Marty: “Hey, so it turns out we fucked up a little. Queen Leona’s balcony-thing was standing in front of door 16, and it got skipped. For like two days.”

Queen Leona: “Don’t try and blame me for your incompetence! Assholes!”

Sir Nigma: “Huh. So what was inside?”

Marty: “This hot tavern wench.”

Cindy: “My name  is Cindy, and I prefer ‘barista’. Jesus, you guys, I thought I was gonna suffocate in there!”

Marty: “Are you down with pushing a wheelbarrow for a minute, Cindy? Sir Nigma here — who I just now realize is much older than I assumed, now that I’m finally seeing him without his helmet — needs a hand with his death-barrow so the two of us can have a pointy-fronted demolition derby to the death to determine which of us is more adept at crushing peoples’ skulls with blunt instruments, and you know, only now that I’ve said all that out loud do I realize how utterly retarded it sounds.”

Sir Nigma: “That’s all right, Marty. Now that Cindy has arrived, I can finally drop the charade. The truth is, I’m your long-lost father. And Cindy here is your long-lost sister.”

Applepig: “Oink.”

Sir Nigma: “And Applepig is your long-lost pig.”

Applepig: “Oink?”

Marty: “Oh. My. God. I totally didn’t see that coming!”

Cindy: “My father is an insurance claims adjuster. I just spent Thanksgiving with him in Hoboken.”

Sir Nigma: “Really? Huh. You weren’t raised by an order of forest-dwelling nuns that found you as a baby?”

Cindy: “No.”

Sir Nigma: “Okay, never mind that bit, Marty. Cindy’s not your sister.”

Marty: “Even better!”

Sir Nigma: “And Applepig is totally his own pig. I just got carried away for a minute there.”

Applepig: “Oink.”

Sir Nigma: “I’m definitely your father, though.”

Marty: “Is Queen Leona my mother?”

Sir Nigma: “What? Fuck no!”

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