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The Dastardly Deeds of Bartholomew Hopkirk, Traitor to the Nation

The year was 1887, and a cold and harsh winter, which smelled vaguely of cinnamon buns and wafers of dried orange peel, was befouling the Earth with its cupcakedly-blessed movements. The world was stuck in a kind of monotonous misfortune, completely calm and at the same time riotously vengeful-that was of course, until Bartholomew Hopkirk (Traitor to the Nation) struck! What set Bartholomew off, to this day we are still unsure. It was debated in the King’s High Courts that he was mad, however these were struck down by his undeniable good charm and cookie dough appearance.

He was fat, and no not in the good fellow with the beard who’s fat way, but the kind who snarls down meals with his beast of a hunger, forcing it and shoving it down between his saliva smacking lips hungering for more simple because there is more! More! More! More! And no matter how many times you try and explain to him that more! More! More! Simply isn’t pleasant he keeps on going on, demanding, dread I say it? More! Demanding he surplus until you eventually run out of more! And you simply have a dreadful deficit of less! Pardon me; I think I must be rambling.

So as I was saying, he was an unpleasant man, but you couldn’t deny the evil of his actions! They were simply, well, evil! They defy the very boundaries of evil itself, and the evil men of the world, who sat by and watched as he committed this evil, smoked their pipes elegantly and said: “By Jove! That’s evil!”

On the night of the Fifth of November, in 1887, Bartholomew Hopkirk committed the first of his dastardly deeds, under the cover of shadows, cowering in his milk shed, he crouched and stared at the bowl of oatmeal in his left hand, and a bowl of oatmeal in his right.

Nervous (for Bartholomew Hopkirk, Traitor to the Nation) had not done this before, he placed the two bowls which lay cold and unconscious like muffins on the ground and then he prepared himself.

He took several fleeting looks around himself to make sure that there was no one watching his deeds, and then with a serrated spoon, he stabbed the cold oatmeal over! And over! And OVER! And OVER AGAIN, until the bowls shattered and cold oatmeal dripped from the sides of the porcelain, coating the floor, with it’s sticky elation.

However, for the moment, Bartholomew took no pleasure in his deeds. He knew what he had to do: he must not allow himself to be caught! In the dead of that very night! He placed the two shattered bowls of oatmeal in burlap sacks and then left for London, it took hours, but by the time he was finished the bodies were safely placed, DEAD, on the doorstep of a respectable minister of Parliament.

It seemed to himself; that he did not breathe until he arrived home, that was how nervous he was. The moment he closed the door with a little mfffm behind him, he released a shout of ecstatic steak-y! For how clever was he! He who had not been caught! He who had performed the perfect murder! Surely, he thought he must do it again…

That very Sunday that followed the Fifth of November was not as harshly mischievous as the previous Guy Fawkes Day had been, but more of a soupy day which malingered hither and thither and depressively great, but the way Bartholomew Hopkirk, Traitor to the Nation saw it, it was the perfect day for murder! And what would be the point of waiting? Had he not found the perfect manner of performing the perfect murder? In his guest bedroom, after closing the shades to the room and the door as well, he placed his victim of “Cheerios” upon the floor, and in a moment of rage poured an entire gallon of milk upon their wheat forms, drowning them a little. He felt butterflies in his stomach as he took the very spoon, stained with the oatmeal’s entrails, and stabbed the “Cheerios” until they were “Cheerios” no longer and their milk was strewn about the floor.

He stuffed the shattered bowl with the cereal in their burlap grave, and waited for hours until it was darkness; in the time that he waited he read the local paper, reading for any sign of his misdeeds. Surely it would be all over the headlines? Cereal murder in London? Surely, but in the newspaper, he found no mention of his dastardly deeds, no mention of Scotland Yard at all. He was infuriated to say the least.

By the time it was finally dark, after festering a few hours in melancholy he departed for London, and once again it took several hours for him to arrive, however once he did he was ready. Unsettled by the lack of news on his crimes he placed the cereal’s lifeless body by the very gate of Buckingham Palace for the Queen to see, when the guards were nowhere to be found. Surely the would notice it then? Surely it would be in the papers?

Days went by, but Bartholomew Hopkirk saw no mention of his murders. But he was a Cereal Killer, wasn’t he? He had done everything right. Hadn’t he? Weeks went by, nothing. And so he started up his original routine, every four days he would slaughter another bowl, and then place the carcasses where he was sure they would be seen! But-nothing. No one seemed to notice and it INFURIATED Bartholomew Hopkirk almost to the point of breaking! He wanted to scream, to run out into the streets with all the people and confess that he had done it, just for the recognition!

But if he did that, lo! Woe upon him! Surely he would be arrested and tried for murder. Cereal Murder. So he said nothing and continued his silent attacks. But still no one paid any attention, the closest thing to any press coverage was a small clipping in the paper asking for information as to the person who was independently littering here and their in a rather unescorted mess and causing a great disturbance.

“Scotland Yard received a very upset phone call from the Queen of England on Sunday, inquiring as to why there was a broken bowl of cereal on the Buckingham Palace Lawn. As a follow-up Buckingham Palace is offering up to £25 for any information leading to this Serial Litter-bug!”

Reported Ben Smashingly of the London Times, so gaily and in such a demeanor that reminded him vaguely of the conduct of a roast duck. Bartholomew Hopkirk (Traitor to the Nation) enraged ripped the article from the newspaper, shoved it in his mouth and began to chew it like he would chew his favorite taffy.

It was said that it was the article and the smell of roasted caramel was what finally broke his sanity, at the moment that he finally swallowed down the paper, it was said that his neighbor was cooking a caramel treat for their little ones, and the smell of the caramel mixed with the led in the printer’s ink had a chemical reaction that boiled his blood and broke his brain, and not in the good way.

With a hideous giggle and a boyish bounce he jumped into his lawn rolling around in the murky mud, not caring about his appearance, he giggled again rubbing the mud all over his pudgy face. He smiled a selfish little smirk, and then bounced from his lawn running straight into an unpleasant man in a suit coat who called him a “jerk!” He didn’t care for what was he to do? He was but a man, a man with a broken brain, and boiled blood with led in his heart all covered in mud.

He ran down the street jumping up and down exhilarated like he had never been before! How excited he was, how happy he smelled! No longer filled with pride and his evil tendencies towards murder he was turned into a two year old. Bounce, bounce, bounce he flew down the street giggly this and gigglin’ that! And he screamed at the top of his lungs: “My name is Bart, why that is my name, let me ask you all do you know of my fame?” It was quite maddening, said one onlooker, who told that as soon as Bartholomew said these few words he burst into flames.

The people all looked at him, watching the poor creature, shaking their head and taking in his features…I apologize, my time of poetic rhyme is over now. So, uh, as I was saying. They all stared at him with contempt in their hearts, not knowing what in the world, of which he was speaking, and so they sat by and watched as he steadily lost his mind faster, some egged him on, the dirty old b******!

He stood in silence, and the onlookers watched as he screamed: “My name is Bartholomew Hopkirk, and I cannot quite read! I’m better than Jack, I tore the Ripper, I am the best in the Land! I’m a Cereal Killer!”

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