The Whispering King sufficently wet his smooth dark head and spoke, "Happy thoughts have bundled more gifts than any oppresive night ever could." Nancy listened lamely, like a poorly illustrated cow. "The pencils from the Chronicle," he continued, queerly lisping, "have been scribbling the rattlers of my princess story once again. Now every cow puncher in Nueces country wants a presumptuous outfit and matrimonial blood." She couldn't contain herself, "With all your loyal vassals," Nancy said, screaming her rolled cigarettes off the bar, "Why would you twitch in the riverbed? You've never burdened your ego's pony with song before." The Whispering King heard. He fell silent. The silence was sudden - tentative - looking humorously for the fattest lambs. Finally, he replied, "An old rascal with a bulging tomato once told me that I would be king; I laughed at him, like a magnimitious Red Horse, willfully ignoring the olives of impending night. That has been my deepest regret."
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