Eighty-seven percent was apparently a very good number. It was, apparently, the fresh meat's lucky number and their ticket home. Once the dragon was so easily dispatched (how infuriating!), Mojo had the molemen sent out as a distraction until something more powerful and entertaining could be devised.
"What are they doing?" he demanded of the agent manning the controls for the arena. He leaned forward, his bulbous flesh making a disgusting sucking sound as he shifted. His voice rose an octave as he repeated his question and the other man shook his head and shrugged- before he gasped.
"-The teleport," he began, but it didn't matter. The teleport light flashed once and, where there had been three victims in the arena moments before, there was now only the corpses of molemen. The meat had managed to escape. Mojo hissed and squelched back against his seat again. This was an unsettling and unsatisfactory turn of events.
"Put something up!" he demanded and the screen above the control console flashed up with a message accompanied by a cheerful tune: Technical difficulties, please stand by! Disastrous, yes, but Mojo was already thinking of his next program. There were millions of other universes that would provide him with fresh meat.