“Слава Потат!”

Though I find difficult to put into words, as even the mere thought of my brief interaction with Potat’s corporeal form brings me to the verge of ecstasy, joy and terror simultaneously, I shall try.

Potat first enter my heart during great Kaliningrad Oil Fires of 2007. Fire spread ruthlessly from home to home, and soon enough, own house of residence was aflame too! I managed to escape the flame and was preparing to retrieve family members when through the strangle of smoke and intense heat, I was overtake by powerful stench of death and the sheen of fire reflected off filthy white fur. A sad looking wolf-dog, nearly 3,000 years old and swaddled with an accumulation of fat from a life of garbage consumption, lackadaisically waddled through the fire towards the room where family was trapped and cooking! Babushka often told tales of legendary wolf creature who appears only to those in need during their darkest hour, and though the sad creature teetering on the cusp of death before me resembled no hero of Babushka’s tales, I gave myself to fate and decided this could be no coincidence!

Unfortunately, sad dog retrieved only half of a garbage bag, most of which was left on the floor as it was pulled across expensive Persian rugs, and entire family was killed.

But that dog sure was brave.

It was not until my deployments to Wendyland and Birbaria last year that I was introduce to meaning of life, having been reborn in the fires of combat and Potat.

It was a hazy, grey morning deep within the lush wilderness of Wendyland’s pristine forests. After night of celebratory pre-combat intoxication in Russian command post, when what appears to have been the same, filthy dog filled with unknowable sadness and hope both appeared before me, the accumulated garbage from the previous night having been consumed or turned into a horrible nest for the creature. While both hungover and baffled, I felt the stirring of purpose deep within myself.

However, it was not until Birbarian deployment in December of 2012 that my conversion from lowly special forces BB warrior into Principle and Chief Prophetic Shaman of Potat.

My recce section was tasked with encircling the far inferior NATO element and being the cleaver that takes the head off of their force in a combined assault with other Russian forces. After crossing a raging, mighty river and scaling the most frigid of wet, rugged mountaintops, recce element came to a small clearing, scattered with the canine bones of an old friend. Near immediately I fell to my knees, the equivalent of several thousand g-spot orgasms occurring simultaneously deep within the hidden recesses of my mind. Writhing in agony and wonder, I was graced with visions, visions OF THE PAST, THE FUTURE, AND OF ALL PRESENT AND FOR KNOWING THE ULTIMATE.

Though comrades thought I had been wound by perhaps suppressed sniperskaya round, when I finally awoke, I merely smiled, and assured them that fate had led us here. Fate, and the unsightly spectral canine known to mortals as Potat – for it was here, in that most sacred of vales, that Potat had shed his mortal form, leaving behind intense astrokinetic power of unlimited knowledge.

We gathered the remains, anointing our assault gear with the remains of our newly recognized saviour.

It was then that BONE SQUAD was born.

THOUSANDS OF YEARS AGO, in the vastness of the void that was our world before the dawn of Potat, there was a pervasive and abysmal oppressiveness that reigned throughout the land, choking its people in the abyss of its dark, miasmic fog. Vast fires consumed all of ancient Birbaria’s resources, fueled by the hatred and discontent people felt for one another in the absence of his Light – for you see, though these ancient Birbarians soft spoke with wizened, thin pressed lips and hopeful minds about the ideals they all held so dear – nebulous and as yet intangible ideas whom at their core stemmed from the desire to freely express oneself in acts of hooliganism, fitness, cultural pride and reverence – to face all challenges bravely without fear of death, fighting til one’s dying breath for both one’s companions and the almighty quest of everlasting intoxication, oft while wearing ragged, primitive raiment of white and blue cloth.

Indeed, days were dark in the shadow of unrecognized representing of these principles, for an ancient, unfathomably obnoxious sorcerer known as Nadir Warn Veg, had enslaved the very soul, heart and mind of ancient Birbaria with his foul conjurer’s tricks.

AND THUS THINGS REMAINED, CAST IN DARKNESS, RIFE WITH SORROW – A SEVERE LACK OF REPRESENTING of such beautiful, timeless, and violent ideas! UNTIL ONE FATEFUL DAY, a mighty warrior clan from the brutal mountainous, pork-reliant regions of the Birbaria of olde, RODE DOWN FROM THEIR MOUNTAIN STRONGHOLD, CLAD IN THE BONES OF TERRIBLE BEASTS, THEIR UNKNOWN LEADER RIDING UPON A GLEAMING WHITE ASTRAL SPIRIT WOLF, SLAVER AND POISON RUNNING IN STREAMS FROM HIS FEARFUL MAW.

The warriors led a MIGHTY CHARGE UPON THE LAIR OF NADIR WARN VEG, AND MANY MILLIONS WERE KILLED IN THE ENSURING chaos, as swords of forged porkfat infused with DISCARDED LEAVINGS AND GARBAGE were driving horrendously THROUGH NADIR WARN VEGS MOTHERFUCKING FACE.

You see, this wolf was Potat, having traveled trillions of lumens through the time space continuum, bringing salvation upon the mighty mountain pig farming warriors who had prayed continuously through ritual inhibition of neural receptors in various shapes and forms, and their PRAYERS were ANSWERED – the VIOLENCE AND FURY OF TRASH SALVATION having been ETERNALLY FUCKING INSTILLED in their GODDAMN HEARTS.

The fires vanished back into the void as the foul sorcerer’s curse was lifted from these bountiful swinelands, and the ideas that had fought so truthfully for escape from the bounds of the MINDS FROM WHICH THEY HAD OCCURRED WITHIN, were codified and regularized into customary practice for the next several thousand years. The practice known as REPPING was BORN.