“A Work In Progress” - Part 7
*Marco’s DMCST-induced dream*
Marco Lopez fumbled around in total darkness, his probing fingers searching for a light switch. His clothing seemed awfully stiff—and heavy. ‘And what is that terrible ‘clanking’ racket, that seems to be following me arou—?’ “Oo-oof!” he gasped as he bumped into something in the dark. He felt someone reach out and steady him. “Who’s there?” he anxiously inquired, and noticed that it sounded as though he were speaking into a barrel.
“Why, Sir Marco,” a young woman’s sensuous voice responded, “it seems that ‘someone’ has placed a scarf over your visor. Now, who would possibly perform such a dastardly deed?” she insincerely inquired.
‘Sir Marco?’ Lopez mentally repeated. “Is that you, Diana?” It certainly sounded like the voice of his latest ‘love’ interest—Miss Diana Rhisen.
The lights suddenly came back on.
Marco stood there, staring out through some slatted bars, at a sunny, brick courtyard—and Diana Rhisen!
The pretty miss was standing, right there in front of him, dressed in an elegant, floor-length, red-velvet gown…a very shapely…very figure-flattering red-velvet gown.
The fireman forced his attention away from the gown. “What’s with this ‘Sir’ business, Diana?”
Before the woman could answer, another elegantly dressed lady came rushing up to them.
The new arrival latched onto his latest love interest’s arm. “Hurry, Lady Diana! The contests are about to begin!”
Lady Diana gave the news bearer a nod. Then she turned back to him and lifted the slatted bars from his eyes.
Marco raised a hand to his head and discovered that he was wearing a metal helmet with a hinged visor. “What the—?” He glanced down and jerked, startled—but not by his helmet’s falling visor. His entire body seemed to be covered with a matching metal suit! ‘Of armor?’
Lady Diana giggled and then picked his visor up again.
“Where are we?” the armored man wondered. “Outside the studio where they film ‘Let’s Make A Deal?’
Lady Diana flashed the nonsensical question asker a bashful, flirtatious smile and held her bright red scarf out to him.
Marco gave the woman—and her scarf—a pair of puzzled looks.
“You do intend to represent my honor in the Tournament, today…” the pretty woman hopefully stated.
Lopez looked even more puzzled. “What Tournament?”
Lady Diana’s pout transformed back into coy smile and she tied her red scarf to his left wrist. “Oh, Sir Marco…you are such a tease!” She blew him a kiss and then left with the other lady.
Marco took a step after her and then came to a ‘clanking’ halt, as his visor fell—startling him again. He stared out from behind its slatted bars and watched Lady Diana disappear through an open gate in the tall brick wall of the courtyard.
Somebody tapped him on his metal-plated shoulder.
Marco ‘clanked’ stiffly around.
A young boy appeared through the slats in his visor.
At least, he thought the kid was a boy. He, or she, had shoulder length hair with bangs down to his, or her, eyes, and he, or she, was wearing a puffy-sleeved, white satin blouse, a blue, pleated skirt…and a pair of lime-green tights?
The kid bowed and then held a pair of dangling leather reins up to him.
Attached to reins, was an enormous horse—which also happened to be wearing a metal suit of armor.
“Sir Marco, Sir Henry—and the others—are waiting for you,” the kid hinted and motioned to a wooden block on the ground beside the horse.
“Sir Henry…and the ‘others’?” Lopez cautiously repeated. ‘This has to be some kind of a’ costume party…or a joke—or both,’ he wryly reasoned, and gave the kid a suspicious stare. “I-I’ll just bet they are. Who put you up to this? Was it Chet?”
The kid just stared back at him in confusion. “Please, Sir Marco! They are waiting…”
“Let ‘em wait. I’m not going anywhere, until I get some answers.” Marco raised the visor on his helmet and gazed distastefully at the evil-eyed beast standing before him. “And I assure you, that I have no intentions—whatsoever—of getting up on that thing’s back.”
The animal snorted aloofly back at him.
Startled, Marco jerked. His helmet’s visor fell, causing him to take several ‘clanking’ steps back.
The kid turned and went trotting off across the courtyard.
Marco managed an exasperated gasp and then tried—for several frustrating minutes—to get the heavy, confounded visored-helmet off of his head.
Lopez felt someone tapping him on the shoulder again. He ‘clanked’ stiffly around and raised his slatted visor.
