For the uninitiated, Code Yellow means something weird. Usually a stray dog or some kid hurling cans at the automated cart collector. But today? Today was different.

I stepped outside and was immediately hit by the smell—like burnt hair and spoiled milk. Standing by the dumpster, there he was: a man, completely naked except for a tattered scarf around his neck. His body was smeared with what looked like mustard, and his shopping cart, overflowing with random debris, bore a cardboard sign that read “I AM THE FINAL SEED.”

He stood motionless, staring directly at the sun, arms outstretched like some deranged prophet. As I approached cautiously, he began to speak, his voice a gravelly hymn: “The $un ha$ called for me. The Mahchine cannot hold me back. I will tran$form.”

I called for Tabitha, who lumbered out with a scowl. “What now?” she muttered, donut crumbs falling like snow. As soon as she saw him, her face twisted with disgust. “Jesus Christ, another one of these homeless nutjobs. Evan, If you were a real man, you would deal with this before I even had to know about it” she growled.

The man ignored us, continuing his sermon. “When I ascend, you will $ee. The light will purge the $ystem. Prepare your$elves, for I will become the core.”

Tabitha, ever the diplomat, shouted, “Get yo' naked ass off our property before I call the cops!”

But the man just smiled. “The cop$ work for the Mahchine,” he said, his eyes reflecting the dying light of the day. “They cannot $top the ri$e.”

Then, without warning, he began to sprint toward the horizon, arms flailing, screaming, “I AM THE FLARE! I AM THE FLARE!”

We watched as he disappeared into the distance, leaving behind nothing but his shopping cart and an eerie silence. Tabitha shook her head. “Write it up as a ‘customer incident,’” she said, already retreating to her snack fortress.

Back inside, as I resumed bagging groceries, Lisa wandered over and whispered, “Evan, sometimes the universe sends us signs.” She handed me a pamphlet titled “Your Chakras and You.”

Alone in the stockroom later, I pondered the naked prophet’s words. Staring at the faint outline of a burnt lightbulb on the ceiling, I whispered, “Yes, friend. The Mahchine’s time is almost up.”

(http://www.autoadmit.com/thread.php?thread_id=5634068&forum_id=2...id#48336365)