"Lordy, there is icy muffins," claimed a nearby shopper, browsing the market shelves with a weary beam. "I shall take it," the woman raged as she shoved a peculiar black coloured object directly into the bony chest of the shopping clerk. Electricity jumped and channelled through the various blood red veins and frail muscles, within the shop clerk. Muscles tensed and yielded, forcing the man down to the cold, glassy, tiled floor. His body convulsed maniacally about as the old elderly woman snatched with devilish hunger, upon the innocent muffins.

Within those very moments of unease and distress, a lone battle hardy soldier prowled through the metal racks and isles, like a silent and undetectable snake. Chip packets rustled, aluminium cans were shaken from their perches, settled in dusty shelving. All falling, smashing on the ground with thunderous noise, as he slivered through shelves.

The soldier prepared and set up camp in amongst the non-perishable food isles. He made himself a sturdy and fortified bunk from melting down cans with nothing but his shirt, biscuits, a partially used lighter, and determination. A cold and ridged wind blew through the canopy of cardboard bargains and shiny plastic signs, held aloft from the ceiling. Rain settled in, the soldier flayed one of the employees and used his skin and meat to keep warm and dry, for the harsh night ahead.

Dawn broke out from behind the air conditioning unit to the far northern end of the super market. The deranged elderly woman of incompressible madness, was still shovelling mass quantities of succulent, icy dew capped muffins of supreme culinary delight, hastily accumulating within her old purse. The very purse which was crafted by angles, and crapped on by maleficent demon fodder. It held an ominous vortex of infinite capacity.

Readying his supplies and fool hearty heroism, the soldier set out tumbling out and over many disorderly cans, from his makeshift bunk. The soldier was never a morning man, he set his sights upon the cheery cans of bake beans and spaghetti. He let lose with both barrels blazing, from his stone-cold machine guns, made from Menthols, a bike pump, diet Coke, assortment of PVC pipes, hard stale bread like pellets for bullets, which was found within the treacherous depths behind the freezer, and one hell of an hard-boiled demeanour. Pandemonium was unleashed, rending the harmless canned goods into a feverish sundering of crimson liquor and lacerated metal husks.
"That will teach them aluminium bastards." The soldier huffed, rearing his frothing make shift guns upon his chiselled shoulders.

It took many minutes, but the solider managed to make his way and crouch into the glossy mountain of potato crisp packets, only several feet away from the chaotic demon wench. This was it, the final showdown. The very outcome of this confrontation will determine if the muffins will escape the clutches of evil, or face the perils of indescribable torture known to muffin kind.

adrenaline pumped and bony fingers gripped fast to the gun handles. The soldier wrenched his mass out of the mound of chips. Chip packets hailed down the surrounding areas, as the elderly woman noticed the grand hero coming to save the day.
"Die, villain!" roared the soldier, as a thick foam wept from down his cheeks pouring out from his mouth, like a man possessed. Hard stale bread shredded the bordering landscape around the elderly woman. A singular pellet flew through the air, targeting her. Frail bones creaked and snapped in and out of place, showing signs of bitter age. Impossibility occurred, the elderly woman bent over backwards, sustaining her balance just a few centimetres off the floor, showing things only Mr Anderson could ever accomplish. She settled back down into her regular posture, giving the soldier a seductive wink and a sly cackle. Winks from the elderly woman forced the soldiers mighty iron stomach to explode, forcing the inner lining of his stomach and two weeks of food out into the open.
"Damn you wench. This time, you won't survive." the soldier declared as he wiped his face clean of the bile, which ran steadily down his lips and neck. Lightning reflexes grabbed the most holiest of armaments within his immediate proximity. Pulling out his trusty knife, he carved his way through a solid diet Coke can, then plummeted a full stick of menthols into its core. An well aimed hoist of the volatile can shook its contents into a dangerous concoction. A glorious showering of metallic aluminium shards exploded out into the open, mincing the elderly woman within the blast radius of the caffeine burst. All was not well though. The soldier, he too was effected within the close quarters of the magnificent blast. He slowly lost blood, then passed on with a smile of accomplishment.

A statue was later erected by the Muffin King, in honour of his bravery. A strong bronze bust of the soldier stood upon a mountain of skulls, positioned in the fashion of throwing a grenade, yet he was wielding a Coke with a stick of menthols foaming away within its casing. Pity the statue had to be erected exactly where he died, directly within the centre of the damn store.

The end.