Mark shifted around in his bed, yawned and then stretched his arm out, expecting it to land on his Husband Jack. But to no avail, Jack wasn't there. And then suddenly a strong scent hit his nose.

He groaned, sitting up and rubbing his eye's before putting on his glasses and running a hand through his blue floof. He stumbled out of the bedroom in just his Markiplier PJ bottoms and made his way downstairs to locate not only the strange smell, but his Husband as well.

"Jack?" He called groggily as he shuffled into the kitchen.

"Mornin' hun." Jack said cheerily as he sat down at the table.

"What's that smell?" Mark asked as he sat opposite of Jack.

"Potatoes." Jack stated with a hint of pride.

"Potatoes?"

"Yes."

"In the morning?"

"Yes."

"Seriously?"

"Yes."

"Why?"

"Because potatoes are amazing and they're good for any time of the day, and they can be turned into so many things like chips, fries, scallops, mash, they can even be used as paint stamps, you know when you cut one in half and then carve a shape into it, put it in paint and print it onto paper?"

"Yes, I know. I've always known that. Since I was a baby."

"Yeah, well, old facts, new deja vu."

"Deja vu?"

"You know, when-"

"Yes, yes. I know what deja vu is. But why do potatoes give you deja vu?"

"Well, I suppose that goes way, way back to my Irish roots. You see there was a time, and there probably still is, when every house in Ireland had a potato farm in their back garden. And they're all we ever ate. Well, of course we had other things otherwise we wouldn't have a good diet and we'd be full of starch which is bad but, you get my drift."

Mark blanked him.

"What?" Jack asked.

"I get that you're Irish and all but...what's so great about potatoes?"

Then something snapped inside of Jack. Something sinister and terrifying, his eye's burned with disbelief and hatred, his mouth foamed at the edge and he gritted his teeth, his hand clenched around his knife and fork, so hard that his knuckles turned white, and his breathing became dark and shallow.
Mark gulped nervously, now fearing for his life.

Jack glared at him with the heat of a thousand suns as he controlled himself to spit out.

"Potatoes are love. Potatoes are life. If we didn't have them, we'd might as well be dead. Not only are they good for eating, but when used correctly, they can also be used as a weapon, to kill. So I suggest, Mark Edward Fischbach, that you never ask that question again, nor any like it. Or the consequences will be not dire, not severe, but life threatening. Do you understand?"

Mark nodded his head excessively as his face grew pale white, and he stared trembling slightly.

"Good. Then we won't have any problems will we hun?" Jack then asked the rhetorical question cheerily, and began eating his potatoes.

Mark didn't make a sound, nor did he for the next seven and a half hours as he made a infinite mental note:

Potatoes are love...potatoes are life.