Tristan lay half-awake in his bed, thinking about what he would like to eat for breakfast. There were at least six different kinds of cereal in his cupboards; some Golden Grahams or Cookie Crisp would be pretty tasty. He also had ingredients for omelettes or pancakes, options that would be even tastier but also require more preparation. This was the conundrum he dealt with every morning; sometimes he preferred being on the road, just so his only choice was Dunkin Donuts or McDonalds.
Yawning and stretching, he got out of his bed and put on his clothes. The decision was final: he would make pancakes with blueberries and cranberries. A side of American fries and sausage patties would round out the meal nicely.
When he opened his cupboard to retrieve baking supplies, he was taken aback; there was nothing but Triscuits in this one. He didn’t remember buying that many triscuits, but his personal assistant might have done so in some misguided idea of helpfulness; they were going to have to talk about this one. Tristan didn’t even have a particular fondness for Triscuits, even if some of his teammates had jokingly started using the brand as a nickname for him.
Where had the baking soda and flour gone? Tristan opened more cupboards, but their contents were all the same; boxes of Triscuit-branded snacks. Even the fridge, freezer, and dishwasher were filled with the distinctive yellow box. Was this some kind of practical joke? If so, it wasn’t a very funny one, in Tristan’s opinion.
He was startled by a man who abruptly appeared from the living room and immediately got defense. “Who let you in my house?”
This question was ignored. “So, Tristan, how are you enjoying your new TRISCUITS-brand living experience?” said the man, who was dressed in a dapper suit and tie.
“I don’t know who you are, but if you’re talking about the Triscuits, I’m not happy at all.”
The man’s face fell. “That’s a shame. We’re trying to film a commercial, but we really needed you to have a positive reaction for it to work.”
“Commercial? What in the hell are you talking about?”
The man pointed to a few cameras that had been hidden throughout Tristan’s kitchen. “We’re going for one of those ‘real-life’ commercials that’s been so popular lately. Imagine how many crates of Triscuits we could move if NBA superstar Tristan Thompson reacted with unrestrained glee and jubilance when he found that all his boring old food had been replaced with delicious, fiber-rich TRISCUIT-brand snack crackers. Now we’ll have to do another take, but it won’t have the same impact.”
Tristan glared at the intruder. “I’m not filming no commercials. Get out of my house and take your voyeur cameras with you, you freak.”
“So if we could just have you walk down the stairs again and open the cupboard, that would be the perfect intro,” the man said, pointing at the stairs that Tristan had walked down not ten minutes ago. “You’ll act happy, and then I’ll walk in as the president of the Nabisco and explain how good Triscuits are.”
Tristan grabbed his car keys off the counter and walked towards the door. “I’m going to get some IHOP, and if you don’t put all my stuff back by the time I return, you’s gonna get a friendly visit from the police.”