You thought grocery stores were reliable. That the food industry, all that flashing steel and conveyor belts, blue-shirted men grumbling between sips of burnt coffee, could be trusted to produce a normal carton of eggs. That’s all you wanted. Twelve Grade A large eggs in a squeaky, pink styrofoam container. One dollar and 42 cents, plus tax. Simple. Or so you thought.
You were running late that morning. Unusually late. You must have pressed the wrong button on your alarm, or gotten the AMs mixed up with the PMs, but regardless, your morning was running more behind than your last half-marathon. You were a windstorm, one hand buttoning while the other brushing - your hair, your teeth, the cat. Hungry, you look at the clock, go for a toaster waffle, realize you didn’t buy toaster waffles yesterday at the grocery store because you decided to be healthy and eat eggs this week, pull out a pan, turn on the stove, pull out the eggs, open the carton, and then you see them.
The eggs are black. A color so rich you're surprised it didn’t seep into the styrofoam. Didn’t bleed into the plastic, staining it like ink. Cautiously, you pick one up, to find it’s buzzing in your palm. Humming, vibrating with energy. The egg gets warmer, slowly at first until it’s so hot it burns your skin, a fiery, searing pain. The eggshell crumples into ash, charred and smoking. You scream in horror, what you're holding now is a nightmare. Claws pierce the flesh of your palm, a scorpion tail lashes menacingly. You hear the hiss of the other eggs burning. Forked tongues dart out from between razor-sharp teeth to lick ashen lips. The irony hits you like a brick. To be devoured by your very own breakfast.