Article: 244023 of rec.arts.books.tolkien Path: news.uchicago.edu!newsswitch.lcs.mit.edu!howland.erols.net!cpk-news-hub1.bbnplanet.com!news.gtei.net!dca6-feed1.news.digex.net!ord2-feed1.news.digex.net!intermedia!newspeer2.tds.net!ratbert.tds.net!dsalo From: <<>> (David Salo) Newsgroups: rec.arts.books.tolkien,alt.fan.tolkien Subject: E-text: Book IV, Chapter 13: Take Two Message-ID: References: Mime-Version: 1.0 Content-Type: text/plain; charset=ISO-8859-1 Content-transfer-encoding: 8bit X-Newsreader: Yet Another NewsWatcher 2.4.0 Lines: 319 Date: Wed, 25 Jul 2001 00:57:02 GMT NNTP-Posting-Host: 208.170.95.155 X-Complaints-To: abuse -aaatt- tds.net (TDS -daht- NET help Desk 1-888-815-5992) X-Trace: ratbert.tds.net 996022622 208.170.95.155 (Tue, 24 Jul 2001 19:57:02 CDT) NNTP-Posting-Date: Tue, 24 Jul 2001 19:57:02 CDT Organization: TDS.NET Internet Services www.tds.net Xref: news.uchicago.edu rec.arts.books.tolkien:244023 alt.fan.tolkien:71735 I apparently ticked off a lot of people with my version of the last chapter of Book IV. I have therefore entirely rewritten it with a completely different plot; retaining a few things that I liked about the previous version, but changing everything else. I hope it's more acceptable to the other writers. THE VERY LONG NIGHT OF SAMWISE GAMGEE Sam awakened to find himself in bonds, gagged and tied to a tree. Not far away was Boromir(TM), sharpening his sword and looking around. Sam struggled against the gag, making unpardonable noises. "Awake, sirrah?" boomed Boromir. "ŒTis a fair game hast played me. Wilt not try to bite me upon the shank like thy now-unconscious companion, wiltow?" He pointed toward a similarly trussed Frodo. Sam shook his head. Boromir(TM) approached and removed the gag, allowing Sam to unleash a torrent of proletarian vituperation. "Monarchist scum! Untie me, or you'll live to see Gondor a Socialist Republic, and yourself lined up against the Wall with your deluded allies for your just retribution!" He continued in that vein for quite a while. Boromir(TM) laughed, but a little nervously, and continued to pace and look through the trees. They were, Sam guessed, in a glade of Ethelien, with its usual appurtenances of pond and babbling brook, somewhere to the east of Disgiliath. At least, that was where he thought he had been when Sauron and Shelob had taken them Mordor-wards; the memory was somewhat confused. "Enough, halfling!" Boromir(TM) said after some time. "I'll not debate thy strange and decidedly post-medieval political views with thee. Know then, that thou hast been most foully deluded and cozened by the base lies of Sauron." "Liar!" Sam flung back. "I know for a fact that you're a narcoterrorist and an accomplice of Gandalf the Gruesome. And I'm Lenindil, the Heir of Isildur!" "Sam, Sam!" Boromir(TM) laughed. "Listen to thyself! Wert thou not the champion of freedom from tyranny and exploitation by the aristocrats? And here art thou claiming meaningless, archaic titles and even glorying in them? And associating me with _Gandalf_? What next? Know that I have no interest other than that of Gondor(TM) and assorted franchises. Think about it, Sam. Think about it." Sam thought about it. He thought of Sauron's promises of power. He thought of the Red Flag. He thought of Annúminas. He recalled that Annúminas was a draughty ruin. He thought of the warm embraces of Revolutionary Rosie. "Kinko... Pinko... Pinko... Kinko..." he mumbled. "But what about the opera? Surely a cultured intellectual like Sauron couldn't be up to no good..." Boromir(TM) laughed scornfully. "Opera? Let me ask you, my good Sam, hast ever heard of Mario Lanza?" Sam shook his head. "Well, then, let me assure thee that opera may be Neanderthally lowbrow. And what has a card-carrying member of the Hobbit Labour Party got to do with intellectuals anyway?" Sam shook his head. The lies of Sauron now seemed dull, false, and unbelievable. He could not understand how he had ever been gulled. "Very well," he said slowly. "I still think yer a right stinkin' monarchist