The alarm clock goes off, shattering any dreams Michael may have been having. He quickly hits the snooze button, desperate for those few extra minutes of sleep, despite knowing (in the more sensible portion of his mind) that he should get up. The warmth and comfort of staying in bed is too strong to resist, and he thinks to himself, I can be a little late to work this morning. I've earned it.
No sooner after closing his eyes (it seems), the alarm clock is jangling away again, with more ferocity and at a higher volume. That was the quickest nine minutes EVER. He begrudgingly throws the blankets off and swings his feet out of bed, wondering who decided the length of time allotted by one push of the Snooze button, and where the damn bastard lived. A quick stretch of his arms and legs induces a chorus of creaking and popping sounds, and he shuts off the alarm clock in disgust.
What a horrible time to have to wake up.
The first couple of steps towards the bathroom are awkward, like a drunk stumbling down an alley after last call. The rising protest from his bladder makes the rest of the trip hurried. Still rubbing the sleep out of his eyes he feels something on the back of his leg, but absentmindedly brushes it away. After the morning ritual of releasing last nights fluids, flushing, soap application, rinsing and hand drying has been completed, Michael feels again the presence of something on his legs.
He looks down at his legs, and finds two-to-three dozen black specks, all of which weren't there last night, all of which are moving around erratically. His recently-awakened brain slowly absorbs this new and perplexing condition, but can't quite place what is going on. A quick and slightly painful "biting" sensation quickly brings an answer to mind.
He quickly reaches down and start swatting at his shins as if his legs are on fire. Like miniature superhero's, the fleas jump off his legs and disappear. The remaining stragglers are the ones who have already bitten him, sluggish and heavily laden from drinking his blood. He pinches them between his thumb and forefinger, flicking them down into the sink, warm water already gushing out and gurgling down the drain. The struggle to rid himself of fleas continues on for a few minutes.
His cat sits on the tile floor just in front of him, as he looks up and catches his breath. She licks her front paw, and looks at him with an expression that seems to say "Now you know how I feel." She stands up and walks away, swishing her tail behind her. Small black specks jump up onto her as she walks towards the couch on carpeted floor of the living room.
A pit arrives in the base his stomach, heavy with dread and horror. The infestation has gone unnoticed, and the living room carpet and furniture are now host to thousands of flea's. Michael's overactive imagination kicks in, and the Berber carpet seems to start moving.
With an acute sensation of what is better known as the "creepy crawlies" (that will stay with him the entire day at work), he realizes the extent of the work ahead of him.
Part Two - The Stand.... Tomorrow.