The weird kid with the long hair and lime-green leotards reappeared.
“Sir Marco,” the boy gasped breathlessly, “Sir Henry wishes for me to inform you…that he and the others…are still waiting for you…Sir Henry says…that you are holding up the Tournament…and that he expects you to mount your steed…and join him and the others…at the far end of the field…THIS INSTANT!”
Sheesh! That almost sounded like an ‘order’. ‘Maybe I should, at least, go and see what the Cap wants…’ Lopez silently surmised. “The ‘far end’ of what field?”
“The Tournament field, Sir Marco,” the kid impatiently explained, “the Tournament field.”
“How ‘far’ is far?”
The kid grabbed the dallying knight’s armored elbow and began ushering him up to the wooden block on the ground beside the ridiculously big horse.
Marco dreaded the thought of climbing aboard the evil-eyed beast. But he had even less of desire to go ‘clanking’ all the way to the ‘far end’ of some stupid ‘Tournament field’ in that ridiculously uncomfortable ‘tin can’ tuxedo he was wearing. ‘Better to ride than to walk,’ he hoped. His armored shoulders sagged in defeat and he stepped stiffly up onto the mounting block.
The kid helped him place his armored foot into the stirrup.
Marco made a valiant attempt to swing his metal-encased right leg up and over the horse’s armored back. His visor fell and the slatted bars appeared. Again, with the kid’s assistance, he was able to ‘clankingly’ accomplish the daunting task. He lifted his visor and flashed his helper a grateful smile. “Thanks!”
The kid nodded and passed him up the reins.
Lopez gripped them—firmly. “Uh-uh…which way to the Tournament field?”
His assistant gave him a strange stare and then pointed to an open gate in one of the courtyard’s four high walls.
Marco gave the kid a grateful nod, and then grimaced, as his visor dropped and the bars reappeared. He counted to ten and then calmly raised his visor. “Giddy-up, horse!” he encouraged.
The beast laid its large ears back and didn’t budge.
“C’mon!” he urged. “Giddy-up!”
Once again, the horse refused to move forward.
Marco gasped in frustration and turned to his green-leotarded assistant.
“Kick him,” the kid helpfully suggested.
Lopez doubted the ‘soundness’ of that particular course of action. After all, he didn’t want to go getting the enormous, evil-eyed animal upset with him. Then again, he didn’t want to ‘upset’ his Captain, either. He braced himself and then—very reluctantly—gave the horse’s ribs a slight tap with his heels.
The beast bolted ahead.
His helmet’s hinged visor dropped and he gazed out through its slatted bars—in wide-eyed terror—as his untrusty ‘steed’ proceeded to stampede off across the sunlit courtyard.
“Whoa-oah!” Lopez pleaded.
But the evil-eyed animal continued to race across the courtyard—and right on through that open gate.
“Whoa-oah!” Marco repeated, as the runaway animal passed through the gate and went galloping down an enormous grassy field, heading right for a group of armored knights mounted on armored horses.
The group saw them coming and scattered.
“WHOA-OAH!” Marco demanded for a third time, desperation evident in his shrill shouted voice.
A tall, thick, leafy hedge lined the far end of the Tournament field.
Just as they were about to go slamming into it, the stampeding animal locked its legs and finally slid to a stop.
Inertial energy propelled its passenger forward.
Marco had to hug the huge horse’s neck, to keep himself from sailing completely out of his seat.
The steed turned its long neck and then just stood there, calmly staring at its dangling half upside-down rider.
Lopez’s visor slid clear of his eyes and he gave the animal an angry glare. “Don’t you know about ‘whoa-oah’?!”
The horse curled its lower lip and snorted at him.
Marco gave his untrustworthy means of transportation a sneer of disdain and then attempted to get himself right side up again.
The other mounted knights regrouped and came galloping up to help him.
With their assistance, Marco was finally able to regain his seat. He heaved a huge sigh of relief, and then jerked, as his visor fell. The fireman lifted it and flashed his helpers a grateful smile. “Thanks, guys!”
“Sir Marco,” his Captain practically shouted, his voice muffled and filled with annoyance, “what is going on?”
“Tell me and we’ll both know,” Lopez smartly replied.
Stanley reached up and slowly raised his helmet’s visor. His eyes appeared and began to narrow into no nonsense slits.
