Soon, word began to reach the Baron's ears of an obscure itinerant storyteller named "Paula of Sydney". It was rumored that she possessed the magically ability to spin horse manure into something akin to "the truth". He wasted no time in luring her to his castle, where he plied her with promises of fame and fortune, provided she agreed to transform his vast store of equine excrement into ersatz veracity.
But Paula was unsure. Yes, she could indeed spin horse manure into the thread of remote plausibility, but she lacked the skill necessary to weave that thread into (or out of) whole cloth.
"What am I to do?" she lamented.
Just then, there emerged from a puff of cigar smoke a withered, misshapen gargoyle, whose thin vestiges of scalp exuded a mysterious fluid that closely resembled squid ink.
"I can weave your defecatious thread into a phantasmagoric shroud of prodigious mendacity," he boasted. Paula was suitably impressed, and she immediately hastened to tell the Baron the exciting details. Soon, that rotund ruler found himself tossing bolts of merde cloth to the clamoring mendicants below, as if they were rolls of paper towels.
But the quicker Rudolphstiltskin furiously wove the odiferous yarn into fecal whole cloth, the more the avaricious Baron demanded.
"Bring me more, or I shall cast thee under the wheels of thine own textile cart!" he bellowed. Rudolphstiltskin and his cohort, Paula, quaked before the terrifying ire of the overbearing Baron.
"We must gather a virtual Matterhorn of steed dung and crudely fashion it into a pure pyrite calf of unassailable truthiness, and bestow it upon his gaggle of gullible grumblers, so they may gratefully genuflect before it in all their frothy fealty," the two agreed. "That way, the Baron must surely release us from this impossible dilemma!"
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