And so, a weeping silhouette of a man, a widow agonizing in grief over the taking of his one and only pair of nipples.

It would seem apt to surmise, in true Don Quixote fashion, the spirit of our beloved knight had died by the sword of another -- however by the cruelest unimaginable twist of fate, the blade had been wielded by his own two hands! This failed hero, a stunning defeat... tricked with evil dark magic cast by the silvertongue scamp John Kruk, Son of Duke Philadelphia and his 2 Concubine Mistresses, Crysanthemum and the B.J. Queen ! Oh what stinging humiliation as it'were! standing on the porch of a neighbor, bleeding profusely from the two grave wounds where his carnation pink , playfully hairy and ruggedly dirty nipples once were! Is there any remedy so potent an antidote for such awful poison, tricked into slicing off one's very own nipples?!? And further, to sacrifice them at the feet of indifferent ladies before being told even dogs wouldn't want them! Our hero wanted nothing more than to drink an entire keg of ale to himself atop a bed of dog dirt in a hayloft, bloated with amnesia, comatose with apathy. Penniless and nippleless and dangerously little blood flowing thru him he had no choice. Carl Quixote rolled and tumbled clutching his bloody gored bosom crying and wailing all night long! "GOD DAMNETH YOU, MARKULUS! IT IS I, CARL, GRANDNEPHEW OF KING TWO-WICKED, WHO SHALL HAVETH THE LAST FRIGGIN LAUGH!!! I'M COMING FOR YA! SOON as I get a couple bandaids and some icyhot patches, your ass is MINE! BITCH BETTER HAVE MY NIPPLES!"

He seethed with rage until morning came.