Gord noticed a little smudge of paste on his doorstep as he was leaving for work.
As usual, his hands were full with keys, the newspaper and his travel mug of coffee, but as he turned to fumblingly lock the door and leave for the day, he’d felt something sticky under his feet and there, on his porch, was what at very first glance seemed to be toothpaste.
He’d hurried off, scraping it off his undershoe by sliding it in the grass, and making a mental note to scrape the rest off when he got home. But that night, the spot of paste was gone and he’d forgotten about it.
And now here he was, about to retire for the night when a movement caught his eye, and, clapping once to turn on his bedside lamp, to his wonder he saw a much larger spot of paste on the wall by his door.
“I must be dreaming,” he thought out loud and got up to take a closer look at the spot, when the spot suddenly moved about 2 feet to the left. “Holy SHIT!” said Gord, falling backwards and tripping over the bed.
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The paste made its way to his bathroom and squeezed itself into his toothpaste tube.
Hiding?
Waiting.
Meanwhile, halfway around the world at the Large Hadron Collider, Horst Shlein was angrily accusing his workmates of using all his toothpaste without asking.