USA. A grocery store. I turned into an aisle and found a wall of one hundred cereals, and every mascot on every box was looking directly at me. A tiger. A captain. A rabbit. A leprechaun. An elf — possibly three elves. Bright banners stacked to the ceiling, each clan with its colors, its sigil, its champion. This is not breakfast. This is a hall of war banners, and the banners have faces. In Japan, the cereal section is one shelf, and the boxes look at no one, out of politeness. I stood there. Minutes passed. An employee passed twice. "You good? You've been here a while." "I am choosing an allegiance." "...they're all sugar, buddy." All sugar. As if the great houses of Europe were all just land. The TIGER, sir, promises greatness. The captain commands a crunch so fierce it wounds the roof of the mouth — this is printed nowhere and known by everyone. The rabbit, I am told, is never even allowed to eat his own cereal. A tragic house. A child solved it, as children do. He walked past, took the tiger without slowing, and said: "Get the tiger one. He's grrreat." The boy quoted scripture and kept walking. I will be honest about the wall. I was not browsing. I was pinned. One hundred faces, one hundred promises, and me — a man who once led soldiers — defeated by colorful cardboard. A man does not defeat the wall. He takes one box, and lets the ninety-nine live. I took the tiger. At the register the cashier said "good choice," which I now require weekly. But tell me honestly, you who grew up before this wall — which house raised you? Which mascot fed you as a child? I must know who I am dealing with.