Article: 50093 of alt.fan.tolkien Path: uchinews!newsfeed.stanford.edu!arclight.uoregon.edu!hammer.uoregon.edu!logbridge.uoregon.edu!news.maxwell.syr.edu!nntp2.deja.com!nnrp1.deja.com!not-for-mail From: Menelvagor <<>> Newsgroups: alt.fan.tolkien Subject: E-text III.9! Date: Mon, 04 Dec 2000 21:02:23 GMT Organization: Deja.com - Before you buy. Lines: 320 Message-ID: <90h0oq$jot$1@nnrp1.deja.com> NNTP-Posting-Host: 136.242.204.205 X-Article-Creation-Date: Mon Dec 04 21:02:23 2000 GMT X-Http-User-Agent: Mozilla/4.0 (compatible; MSIE 5.5; Windows 98) X-Http-Proxy: 1.1 x66.deja.com:80 (Squid/1.1.22) for client 136.242.204.205 X-MyDeja-Info: XMYDJUIDgoldarn Xref: uchinews alt.fan.tolkien:50093 Here it is! My first e-text chapter! Hope people like it, and that it isn't too long, or too short, or too this, that, or the other thing. BOOK III, Chapter 9.Flopsy … and Jackson “Sheesh!” muttered Aragon. “Why am I stuck here with these losers when I should be off with the movers and shakers? Gandalf will pay for this insult!” Fortunately no one (except Arwen -- and possibly Morrie, the cat-eared -- but he gave no sign) could hear him over Giggly’s merriment. “Where the hell were you guys anyway?” the Dwerrow barely managed to enunciate. “And how did you end up here of all Eru-forsaken places, gorging yourselves on pâté à foie gras and tripping! Tripping! Where did you get the drugs, hosses? This is so hil... HA! HA! HA! HA!” Giggly collapsed into hysterics. “Bongbottom weed, too,” observed Aragon, cheering up a little. “Pretty valuable stuff – very pure.” “When are you going to kick the habit?” sighed Arwen. “What *I* want to know is where they got the WINE,” said Lego- lass. “I thought Aruman had OUTLAWED it. This is supposedly a SCHOOL, not a SALOON, no?” “What’s it to you where we found it?” said Morrie. “It’s here; what’s it worth to you?” Giggly and Aragon bargained hard, but Morrie ended up pocketing a lot of flokarinos [1]. No one ever got around Morrie the Mean Dude -- or at least, it was a long walk, especially with the decline of public transit in the Third Age from the Dark Years when Sauron and Miniwethil made the Eagles come on time. But I digress. Having gobbled their bouillabaisse with cilantro à la noldoroise with almost indecent haste, the companions sat around for a while and got stoned. Aragon lay back and sniffed the white stuff like there was no tomorrow. “Look!” squealed Pipsqueak, “Strider the Cokehead is back!” “I’ve /been/ back, you bleating idiot!” retorted Aragon. “I could have been with the important people -- but NO!” “Have some morphine,” said Morrie soothingly. “It’ll make you feel much better.” “Are we going to spend ALL DAY GETTING STONED?” yelled Lego- lass after a couple hours of groovin’. “What about ANSWERING Giggly’s QUESTION?” “Well, I woke up to find myself tied up and being lugged around by a bunch of nasty snobbish public school brats. SOMEONE had tied the knots awfully tight, too,” said Pipsqueak, glaring at Morrie, who had an expression of such wide-eyed innocence that Pipsqueak might have been accusing him of giving alms to hobbit-orphans (but under the table he gave him the special kick that meant “Drop it, unless you want to know what a Bywater grin feels like). “The less said about the initiation rites the better,” continued Pipsqueak. “Let’s just say they put the zing in hazing, and leave it at that.” Pipsqueak went on to give a précis of III.1, which you can read for yourselves, as I have no intention whatsoever of recapping it; but he left to Morrie the invidious task of describing the horror of Clarénce, his disgusting pawing, his liquor-laden breath, his insidious cheating at cricket, his irritating uppah-clawss ahccent, his abominable violin practicing, and his annoying habit of singing “If I had the Ring of the Master.” Morrie, true to form, refused to say a word about it, other than, “Mordor-Orcs ain’t Mother Teresa.” “The educational system in Mordor is a horrible abyss of evil,” intoned Aragon. “Instead of just teaching the three R’s and vocational ed -- the only stuff the lower orders really need to know -- they have this accursed arts education cruddola. Frills, I call it.” His eyes were glazed with horror at the thought, or else mayhap he was only suffering a really bad trip. “I only hope Aruman’s school wasn’t too corrupted by that long-haired stuff. It looks like Sauron and Aruman must have been allied somehow.” He took another draw. An act was this fraught with consequences. Morrie looked at the Ranger contemptuously, but did not tell him that the Brandibuck mafia had known about the Sauron-Aruman alliance for years, as it had really eaten into their profits. Instead, he abruptly changed the topic. “Now we’re coming to a part of the story you don’t know anything about. The Ments ...” “Oh, can I tell them? Please let me tell