There’s a shortage of perfect breasts in this world. It would be a pity to damage yours.
I’ll explain and I’ll use small words so that you’ll be sure to understand, you warthog faced buffoon.
It won’t be the last. To the pain means the first thing you will lose will be your feet below the ankles. Then your hands at the wrists. Next your nose.
WRONG. Your ears you keep and I’ll tell you why. So that every shriek of every child at seeing your hideousness will be yours to cherish. Every babe that weeps at your approach, every woman who cries out, “Dear God! What is that thing,” will echo in your perfect ears. That is what “to the pain means.” It means I leave you in anguish, wallowing in freakish misery forever.
Have you ever considered piracy? You’d make a wonderful Dread Pirate Roberts.
You mean you wish to surrender to me? Very well, I accept.
No, no. We have already succeeded. I mean, what are the three terrors of the Fire Swamp? One, the flame spurt – no problem. There’s a popping sound preceding each; we can avoid that. Two, the lightning sand, which you were clever enough to discover what that looks like, so in the future we can avoid that too.
