Article: 51359 of alt.fan.tolkien Path: uchinews!vixen.cso.uiuc.edu!howland.erols.net!news.maxwell.syr.edu!nntp2.deja.com!nnrp1.deja.com!not-for-mail From: Prembone <<>> Newsgroups: rec.arts.books.tolkien,alt.fan.tolkien Subject: Reformat of E-text: Book IV, Chapter One!!! Date: Thu, 21 Dec 2000 07:31:24 GMT Organization: Deja.com Lines: 506 Message-ID: <91sbkd$ivp$1@nnrp1.deja.com> NNTP-Posting-Host: 65.25.230.148 X-Article-Creation-Date: Thu Dec 21 07:31:24 2000 GMT X-Http-User-Agent: Mozilla/4.0 (compatible; MSIE 5.01; Windows 98) X-Http-Proxy: 1.1 x51.deja.com:80 (Squid/1.1.22) for client 65.25.230.148 X-MyDeja-Info: XMYDJUIDprembone Xref: uchinews rec.arts.books.tolkien:225866 alt.fan.tolkien:51359 Well, for some reason the formatting didn't come out at all right the first time around, at least on Deja, and since some of you are reading on Deja, you may find this one more readable. Anyway....to repeat what I said in the original posting of this Literary Masterpiece: Well, hey, whaddaya know, I got it done, after all, just in time for the holidays! I managed to work in a reference to an old Elton John song, among other things. Happy reading! BOOK FOUR, CHAPTER ONE: THE UNTAMING OF THE SHREWD "Well, this is another fine mess you've gotten us into," muttered Sam, shielding his eyes with his hand as he gazed eastward over the bleak horizon. Their wanderings in the Emyn Mail had brought them to a steep cliff, far enough above the ground below to make jumping out of the question. "But, Sammy," whimpered Frodo, beginning to sob and whine and contort his face in a generally comical manner. He doffed his bowler and scratched his head, causing his curly hair to stand on end. Sam crossed his arms and looked askance at Frodo, rolling his eyes for the benefit of an imaginary audience. But beneath his outward show of exasperation lay a tangle of turbulent thoughts. *Now you've done it, Sam Gamgee,* thought Sam to himself while Frodo sobbed on. *Played your hand when the game's barely started, and how're you going to get him back to the Shire if he don't trust you no more?* Gruffly he said to Frodo, "I'm goin' off to think. You stay put, hear?" Through his sniffles Frodo nodded. Sam walked back up into the hills, settling on a rock bearing the carven inscription "El Rond was here;" from this seat he had a piss- poor view of anything of interest, but could keep a close eye on Frodo while remaining out of earshot so that Sam could indulge in the obligatory introspective soliloquy which should have been Frodo's back at the end of Part One. "Ah, Rosie," sighed Sam, unbuttoning his shirt and laying one calloused working-class hand tenderly upon his tattooed chest. "Ah, Rosie, have I gone and mucked up the Revolution before it's a-begun? It felt good, so good, to give it to him straight, but the feeling don't last, and what's left? He don't trust me no more, Rosie, and that won't do, not at all. If he don't trust me, all our plans are for nowt, nohow." Sam gazed thoughtfully, surprisingly thoughtfully for a working- class hero, over the land before him, bleak and barren save for the occasional neon-lit oasis. "I know, Rosie. I know, I've known all along, what I ought to do." His gaze settled on Frodo's forlorn figure, hunched at cliff's edge. *He's still bawling, the git.* Sam gave a snort, then sobered again as the magnitude of his mission reasserted itself in his inner vision. "Ahhh," he sighed. "I know what I ought to do. But I am afraid, Rosie. Simply afraid. And if I do it, go through with it, do the deed that must be done, will you think me any less a Hobbit?" Sam rested his plump chin in his plump palm and pondered. Then, unbidden, it was as if a veil parted, revealing a Vision: Rosie, riveting Rosie, bearing aloft the Standard of Revolution! Revolution! And surrounding Rosie the masses, the Workers, oppressed no more! And from the crowd arose the chant: *For the Shire! For the Shire!