“As I said before,” repeated Vizzini with an expectorant flourish, “I have a truly remarkable plan.”
Inigo was indignant. “Tell us already! We’re running out of time!”
“It’s quite simple, really. We’ll all be in the castle in under five minutes if you follow my every word exactly. I just hope you’re sober enough to be amazed at my unfathomable brilliance once we’re there! Here, take this blade and shave off your mustache…”
“I see you are being stubborn. Very well, I will do it myself. Step aside, giant.”
Fezzik stooped as low as he could. “Don’t touch Inigo’s mustache,” he slurred threateningly.
“Fezzik, Fezzik, I’ll handle this,” said Inigo. “Listen Vizzini, I have groomed this beautiful mustache since the day the six-fingered man slaughtered my father. For twenty years I have worn this on my face as a sign of my grief. Not until the six-fingered man is dead will any blade touch my wonderful mustache. Do you understand?”
Vizzini sighed. “And to think I was considering giving you a raise…“
“Don’t you understand?” Vizzini said almost loud enough for the castle guards to hear. “My plan was entirely dependent upon one of us being a female! Unless Fezzik’s been hiding a wedding gown in his size, which is highly improbable, you’re just going to have to shave your mustache.”
“Would this do?” Fezzik produced an enormous white dress and pulled it down over his head.
Inigo blinked. Vizzini was agape. Fezzik struggled to fasten the veil.
“Where in Florin did you get that?” asked Vizzini.
“At Miracle Max’s. It fit so nice, he said I could keep it.”
“If I were an imbecile, I would ask you about that. But I am clearly not an imbecile, and we have a castle to raid. So in the interest of time, and in accordance with my uncanny powers of judgment, let’s get down there, shall we?”
“Well put,” said Inigo.
“Why thank you.”
“Let’s go save Buttercup!”
“She’s in there?”
“She is. And she’s going to be married in twenty minutes.”
“Would you mind telling me why either of you care?”