I Write Out Of Revenge.

The First Morning After Westley's Departure, Buttercup Thought She Was Entitled To Do Nothing More Than Sit Around Moping And Feeling Sorry For Herself. After All, The Love Of Her Life Had Fled, Life Had No Meaning, How Could You Face The Future, Et Cetera, Et Cetera.

Flailing And Thrashing, Buttercup Wept And Tossed And Paced And Wept Some More, And There Have Been Three Great Cases Of Jealousy Since David Of Galilee Was First Afflicted With The Emotion When He Could No Longer Stand The Fact That His Neighbor Saul's Cactus Outshone His Own. (originally, Jealousy Pertained Solely To Plants, Other People's Cactus Or Ginkgoes, Or, Later, When There Was Grass, Grass, Which Is Why, Even To This Day, We Say That Someone Is Green With Jealousy.) Buttercup's Case Rated A Close Fourth On The All-time List. It Was A Very Long And Very Green Night.

Let Me Get This Thing Straight, Inigo--we Had Scraps For Dinner? I'm In Your Fantasy And The Best You Can Come Up With Is Scraps?" She Turned Toward The Door Then. "you Have No Chance Of Winning My Heart.

My Name Is Inigo Montoya, You Killed My Father, Prepare To Die!

Duhhhhhhh, Tanks, Buttercup.