The Gnat-pocalypse of Barty Bumble

Barty Bumble was a man who believed in preparing for the worst, even if the 'worst' was often a figment of his overactive imagination. One Tuesday evening, nestled in his armchair with a particularly bland documentary on Roman pottery, a faint *zzzzzzzz* grazed his ear.

His eyes snapped open. "Intruder!" he whispered, a vein throbbing in his temple. It was, in fact, a gnat. A minuscule, barely-there speck of insect life. But to Barty, it was a winged harbinger of chaos.

He executed a swift, commando-style roll off the armchair, inadvertently dislodging a priceless (to him) porcelain cat. "Target acquired!" he bellowed, brandishing a rolled-up magazine like a broadsword. The gnat, startled, buzzed towards the lampshade.

"Tactical retreat!" Barty yelled, performing a clumsy crouch-walk that sent him headfirst into a potted fern. Soil flew. Leaves crunched. The gnat, now thoroughly annoyed, circled his head.

"Air superiority compromised!" He seized a decorative pillow, launching it with the force of a trebuchet. It missed the gnat entirely but expertly shattered a framed photograph of his Aunt Mildred. Barty, now sweating profusely, resorted to a full-body flailing, a technique he'd perfected watching kung-fu movies. He spun, he ducked, he inadvertently kicked over a side table, sending a cascade of coasters and half-eaten biscuits skittering across the floor.

The gnat, perhaps sensing its work was done, or simply bored, drifted out an open window.

Barty collapsed amidst the wreckage, panting, a single bead of sweat tracing a path through the dust on his forehead. His living room looked like a tornado had briefly considered squatting there. He slowly pushed himself up, surveyed the devastation, and puffed out his chest. "Mission accomplished," he wheezed, wiping an imaginary tear of triumph. "Never stood a chance."