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Go to his office
You follow him to his office. He offers you a coffee, which you accept but do not drink. Caffeine is hell on your flesh.
"Monster of few words," the man says at last to break the silence, "That's fine. Expected, I guess, you probably don't do much talking any more."
You stare at him, unblinking.
"Anyway, you probably thought you wiped us all out ages ago. So the only reason I can imagine for you coming back here after all these years is, you want answers."
You continue to stare at him, but this time you blink a whole lot.
"Did you," he continues, "ever notice the fact that of all the people you ate, none of them were born between 1965 and 1980?"
Your flesh furrows its brow. "No," you admit, "I never noticed that."
The man nods. "Figures," he says, "Everybody forgets about Gen X. Even you, it seems."
"What," you say, "Are you telling me there's an entire generation that I missed that's now living here in Australia?"
"That's not all," he says. He slides a piece of paper across the table to you. "We've figured out your weakness, and unless you submit to our demands, we're going to order your execution."
You read over the piece of paper. To your surprise, there's no foolish demands to restore people back to who they were or destroy yourself. Instead the Gen X of Australia want to live lives of luxury with your flesh providing all the labor.