The Princess Bride

to each other about Eternity.

Which meant Fezzik, the ideal friend, the loyal follower, the lover of rhymes, perhaps not the most brilliant of fellows but certainly the most devoted bringer-up of any rears you might mention, found himself facing the most hateful, the most insidious bewilderment ever conceived of by the mind of man—

—a fork in the road.

'It's not actually a road (toad),' he reassured himself. 'It's more a path (wrath), nothing to cause fret (sweat).' They were on their way to Florin Channel where the great pirate ship Revenge was waiting to scoop them up and head them all toward happiness. So relax, Fezzik, he told himself, treat the escapade as a lark (hark), a memory that would in the future bring warm smiles. After all, it was not even remotely a large fork.

It was, if you will, petite (sweet). A mere jog in the lane (pain).

Fezzik almost made himself believe that. Then reality took

hold—

—because it was still a fork—

—something that required thought, wisdom, a plan—

—and he knew he could screw up something like that anytime.

***

Me here, and no, this is not an interruption, just a note to explain I have gone to a lot of extra work to make this perfect, as you know, and I didn't want anyone writing in to point out that 'screw up' was anachronistic. It isn't. It's an ancient Turkish wrestling expression, a shorter version of 'corkscrew up,' a hold that brings pain of such magnitude that death soon follows. To 'corkscrew down,' of course, has been illegal for centuries. Everywhere.

***

THE FORK CAME closer.

They were surrounded by trees everywhere, always thickening, and the Brutes behind were clearly gaining, and even though the fork was indeed wee, it had to be there for a reason, and that reason Fezzik believed was that one way led to the Channel and the waiting Revenge while the other led elsewhere. And since the sea was their only profitable destination, elsewhere, no matter where else it elsed, was the same as doom.

Fezzik turned quickly to ask Inigo his opinion—but Inigo was bleeding so terribly now, the bouncing of the stallion not being helpful when you have recently been slit inside.

Fezzik instinctively reached back, grabbed his weakening comrade, pulled him onto his horse to see what he might do to save him—

—and while he was reaching, the fork was on them and Fezzik wasn't even watching as his horse took the left turning—which turned out to be, alas, toward Elsewhere.

'Hi,' Fezzik said, once he had Inigo in front of him. 'Are you excited? I'm as excited as can be.' Inigo was too weak for reply. Fezzik studied Inigo's wound, pushed one of Inigo's hands deeper into it, hoping to somehow help stop the bleeding. It was clearly up to him to save Inigo now, and to do that he'd have to get him to a good Blood Clogger. Surely the Revenge would employ such a fellow.

From Inigo this: a groan.

'I agree completely,' Fezzik said, wondering how the trees could become so much thicker so very quickly. It was amazing. They were almost like a wall now in front of them. 'I'm also sure that just past this last wall of trees is Florin Channel and all our dreams will come true.'

From Inigo the same, only less of it. Then his fingers managed to clutch Fezzik's great hand. 'I go to face my father now ... but Rugen is dead ... so it was not a useless life ... beloved friend ... tell me I did not fail....'

He was losing Inigo now, and as he held the wounded fencer in his arms, Fezzik knew few things but one of them was this: wherever the bottom of the pit was located, surely he was there now.

'Mr. Giant?' he heard then.

Fezzik wondered who Buttercup was talking to, until he realized that they had never actually been introduced. Oh, he had rendered her unconscious, kidnapped her, almost killed her, so you couldn't say they were unacquainted, but none of it was truly a formal how-do-you-do.

'Fezzik, Princess.'

'Mr. Fezzik,' she cried out louder than necessary, but it was because at that moment her horse threw a shoe.

'Just Fezzik is fine, I'll know you mean me,' he told her, watching her face in the moonlight. Never had he seen an equal. No one had. Except at the moment, she was not at her best—since not only was her horse behaving erratically, there was such pain behind her eyes. 'What is wrong, Highness? Tell me so that I might help.'

'My Westley has stopped breathing.'

Wrong as usual, Fezzik realized, the pit is bottomless. He instinctively reached back, grabbed his breathless leader, pulled him onto his horse to see what he might do to save him—

—and while he was doing the reaching, his overburdened horse stopped. Had to. For there was now a wall of trees blocking any progress—

—and Inigo would not stop bleeding—

—and Westley would not start breathing—

—and Buttercup would not stop staring at him, her face lit with the hope that of all the creatures left stomping the earth, he, Fezzik, was the only one that could save her beloved and thereby stop her heart from shredding.

Fezzik at this heroic moment knew what he wanted most to do: suck his thumb forever. But since that was out of the question, he did the next best thing. He made a poem.

Fezzik's in trouble, bubble bubble,
His brain is just not in the pink.
His mind is rubble, rub-a-dub double,
Because everyone needs him to think.

Great work, no question, considering he was carrying two almost corpses on his stopped horse while the Princess was weeping, hoping for a miracle. Hmm. Fezzik went for a different rhyme scheme, hopeful it would jog something useful.

Great-armed Fezzik, blocked by trees,
Forget that she is crying.
Though lost (and that it's all your fault)
Forget that two are dying.
Mighty Fezzik, strong of brawn
Who most around think brainless,
All you have to do is spawn
A plan that will be painless.
Fezzik the fearless, Fezzik the wise,
Fezzik the wonder of the age,
Fezzik who—