* And suddenly Sam knew what he had to do, and how trivial were his petty parochial concerns about his Hobbithood, compared to the Great and Glorious Cause of Liberating the Shire. "For the Shire!" exclaimed Sam, leaping to his feet, and very nearly ran right down the hill and took Frodo then and there, but fortunately the Great Vision vanished and Sam came to his senses, realizing that he still had a hell of a lot of explaining and bridge- mending to do first. So he crept down quietly, on his quiet Hobbit feet, to return, as a good servant, to his (*gag* *choke* *barf*) Master's side. And damned if the silly git wasn't still crying and whining. "I feared it was so. I feared it was so," whimpered Frodo between gut-wrenching sobs. "Here, come now, Mr. Frodo," murmured Sam in his most soothingly subordinate tone. "It's not so bad as all that." Frodo gulped and looked up, blinking in bewilderment at Sam. "S-Sam?" he hiccupped. "Your-your accent--?" "Oh, that," laughed Sam with a good-natured and not-at-all- threatening working-class laugh. "D'ya like it? Learned it at a workshop for the Shire Thespians Local 286." "Why, Sam," said Frodo, astonished. "I had no idea you were a Thespian--not that there's anything wrong with that." "Oh, there's lots of things you don't know about me, and that's a fact," replied Sam cheerfully. "But we'll have plenty of time to get to know each other a lot better on this journey--least I hope so." Now Frodo was utterly amazed, all tears forgotten. "Then you're not angry with me any more? But what about all of that, back by the river?" "Oh, you know me and boats, Mr. Frodo," Sam jovially responded. "My therapist told me my PTSD was under control, but looks like I've still got me some issues to work through when I get back home, don't it?" Frodo laughed. "Well, all right, Sam. I haven't the least idea what this 'PTSD' is, but from what I saw of it I hope it isn't catching. Not something I should wish to contract." He shuddered. "Well, come along, then," Sam said, giving Frodo a hearty heterosexual clap on the shoulder. "Let's find a way out of these hills. But how's this, sir? We'll use our nimble Hobbit feet and clever Hobbit hands to climb our way down." "All right, Sam," agreed Frodo. "You first, then." "Oh, no, sir, I couldn't think of it. You're the master, sir, and I wouldn't be robbing you of your place of primacy." Frodo raised his eyebrows, then nodded. "Very good, Sam. I'll lead the way." Frodo lay flat upon the ground. Just as he had lowered himself over the edge and begun to creep cautiously along the cliff's face, Frodo heard a terrifying shriek. Instinctively he looked up, and his blood ran cold: A giant red-and-black LED banner scrolled across the sky, proclaiming over and over: *NAZDAQ DE-LIST SHARKEY ENTERPRISES.* "Ahhh!" cried Frodo, losing his grip; and all would have been grim for him, indeed, had not Sam swiftly reached down with his clever Hobbit hands and grasped Frodo, hauling him back up to safety. "There, there, now," soothed Sam, comforting Frodo with his arms and body. "All's well as ends well, as my Gaffer would say." "Oh, Saaaam!" wailed Frodo, sobbing bitterly into Sam's chest. "Better if you had let me fall." "Don't be saying that, Mr. Frodo. You don't mean that, and that's a fact." "I *do* mean it, and *that's* a fact," cried Frodo. "I am cursed, Sam, cursed in every way. Unlucky in life, unlucky in love--" "Here, now, you've had a few setbacks in the market, is all," Sam consoled him. "As for love, why, we'll find a way out of here and back to Rivendell, and that's a fact." But Frodo remained inconsolable; indeed, at Sam's words he grew even more gloomy, and fell strangely silent. Sam tipped his head to look at Frodo with concern. "Mr. Frodo?" he said uncertainly. Frodo said nothing, gazing morosely past Sam's chest at the desolate, cheerless land in which they had been stranded. Speaking in his most ingratiatingly obsequious manner, which never failed to lift Frodo's spirits, Sam repeated, "Mr. Frodo, sir, just think of all the lovely lasses thinking fondly of you back at..." but his voice faded as Frodo's countenance grew all the more despondent. Then Sam understood. "You faked it?" Glumly Frodo nodded. "But, but the Lady Arwen, sir," said Sam, confused. "You weren't faking when you saw her, and that's a fact. I saw it with my own eyes, I did, and that's--" "The Lady Arwen was dressed all in leather and armor, and wielding mighty weaponry, Sam," Frodo miserably interrupted. "Had she been