a few naysayers won’t ruin the plan. The world is going socialist for a tick to further the capitalist agenda. We’re fixing the world!”

The commercial began again on a different station and Dunham raised the volume, but only so loudly that she heard it as background noise. Tony frowned. It didn’t matter if Tony cared, didn’t need his opinion.

“How will this round of aid change anything? I understand by having everyone on-board, it increases the numbers of fed mouths, but—”

“Every single mouth will have food, guaranteed, for one-year, minimum. Even in the wealthier countries, the new brands will offer food at extremely competitive prices, but only at certain stores. It’s something the poor can have that the upper classes can’t.”

“I don’t understand, won’t this cost—”

“The cost is short-term for everyone. It will end all future aid requirements beyond devastation—disasters happen, no helping that, but the beta test proved in the future we’ll have less to worry over.” The P.M. nodded along to the jingle as it concluded. She hit mute on her remote once again. “It will be a perfect capitalist society and on a global scale. Every mouth will forever have food and water.”

A pipedream. “Sounds great, but it can’t work. Even with the food cloning and genetic propagation there is no way the planet can sustain the growing population.” As Tony spoke, his stomach hitched onto something, a prickle, a thorn. He winced.

She shrugged. “The plan is foolproof.”

“Does it have to do with this beta test?” he asked, his hand kneading his sore tummy.

“Aha! The beta test, that’s the answer right there. Of course, we of our little group will keep it all hush-hush, we’ll even cry once the new super-strains of pneumonia and cancer begin to trim the planet’s fat. That is after the sudden deaths have finished lobbing off the rotten parts. We’ll all marvel over the wide-spread infertility. We have already designed fundraisers and media campaigns calling to action the scientists of the world to discover the strange changes,” Dunham said. “Don’t worry, it will only affect certain links in the chain, the ones spoiling things for those caring about the future of capitalism.”

“I don’t understand, what do you—?” He groaned.

“Sore tummy?” she said. “I can get the driver to stop at a drug store.”

Tony’s eyes widened. “You’re going to poison the aid!”

“Ha, took you long enough and not just the aid, cheap food, sugary and fatty items that the gluttonous lower classes inhale like oxygen. Prolonged use of any of the Kingdom Oil, Bulzar Pharmaceuticals, RimRoil Mining, or Atlantic Pacific Engineering brands will ensure one of three things: sudden inexplicable death, rapid-action cancer of the stomach, or irreversible infertility. In fifteen years, the population will be back down to four billion, imagine it. We’ll use all the resources we want, get stinking rich, and never run out.” Dunham was proud as a peacock.

“You did this? The others know about this and joined? This plan, this is a massacre, genocide!”

“Genocide? Massacre? The real massacre is letting the stupid population spawn like rabbits. They’re trying to kill us all, kill humanity. They would succeed if it wasn’t for people like me, people willing to do what it takes to rescue the planet from starvation and decay. Global warming has nothing on food shortages; trust me, the planet has been here for millions of years and will spin millions of years after we’re gone. Global warming only affects current inhabitants, the planet will persevere.”

“You can’t do this!”

“I’m saving the life on this planet! Open your eyes, Tony!”

“Open my eyes? All we have to do is tax the wealthy, they’re the polluters, they’re the real—”

“No, they’re the useless by products of a broken system.”

“You can’t do this! I won’t let you! I’ll tell—” Tony stalled, another prickle had him bent forward, hands on his middle.

The ride from his home to the conference hall on Holloway should’ve taken only fifteen minutes. It was evening and the traffic was sparse, the lights outside the limo’s tinted windows even sparser. They ridden almost half an hour already.

“Where are we?”

“Tell me, Tony, how does your family like the bounty from the Rotary International prize? Breakfast foods for a year, correct? Chocolate spreads, cocoa tea, fudge flavored coffee, chocolate chip breads, and cereals for the kids. Sounds like a lovely prize to win. How long has it been since you’ve been enjoying that specific prize?” The P.M. smiled.

Tony looked up at her.

“You are one lucky ducky, one ticket purchased, and bingo, you won. Of course, the real winners of a prize like that are the Rotary club and those they help around the community.”

“You didn’t,” Tony whispered.

“I read the results from the tests,” the P.M. said, voice now cold as the arctic.

The doctor had said it was the strangest thing, there had to be a mix-up with the ultrasounds and tissue samples, it was like looking at the stomach of a man seconds from death, his guts a festering cave of malignancy. There was another appointment set for tomorrow.

The motion ceased, seconds later Tony’s door opened. The sky was dark and starry, the moon a sliver. Tony looked at the stairs leading into his home.

“Go inside, be with them. You’ll have no outside contact, but none of you will make it long. Tony, you’ve never been much of a leader, but you seem good to your family. Go be a good father and husband, go while you’re all still around.”

Two darkly clad individuals wearing automatic rifles stood on the stoop outside his front door. They had driven around in circles giving her time to gloat, time to express herself like an ambitious Bond supervillain. Really, it’s what she’d become. A character from a book, a movie, something so sinister it seemed impossible.

“I’m dying, my family’s dying,” he said, finally.

The P.M. shrugged. “You’ve been in the way, but politicians are like comedians, there’s always room for the straight man until there isn’t. Go be with your family. The beta testing has proven perfect, there’s no getting out of this, no miracle cure. People like me have always taken charge in crisis and people like you always need shoved aside when the time finally comes.”

Tony gazed around him, the P.M., the television with the horrid advertisements, the man outside the car door, the figures on his stoop, it was hopeless, it was over. He coughed and stepped out of the car. The Prime Minister increased the volume on the television.

Who loves choco-choco-chocolate, strawberry, marshmallow, cookie, doughnut breakfast surprise? You love, choco-choco-chocolate, strawberry, marshmallow, cookie, doughnut breakfast surprise. You do, you do, you do…

The door closed and the driver returned to his seat. The limousine pulled away and the jingle faded into the night. Tony started up his steps and opened the front door of his home for the last time. He ignored the dark figures and their rifles.

Be a good father and husband.

There was nothing left to do but that, maybe eat a bowl of cereal. Chocolate Breakfast Surprise was a treat like no other.

XX