snob. But I'll overlook that for now. What about Master, er, Mr. Frodo?" "Hath babbled for hours about his 'Nurnenshire Estate', 'Moneybags Hall' and all that, until one of my Rangers -- NOT narcoterrorists, by any means -- swatted him on the occiput with his hilts. He's yet more deluded than thee. But I'll release him, if you'll take him under your care." "All right. I'll be responsible for him." "The third of your troop hath escaped us. We broke the Orkish guard that escorted you out of Disgiliath; but in the mêlée your gangrel friend departed." "Er, which gangrel friend?" "I saw but the one. If there was another, it is doubtless still with the Orks." "What about Sauron and Shelob? Did they get away?" Sam asked. "Sauron and Shelob? Art mad, my friend? Sauron abideth in the Dark Tower in Mordor, hatching his evil plans. Shelob I know not, but we slew nought but Orks." "But I saw..." Sam began. But as he tried to put words to his memory, it became muddled and fragmented. "You were deceived by the phantoms of Sauron, no doubt, that emerge from the spiral depths of Minas Epcot and wend their way up and down Ethelien. Nay, Sauron will not emerge from the Dark Tower until all is lost, and the Tower of Commerce is fallen. But we must away. The Orks have only been driven off. The longer we wait, the sooner they will be upon us. We shall go down from the Crossroads to below Disgiliath, into a ferry I have waiting there, and across the Anduin to Minas Tirith(TM), where thou and thy Master shall be safe. Arouse him! For we must go." Boromir released Sam's bonds, and Sam went over to Frodo. He had a bad bruise on the back of his head, and was breathing heavily. "Mr. Frodo, Sir!" he called. "Wake up, its your Sam, your own dear Sam, your dear, dear beloved true-hearted faithful Sam." Frodo woke with a scream. "Argh! My Estates! My Estates!" he cried, and then collapsed back, sobbing. "Don't let them take my Estates away, Sam!" As Sam freed his legs, he jumped up and tried to run, but Boromir(TM)'s Rangers blocked the way. Sam grabbed Frodo's arm. "We're stuck here, Mr. Frodo, and that's a fact. We might as well go with these gentlemen." Frodo struck Sam's arm away. "No! They want my money, they do! My Estates! My rightfully inherited Estates! My precious Estates! They can't have them, no indeed, no precious!" He was panting hard at this point, and sweating; his eyes, swollen and reddened, bulged from his sockets. Boromir growled. "Thy 'Estates', as thou callest them," he said, "Are nought but the merest paper. There is no 'Nurnenshire'! 'Tis but a vast, desolate wasteland! As thou wouldst have found, had I not freed thee from the clutches of the Mordor-Orks. But thou art freed now, and soon shall be safe within the walls of Minas Tirith(TM). Frodo shivered and looked around him with the gaze of a hunted, cornered animal. "Lies, all lies," he panted. "I have Sauron's word on it. I have the Deed! Everything comes down to Contracts, and mine is signed and sealed! It's my Estate, mine I tell you!" His voice had become a high-pitched whine. Sam stepped up to him. "Oh, Mr. Frodo," he said plaintively, "you can always come back for your Estate later. Now just follow these nice men..." Frodo spat at him. "You. You're in league with them! Just as I always suspected. Trying to get my money, aren't you. Nice Sam, good Sam, clever Sam. Always does what he's told, eh? And why is Mr. Sam so devoted? Because he wants to pick Squire's pockets, that's why! Dog! Thief! Gamgee!" He burst upon Sam with both fists, punching and scratching, when the heavy hand of a Ranger came down upon his shoulder and hauled him back. Frodo's teeth sank deep into that hand, and were only released when a mailed glove came down upon his head. "Seest how he is, Sam," said Boromir(TM). "Here, I think thou hadst better take this; thou shalt be the safer guardian." He removed the Ring from Frodo's neck and passed it to Sam. But Sam was deep in tears. Frodo had rejected him! His own, dear, sweet master Frodo had decided that money -- real