It had been years since his weebification, years since he had been so unrightfully shamed by his commander, Leader. He had seen the start to the prophecy as it began to unfold like those cloth napkins folded around your silverware at restaurants, and all of the pieces were falling into place like the puzzle pieces of one of those hard-mode 4 piece puzzles. You know, the ones that are next to impossible because they're just so complex? THis was some next-level shit happening, and Phil was the only one who could see it happening. The only one.

The chosen one. The knightly crusader whom would possess the eyes what would look upon the appearance of the [i][b][color=White]B[s]e[/s]y[/color][color=Gray][s]o[/s][/color][color=Black]nd[s]e[/s]r[/color][/b][/i] even they are meaningless...

Phil shifted his weight, the licorice chains that bound his arms and legs jangling with every movement. The gingerbread prison cell that contained him reeked of sugary goodness, a foul stench he had come to despise. Phil was not what one would call a jolly rancher, at this point, nor was he a happy camper. For years after the Battle of Today, those he thought were his friends locked him away in a prison of sweetness. Their betrayal left a sour taste in the mouth - a taste that turned all things sour.

But Phil knew, deep within his kidney and even within his liver, that his time would come. He would be the one to herald the return for seconds of their great savior, and though he had become a sour puss... there was no greater sweetness.