Marco caught his Captain’s stern gaze. “…Sir,” he respectfully added. His visor fell, causing his companions to crack up—and lend new meaning to the term ‘canned laughter’.
“What’s the matter, Sir Marco?” came Kelly’s muffled taunt. “Someone oil the hinges on your helmet…again?”
Lopez lifted his visor and gave his best buddy an annoyed glare.
“Say, Sir Marco,” Mike Stoker suddenly spoke up, “isn’t that Lady Diana’s scarf?” he innocently inquired and pointed to the bright red piece of silk that was tied to Lopez’s left wrist.
Marco glanced down. His visor fell, creating a whole nother round of ‘canned laughter’. He was just about to voice his displeasure, when an unbelievably loud blast of trumpets sounded. He raised his visor and glanced around. “What was that?”
“Well…there is the signal for the Tournament to begin,” his Captain calmly announced. “…finally,” he added, giving the late-arriving Lopez another annoyed glare. “Who goes first, today?”
“Sir John,” everyone answered, in one muffled voice.
Sir John nudged his horse forward.
The Captain stared down at the young man’s scarf-less left wrist. “What? No colors, today, Sir John?”
Lopez looked around and saw that everyone had a colorful scarf tied to their left wrist—everyone, that is, but Johnny.
Sir John hung his helmeted head and quietly confessed, “No, Sir Henry.”
Marco gave his sad-sounding friend a deeply sympathetic look and opened his mouth to speak.
The trumpets sounded again.
Sir John drew his armored self up in his seat and directed his armored steed over to—and behind—a chalk line that had been made in the grass.
Marco turned in his saddle to look down at the field’s opposite end.
Seated upon a big, black horse, on the other end of the field, was another knight, wearing black armor—and carrying a ridiculously looooong, and incredibly sharp-pointed , wooden lance.
Lopez felt his stomach lurch. “HOLD IT!” he shouted, and five helmeted heads instantly swung in his direction. He aimed his alarmed gaze at one of them. “John, please tell me that you are not really gonna go up against that guy…” he pleaded.
Gage gave his helmeted head a solemn nod.
Marco about fell out of his seat. “But you can’t!” he insisted. “Johnny, you can’t go up against that guy! You don’t even have a weapon!”
“Sir John never carries a weapon,” Johnny’s partner promptly pointed out.
Marco was now too mortified to speak.
The trumpets blared a third time.
The black-armored knight aimed his lance right at Sir John and nudged his horse forward.
Sir John held his prancing steed back until the black knight had reached mid-field. Then he released his tight rein and kicked his horse into high gear. The animal bolted off down the Tournament field, traveling at twice the speed of the black knight’s horse.
Marco stared in disbelief. “He’s really going through with it…” he numbly realized and turned to the Captain. “Stop ‘im, Cap! Order him to stop!”
But the Captain completely ignored him.
Lopez heard the crowd roar and turned back around, just in time to watch the black knight rein his horse in. He swallowed hard and forced himself to look down the field.
Sir John was still seated upon his horse and—incredibly—he still seemed to be in one undamaged piece.
“How on earth—?” Marco muttered to himself.
The black knight swung his horse around and then started off down the field again.
Again, Gage waited at his end, with his steed impatiently pawing the ground.
Marco gasped—in both frustration and alarm. “Someone has gotta put a stop to this, before Johnny gets himself killed!”
Nobody moved.
So Marco turned his horse toward the one-sided contest and kicked it in the ribs.
The beast bolted ahead and shot past the black knight’s slow-moving plug, like it was standing still.
Marco had intended to place himself and his mount between the two combatants.
But his untrusty steed had ‘other’ plans.
“Stop!…STOP!…STO-OP!” Lopez yelled, at the top of his lungs, as they galloped on.
The two combatants weren’t sure if he was screaming at them—or his runaway horse.
At any rate, Sir John was forced to rein his steed in from its lightning charge, in order to avoid a collision with Sir Marco’s.
The black knight took full advantage of the situation. Sir Marco’s ‘distraction’ provided him with the perfect opportunity—to strike his now ‘slow-moving’ target.
Sir John ducked low over his steed’s armored back and tried desperately to dodge the black knight’s lance. But he was moving wa-ay too slowly, and the black knight’s lance was too well aimed. It caught him a glancing blow to his left shoulder and completely dislodged him from his saddle. “Ahhh-ahhh!” Gage cried out in agony, as he was sent sailing off the back of his horse. An “Oo-oof!” escaped from the falling rider’s tightly pursed lips, as his armored body hit the ground—hard.