it! PLEASE!” squealed Pipsqueak. Morrie gave in, only cautioning Pipiqueak not to “spill too much.” Pipsqueak had the sense therefore not to say anything about Morrie’s motives in coming to Isengard in the first place (the less outsiders knew about the weed trade, the better; no need for Aragon to worry about Lotho and all that business -- the Brandibucks could handle it much more effectively). Nevertheless, he managed to swell Book III, Chapter IV to three or four times its original size, not forgetting to lay great stress on Steelbeard’s resemblance to the Terminator in the celebrated mummers’ play, /Terminator II/. “I have to admit I had trouble buying Steel’s story of the singing Lion,” concluded Pipsqueak. “Especially the baritone part.” “It’s the truth,” said Arwen. “He used to appear now and then during the Second Age, or so my father told me. He had a better voice than Bing Krozbi. I saw him once as a girl; but he muttered something about this world being rather a waste anyway, and hasn’t been seen since.” “Your meriniscences are reeeeeeeally sexy,” drawled Aragon, flyin’ hiiiiiiiiiiiiigh. “Anyway,” said Pipsqueak, deciding he hadn’t concluded after all, “we went on this forced march to Isengard, and the Ments were rapping so loud, we had to stick our twinkies in our ears to avoid being deafened. While this was going on, we passed a bunch of Fords. There was also a sign, where it was written, ‘From Sauron to Aruman. Here are those cars you wanted. Now start enacting democratic reforms and eliminating labor abuses ... and I mean now!!!’” Aragon frowned at the words “democratic” and “labor.” “Next to them were some opera CDs by a guy named Gaetano ...” “What’s that?” said Arwen. “Oh Eeeeeeeeeeeeeru ... You don’t want to know!” zombed Aragon, moved perhaps by some memory or, more likely, hallucination about his trips to the East. In after years, by the way, he was known as El Lesser the Tasteless. “... Metríc, labelled ‘Try it, you’ll like it!’ continued Pipsqueak. “Steelbeard burned down the sign and smashed the CDs, muttering something about the decline of civilization since the First Age. “Nearly forgot to mention that the entire forest of lampposts was following us by now. Creepy, like something out of a bad science fiction mummer’s play. It was the Scruporns, as the Ments call them in ‘rude language.’ Steel won’t say much about them, but it seems a lot of the lampposts malfunctioned after sleeping with Jadis Joplin the Screecher, the White Witch. Their descendants were born with nasty birth defects, and have the intellectual capacity of an intelligent toaster, but can still deal out a shock to write home about.” “Steel came and broke down the gates,” interposed Moribund, more in order to maintain a simulacrum of variety than because he really felt like talking. “They looked strong, but Steel and the Ments melted them with their woozy-like eyes as if they were made of cheap cardboard. It seems to me Aruman’s pretty wimpy stuff if he’s so easily beaten by a bunch of lampposts out of a really bad cartoon. What’s the big deal all about, anyway? Aruman, Schmaruman, I saying.” “Aruman’s smarter than you think,” said Aragon. “He always used to beat Gandalf at Othello like nobody’s business. I didn’t tell you about that at the wake, ‘cuz I was too doped and boozed up to remember it. Moreover, he had a mean PR machine. Gandalf says Aruman used to make some naaaaasty moonshine, until he quit and started getting into that boring charity work stuff instead. It’s almost a relief that he turned his pupils into child labor; at least it shows he’s related to Gandalf after all.” “Well, anyway,” said Paragraph (so named because he talked in paragraphs instead of sentences), “we saw a bunch of Orcs up to some kind of mischief, yelling things like, ‘Amo, amas, I love a lass.’ The Ments tried to kill them, but a mysterious and very fat figure appeared and raised a forcefield, before leading them away. We don’t know who it was; not Aruman. I think it was ...” Morrie kicked him and he changed the subject. “The Ments made a bonfire like the Sun was never going to shine again. That pyromaniac Steelbeard was having a grand old time. ‘Hoom, HOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOM!! This is fun, by the Lion’s Mane!’ he boomed. The entire school was demolished, the textbooks burned -- especially the Latin ones...” “Latin heraus!” yelled Aragon. Morrie looked at him with annoyance, and wondered whether he should stick to his plan of using Aragon as a puppet, or just get rid of him as soon as Sauron and the other nuisances were overcome. While he pondered this, Pipsqueak’s interminable squealing continued. “Well, anyway,” said Pipsqueak rather repetitively, “Aruman’s forces figured out pretty fast the way things were turning, and bolted. The Ments let most of the Men go, figuring they