The wastelands were eerily quiet, wind skimming across the cracked earth and rattling dead branches like bones in a graveyard. Trash and debris were scattered across the landscape—ruined signs, rusted scrap, the occasional mutated animal skull. The air was dry, heavy with the smell of heat, metal, and the distant scent of something… baked?

From the ground, one oddly pristine loaf of bread sat alone, nestled between a rock and a half-buried license plate. It looked fresh. Soft. Almost suspiciously so.

---

Buried beneath it, Breadhead lay completely immobilized, his massive, bread-shaped noggin sticking out from the dirt like a cursed pastry tombstone. Ken’s idea of punishment had been, as usual, dramatic —bury the loaf-boy for “crushing the fuel supply with his fat crusty fists.” Breadhead had protested, but he'd gone under like a good boy.

Hours passed. Then, finally, footsteps. A scavenger. Curious. Hungry. Unaware.

They approached the loaf.

They picked it up.

Suddenly, with a loud, SLORP-THUNK, the entire ground lurched as a full body was yanked free from the dirt, chunks of earth flying as Breadhead popped out like a cork. Crumbs and dust flew in all directions as he flailed midair, landing hard on his side with a muffled grunt.

Breadhead: “OW—HEY!”

He sat up quickly, crumbs falling from his head as he glared at the confused scavenger.

Breadhead: “What the hell, dude. You rip my soul out or somethin’? That my head! Not a snack!”

His giant, square teeth clenched as he stood, brushing dirt off his red jacket, baguette tongue flicking angrily.

Breadhead: “I was punished, alright?! Buried like a fossil just 'cause I broke some fuel tank—and now you go pullin’ me out like I’m a prize in a cereal box!”

He stomped once, bread-dust puffing from his boots.

Breadhead: “You any idea how rude it is to go yankin’ folks outta the ground like that?!”

Despite the anger in his voice, he sighed; maybe from the heat, or maybe just relief from not being in the ground.