The potato himself

I was once the Potato Himself.

Not just a potato. Not some backup spud rolling around in a sack behind the barn. I was the Potato Himself: couch champion, Minecraft scholar, clunky farmer, radish hater, and future legal disaster.

Before I became a criminal, my life was peaceful. I farmed. I complained about radishes. I watched Minecraft videos with the seriousness of a wizard studying forbidden scrolls. I knew about water bucket clutches, ravine traps, fake retreats, bed explosions, pearl saves, shield timing, and the ancient truth that if someone starts eating mid-fight, you hit them immediately.

That knowledge is how I killed Dream.

Again: in Minecraft. In the sacred blocky universe. Nobody call the Potato Police, they already know me.

I was playing as GeorgeNotFound in a manhunt. Dream was chasing me through the plains with better gear and way too much confidence. He had iron armor, an axe, food, and that scary “I already know the next five things you’re going to do” energy.

I had a stone axe, some blocks, a water bucket, and panic.

But panic is basically strategy if you make it look intentional.

Earlier, I had found a ravine and placed water at the bottom. Not because I had a master plan. I fell in, survived, and thought, “Wait. I can make this someone else’s problem.”

So when Dream chased me, I ran toward that ravine like I had made a terrible mistake. I jumped badly on purpose. I looked back too much. I placed one block in the wrong spot just to sell the act. Dream followed because he thought I was cooked.

Right at the edge, I dropped.

I landed in the water.

Dream jumped after me, but he landed slightly off, took fall damage, and started eating.

That was his mistake.

You do not snack in front of a potato farmer.

I rushed him with the stone axe. He tried to back up and heal, but the ravine wall trapped him. I placed lava, not perfectly, but annoyingly enough that he had to move. He switched items, tried to recover, and I hit him again.

The final hit was not elegant.

It was not cinematic.

It was me yelling, “THIS IS FOR THE BAKED POTATO COMMUNITY,” while swinging like a frightened lawn ornament.

But it worked.

Dream died. I survived. The chat went wild in my head even if nobody else cared.

And then I celebrated.

Badly.

I ate a raw potato.

Now, at the time, I thought this was fine. It was Minecraft. It was pixels. It was food. It was in my inventory. I was hungry. Simple.

But potato law is not simple.

Potato law is ancient, dramatic, and apparently has opinions about video games.

Within the hour, Grandma Taternaut summoned me to the barn court. The Potato Council sat in a semicircle under the Sacred Frying Pan of Justice. My great uncle Spudrick sat in the back row, eating popcorn and looking far too interested.

Spudrick, by the way, was already a disgrace.

Years before, at the Great Harvest Supper of 1842, he saw a bowl of mashed potatoes, went silent, and did the unthinkable. Aunt Russet whispered, “Spudrick, no.” He ignored her. He took a bite. Then another. Then he said:

“Needs more butter.”

The whole barn screamed.

He added salt. Then gravy. Then ate the whole bowl.

Afterward, he leaned back and said, “Family brings people together.”

That was the first Spudrick Incident. The Potato Council was created because of him. Laws were written because of him. A radish laughed during the trial, which is the exact moment my hatred of radishes became permanent.

So when I stood in court for eating one raw Minecraft potato, Spudrick looked almost proud. That made everything worse.

Grandma Taternaut read the charges: raw spud betrayal, celebratory cannibalism, suspicious snacking after victory, and bringing shame upon the couch.

I tried to defend myself.

I said, “It was Minecraft.”

The council said, “Still potato.”

I said, “Dream was chasing me.”

The council said, “Irrelevant.”

I said, “It was survival food.”

The council said, “You celebrated.”

Then I panicked and pointed at Spudrick.

“He ate it!”

Spudrick calmly lifted his popcorn and said, “Technically, this is corn.”

The council added lying in a legal potato proceeding.

That was the charge that doomed me.

They threw me into Potato Prison, which was just a cold root cellar with bars and a sign that said:

NO SNACKS, ESPECIALLY YOUR COUSINS

Spudrick was in the cell next to mine, because of course he was.

He leaned toward me and whispered, “First time?”

I said, “They’re executing me tomorrow.”

He nodded. “Mashed potato cannon?”

“Probably.”

“Could use gravy.”

I hated that he was useful, but he was useful. Years earlier, while banned from kitchens, he had “renovated” the prison. This meant he secretly ruined the building in ways that later became convenient. Loose bricks. Fake drains. A tunnel labeled EMERGENCY GRAVY ROUTE. A redstone lock wired so badly it could be opened from inside the cell.