Marco heard the crowd roar once more. He yanked on the bit in his stubborn steed’s mouth, with all his might, and finally got it to stop—just as they were about to plow into the gaily bannered, spectator-filled bleachers on the edge of the field. He regained his seat, swung his helmeted head back around—and gasped in horror.
Sir John’s horse was now rider-less.
Johnny’s armored body lay—motionless—on the grass in the center of the Tournament field.
“Oh-oh no-o!” Marco groaned. “No no no no no!” He swung his horse’s head around and gave it a good swift kick in the ribs.
The animal lurched ahead and went galloping up to—and almost right over—his friend’s completely motionless form.
Marco reefed back on the reins and managed to get the obstinate beast stopped—about three feet short of the fallen rider’s helmeted head. “Johnny?!” he anxiously called out, executing a less than graceful, and exceedingly noisy, dismount. “Johnny!” he repeated and dropped ‘clankingly’ onto his metal-plated knees, on the grass beside the injured knight’s still non-moving body.
John’s suit of armor seemed to be undamaged.
Marco prayed that the same could be said for its contents. He reached out and raised the hinged visor on Sir John’s metal helmet.
There was a grimace on Gage’s face. But at least his eyes were open.
Marco heaved a huge sigh of relief and raised his slatted visor. “You gonna be okay, Johnny?”
His fallen friend inhaled sharply, as his lungs finally began to function again. His open eyes narrowed into annoyed slits. “Why *gasp* did you have to *gasp* interfere?” he breathlessly demanded and attempted to prop himself up on his armored elbows.
Marco noticed that Johnny’s left shoulder really seemed to be bothering him and lowered his head in shame. His visor fell. “I was just trying to keep that guy from killing you,” he explained and began helping his shaken associate up off the grass.
Well, actually, their suits of armor were so dang heavy, they ended up having to assist one another back up onto their feet.
“Killing me?” Sir John incredulously inquired, once they were both standing again. “In over thirty contests, Sir Brice has never so much as even once come close to hitting me—until today,” he annoyedly added and gave his bruised shoulder a rub.
Lopez looked extremely apologetic. “Gosh, I’m sorry, John. I didn’t know.” He gave his sore friend a concerned once over. “You hurt bad?”
Sir John heard the remorse in Sir Marco’s voice and his grumpy expression softened. “Nahhh. I just had my wind knocked ou—” he stopped talking suddenly and stood there, staring sadly off toward the edge of the field.
Marco followed his friend’s glum gaze and watched as Lady Catherine leaned out over the railing that ran in front of the bannered bleachers—and tied her bright blue scarf to the black knight’s left wrist.
Sir Brice bowed his helmeted head to the young lady. Then he, and his doggy mount, left to take a victory lap around the Tournament field.
Johnny hung his helmeted head and went ‘clanking’ off, in the direction of the courtyard, with his right hand clutching his injured left shoulder and his other armored shoulder sagging in defeat.
“Wait for me!” Marco called after him. However, before he take could take his leave, the kid with the lime-green leotards stepped in front of him.
The boy just stood there holding the wooden mounting block—and his horse’s reins.
“Help me get this portable sardine can off of me. Will yah,” Marco crankily requested.
“B-But you are up next, Sir Marco,” the kid announced.
“I am never getting back on that big, ugly nag again!” Marco vowed and aimed an angry glare in the evil-eyed animal’s direction.
The horse curled its lower lip, and gave him another aloof snort.
Marco gave his untrusty steed one last sneer of disgust and then turned back to the boy in the lime-green leotards. “You hear me? I don’t care what Sir Henry says! This is crazy! I mean, this is ¡realmente loco! This is the dumbest thing I’ve ever heard of! Grown men actually trying to kill each other! And for what? A lousy hunk of silk?!” Marco ripped Lady Diana’s scarf from his wrist and threw it to the ground. “¡Olvídelo!” He heard the sound of galloping hooves and ‘clanked’ around to investigate its source.
Sir Henry and his armored horse came skidding to stop. “What is the meaning of this?” the Captain demanded, and motioned to the bright red scarf, lying in the grass at Sir Marco’s feet.
“I am not entering any ‘contests’,” Lopez resolutely declared. “…Sir.”