were probably a typo for Ments; Steel only demanded a few flokarinos from each Man. I don’t think any Orcs survived -- other than the ones that left earlier; they were all massacred.” “Serve ‘em right!” said Aragon. “They’re lesser breeds without the law, and must perish. Natural selection. Orcs heraus!” “I dunno,” said Lego-lass. “Giggly and I were wondering about that. Don’t you think it’s WRONG to WIPE ‘EM OUT? Shouldn’t we be EDUCATING them about the sanctity of the Market instead?” “Wrong, but fun; kind of like adultery.” Giggly exploded into guffaws. Lego-lass glared at him. “What is you, a goblin-lover?” sneered Aragon, ignoring Giggly. “So typical of someone who thinks Balrogs ...” The expression on Lego-lass’s face silenced the Ranger, coupled with the fact that he needed more cocaine. “Aruman made a run from one of the burning buildings, taking swigs from a bottle as he ran,” was not silent Paragraph. “The Ments ran after them, but then he pointed away and yelled ‘There’s a bird!’ While the Ments looked away, he made a beeline for Eyesore (it deserved its name: it was yoooow-GLEE!) and holed himself in. There he got his precious computers to work, disturbing the Ments’ mechanisms with Java Script errors, “The Page Cannot Be Displayed Nyah nyah nyah!” messages and other horrors. Worst of all was the onslaught of emoticons. He laughed sarcastically. “I thought the Ments were mad before, but that was nothing. Have you seen the mummers’ play, /The Towering Inferno/? That’s what it was like. That, and a really bad fight scene in one of the /Star Wars/ mummers’ plays, as Steelbeard and Co. wielded their internal light- sabres and expelled some mean photon torpedoes out of various cavities. I was scared. Luckily, Morrie always brings asbestos suits wherever he goes …” “Like they really needed to know that,” grumbled Morrie. “And then Steel suddenly called the other Ments together over his PA system. I think he’d already thought up a plan of his own in his superior artificial intelligence system, or maybe he just needed to refuel. Anyway, while they were doing what they do best, Gandalf suddenly showed up. I … er … well, keep this private please, because I probably shouldn’t tell you it, but my vocal chords have rather a mind of their own, and don’t know how to stop …” “You can say that again,” muttered Morrie, which Pipsqueak promptly did, before continuing. “Well, I was kind of not happy to see the codger back, to tell the truth. I nearly spilt my latte in my chagrin, but I managed to gasp out, ‘Gandalf! I was hop… er … I thought you were dead!” “’The feeling is mutual, you pitiful little rodent half-breed,” hissed Gandalf, before kind of half-laughing to make me think it was a joke. ‘Where in the name of instant messaging is Steelbeard? I need to talk to him pronto!’” I pointed the way to a building (one of the few left standing) marked ‘Maintenance Workers Only.’ He came out having some kind of altercation with Steel; I caught the words ‘I can break you,’ but not much else, as I was tripping on peyote at the time. “When I came down, I saw that the Scruporns had planted themselves all over the schoolyard. It wasn’t an appropriate place for Orc-children to hang out, I’m here to tell you. Morrie and I looked around for eats. We nabbed a bunch of rabbits; they were horribly cute, and begged us not to kill them. ‘I’m Fwopsy,’ said one. ‘I’m Mopsy,’ said the second one. ‘I’m Cottontail,’ said the third. ‘I’m Michael Jackson,’ said the fourth. I wanted to spare them, but Morrie can be brutal when necessary. He called me an incurable romantic! We found a lot of other good stuff, too. Morrie has a nose.” Pipsqueak was on a roll, and there was no stopping him now, for Morrie was still lost in plans for world domination and kneecapping his enemies, and was paying no attention to the stream of blather that issued forth from Pipsqueak’s mouth like unto a rushing torrent of squeaks. “We found Aruman’s cabinet, the one marked “Top Secret. Don’t Let Sauron or Miniwehtil See Contents.” “Who’s Miniwethil?” asked Giggly. “And if it was so top secret, why wasn’t it in Eyesore?” “It wasn’t in Eyesore because Miniwethil was,” explained Pipsqueak. “And Miniwethil was some rodent broad Aruman hung out with. She had chîchiz [2] like succulent peaches! Last I saw, Steel was dragging her somewhere and she was screaming. I’m guessing she came to a bad end.” “She was for long Sauron’s mistress -- she was quite the vamp,” said Arwen. “I never understood what the big deal was; did people get turned on by those mouse-ears? I fought her with namuchakus once. During the First and Second Ages she and Sauron wrought much evil, like the forty-hour work week, free ballet and sung mummers’ plays, and sex education. At the end of the Second Age they had a falling out.” “Rumor has it that she tried to bobbitt the