decorated in the traditional accoutrements of stereotypical femininity, sitting sweetly at home sewing flags while the menfolk did all the deeds of valor in the world, I should not have felt so much as a twitch." "Oh." Sam frowned, pondering this new twist. "I am doomed, Sam, doomed to wander without a place in an oppressive and heterocentric world, and it would be better for you not to be burdened with me." "Oh, Mr. Frodo, that's hard," protested Sam. Suddenly he gasped and drew back, staring at Frodo. "Mr. Frodo, that's *hard*," he repeated wonderingly. "Why, I never did feel no noodle like that, and that's a fact! A pity we haven't a lass at hand. Perhaps we might chance upon one, yet, if we ever--" But sadly, ruefully, Frodo shook his head. "Sam, dear Sam," he said, his voice laden with an existential anguish far beyond his years. "Don't you understand? I don't *WANT* a lass." Now Sam was thoroughly confused. "You don't...?" But then, suddenly, it seemed to him that Frodo's face shone softly as if lit from within, and all was illuminated for Sam: *He loves me. He's like that, and sometimes it shines through, somehow. But he loves me, whether or no.* Then Sam realized that the illumination was coming from a lantern hovering above his own head. "All right, I take your meaning," Sam said to the lantern, and it obligingly disappeared. *This is turning out better than I dared hope,* thought Sam. He looked back to Frodo, who was now gazing disconsolately over the barren landscape. "Mr. Frodo, sir?" Frodo turned doleful eyes upon Sam. "Yes, Sam?" "Are--are you wearing your Ring, sir?" At this Frodo suddenly laughed. "Dear, simple Sam! Do I *look* like I'm wearing my Ring, you working-class ass?" Sam blushed, and let his gaze drop before Frodo could see the smoldering fires of revolutionary rage glowing therein. "Well, no, sir, no you don't, Mr. Frodo, sir. It's just that--" Steeling himself, Sam thought, *For the Shire!* and looked squarely at Frodo. "It's just that I suddenly find myself wanting to kiss you, and, well, I thought maybe--" Frodo's mouth fell open in surprise, then spread into a broad, delighted smile. "Well, then," he said coyly, "kiss me, Sam." Sam leaned closer to Frodo, then pulled back. "Are you sure it's proper, sir?" "What? Two men together, you mean?" "No, sir. I mean, is it proper for a mere servant-boy to be so familiar with one of his betters." "Oh, Sam," sighed Frodo, wrapping his arms around Sam, "you do say the cutest things." ***** And so began the greatest Romance in all the History of Middle- earth. The full Tale, all told, would require a dozen Volumes to wholly tell; suffice it here to say that the world had never before seen a Romance so Epic, so Magnificent, so Moving and Tender, so Star- crossed and Riddled with Controversy, nor shall the world ever again know its Like. Long after all other Romances have been recycled into shipping cartons, long after those who would have shelved this story deep in the Oxford Closet have been likewise recycled, the Romance of Frodo and Sam will live on, in time and in memory. ***** Many days wandered Frodo and Sam, ostensibly in search of a way out of the Emyn Mail, but they weren't exactly hurrying about it, to say the least. "Mr. Frodo?" Frodo looked up from Sam's fingers, which, like his own, were now perpetually saturated and as wrinkled as prunes. "Frodo." "What's that, sir?" "I think, Sam, dearest, given the degree of affection which we are now showing to one another, that you no longer need address me as your master--unless that turns you on?" "No," Sam answered decisively. "No, sir, it doesn't." "And drop the 'sir.'" "Yes, sir." "Sam--" Sam gave Frodo his most winsomely proletarian smile. "Yes, Frodo." "Hmmm." Frodo rolled onto his back and smiled dreamily at the clouds. "How about, 'Yes, Frodo, my most beloved and only love of my heart and body.'" Sam rolled his eyes and cast a surreptitious glance, laden with dark and revolutionary portents, toward the oblivious and love-besotted Frodo before reassuming the mask of cheerful and subordinate stupidity. "How about we shorten that to 'Frodo, love,' and waste less time talking, if you take my meaning." Frodo beamed at Sam. "I take your meaning, Sam, love--and your everything else," he crooned. Sam affected a tender countenance and took Frodo yet again into his arms. *Think of the Shire,* he told himself, and distracted himself from the duty at hand by filling his mind with patriotic thoughts of Rosie the Red and the awaiting Revolution. ***** "Sam, love." "Yes, Frodo, love?" Frodo drummed his fingertips lightly upon Sam's very masculine chest. "What's this about, then?" "What's--ooooooh, thaaaaat." "Yeeeessss. Thaaaaaaat." *Aw, shit, think fast, think fast, Sam.