Sir Henry was practically speechless. “Bu-ut…” he sputtered, “what about chivalry? And the glory of knighthood?”
“What about ‘em?” Marco smartly replied. “I happen to think that is all just sheer stupidity!…Sir.”
Sir Henry raised the hinged visor on his helmet and gave the mutinous knight a riveting stare. “What about Lady Diana? Her ‘honor’ is at stake!”
Lopez looked completely unimpressed. “Well, now, ain’t that just too bad!” he sarcastically stated. “You can tell her for me that, if her ‘honor’ hinges on whether or not I knock some poor joker on his…heinie, she can do the knocking! She’ll have to do the knocking. Cuz I’m getting outta here—and outta this ridiculous ‘Threepio’ costu—”
“—But, Sir Marco,” his Captain suddenly interrupted, “what about the dragon?”
“What dragon?”
“Why-y, the ruthless, fire-breathing dragon of Trumbley Moor, of course.”
Lopez stared disbelievingly up at Stanley. “Cap, there’s no such thing as a fire-breathing dragon.”
Sir Henry’s right eyebrow arched. “Oh really. Then what, pray tell, is that?” he wondered and pointed off across the Tournament field.
Marco swung his helmeted head in the direction of his Captain’s pointing finger. He gazed out through the slats in his visor and watched, in shock and disbelief, as a fifty foot long, frog-green, scaly, dinosaur-type creature came crawling over the thick, tall hedge and out onto the Tournament field.
The mythical beast lashed its long jagged tail back and forth a few times. Then it opened its enormous jaws and spewed a twenty-foot stream of bright-orange flames from its mouth.
“¡Esto es una locura!” Marco exclaimed. He lifted his helmet’s hinged visor and stared incredulously at the ‘non-existent’ fifty-foot creature. “There’s no such thing,” he numbly repeated.
Thick black clouds of smoke billowed from the beast’s flared nostrils, as it ‘stoked up the coals’ for another breath of fire.
“Only you can battle the dragon, Sir Marco!” Sir Henry informed him.
Lopez felt his stomach lurch again. His head must have lurched right along with it, because his visor fell, again. “Why only me?!” he demanded of his Captain.
Stanley stood there, looking completely perplexed. “I don’t kno-ow...”
The creature crept a little closer. The dragon’s beady little eyes suddenly riveted upon its adversary and it exhaled another twenty-foot stream of flames in the grounded knight’s direction.
Even at a distance, Marco could feel the heat—clear through his suit of armor! He also felt someone tapping him on his metal-plated shoulder. He ‘clanked’ back around.
The kid in the lime-green tights was still standing there holding that wooden mounting block—and his horse’s reins.
The dragon shot another twenty-foot river of fire his way.
Marco glanced disdainfully at it…and then at his horse. Finally, he emitted an exasperated gasp and went ‘clanking’ up to the closer of the two evil-eyed beasts.
The animal curled both of its lips back, this time and whinnied—in sort of a ‘horsey’ version of an evil chuckle.
“So…I lied!” Marco told his smug mount.
The boy grinned and set the wooden block down for him.
Marco gave the grinning kid a grumpy look. “What’s so funny? I’m about to be killed, here. Yah know that?”
The boy instantly sobered. “Oh no-o, Sir Marco! You will be victorious! I am sure of it!”
Marco remained deeply skeptical. “And just what makes you so sure?”
The kid stood there, looking completely perplexed. “I do not kno-ow...”
Marco rolled his eyes and reluctantly stepped back up onto the mounting block.
The boy helped the knight up onto the enormous animal’s back—again. Then he picked Lady Diana’s dropped scarf up and offered it—and the horse’s reins—to the reluctant rider.
Marco accepted the reins, but refused to take the scarf back. “The only ‘honor’ I intend to defend is my own!” He got all situated in his seat and then suddenly realized something. “Uhhh, Cap? What am I supposed to ‘battle’ it with?” he wondered and held up his weaponless hands.
Sir Henry pointed to the end of the field—opposite the dragon.
Marco glanced back over his shoulder—and then did a beautiful double-take.
A small group a’ guys, wearing skirts and tights, came out onto the field—dragging an uncharged, inch-and-a-half fire hose?
Marco blinked in disbelief. For some reason, his weapon just didn’t seem to ‘fit in’.
The dragon suddenly blew a fourth blast of flames his way.
