Prince Humperdinck was pacing in the wedding chapel. “I should be married by now,” he muttered, “if Rugen’s confounded machine worked the way he said.”
“Don’t wowwy, Pwince!” The impressive clergyman smiled reassuringly from the altar. “I’m shaw yew bwide will wetoon foe you sooooon…”
“Stop talking, Milton. You are here to do the wedding, not comfort me in my time of need.”
From behind the door came the sound of tiny marching footsteps echoing in the hallway. They grew louder, and louder, until the top of Vizzini’s bald head could be seen through the window. Rounding the corner, he stormed down the aisle and jabbed a finger in the prince’s face.
“Where’s my money, Humperdinck?”
The prince looked confused. “Have we met?”
“Have we met, he says. Have we met. How could you forget the Great Vizzini, you merovingian hottentot? It was only last week that you hired me and my band of ruthless mercenaries to kidnap your bride-to-be!”
From the pews came the collective gasp of the onlookers.