* "Well. Uh. Why, it's--it's a Tradition, sir--love, Frodo, love--in the Gardener's Guild." "The Gardener's Guild." One eyebrow rose. "Why, yes. Frodo. Y'see, upon being received into the Guild, it's custom for each member to get a tattoo of his most *fav'ritest* flower upon his chest. And, well, I, as you can see, I like, ah, roses. Beautiful flowers, sir--love. Beautiful." To Sam's great relief Frodo accepted the explanation. "Well, Sam, I must say I had no idea we had so many Guilds and Locals and such in our very own Shire. You know how I disapprove of Organized Labor." "Oh, yes, that I do," answered Sam, pouring a load of subtext into every word. But Frodo's attention had returned to the tattoo. "Hmm." With one finger Frodo slowly outlined the word "Rose" beneath the flower. "It shouldn't be at all difficult to change this to read 'Frodo.' Then," he smiled winsomely at Sam, "I'll always be near your heart." Mustering a performance worthy of an Odogar (the Shire Thespians Union's most prestigious award), Sam crooned, "You already are, Frodo, love," and braced himself for another round of sweet nothings. ***** "Frodo, love." "Yes, Sam, love." "Don't take me wrong, now, but as delightful as these days have been, I'm thinking we'd better get to Mordor and get the job done, so you have a proper estate, again." "Oh." Frodo considered, then nodded. "You're right, Sam, love. Now that I have you, I've no further use for that silly Ring." He raised himself from the ground, stood straight, and clasped his hands together, rubbing them briskly. "Well! How shall we ever find our way out of these hills?" Frodo's eyes darted about this way and that and he set his jaw, looking very grim and intent with the urgency of his Quest. "Well, Frodo, love," ventured Sam. "I'm thinking we might take that path, there." Sam pointed to a wide, gently graded blacktop path that descended toward the plains. "Well!" said Frodo, pleased. "I think I will trust to your judgment, Sam, love. The path it is." They gathered their supplies, strapped their packs onto their packs, and began the long but not terribly taxing descent to the plains below, stopping at a log cabin about midpoint to refresh themselves and pick up a few maps and brochures. "The Dread Marshes," read Frodo from one such pamphlet as he and Sam walked along hand in hand. "Oh, Sam, love, it sounds fascinating! Is it on our way?" Sam took a look. "Seems to be," he said. "I guess we can have a look about, see the sights. But damned if I didn't forget to bring my camera! If my Gaffer could see me now, he'd be saying, 'Sam, you ninnyhammer, didn't I tell you to always bring a camera wherever you go, because sure as you don't, that'll be when you'll be wanting one.'" "Well, Sam, love, there's no use calling yourself all the hard names your abusive father berated you with," soothed Frodo. "Besides, I bought a camera at the rest stop while you were busy admiring the flush toilets." "Did you?" Sam brightened. "Good. Good. That'll come in handy," he added under his breath, smiling to himself. "Yes, indeed, it will." ***** They sauntered on down the path. Sam cast a wistful glance back over his shoulder, suddenly finding himself wishing he hadn't been so quick to leave the Emyn Mail. "There was LOVE! All AROUND! But I never HEARD it singing! No, I never heard it at all, till there was YOU!" Sam looked over at Frodo with mild annoyance, but not without affection: and it struck him that despite his lofty intentions of socially redeeming revolutionary value he had gone and gratuitously fallen in love with Frodo. *Well if that don't throw a spanner in the works.