At first, we tried the gravy tunnel.

It went badly.

We crawled through the wall, got ambushed by radishes with tiny pitchforks, and Spudrick threw salt at them. Not because salt hurts radishes. They just hate flavor. During the chaos, I pulled a lever, the tunnel became a slide, and we shot into the old cannon room under the prison.

The Potato Council was waiting.

Grandma Taternaut looked at us like we had disappointed several generations at once.

They dragged me back and locked me in a deeper cell. No boots. No tunnel. No dignity. Execution at sunrise.

Then came the Onion Underground.

Just before dawn, an onion tapped through the wall. Behind him were a carrot, a beet, and one silent mushroom who looked like he knew more than he said. They asked me if I really ate the potato.

This time I told the truth.

“Yes,” I said. “I ate it. I lied. I ran. I made everything worse.”

The onion cried, because onions are built like that, and slid me a redstone torch.

I placed it by the lock.

Nothing.

I placed it lower.

Nothing.

Spudrick whispered, “Powerful wizardry.”

Then the onion said, “Try the suspicious crack in the floor.”

I placed the torch there.

click

The cell opened.

Bramble the guard woke up, looked at me, looked at the open door, looked at Spudrick, and sighed.

“I saw nothing,” he said.

A hero with very low energy.

I grabbed my clunky farmer boots, freed Spudrick, and escaped into the fields before sunrise. That was the moment I became a fugitive.

And only then did Technoblade enter the story.

I was hiding in an abandoned potato farm, tired, dirty, wanted by the Potato Council, and still hearing Grandma Taternaut’s court voice in my nightmares. Then the Minecraft chat message appeared:

Technoblade has joined the game

The air changed.

Even the radishes shut up, which is how you know the moment was serious.

Techno came over the hill like a final boss. Full confidence. Perfect movement. The kind of player who makes your inventory feel embarrassed.

I had one stone hoe, fourteen dirt blocks, a bucket, some trapdoors, and the haunted engineering wisdom of Spudrick.

The abandoned farm looked normal: crops, fences, water trench, scarecrow. But under it was a disaster machine. Trapdoors, powdered snow, cobwebs, lava pockets, water streams, and a tiny underground arena I called the Panic Bowl.

Techno chased me through the crops.

I acted terrible, which was easy because I was terrible. I missed a jump. I opened my inventory. I placed a crafting table instead of a block. I backed into a fence. Techno probably thought I was free loot with shoes.

Then I stopped on one potato crop and broke it.

That crop was secretly holding up the whole trap.

The floor opened.

Techno dropped into the Panic Bowl.

A normal player would have died. Techno landed, placed water, blocked lava, ate, and looked up like the trap had failed a job interview.

So I jumped in after him.

Bad idea.

I landed in cobwebs, swung my hoe, missed twice, and panicked so hard I placed water in my own way. Techno rushed me. I had half a heart. My boots squeaked. My courage left the server.

Then I remembered Spudrick’s advice:

“If you cannot win cleanly, win confusingly.”

So I placed junk everywhere. Dirt. Fence. Compost bin. Crafting table. Another crafting table. The Panic Bowl turned into a farmer’s garage sale during an earthquake.

Techno was still better. He almost killed me three times. But he expected a duel, and I gave him nonsense with plumbing.

Then he jumped forward for the final hit.

He landed on a trapdoor I forgot I placed.

It opened.

He dropped one block.

Just one.

But that one block broke his rhythm.

I hit him with the hoe.

A clunky farmer crit.

Water pushed him into cobwebs. I hit him again. He escaped. We stared at each other across lava, crops, and the saddest crafting table in history.

Then I threw my last potato at him.

It did nothing.

But emotionally? Devastating.

While he processed the disrespect, I charged and landed the final hit.

The chat said:

Technoblade was slain by The Potato Himself using [Squeaky Hoe of Regret]

That is the real story.

Dream came first. Then the raw potato crime. Then prison. Then the escape. Then Technoblade.

I did not beat Techno as a peaceful farmer. I beat him as a wanted potato outlaw, running on no sleep, bad advice, and pure anti-radish rage.

And Spudrick?

He appeared at the edge of the Panic Bowl, looked down at the lava, cobwebs, and wrecked farm, and said:

“Could use salt.”

I still hate him.

But I hate radishes more.