"Well, sir," said the vertically-challenged man to the horizontally-gifted woman (which is not so much a commentary on said woman's talents in the bedroom or the table or the floor or the roof or wherever else people are prone to lying on their backs, but to her pluperfect indicative bosom--though the author is certain that both are rather special in their several rights, but would really like to stop digging himself further into this hole by resuming the story), "This young lad here is going to be feeling great when he hears the glad tidings I bring from our headquarters."
"You see," he continued, turning to the injured boy with the sandy hair, "you are to be Ms. Fairchild's special guest at our Last Rites event this Sunday night, in her luxury suite! Not only that, young sir, Ms. Fairchild herself will take you on a backstage tour prior to the start of the event, to meet anyone whom you wish to meet! Including," he added with a wink, "this fetching fox if you so choose."
The lad's jaw hit his lap. The lass' hit the floor. The dwarf's stayed put; it didn't have far to go, anyhow.
