Good lord, Sampson. This foie gras tastes like it came out the back end of a goose! Have the cook beaten, then lay my clothes out for the symphony. If I'm late I'll have you shot.
Yes sir, Master Fitzgibbons, sir. But there's a Colonel Wirthling in the parlour who come to see you. He seem awful angry. I told him you's was busy but he wouldn't leave.
Fitzy, you scalawag! While I was abroad last month you befouled good Lady Wirthling. I demand satisfaction, sir. I throw my glove at your feet.
Well Colonel. I knew this day would arrive. If you desire justice then we shall settle this like men. Sampson! My dueling pistols! And empty the casket in the west wing of the spare linens.
Damn, Sir. That was one fine shot. But I thought you's was s'posed to wait for them to finish their ten paces before you shoot 'em.
Christians are Good people, Sampson. Yet there is no good in them at all. Which I shall demonstrate by laying about you with my cane you if you don't lay out my clothes, posthaste!
