Down through the dark armpits of history they came, surrounded by infestations of midges and tics, feared for their awful odours, the closest modern equivalent being a blend of excrement and unsanitary pidgeon offal from the unlicensed butcher (Stanley) who worked in the late 2190s behind the abandoned Woolworth's building at the corner of Lucius Ave. and Z street in Bophiliyork, (The old conglomity of Boston Philidelphia and New York but not yet including the state of New Jersey because by then Stanley had finally retired and went on a moon safari he never returned from, deciding to settle on the colony, but that's another story).
The Unwashed Intelligences were a collection of badly assembled parts from several of God's kits, some experimental. They came, the not-working-terribly-well-ones, the seen-from-a-great-distance-and-run-upwind-ones, those ancient cracked beings who had presence, substance and self awareness nearly before the Creator itself.
They came. Nameless but to themselves, known only by titles signifying what to do (run away) if you met one:
They came, they came and they were hungry.
What saved the planet from certain and total doom? What stopped the unstoppable drooling soul consuming odiferous monsters? What, if anything could equal them in raw sewage content?
Was it a bomb? A new 300 Megawatt microwave beam weapon? Any guess?
They ate at McDonalds.