Sadly, the old man was right. Inigo and Fezzik had rushed the miracle man, and in return, they got a pretty rotten miracle. The chocolate coating on the pill was entirely too bitter, and Westley died for real this time.
Trying to keep their hopes up, the Spaniard and the giant peered over the castle wall at the sixty men guarding the gate. “I have no gift for strategy,” sighed Inigo.
“Don’t worry, gentlemen, I have a plan,” intoned the world’s most annoying voice.
“Vizzini?” gasped Fezzik.
“You came back?” asked Inigo.
The bald little man folded his arms. “I said to wait for me at the beginning, you Benedictine Iberian buffoon! I should’ve known you’d turn your back on me the moment you found a pub.”
“But I waited for you where we first got the job, Vizzini… at the beginning…”
“You moron! That wasn’t the beginning! You were supposed to meet me in the woods where we kidnapped the princess!”
“Oh.” Inigo frowned. “But weren’t you dead?”
“Inconceivable! As it turns out, I was only mostly dead.”