In a bustling city, there lived a man named Daniel, a towering 6’4” figure with a gentle heart. Years ago, a tragic fire engulfed his apartment, leaving his face completely burned off, a melted canvas of scars. Doctors, in a groundbreaking procedure, crafted him a prosthetic face—a lifelike mask of silicone and resin, meticulously designed to restore his appearance. At first, it was a marvel, blending seamlessly with his features, giving him a second chance at normalcy.

But time was unkind. The prosthetic, exposed to sweat, sun, and the elements, began to tarnish. A greenish hue crept across its surface, staining the once-flesh-toned mask an eerie emerald. People stared, whispered, and soon nicknamed him “Kermit the Height,” a playful jab at his towering stature and the frog-like tint of his face. Daniel embraced it, turning the moniker into a badge of courage, a testament to his survival.

At night, the bars became his kingdom. Women flocked to him, drawn not just by his 6’4” frame but by the quiet confidence he exuded. The green-tinged face, far from a flaw, became a quirky charm, a story they begged to hear over drinks. One humid May night in 2025, Daniel—now Kermit the Height—strolled into The Rusty Tankard, a lively pub pulsing with music and laughter. Heads turned, and whispers of “Kermit’s here!” rippled through the crowd.

Across the room, a striking 5’9” guy named Jake, with chiseled features and a tailored jacket, was charming a woman named Lily. She laughed at his jokes, her eyes sparkling—until Kermit the Height walked in. Lily’s gaze shifted, her interest fading as the tall, green-faced legend approached. Jake noticed, his smile tightening. “Hey, what’s the deal?” he snapped, voice loud enough to cut through the din. “I’m talking to her, man. Back off, frog-face.”

The bar fell silent. Eyes narrowed. A low boo started in the back, growing into a chorus of disapproval. “Get out, jerk!” a patron shouted. Jake, red-faced, doubled down, “This guy’s a freak! Why’s everyone obsessed with him?” The boos roared louder, a tidal wave of loyalty to their beloved Kermit. The crowd chanted, “Kermit! Kermit!” as Jake’s words drowned in their disdain.

A burly bouncer, 6’2” and built like a tank, grabbed Jake by the collar. “You’re done, pal,” he growled, dragging him toward the door. Jake flailed, shouting, but the bouncer’s fists flew—punch after punch, a brutal reckoning. Jake crumpled to the pavement outside, motionless, his spine shattered, paralyzed by the force. The crowd inside erupted in cheers, raising glasses to Kermit the Height, their hero. Lily slid closer to Daniel, smiling, “You’re amazing.” He tipped his head, the green mask glinting under the bar lights, and replied, “Just surviving, one night at a time.”

Kermit the Height stood taller than ever, a symbol of resilience, adored by all, his legend cemented in the smoky haze of The Rusty Tankard.

(http://www.autoadmit.com/thread.php?thread_id=5731938&forum_id=2:#48977429)