“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…”

“Never.”

“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…“