Ezekeul Brightmor wasn't informed about the impending doom that was bestowed upon him until one of the little thingy's crawled up his leg and onto his lower back.
Brightmor called these things "thingys" because he wasn't quick enough to examine them closely and give them a proper name. He had just completed the cleaning of his plate after eating an omelet. Let's travel to four minutes before the "thingy" had reached it's current mildy-alarming postion. Brightmor, which from this point on we will refer to him as Mr. Brightmor-who-is-preparing-an-omelet-containing- two-eggs, half-a-green-pepper (minced), a-small-amount-of-ham (diced), two-cups-of-American-cheese (we say this because Mr. Brightmor likes his processed cheese to be melted before adding to an omelet), and-a-bit-of-onion-for-flavor-and-served-with-parsly-for-added-flair. So Mr.Brightmor- who-was-making-an-omelet-containing-two-eggs, half-a-green-pepper (minced), a-small-amount-of-ham (diced), two-cups-of-American-cheese (we say this because Mr. Brightmor likes his processed cheese to be melted before adding to an omelet), and-a-bit-of-onion-for-flavor-and-served-with-parsly-for-added-flair went on his way making his omelet. Then when he cooked it just right he sat down on the blue milk crate because Mr. Brightmor- who-was-consuming - an-omelet-containing-two-eggs, half-a-green-pepper (minced), a-small-amount-of-ham (diced), two-cups-of-American-cheese (we say this because Mr. Brightmor likes his processed cheese to be melted before adding to an omelet), and-a-bit-of-onion-for-flavor-and-served-with-parsley-for- added-flair could not afford the seating that an average man with a fairly steady income (oh, let's about $20,000-$25,000 a year) could. So he had to accommodate himself with a blue milk crate. His table consisted of two large cinder blocks and a piece of ply wood (roughly 3x4 feet). It was simple but it worked.
As we were saying, Mr. Brightmor-which-is-presently-preparing-an-omelet- containing-two-eggs, half-a-green-pepper (minced), a-small-amount-of-ham (diced), two-cups-of-American-cheese (we say this because Mr. Brightmor likes his processed cheese to be melted before adding to an omelet), and-a-bit-of-onion-for-flavor-and-served-with-parsly-for-added-flair was preparing to have a damn-good omelet. And he ate that damn-good omelet, despite the fact that his plate was slightly grimed for he neglected to rinse it before placing it in his dishwasher, a common fact known by many but apparently not Mr. Brightmor-which-is-presently-preparing-an-omelet-containing-two-eggs, half-a-green-pepper (minced), a-small-amount-of-ham (diced), two-cups-of-American-cheese (we say this because Mr. Brightmor likes his processed cheese to be melted before adding to an omelet), and-a-bit-of-onion-for-flavor-and-served-with-parsly-for-added-flair; but we will stop calling him that because his omelet has long-since been eaten and we find it unnessacary to refer to a post-humous omelet.
He then prepared to take his plate (a red and white "Fiesta Ware") and his eating utensil (a reusable "spork") to the dishwasher. A slightly-lingering thought in the very darkest crevices of his mind then reminded a dim light of remembrance to the knowledge that he should by this time to recall the fact that when he was eating that damn-fine omelet his plate was a bit grimy from the previous omelet So, at the dishwasher, Mr. Brightmor hesitated and then went on to the business of rinsing his plate.
At the sink he ran some hot water (aprox. 124.78 degrees farenheit) and then proceeded to put the plate under it thus washing away the grime. But he soon ran into a trouble: a piece of rather burnt-looking cheese was still attached to his Fiesta Ware. He took a moment of thought to this situation and then with his free hand used the spork to remove the rather burnt-looking cheese on his Fiesta Ware.
Little did he know that the cheese-like thing that he was so enjoyably poking away at was, in actuality, a deadly subterranean homesick parasite from the nebula HyDincitye. Well, we know why we call it a subterranean alien (because it burrows underground) but we still are boggled by the fact that it is homesick. This fact will be disclosed later in our story.
At this time, though, our friend and, apparently, main character and protagonist was poking the alien parasite with a blissful ignorance. And this is how the spork saved his life. The parasite was feeding off the grime on the plate. Then it was going to take a journey through the dishwasher where it proliferate onto the rest of Mr. Brightmor's fine dinnerware. When Mr. Brightmor would take his dishes out he would not notice the new grime of the parasite that had previously proliferated onto his Fiesta Ware. He would then proceed to eat a meal or meals off the plates and the parasite would enter his body and upon reaching his gullet would consume his person from the inside.
But this is not important to the story impending although it ultimently ended up wiping out all humanity within the next three years, 4 months, 12 days, 6 hours, and 23 and an eighth minute. So after fighting the deadly parasite with his valiant spork, Mr. Brightmor noticed a strange yet implausible "thingy" running up his right leg. It had not reached his lower back yet but would so in a matter of seconds.
And it did. And by the time it did another "thingy" had begun the ascent up his pant leg. Now, this sort of occurrence never had crossed the barren plain that was Mr. Brightmor's mind. For he didn't worry about much except for getting his unemployment check and finding the freshest vegetables for his daily repast of one damn-delicious omelet. The occasional trip to the Mego-low Hyper Mart for other items like soap, toilet paper, and those tasty, packaged blueberry muffins that he had instead of an omelet on his "wilder" days.
So, as you can see, Mr. Brightmor isn't the kind of person you'd expect to see standing in his kitchen with one "thingy" in his pants and another approaching after fighting a dooms-day parasite with his trusty, reusable spork. This spork isn't the kind of spork you'd see at your local cut-rate cafeteria, this was a spork of monumental sporkness! Its prongs were as strong as twenty normal spork prongs and it had a good grip, nice feel, and remarkable weighting. You could you use that spork for a mashed potatoes and a good well-done steak all in the same meal.
Within an hour to Mr. Brightmor (well, it was in actuality three years, 4 months, 12 days, 67hours, and 31 minutes) because the "thingys" that had crawled into his pant leg were really robotic emissaries from an alien race that most humans would say "Kinda looks like Jamie Far." These robotic emissaries plowed through his body and planted a teleportic transportation beacon which was about the size of an Armour Hotdog into his gullet so that the intergalactic unified army of thingys could teleport our beloved Mr. Brightmor actuality three years, 4 months, 12 days, 67hours, and 31 minutes.
By no coincidence this was the exact time it took for the rather burnt looking piece of cheese that had made a temporary abode on Mr. Brightmor's Fiesta Ware to go through his plumbing. Now everyone in the universe that had had an encounter with the subterranean homesick parasite from the nebula HyDincitye knows not to ever make it go through a pipe at high speeds. This immediately causes it to explode in a toxic gas that, to carbon-based life forms, proves deadly in three years, 4 months, 12 days, 6 hours, and 23 and an eighth minute. And this was just the time when Mr. Brightmor re-entered our time stream from his protological journey. And when he did come back he came there just in time to witness the affects of the toxic gas released by the parasite onto the human race, although he was still completely ignorant to what was happening.
And what happened to the human race minus Mr. Brightmor was rather disturbing. Over course the course of the gases affect their legs had slowly turned into small red automobiles and their hair had formed a naturally strange capped appearance. Mr. Brightmor saw them all gather into a large ring and them blast off into space (unfortunately, they didn't bring any air).
(unfinished, so hahahaha!)