Ride up the through rain on my trusty steed to the castle of Rumpus. Been an age since my last visit, but Sir Darren the Towel Spinner expounds loudly as I return through the front gate. Sir Barrett of Martinia and Sir Liza of Torelli stand in wait, ales in hand, beside the raised orange oval booths. Zounds! Behold the fair Brunette! With golden flanks shimmering under the lamplight, skin a glow of amber, and rounded end amply braced for the endless stream of suitors. Sir Barrett, with proud display of his merit, brushes Sir Liza and I aside like trampled rushes on the war fields of yore, remaining unbeaten on the year in man-to-man matches. Sir Daniel of Farmania arrives, steering us mercifully to the doubles arena. Oh what miracle weights do glide on such amber skin! Imbibers may drink up the town, but all must sip the peerless brown! All this before the Good King Lebold of Thatcheria enters. His visage alone sets Sir Liza, Sir Daniel, and my good self to take leave of the evening. I witness the arrival or The Leech de La Mancha as I press for home . Amidst my dark return, an eerie message is carried on the breeze: “The King is Dead! Long Live the King!”. Sir Barrett’s royal claim has been denounced. Martinia is finally beaten. Thatcheria reigns.