Four minutes later, the six commanders were sitting in the briefing room, waiting for the old man. They didn’t have to wait long. Moundrot rolled into the room, dragging his trail of goo, which always seemed to be more or less in one piece and followed him around like a string of elasticated mucous, even though the weight of it compared to its elasticity sometimes meant that it arrived in a room twenty seconds after he did. “Gentlemen, Christmas appears to have arrived a little earlier this year,” Moundrot began, “and it looks as though your appetite for dampening the Christmas Spirits of horrible little slug and woodland civilians will soon be satisfied many times over. However, one of our NCOs has... er... gone to Heaven, as a result of aggressive action from a party of slug carol singers. Even though the deceased was only Corporal Flighnever, so the loss to us is minimal, I intend to locate and eliminate this group of slugs without delay. Third Battalion will carry out this task. Furthermore, you will bring to me all the squashed bits of all enemy casualties, plus at least one live prisoner for interrogation.” With that, he lurched out of the briefing room, dragging his goo behind him, and leaving his commanders to formulate their plan. 5
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