* "And there was MUSIC! And there were won-der-ful ROSES!" Rose. Ah, she wouldn't be none too happy with him, she wouldn't, and he didn't think she'd go for settling down as a happy little threesome. But it was a long way back to the Shire; Sam shrugged and put Rose out of his mind, determined to enjoy the moment while it lasted. "Till there was YOOOOUUU!!!" Easier said than done. "Ah, Frodo, love, it might not be a good idea to be singing at the top of your lungs in a strange country. You never know what sort of riff-raff it might attract." Just then a small, pale, androgynous creature stepped out from behind a boulder. "Hobbitses," it hissed lasciviously. "Hobbit- MENNNS. We likes, my Preciousss, we doesss." "Exhibit A," muttered Sam. The creature paid him no heed. "Tricksy, tricksy Elf-wimmins," it rambled on. "Tricksy Elveses. Tricksy Belden. No mystery here, my Precious. Tricksy! Promises us a feast of mens and then kicks us where it hurtses, nasty, nasty Elveses, never trust, never trust. But we don't need Elveses now, my Precious, now we has Hobbit-mens all to ourselves. Oh, yes, we doesss--" "Oh, no, we doesn't," snapped Sam, tightening his grip on Frodo's hand as he attempted to push his way past the creature. But Frodo halted. "Sam, wait. I do believe he's that Gulible chap--" "I'm not a *he*!" shrieked the creature. "I'm a *she*!" "What?" exclaimed Frodo and Sam in unison. "I'm a *she*," repeated Gulible. "But I'm told you're a *he*," argued Sam. "And *I'm* told *he's* a virgin," countered Gulible, jabbing a scrawny thumb towards Frodo. "But that's not what I sees, oh, no, my Preciouss, not at all--" "And just how long have you been spying on us?" demanded Sam, blushing a fierce shade of red. "Well, he may be a she," Frodo quickly interjected, tugging at Sam's arm. "What I'm told is never for certain." "Well, whatever it is," grunted Sam, eyeing Gulible with suspicion, "the sooner we're away from it, the better." "No, no!" cried Gulible. "Nice Hobbitses! Cute Hobbitses! Sweet, sexy Hobbitses! Nice Hobbit-mens take Spiegel with you!" "Spiegel?" exclaimed Frodo and Sam, exchanging looks of bewilderment. "Spiegel is me, and me is Spiegel," declared the creature. "Spiegel, called Gulible because I once believed mens can change. Silly, silly Spiegel! Bad, wicked, naughty mens, writing storieses to please only themselves, storieses of buxom benippled wenches and frat-boy lusts, but nothing, nothing for poor Spiegel! No lusting after mens, oh, no, not allowed, not allowed! But the Revolution is coming, my Precious, yes it is, when the Sisterhood shall be powerful and the wimmins shall be gratified, and the mens shall not stop us, not the Hobbit-mens nor the Men-mens shall stop us now, and we shall overcome, we shall overcome, we shall overcome someday! Now, now Spiegel knows, yesss, my Preciouss, she does, she knows mens are good for only one thing, and when she gets the Precious back for her very own, the Hobbit-mens and the Men-mens will give her all she wants, oh, yes, they will. Oh, Precioussss! The Blessed Precioussss! Oh, the Blessed Precioussssss!!!" "What an eccentric performance," muttered Frodo. "Still, she seems to be mostly harmless." Interrupting Spiegel's catalog of grievances, he said aloud: "All right, Spiegel, you may come along with us--but no more watching Sam and I when we're together." "Oh, no, of course not, no watching," said Spiegel, not very convincingly. "Swear it," growled Sam, flicking a switchblade. "Spiegel swears it! Spiegel swears it! Spiegel be very good." Frodo nodded, satisfied. "Well, that's that. Come along, Sam, love, and you, Spiegel." Spiegel trotted along agreeably after Frodo and Sam. Sam put the knife away, but briefly pulled Spiegel aside to mutter *sotto voce*, "If you're *really* good, maybe I'll let you take some pictures." Spiegel looked up at him with a libidinous gleam in her eye. "Oh, for that, Spiegel be *very* good, indeed," she hissed, and in the meeting of their eyes was the meeting of two revolutionary and subversive minds. ********** -- "Although it is not true that all conservatives are stupid people, it is true that most stupid people are conservative." - J.S. Mill MythTakes: Tolkien Parody http://www.prembone.com/mythtakes/ Sent via Deja.com http://www.deja.com/