Amstrad, 13th Mouse-Lord of the ruling house Woodbright listens intently. A tiny speaker relays all that is said in the Cat weapon command centre. Fat crumbs from a particularly large Crouton fall from his mouth.
"Excellent! Not only is our hidden listening device working exactly as intended, but I declare this is finest Crouton I have tasted in years! You scouts do you credit, Master Boardrunner Dolly."
"Oh thakyou sir," says Dolly, bowing and fawning precipitously, "yes. Yes Indeed. You are indeed too kind sir. Yes." He shoots the assembled others a gloating, triumphant look and is pleased to recieve a chrous of guarded, envious glances in return.
"Soon," continues Amstrad past a mouthful of bread, "the Cats will discover our sabotage, by which time they will be no larger than us! Smaller even - shrunk by the weapon of their very own design and construction - the sheer blessed irony of it. The boot will be on the other foot, then! Oh yes - we have had thousands of years to ferment our retribution, AND THEY WILL TASTE IT! THEY WILL TASTE IT FROM OUR OTHER-FOOTED BOOTS!"
Terry, a stupid mouse with only three whiskers raises a hand.
"We don't wear boots," he says, "an' also that ain't irony. Irony would be like if-"
"Shut up, Terry you three-whiskered fool." Snaps Amstrad.
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