General Feltington came to my commanders tent a few mornings ago. He had had a dream, a most unpleasant nightmare. He dreamt of a neon-crochet bomb that stalked his every movement as he meandered through a desolate city. Since then other men of his brigade have reported having the same nightmare. I see it as a sign, to keep up production, for the time draws near and the crocheted bombs must be set.
