They didn't bother about opening the door; they just crawled under it. A moment later, they had slithered across the floor, had wiggled their way up to the top on my desk, and had flattened out upon its polished surface in complete pseudopod relaxation. Gyf and Gyl. My two very good friends.
"Sorry, boys," I said, after we had exchanged the usual amenities, "that I had to get rid of your symbiotics in such a messy fashion. But business is business, you know; and I felt that the time was right...."
Gyf shrugged gelatinously. "I was getting tired of occupying Fidwell, anyway," he vibrated. "Regular old pussyfoot. Never had no fun."
Gyl burped resoundingly in the middle. "I hope the next body I get doesn't turn out to be another wine-guzzling, garlic eater." A tremor ran through him. "It upsets me frightfully."
"Time and the rising tide of accidents will tell," I soothed.
"I'm cold," trembled Gyf, "since I ain't got no body to keep me warm."
"You might try my secretary," I offered, playfully. "There's a body for you!"
"You know I can't," he vibrated. "She ain't even dead yet!"
"Nearest thing to it," I commented, "this side of the precinct morgue."
That brought a shake of mirth from Gyl who really has a truly remarkable sense of humor.