For sooth, Peace. Thou hast me at a disadvantage. And just when I was warming to the craft! Note that the scoundrel Martin has slunk off, tail between his legs, like the cowardly cur that he is. I always wax Shakespearian when I am wroth. The man curdles my blood. He is the sort that should be extinguished like a smelly candle, stamped out like a used up cigarette butt, ripped out like a bad tooth.

How dare he question my masculinity? It is legendary.