Dark Lord, but bit off the wrong portion of his anatomy,” said Aragon, coming out of his morphine-induced stupor. “Then she transferred her attentions to Isildur (tm), and together they conceived Anarchion(tm) the Sartorially Challenged Waterfowl. After Isildur(tm) met his untimely end at the hands of Black Pete (leading to the Gondorians’[tm] famous Racism), she moved in with Aruman. Meanwhile Anarchion(tm) begat …” Arwen quickly covered Aragon’s mouth, as she always did whenever he uttered the word “begat.” “Enough amusing -- or not so amusing -- narrative irrelevancies,” she muttered. “They eat up too many damn kilobytes.” “Next time we saw Steel, he seemed kind of ticked off,” said Morrie. “‘You didn’t give me a lot of info earlier,’ he grumbled. ‘Didn’t you trust me?’ He seemed kind of hurt when I told him ‘No.’ Like it says on the Brandibuck coat of arms, ‘Don’t trust nobody but your crowbar.’ ‘Then what the Angband use are you losers?’ he whined. He gave me a mild electric shock. When my crime syndicate takes over, he’ll wish he hadn’t.” By now Pipsqueak had, unfortunately, woken up. The torrent recommenced. The others zoned out on drugs; it was the only way they could survive Pipsqueak’s incessant bleating. At least the blatherers at El Rond’s Council had mostly had pleasant baritones. Even Giggly had given up waiting for the punchline. “Gandalf turned up again and told us a bit about Frodo and Sam. But we were more concerned with you guys…” “After all,” put in Morrie, “that estate in Mordor is all very well and good (or would be if they didn’t have so much damned regulation in Mordor). But the United Kingdom means a Global Market, and that means …” He rubbed his fingers together in the ancient hobbit gesture for what, in Elvish, is called /mucha múla/. “Suddenly we smelt fumes of a mysterious substance that Steel called /gasolinorpetrolbenzinorwhateverdahellyawannakallit/,” continued Pipsqueak. “A slimy, malodorous liquid flooded Isengard. It was like bubbling, boiling water with a bad case of halitosis. ‘They want to eliminate Aruman by destroying his habitat; pretty clever,’ as old Morrie explained. The Scruporns meanwhile filled everything with an unbearable red light. Steel and whatnot burned the gaso… struff and caused nasty exhalations of some flaming substance or other…” At the word “flaming,” Aragon woke up and lit a cigarette before remarking, “Yeah, we saw that. We thought Aruman was dreaming up some new devilry, or else that he’d developed a wicked new form of weed …” “Not he!” gleated Pipsqueak. “He was probably choking and not laughing anymore. We managed to hole ourselves in this tower with the cabinet with lots of cool secret stuff …” Morrie twirled his walking stick idly. Pipsqueak took the hint and changed the topic. “Today was pretty much a drag. Nothing left to eat but pâté à foie gras and other haute cuisine, no news, no Ments… they were all at a party and wouldn’t let us come. ‘No rat-folk allowed,’ as Steel put it. Instead we had to wait at the gate for HeyHoDen and whatnot…” “Worth the wait, though,” said Moribund. “We’ve got vast new markets just waiting to be opened up.” “True,” said Paragraph. “Oh, I almost forgot to mention this guy named Grimey ...” “No!” said Aragon, in a voice full of what he meant to sound like majesty, although he gave more the impression of an overgrown spoiled brat. “I will not listen to any more of your world-without-end squealing. I do not want to know how Grimey came, nor what evil plots he’s been hatching with Aruman. I do not even want to know how he got out of Edoras, where he was locked last I knew. I only want to know one thing, and after that you are to shut up. How much, in the name of Steamboat Willie, are you willing to give for those silver belt things?” Giggly chortled at the recollection of how the belts chimed the Happy Birthday song when Aragon picked them up. Morrie, after calmly and efficiently gagging Pipsqueak, said nonchalantly, “It would be a pity if your drug supplies dried up.” Aragon groaned and forked over the belts, while Arwen sighed. [1]Flokarinos were a form of currency in use in Bree and other parts of the Northwest of Muddle-earth. A marginal note to the Red Book gives the following exchange rate: 1 flokarino = 7¼ Lions = $765, 994, 307 (Monopoly money) 4 Lions ≈ 13½ Gondorian Mouse-Helmets 9 Gondorian Mouse-Helmets < 24.3 ounces of weed [2]According to Professor Frawd, this term is Westron for “cantaloupe” (?). -- Count Menelvagor the Slayer of Killerbytes, Editor of Sauron's Dairy, and Lord High Enervator of the Empire of Psot, Tamer of Firestorm the Dragon, Hopelessly Wacky Baritone, and Grand Flusher of the Sacred Precincts of Tyope, Protector of the Traskéd Stuff, R.E.A.L.L.Y.W.E.I.R.D. Balrog sum; Balrogani nihil alienum a me puto. Sent via Deja.com http://www.deja.com/ Before you buy.