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Algernon Smythe-Wilcox, dressed in clothes so boring that merely glancing at him could render the untrained into a coma, leaned over the observation gallery above the peanut roasting machines.
"Are you sure they don't know the real purpose of our factory?" he asked his colleague in mystery (whose sartorial excesses were also capable of instantaneous crowd control), Winstanley Trimblay-Sidebottom.
"Definitely. Our agent inside assures us they don't view us as a threat. Apparently they don't think we're worth peanuts."
"How droll. Their sense of humour remains as challenged as ever."
"Indeed. If all goes to plan, we should be ready to deploy the machines in a couple of days."
"Definitely. Agents Filbert-Transome and Astoria-Cornice assure us the authorities are ready to be bribed. We should have no trouble inflitrating the entire world supply of Christmas Crackers."
All of a sudden the machines, and indeed the entire space, started vibrating, and various alarms went off.
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