At the edge of the Fire Swamp, the Spaniard drew his sword. Count Rugen, the six-fingered man, had nowhere to run save for the hungry clutches of the ROUSes. After twenty years, Inigo was finally tasting the vapors of revenge. So close.
“Hello,” he said. “My name is Inigo Montoya. You killed my father. Prepare to die.”
Rugen had his back turned. He was reprimanding his soldiers for their cowardice (with some irony, which all neglected to mention).
“Hello,” repeated Inigo. “My name is Inigo Montoya. You killed my father. Prepare to die.“
“I’m sorry, did you say something?” Rugen turned around, and his wide-eyed men promptly spurred their horses and fled for the horizon.
“Hello. My name is Inigo Montoya. You killed my father. Prepare to die.“
“Oh, I see. You must be that Spanish brat I taught a lesson to all those years ago. I’m sorry I didn’t run you through next to your old man when I had the chance.”
“Hello! My name is Inigo Montoya! You killed my fath—“
“Are we going to fight, or what?”