‘On second thought, maybe it does!’ he silently realized and nudged his horse in the direction of the fire hose. “This is the dumbest thing I’ve ever heard of,” he repeated to himself.
Marco’s steed was being uncharacteristically cooperative and he rode uneventfully up to the men with the hose.
They passed him up the nozzle.
Marco secured the limp hose under his left arm and gripped its nozzle firmly—with both hands.
The advancing dragon was rapidly drawing uncomfortably close.
Marco glared menacingly down at his mount. “You’d better stop when I say ‘whoa-oah’, horse! Or I’m gonna brain you between the ears with this nozzle!”
The animal tossed its head up and down and impatiently pawed the ground.
“Be ready to charge the line,” Marco told his hose handlers.
The men nodded.
The fireman turned his full attention to his flaming foe…and reluctantly nudged his horse forward.
The animal snorted and then went charging leisurely off in the direction of the dragon.
Just as they were about to enter the dragon’s ‘firing range’, Marco shouted, “Whoa-oah!” Much to his amazement, his mount stopped—dead, and he had everything he could do to keep himself from sailing over its head. Somehow, he was able to regain his seat. “Charge the line!” he called back over his armored shoulder, and opened up the nozzle.
Nothing happened.
Well, actually, something did happen. The dragon drew in a ridiculously deep breath and moved in for the kill. Its gi-normous jaws began to open…
“Charge the line!” the fireman frantically repeated.
Still nothing.
“CHARGE THE LINE!” Marco screamed—at the top of his lungs. The nozzle in his hands began to spit and sputter, as water finally began to flush the air from the line. He felt the hose under his arm stiffen and braced himself for the water’s backpressure. The precious liquid at last came gushing out and the fireman directed it at the dragon’s now fully opened mouth.
The smoldering beast got a big mouthful of water and glared down at his adversary, looking ‘steaming’ mad.
Marco kept the nozzle’s spray directed at the fire-breather’s flaring nostrils.
The beast hissed…and snorted…and belched out great clouds of wispy, white smoke. But it could no longer produce even a ‘flicker’ of flame. The indignant, outraged animal then lashed out at his victorious foe with its jagged tail.
Marco grimaced and cried out in agony, as the dragon’s tail dealt a tremendous blow to his raised wrist. His right hand and arm went completely numb from the pain. He felt the nozzle slip from his hands. He made a frantic grab for it…lost his balance…and went ‘clanking’, helmeted head-first, clean out of his seat.
Just as he was about to hit the ground—the falling fireman jerked himself awake.
Mike and Karen and Chet all glanced up, as their friend suddenly groaned in his sleep. Their concerned gazes turned toward, and then remained riveted upon, Marco’s hospital bed.
The groaning man emitted another pitiful moan. Then he gasped and finally woke up.
Lopez propped himself up on his elbows and took a confused look around. “The dumbest thing I’ve ever heard of,” he muttered to himself and dropped back down. But then he popped right back up again and gazed off across the ward, at Gage’s empty hospital bed. “Where’s Sir John?!” he anxiously inquired.
Kelly and Stoker exchanged amused glances. “Sir John?” they both asked back—speaking in unison.
Marco emitted another groan and then fell back onto his bed again.
Chet’s eyes sparkled with amusement. “Oh-oh you mean Sir Jo-ohn,” he teased. “I, uh, imagine old Sir John is probably out there right now, patrolling the halls…making them safe for the ‘fair damsels’ in white. Sir John is like that, you know—chivalrous to the core!”
Marco groaned.
Chet grinned and turned back to Mike and Karen—who also seemed to be finding this whole ‘Sir John’ situation highly entertaining. The taunter’s attention returned to the ‘tauntee’. “Since his Lordship is unavailable at the moment, mayhaps perchance my humble self might be of some small service?”
“Yeah. You can help by shutting up,” his best buddy teased right back and pulled the covers up over his head, to block his grinning amigo from his view.
Kelly turned back to the Stokers and waggled his bushy eyebrows a few times. “This is going to be so-o much fun!”
“For you, maybe…” came back the pouting patient’s muffled reply.
His friends’ grins broadened.
Author’s note: “…¡realmente loco!” is Spanish for “…really crazy!”
“¡Olvídelo!” means “Forget it!” in Spanish
‘Threepio’ is short for C-3PO
and “¡Esto es una locura!” is Spanish for “This is madness!”
