One froggy evening in the suburbs of northwest London there was a man, and his name was Lincoln. The pandemic that particular evening was quite fierce; there were frogs everywhere. So dense were the piles of limp amphibians that Lincoln could hardly reach his luxury lincoln car in the driveway.

“Ugh those gay frogs, here they are again, ugly and completely degenerate.” Lincoln frowned, and took out his phone to look up how to catch frogs, which frogs are edible and recipes. “Can’t wait to try some deep fried frog legs,” Lincoln smiled. Proceeding back inside after he had grabbed the rest of the groceries from his vehicle, he decided to get serious on the matter. He quickly rushed into the front yard gathering as many of the slippery frogs as he could carry in his lengky, thin arms, dangerously looking rather silly in front of his neighbours peeking through their windows at him. But Lincoln did not care, he thought to himself “I am going the boil the gay right out of these things”.

“What is that man going to do with those disgusting frogs? I can’t believe that he actually grabbed them by hand, my goodness, I wouldn’t want those wicked creatures to even be in my sight.” One of his elite 40-year-old single crazy cat ladies Casey with 15 cats, sitting on the toproof garden, thought to herself, but soon she’d know that she made the biggest mistake by missing out on those easy to catch delicacies and her feminist independent strong woman pride getting boiled down to nothing in this pandemic.

Lincoln, in his shabby kitchen, thought up a most magnificent recipe, so great, so tasty, so ambitious, it cannot be expressed in its fantastic detail in this story. All I can tell you is that he both boiled the gay right out of them, fried them, and then proceeded to apply an ancient and secret family recipe he happened to stumble upon on the internet. It happens to be that this recipe has a magical interaction with his blood, because, you see, Lincoln is a descendant of the Fnord people, whose long lineage spans back to ancient food wizards. 

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“People are really missing out on this,” Lincoln said to himself as he delivered a big piece of frog meat into his mouth and bit on the crunchiness and tenderness of it, “tastes like chicken according to Bear Grylls, but I say it’s way better.” The froggy pandemic had going on for a while, and those gay frogs coming from nowhere had been flooding everywhere but fortunately they don’t attack people (yet) and it’s still possible to get normal groceries just more expensive. Lincoln was a hard working man who built up his wealth over the past 30 years to actually buy this house but in his bones he still likes to save up on little things if possible (which was why he often get despised by his white collar elite neighbours), so why not take advantage of these delicious frogs?

Later into the night, Lincoln slept peacefully with a full belly of his feast, unknowingly he consumed its magical properties, and it was interacting with his Fnord blood. He dreamt of a most action packed event, he was smashing and grabbing gay frogs all around town, and it was the big, rare, human-sized scary ones. His skin purple and his blood vessels enlarged he looked scary himself, but he didnt care, it was a dream!  …. Or so he thought.

But when he woke up in the morning he immediately noticed that things changed. It was unusually dark but his alarm for 8 o'clock already rang and there was not even one bit of sunlight coming through the window- it’s some kind of hopeless shade of darkness, and soon he started to hear screaming from all directions. “What on earth is going on? Is this the end of the world or something?” It really did look that way to Lincoln, as he watched on the news that morning; the gay frogs are bigger and more flamboyant than ever on average now. The harmless small ones seem to chase people now instead of the usual starving, limp death-stare they normally would have. Something within them is mutating, nobody could have predicted this, not even Alex Jones himself.