or imaginary, it mattered not -- meant more to him than dear Sam. Dear faithful Sam. The ground was soon damp with his sobs. "We'd best be onward, Lord," quoth a Ranger. "Orks are a prowling. And where an Ork prowls, there hoot all the owls." "Aye," said Boromir(TM). "And it's an ill wind that blows no one any good." With that the Orks came crashing through the trees, armed to the teeth with Lugers, Mausers, and all manner of automatic weaponry. They aimed their fire at the tall people (whom they could see), giving Sam a chance to hide in a fernbrake and cover the unconscious Frodo over with some branches. So Sam saw the whole massacre: Rangers falling or flying, while Boromir(TM) fought on with his hopelessly anachronistic sword and shield, until at last he fell with thirty bullets in the chest, and fell back into the pond, which at once turned a gruesome red. So passed Boromir(TM), best of the house of the Stewards to fail to rule in Gondor. Sam stayed hidden until the Orks had gone. The sun set and the moon rose. Frodo woke, but Sam powered him to the ground and kept his hand firmly over his mouth. A sound came from out toward the battlefield. "Head bone connects to de neck bone, yess, neck bone connects to juicy backbone, yes, backbone connects to scrumptious hip bone, yess, hip bone connects to meaty thigh bone, yum!" "Gullible!" Sam called softly. "Is that you?" "Sss..." came the sibilant answer. "Is that silly hobbits? Still chasing after imaginary Estatess?" "No, we're over it," Sam replied. "Or I am, anyway. I don't know about Mr. Frodo. What happened to you?" "We escapes, we does. Runs away on fast feet with scampers and pampers!" "Where's Spiegel?" "Losst, lost, _saddam_. But what does we care? She betrays us with Gorbush, precious." Sam shrugged. He had always been dubious about _two_ people going around saying _saddam_ all the time, and although one was bad enough, he supposed he could live. "Well," he said, "we'd better figure out a plan from here. We were going to take the Ring to Mt. Viagra, I think..." "NO!" The choking scream came from Frodo. "You can't! You'll sell us all out to Gandalf!" "Ss, stupid hobbit," said Gullible. "He is wrong to want the Wogah-ring; steals precious bodily fluids, it does. It should be desstroyed!" "That's two against one, Frodo," Sam replied cheerfully, surprised to find Gullible on his side in the debate. "So, are you with us, or do we need to hogtie you with this excellent elven rope that I managed to bring 100 ells of? I thought I might need it, I did, or I'd be nowt but a ninnyhammer, as my Gaffer used to say. And that's a fact." Frodo looked at Sam and Gullible hungrily. A pale light gleamed in his eyes. "To Mordor?" he whispered. "You're going to Mordor? I can take you there. I know the way." A thin smile played upon his features. So the three hobbits set forth on the last leg of their journey to Mordor. Before them lay the great mountains of Ethel Duwap, and ahead of them the road led to the Enemy's citadel of Minas Goofy. Minas Ethel long ago, the former Tower of the Moonies had once seen mass marriages beyond count. But long since the Enemy had occupied it, and the Leech-king's hopelessly amateur tenor had rung throughout the long valley, filling it with the sound of music. On the topmost tower of Minas Goofy a long-snouted, buck-toothed head topped with a shapeless cap still revolved, leering into the night. Sam and Gullible stood aghast at the site, but Frodo, apparently unmoved, pulled them forward. They came to the bridge that led into the valley toward the yawning gate of Minas Goofy; and Sam fell reeling to his knees, as the sickly sweet scent of cotton candy that rose from the fields about almost overwhelmed him. "Not that way!" Frodo hissed, and Sam shook off the horror and tottered after him. They attained a path that climbed up the side of the valley into the slopes of Ethel Duwap. But as they passed, a weariness as of a thousand exploited workers overcame Sam and Gulible, and they felt the need to rest. "Not rest