One biscuit to rule them all.
The snail walked into the Hungry Hedgehog.
She looked at Mrs Hedgehog, who shook her head sadly.
“Still no ginger nut deliveries, dearie. Actually… we haven’t had any biscuits for weeks.”
A squirrel at the nut counter said, “Oh, the rat is having a press conference today.”
“Right,” said the snail, heading off toward the biscuit factory.
The rat was already mid-speech when the snail arrived. He wore a sharp suit and golden jewellery, his fur slicked back until it shone.
Behind him loomed the Chocovia logo, with the company slogan beneath it in bold gold letters:
“The Biscuits Are Yours.”
“Today,” the rat declared, “we are proud to unveil a breakthrough in biscuit technology… The Biscuit.”
With a flourish he whipped the sheet from a four-foot-high model of a chocolate biscuit.
“With our patented Choclaflex™ innovation and deep-crunch layers, this redefines biscuits. It is the biscuit by which all others are judged. The biscuit is the best. All others are now obsolete. Which is why, effective immediately, we are cancelling the manufacture of every other biscuit.”
Gasps rippled through the crowd. Murmurs. Shouts.
The snail’s bottom lip trembled. She reached into her shell and pulled out her last ginger nut, just to hold it.
A badger reporter raised her paw. “Why are you not giving people a choice?”
“Ah, thank you for that excellent question,” said the rat smoothly, nodding toward pigeons in black suits and shades. “We are giving people choice. The best choice.”
The pigeons grabbed the badger and dragged her away.
“People can choose how they eat them,” the rat added quickly. “Standing, sitting, or… crouching.”
That night, Chocovia lorries delivered across the land.
The next morning, a whole aisle of the Hungry Hedgehog gleamed with neat towers of The Biscuit.
By evening, they were still there. Untouched.
Then came the resistance.
On the night of the full moon, the sky shimmered with stars.
WHOOOSH!
A rocket-powered glider tore overhead. Crates tumbled out, parachutes blooming in the pale light. They landed soft in a field, bursting open with KitKats.
Animals swarmed from the shadows with wheelbarrows and trolleys, whisking them away before dawn.
At home, the snail lifted a wooden floorboard and descended a secret stairwell. Below, an underground railway rattled endlessly, carrying ginger nuts, jammy dodgers — even bourbons.
She nibbled her ginger nut and smiled.
Meanwhile, the rat was sweating through his suit. He adjusted his tie and crept into an office.
A chair faced away from him.
“Um,” the rat stammered, “we have the… er… sales figures.”
The chair spun. Goosefinger sat there, stroking a packet of chocolate biscuits.
“Excellent.”
“Well,” said the rat nervously, “market analysis indicates strong motivation to purchase—”
“IN ENGLISH!” honked Goosefinger.
“…Sales are zero,” the rat admitted.
“WHAT?” Goosefinger bellowed. “The biscuit is the best!”
His wing hovered over the massive red button marked PIRANHA TRAP DOOR.
Then he slumped back. “Get out.”
That evening in the square, two hedgehogs met under a lamplight, trenchcoats pulled tight.
One whispered, “The quick chicken dances in the moonlight.”
The other glanced around. “Moonlight illuminates all squirrels.”
They exchanged a custard cream for a fruit shortcake.
The entire park teemed with animals — badgers, squirrels, otters, owls — swapping jammy dodgers for digestives, bourbons for hobnobs, KitKats for Jaffa Cakes. Code phrases filled the night:
“The badger burrows at dawn.”
“All teapots whistle twice.”
“Carrots walk backwards.”
An underground market, alive with contraband biscuits.
Goosefinger’s warehouse was vast, cavernous, crammed to the ceiling with untouched chocolate biscuits in perfect rows.
He slumped in a chair at the centre, feathers matted with cocoa, beak smeared with crumbs. Eyes wild, he jammed three biscuits into his beak at once.
Muttering over and over:
“The biscuit… is the best.
The biscuit… is the best.”
Crumbs sprayed from his mouth, covering him. He tapped his chipped beak against the armrest. Clink. Clink. Clink.
The sound echoed into emptiness — no applause, no pigeons, no audience. Just silence, fluorescent lights buzzing, and biscuits stacked to the rafters.
Above him, six-foot letters flickered in neon:
“THE BISCUITS ARE YOURS.”
Davide la Locomotive 
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