“Oh dear, oh dear and ah me”, Ragin’ Robbie thinks to himself. “Such a pity in a witty stream that some of these posturers have not the brain power to contribute to the jest.”
“I will restrain myself but it would be so easy to lapse into a Stage Direction routine such as: Ragin’ Robbie suddenly tenses his beautifully muscled body and smashes the stupid bint a massive blow to the face. Even as she struggles with consciousness, while her ruined face drips snot, blood and teeth, he drags her by her lank, greasy hair to the privy and drops her in.” “And then I could have Montoya give her mouth to mouth resuscitation to bring her back to life; medicine being apparently another of his many skills.”
“Nay”, thinks Robbie, “I will not lower mys’ell to that level.”
“Then again”, he ponders, “I could use sarcasm and discuss her unfortunate aspect, make merry about her deplorable personal hygiene and speculate on her absence of character among this strangely noble yet bent throng.” “Pearls before swine and a waste of words”, he decides. “That slatternly shiela is definitely more than a few ants short of a picnic”.
“Best keep quiet”, he thinks. “I will simply say naught and continue to enjoy this clever tale being unraveled by Don Inigo and his cohort of crack-up characters”. “Sometimes discretion is the best policy, even for Ragin’ Robbie the terror of Terra Australis.”