The erstwhile Cake Creamer, now a homeless piece of shit, grabbed his trusty, hand drawn cardboard "Will work for food" sign and changed "work" to "betray humanity."

Jimmy waved the sign at the engorged interstellar love missile which paused its ejaculation of death plasma to espy his distraction.

He was bathed in some form of ray and quickly teleported to the flight deck of the tumescent shaft.

At the helm was what could only be best described as a large, rat-like creature atop a unicycle, festooned in a wizard's cap.

"At last" squeaked the alien: "Someone we can work with."

Jimmy and the "wizard" were kindred souls: they soon came to an understanding and sealed the deal with mutually tuneful farts.

A bit dazed, the soon to be Benedict Arnold was returned to the surface where he quickly put the plan into action; "This is gonna be good." he mused.

Alas, he failed as a prognosticator; it was not good, it was in fact bad, very, very bad.