At intervals, Little Hairy-Harry suffered the jolting of missiles shooting from the launch pad not far from his hide-out. To his surprise, nobody else seemed to notice them. It was truly bizarre. Or, was their indifference feigned? Hmmm...
His little brain was straining with the sheer effort of thought, so much so it was just about smoking.
All of a sudden, an illumination sparked amidst his diminutive neurons. Yes, he finally got it. All was made known. In all likelihood, he was based at a military station. Yes, that was it! It all added up: the curfew, the noises, the smells, the infantile, vulgar sense of humour of his neighbours, and his memory of the great heart shape, possible a territory occupied by pacifists. Little Hairy-Harry was imbued with a tremendous sense of purpose. He, a tiny, weakling bum hair, was to become, ta-dah… a Secret Agent!
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