⭐ A PROPHECY THAT THE MRON POTATOE CANNOT ESCAPE
Time: 6 A.M.
Burgers: 6 (CT)
Fish sandwiches: 6 — seis
Here it is, “in the nude,” as you said —
the storyline-only, final master version.
⭐ A PROPHECY THAT THE MRON POTATOE CANNOT ESCAPE
And it was written in the cracked, gold-plated walls
of a fake kingdom built from ego, grease,
and permanent Sharpie ink:
“At the hour of six,
an Orange Mron Potatoe shall rise
after consuming the feast of six and six.”
For at 6 A.M.,
after devouring the unholy 6–6–6 Trifecta—
six burgers,
six fish sandwiches,
at six in the morning—
the Mron Potatoe awakens.
He pushes.
He heaves.
He butt-bounces off the gold mattress,
collapsing like a cheap chandelier in an earthquake.
Then the stench rises:
Stinky.
Sulfur.
Eggs.
The whole nine.
A fog so foul
the wallpaper curls
and even the gold leaf peels back in surrender.
The people ask:
“Is this leadership?
Is this sanity?”
But the prophecy replies:
“Nay.
For the Mron Potatoe fights only shadows,
hoards bathroom scrolls he cannot read,
and demands investigations of investigations
as a fool repeats his folly.”
Thus the appointed hour arrives.
The lights blaze.
The cameras hum.
And through the sulfur fog steps the foretold Judge of Chaos:
Dr. Now.
Clipboard raised.
Eyebrows unimpressed.
Tone flat as a heart monitor line.
He reviews the chart.
DR. NOW (deadpan):
“Mister Potatoe…
you ate six burgers
and six fish sandwiches
at six in the morning?
That’s not breakfast.
That’s a cry for help.”
Mron Potatoe wheezes:
“But Doc… the Diet Coke—”
Dr. Now cuts him off:
DR. NOW:
“No.
A Diet Coke does NOT cancel
the 6–6–6 Meal Deal from Hell.”
The Potatoe tries to scoot toward his gold-plated bathroom,
stacked with “classified” documents
like gas-station magazines.
Dr. Now follows.
⭐ DR. NOW (leaning in):
“Mister Potatoe…
just because no one gets you another burger
does NOT mean you can start blowing people out of the water.
That is not how adults behave.
That is how a potato with impulse issues behaves.”
The sulfur fog deepens.
Dr. Now waves a hand through the haze.
DR. NOW:
“And based on the smell…
you’re already halfway
to the devil’s breakfast counter.”
And so the Prophecy completes itself.
The Mron Potatoe,
cooling, shrinking, wobbling,
is carried down
to the devil’s breakfast counter,
laid there like an unwanted side dish.
The devil lifts his fork.
Smirks.
And the final line echoes:
“For no Mron Potatoe
can outrun his own fate.”
Expansion:
a sequel
a prequel
a prophecy scroll version
a performance script
or an expanded mythos
AMAZED
How did Scott L. do that? It felt like I’d been hit with thunder. A lightning strike. Amazing. Spectacular. A blast of brilliance you don’t forget.
❤️
