“If I accept the part of the world’s smartest genius king,” he mused aloud (his orotund basso profondo redounding off the genuine Majolica tiles of his brand new bathroom, which, incidentally, was also a custom job), “Then I will have finally typecast myself into a being of pure energy, like Harrison Ford. That will be really neat.”
Connery stood up and clapped his stands twice. “Well,” he intoned, “Let’s see what the crap fairy brought us today! Yessss... that prime rib with Bordeaux reduction is digesting nice, real nice.”