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Norman had lost paitience with his ninjas. They had brought back some paintings that he wasn’t interested in any more (he was now learning to cook) and only new one song- by The Kinks, none the less.

“♪…It’s only nat-ur-al! Da do da do da! Da da da do do! …”

“Insolence! Fools! Stop! My ears are bleeding! (this was due to an unrelated virus that Norman had caught. It was just something that was going around) I’ve had it! You’re all fired!”

Norman regretted this immidiatly saying this as apparently the head ninja had had it also, and cut Norman’s head off. After a quick bit of sugery and some magic herbs, Norman picked up his keyboard and began to type down an advert.

Help Wanted:
Evil minions wanted. Pay quite good, hours ok. Apply to Norman D. Warren, c/o The Author. Serious applicants only, please. Burly, angry men preferred.

Norman looked at his handywork. He seemed pleased. Then he looked at the prices for placing an ad in the paper. He seemed less pleased. He revised his entry.

Help Wanted:
Evil minions wanted. Pay quite good, hours ok. Apply to Norman D. Warren, c/o The Author. Serious applicants only, please. Burly, angry men preferred.

Still a bit long, he thought, and continued revising.

Help Wanted:
Evil minions wanted. Pay quite good, hours ok. Apply to Norman D. Warren, c/o The Author. Serious applicants only, please. Burly, angry men preferred.

I can cut it a bit more, he thought.

Help Wanted:
Evil minions wanted. Pay quite good, hours ok. Apply to Norman D. Warren, c/o The Author. Serious applicants only, please. Burly, angry men preferred.

He typed the final message into his computer:

Minions. Pay. Norman Warren, c/o Author.

He looked at it for a few seconds and decided he could cut it down even more.

Minions. Pay. Norman Warren.

Great! He thought. But it was still expensive, so he crossed out a few more to leave him with:

Minions.

He looked at it for a few seconds, then decided it was stupid. He’d do the obvious intelligent thing to do, which was to combine all the words into one long, single word. He ended up with:

Minionspaynormanwarren.

He hit enter and sent it to the newspaper, the Daily Newspaper. His doorbell rang and he answered it. There was a whole load of possible minions waiting to be interviewed. (The Internet, you know.)

A large ogre was waiting at the front of the queue wearing a small brown vest and a pair of brown pants. The ogre himself was also brown, and this made for some rather embarrassing comments from the orc behind him. The ogre told the orc where he could shove this, even though it was physically impossible unless the orc was carrying some sort of dimension-hopping pancake, possibly created via mitosis.

Other creatures waiting in the line were a goblin, a dimension-hopping pancake (who was currently helping the orc with the ogre’s suggested course of actions, even though the pancake was created by meiosis and not mitosis), the Creature (from another great quality book by the author), the monster from the game Real Tournament 1808, any number of women from the game Survival Horror in Short Skirts (the ever-popular sequel to the critically acclaimed Survival Horror in Tight Pants, and of course, the prequel to both, Survival Horror in a Nudist Colony), a couple of cyclopses (they were currently dating) and the original ninjas wearing fake nose-and-moustache glasses. There was also an unholy army of the night, but they were just practicing for their eventual takeover of France, and possibly Ireland.

“We’ve come about the job,” said the ogre with a York accent (not to be confused with an Orc accent, which sounds surprisingly like passing wind, which is not to be confused with a Passing Wind accent), “We’ve come about the advertisement and we decided that we could use one of them ninja’s swords in order to cut your testicles off.”

“What?” screamed Norman and covered his groin with a frying pan. “It’s supposed to say ‘minions plural pay’!”

“Oh,” said the ogre. “Well, I’ll be going then.” He wandered off into the distance, then laughed loudly and made a noise that could be confused with an Orc accent.

“In that case,” said Norman, “I’ll have to choose that party of orcs at the back.”

The orcs put down their birthday cakes and party hats and wandered over to the front of the line.

“The rest of you can go now!” said Norman. The rest of them went now.

“No, not you!” he said to the orcs, who were walking towards the door. This confused them, and a few of their heads exploded, but after surgery and a few magical herbs, they grew back.

“Well,” said Norman. “To Business.”

After they disembarked from the bus, they booked out a hotel in the sunny seaside town of Business. They went to the beach and sat down on a beach towel underneath a large umbrella. Unfortunately the large umbrella had no cloth on it, so everyone was badly moonburnt, as it was midnight.

“Now,” began Norman. “I want to take over Australia…”