A/N: I don't own "Casablanca" or "The Princess Bride." But it all fit so perfectly, I had to write it down.
"Major Strasser has been murdered. All prisoners are to be questioned for any knowledge of conspiracy."
The orders were delivered discreetly throughout the jailhouse, so as to keep the inmates as "in the dark" as possible during their interviews. The French guards clamored their clubs against the bars of the cells, ordering sleeping prisoners to their feet.
The warden strode down each prison block, ensuring that Captain Renault's orders were carried out. So far everything appeared to be running smoothly. That changed when he stepped into the block that housed the inmates incarcerated for murder.
"Sir," the guard in charge of the wing greeted his superior with a quick salute.
"Lieutenant. Are all prisoners cooperating?"
"All but one. There's a Spaniard giving us some trouble. The menace we grabbed at Rick's Café the other night. Signor Uganda, or something."
"Ugarte." The warden muttered to himself, "I thought he was Italian?"
One eavesdropping inmate (a burly Russian) explained, "Spanish name, speaks Italian. With an Austrian acce-"
"Shut up!" the warden snapped. "...Well, Italian or Spanish, we'll give him some trouble."
The murderers' cells were more isolated than the others, spaced farther apart from each other and only lining one wall. All but one of the inmates stood at attention behind his barred door.
Guillermo Ugarte sat on the floor at the very back of his cell. Suffering withdrawal from the various addictions he'd been denied for the last few days, he was wringing his prison cap in his hands, muttering to himself interchangeably in Italian and English.
"...non riesco a rimettermi in sesto senza un bere..."
The warden unlocked the door and stepped into the cell. Looming over the prisoner he barked, "Ugarte, on your feet!"
Staring straight ahead, Ugarte spoke, seemingly half to himself. "Ugarte's 'dead,' didn't you hear? Ask your captain!" Raising one eyebrow, Ugarte attempted an imitation of Louis Renault's voice, hindered by his own thick accent. "'Ugarte, I'm filling out your death certificate to surprise Laszlo with! Which do you prefer, 'suicide' or 'died trying to escape?'" Ugarte finished by blowing a messy raspberries.
The warden drew his pistol. "Stand up now, or be shot!"
Still avoiding the guard's gaze, Ugarte's large eyes narrowed in thought. "Penso che preferirei il secondo..."
"Now!"
The warden grabbed Ugarte's arm, hauling him off the floor. Ugarte winced angrily, and the next moment, his teeth were in the warden's forearm. The warden raised his pistol, but stopped himself from being provoked into doing something rash.
The warden turned to call his underling over, only to find that the other guard was no longer in sight. Before he could question where he'd gone, a new guard stepped into view. The warden hadn't seen this officer before, but his immense size made him seem like a godsend at this moment.
"You!" The warden called to the new guard, still trying to shake Ugarte off of him. "Over here!"
The incredibly fat guard lumbered over, seized Ugarte by the front of his uniform, and pulled him off the warden. Ugarte fought like a tantrumimg child, pounding his fists against the guard's fleshy mass. The larger man responded with a single stern slap across Ugarte's face. It was a slap that had been delivered a hundred times before, over a career of insubordination, careless screw-ups, and off-color remarks. Ugarte's large eyes rolled up to see Signor Ferrari staring down at him, under a stollen French police cap. Ferrari's eyes flared mischievously.
"It's you," Ugarte's face broke into a weary smile.
The warden, realizing the deception, charged at Ferrari with his gun drawn. "Intru-!"
The Fat Man's fist swung up, knocking the guard to the ground. The pistol clamored to the stone floor, next to the unconscious warden.
"Ugarte," Ferrari mused, "You smell slightly worse than usual. Though I must say you have never looked better!"
Ugarte made a dismissive noise. "Idiota gofino."
"There's no time to lose. The real guards are making their rounds."
Ugarte frantically seized a fist of Ferrari's uniform. "What about Strasser? Is he here?"
"Strasser is dead. Of course, death in Casablanca can never be taken for granted it seems! But neither can life. Nor time, nor sobriety."
Ugarte grinned and relaxed his hold. "Do you think Rick will join us?"
"Doubtful. Mr. Blaine is departing Casablanca. I am now proud owner of Rick's Café, and its parasites."
Ferrari grabbed the shoulder of Ugarte's prison uniform and escorted him to a washroom, where a smaller guard's uniform was folded up on a chair for him. After Ugarte donned the disguise, they exited out the back of the building, stepping into the cool night. The few real guards who they passed either were fooled, or knew Ferrari and chose not to get involved. Neither Ferrari nor Ugarte spoke until they were off of the jail's premises, and weaving through the dark alleys of Casablanca.
"News about your 'death' upset me very much," Ferrari confessed. "To think that Captain Renault would be so careless as to let his prisoner die, before extracting the location of those visas from him...I shuddered to think of Casablanca in such incompetent hands!"
They stopped at a small car parked along the street. The crime kingpin opened the door to the driver's seat, then stared down at Ugarte expectantly. The smaller man remembered his place in the universe, and begrudgingly got into the driver's seat.
"Fat Man, tell me something," Ugarte said, as the car's weight tilted disproportionately towards the passenger's seat. "Where in the name of Mussolini's pisellino did you get a prison guard's uniform in your size, on such short notice?"
Ferrari offered a low guttural chuckle. "All your questions will be answered after you've answered mine. I've only a few hundred or so. Our destination is the Blue Parrot. Let us as the Americans say, 'burn some rubber!'"
Ugarte shifted the car into gear. "Come si desidera."