Leaping manfully out of bed and clasping a kilt around your muscular hips, you ride into town at a furious headlong pace on the first horse you can lay your hands on, and some hours later, when you jump powerfully from the back of the noble, willing but exhausted mount as it stumbles shakily into Hasselhoff Square scant minutes before Felicity is due to be joined in unsound matrimony to the villainous Lord Rupert Atrebury-Hawke, your mind is still fixated determinedly on just one thought:
"Stop the wedding!"
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