— What know we of the Frankish tribes?
— They are many, Sire.
— Whence do they roam?
— All over the place. Everywhere you look: a Frank.
— What about Tom, Dick and Harry?
— No Sire: just Franks.
— And what tongue speaketh the Franks?
— Gibberish, Sire.
— Have we any Gibberish speakers who may serve to communicate with them?
— Why, the whole Court, Sire. Most people speak a bit of Gibberish. Especially after a beer or two.
— Are the Franks armed?
— Yes Sire, they have arms. And legs.
— I mean, what know we of their weapons?
— Oh, armed. They carry fearsome axes, Sire, and wooden shields. But Sire: it is not what they carry into battle that slays their enemies, Sire.
— What is it then?
— Their cooking Sire. They have a method as cunning as it is effective.
— Pray tell, what is it?
— They do not come bearing arms, Sire. They send a messenger to invite you to a “barbecue.”
— Whatever is that?
— A meal, Sire. They serve ales and meats of dubious origin which have been mashed and extruded to form sausage-like shapes.
— Sounds pretty good to me.
— Oh Sire, it is not. They call them “Frankfurters,” and they have killed many a stout soldier merely wanting to fill his stomach. Sometimes they are served in a pot of blood.
— Surely not! They must be Barbarians!
— No, the Barbarians are someone else, Sire. Look: I have an image made by a spy: behold the horror!
— Why, truly these Franks are a people to be avoided lest their evil ways take over the world! We must not let their reign of terror spread!