'We have brought you here to save you from the clutches of the Purple-Arsed Yogi,' explains Uncle over a cup of expresso, 'we were once disciples of the Yogi. He persuaded us to give him all our worldly possessions in return for true enlightenment, but it soon became clear to us that he was a charlatan, an egomaniac driven by greed and a lust for power.'
'That's not to say that he didn't pick up a few tricks along the way,' says Aunty. 'Levitation, hypnosis and three or four different kinds of transformations. When we tried to leave his evil cult he tried to transform us into garden ornaments.'
'No, it was novelty paperweights,' interjects Uncle.
'The only way we could escape was to build for ourselves this impregnable, self contained apartment deep underground. There are no doors or windows and the only way in or out is through teleportation.'
'But couldn't the Yogi teleport himself in?' you ask.
'He could,' says Uncle, 'if he knew where it was. We've been safe here since the our escape from the cult in the early 1970s. Since that time we've been perfecting our powers in readiness for the final confrontation. You are the first people from the outside world we have seen in all that time.'
'Well that certainly explains the decor.' you say.
'What,' says Uncle in amazement, 'you mean red leatherette sofas and
smoked glass coffee tables are no longer in style?'