None shall pass!

“None shall pass!” declared the Black Knight, guarding his humble forest path as though it were the gates of Camelot. A sword strike! An arm flies! “It’s just a flesh wound,” he insists, red spurting, pride unshaken. Sir Arthur, baffled, offers peace. “I’ll call it a draw.” But the Black Knight is not done. “Oh, had enough, eh? Come back here and take what’s coming to you!” A second arm gone—no matter! “I’m invincible!” Legs are soon severed, yet he wriggles defiantly. “Right, I’ll do you for that!” The scene becomes less a duel, more interpretive crawling. Still, the insults fly. “You yellow bastards! Come back and fight!” And thus, the Black Knight becomes a monument to absurd tenacity, a Monty Python legend forged not in victory—but in sheer, unrelenting delusion.