"No!" Eomer shouted, banging his fist. "Go back to Aragorn and tell him he can go jump in a lake. I will not tell him how to make a milkshake. Also tell him this: I have put up with three of his messengers lobbying for my recipe. I will not put up with one more. The next messenger he sends will be chopped up and added to a special milkshake just for him."
"Y-y-yes, your m-majesty," stammered the messenger. "Do I have to?" he added.
"B-b-but, your majesty, won't you c-consider what the delivery of this m-message will mean for me? I'll be d-dead!"
"You won't be dead, you sniveling dog. You'll just be out of a job, and with a job like yours, that's a good thing."
"V-very well, your majesty, but I wish you wouldn't!"
"Stop complaining and get out of my sight!"
"Out! Out, dog, before I really get angry!"
The messenger turned and ran unceremoniously out of the throne room, narrowly avoiding being hit by an empty milkshake glass that was hurled after him.
Eomer took a long swig from his milkshake, sat back, and laughed triumphantly. "The rest of those messenger brutes'll hear about this, and then he won't have any more to send!" he exulted to his wife.
"Why are you so determined that he must not know how to make a milkshake, dearest?" that fair lady asked. "It would be much easier to just give him what he is asking for."
"Easier, yes, but not half so much fun!"
"How you ever got to be a king with your non-existent sense of diplomacy is something that's beyond me."
"That's a good question, love. I don't know either!"
"That Aragorn is a smart one, dearest. He'll get that recipe in the end no matter how hard you try to keep it away from him!" Lothiriel warned.