The apocalypse was swift. Tears flowed like wine and the sirens could barely be heard over the screaming. Children were ripped from their mothers and placed on a metallic slide that dropped them into either a holding cell, which pumped their innards with lard until The Pecking commenced, or into a raging fire that sauteed their supple flesh with butter and garlic. There was no day or month or year to mark it, for all time had stopped. Perdition had unfurled.
I know you're thinking what I'm thinking: How on earth are his fingers strong enough to support his torso laterally like that and still play a halfway decent rag? Well, I guess that's just one of life's little mysteries.