here!" said Frodo. "Eyes can see us. Must go on, and on, money awaits us, riches and power!" "All right," said Sam quietly, "I'll try, Master." But it was too late. All of a sudden the rocks trembled, and with the blast of ten thousand sousaphones, floodlights illuminated the whole valley. And out of Minas Morgul they came: the Army of Sauron, terrible upon the march. All that host was clad in scarlet and cream, and there were drummers, sousaphonists and saxophonists, baton twirlers, flag wavers, trumpeters, and Those who Marched in Step. Rank upon rank they came forth, and the Leech-king, brandishing a mighty baton, was at their head. Frodo smiled, recalling that day long since, when the deed to Moneybags Hall had been handed to him. And Sam, beholding the red flags waving, thought that perhaps the Revolution had come. His hand, as if obeying historical necessity, crept toward the Ring around his neck. Then his own will stirred, and his hand sought and found another thing hidden near his breast: the Little Red Book that had been his constant companion on his adventures. He sighed and bent his head. 'The storm has burst at last,' he thought. 'Now the Sauronites are going to Disgiliath, to fight the Imperialists. Damn the Party for voting for war credits! A pox on both their houses.' But deeper down he remembered an ancient anti-fascism. Then he heard Gullible's voice. "Wake up, Ssam! They're gone." And indeed the sound of sousaphones was fading down the road, and the floodlights had been turned out. Sam arose and, turning from the city of Goofy, prepared to take the upward road. Frodo, it seemed, had gone on ahead, and now came back. "Silly hobbits!" he said. "Must go on, on and on, seek wealth and fame and fortune!" So they proceeded, step by step. A long stair lead them high up into the alpine meadows of Ethel Duwap, where the edelweiss grew and alphorns sounded amidst the snowy peaks. Up and up they climbed, until at last, in the dead of night, they could see the horns of the chalet of Minas Yodel. A yellow light burned in the window of the chalet. "Sss! Tricksy hobbit!" hissed Gullible. "Frodo cheats us, he does! This way is guarded!" Frodo shrugged. "Could be," he said. "Maybe it's least guarded. Who cares?" "A long way yet," said Sam mournfully. "I could use a good rest and sleep." They rested upon an flowered alpine carpet and built a fire and toasted marshmallows. The stars shone bright in the sky above them, as Sam and Gullible sang old campfire songs that they found they both knew. After the third chorus of "Up in the Air, Junior Nazgûl", Sam said to Gullible, "You know, you're not such a bad sort after all. I'll make sure to put in a good word for you when Mr. Frodo finally writes this story." "And who will read this story, eh precious?" Gullible snickered. "I don't know. People will buy anything these days, as my Gaffer used to say, bless his apophthegmatic soul. If nothing else, Minas Tirith(TM) could make it into a movie. I'm the hero of course, and you're the cute talking animal with big eyes, but we'll need a villain. Now where's Master Frodo got to?" They looked around. Frodo was nowhere to be seen. Sam sighed. "I should keep a closer eye on him. But he's got strange fancies these days. Still, we must humor him." "Ss, no use worrying about him, no precious," said Gullible. "Worry about us, yes!" Sam found Gullible's gaze slightly unnerving, but also endearing; he assumed that Gullible had moved into Stage #3 of the Five Stages of Sidekicking, i.e. Hero Worship. "He's gone after his Estates, yes, that's his whole plan: the Estates for poor Frodo." "You're a cynic, Gullible", Sam laughed. "Let's hope for the best and prepare for the worst. For all's well that ends better!" When Frodo returned, he saw Sam and Gullible sleeping, Sam's head in Gullible's lap, Gullible's eyes closed and his hand caressing Sam's hair. Frodo's shriek woke them both. "Cheat!" he cried out. "Wicked Sam cheats on us! Whatever happened to Faithful Sam! And now I see you sleeping with -- yes, I said _sleeping with_ this wretch, this Gullible! Nice Sam! Loving Sam! Precious Sam! Oooh! I could just kill you!" "Sorry," Sam said a bit remorsefully. "But I wasn't sleeping with Gullible, just resting, and he's taken rather a shine to me, so..." "Don't even start," Frodo said angrily. "I know the whole story. So it's _my_ fault, is it? Everything's always _my_ fault. Always blame poor Frodo. Very nice Sam, very nice." "So where've you been, Frodo?" "Cheating on you, just like you've been cheating on me." "Oh well," replied Sam. "I suppose it's not far from the truth. Well, let's go on. Come on, Gullible." "Yes, let's," Frodo said sniffily. "You and Gullible. Cheats. But you can't get there without me. No time for rest. Come along." The hobbits climbed the slope, marching as straight as they could toward the comforting-looking lights of the chalet. An easy slope led up before them, covered with soft green turf. Gullible breathed in the sweet alpine air. "Last one there's a rotten egg!" he cried and set off. Sam was hot on his heels. Only a little higher now. The cleft, Cirith Yodel, was before them, a dim notch in the alpine ridge, and the chalet darkling against the sky. A short race, a sprinter's course, and they would be there! But Sam was still digesting the marshmallows (of which he had eaten most), and Gullible's legs were too fast for him. As he slowed, panting, he felt a clammy hand over his mouth. Taken off guard he toppled back into Frodo's arms. "Got him!" Frodo said. "The so-called faithful Sam! Don't think I haven't searched your pockets at night. 'Death to the Aristocrats'! 'Long live the Revolution!' We'll see about revolution when I'm esconced in Moneybags Hall. Did you think you had me fooled? You're nothing but a sanctimonious liberal-leftist petty bourgeois armchair revolutionary. But I've got you at last, you nasty filthy cheat!" "Armchair revolutionary." Those words -- obnoxious to true leftists the world over -- burned a fire in Sam's brain that overcame his remembered love for Frodo. Filled with righteous outrage, he fought back mercilessly. A heel came up in Frodo's groin, and an elbow in his gut. Frodo retched and staggered back. Sam was on him, punching and stomping. "Had enough, pig?" he asked after he relented long enough for Frodo to catch his breath. But that was a mistake. "Hey-yo-ee-oh! Yo-ee-oh!" A deafening yodel burst from Frodo's lips. And out of the sky, rending the air like a butter-knife, came a Nazdaq flying upon some strange Fierce Beast. Frodo leaped up and grasped a claw, and the Nazdaq swooped away with him, leaving only a call that echoed down the mountainside. "So long, suckaz!" So far Frodo's plot had succeeded. Sam raised his head from the ground, weeping with anger. Gullible was nowhere in sight. The love for Frodo that had filled him had turned to hatred. Now, at last, there was a real purpose for his lonely journey into the land of Mordor. Vengeance. If once he could go, his anger would bear him down all the roads of the world, pursuing, until he had him at last: Frodo. Then Frodo would die in a corner. Yes, Sam mused to himself. This was what he had set out to do. It might not bring about the Revolution, but it would be uniquely satisfying. Gullible came creeping back down the slope and found Sam there. "Ssam dear," he said, "you'd better look at this." Sam followed wearily. They came to the top of the ridge, where the chalet stood. But there was only one wooden wall. The chalet was a false front, the inviting yellow light seen from a distance just a single candle burning behind an empty window. And before them the alpine meadows ended. On the far side of the Ethel Duwap, the delightful music-filled glades dropped into sheer, slaty precipices. Far below Sam could see the vast parking lots of the Mall of Gorgoroth and Lithlad Station; their asphalt surfaces stretched to the horizon. In the gloom, no trace of the Dark Tower or Mount Viagra could be seen. Sam clenched his hands into fists and glared into the distance. Somewhere out there was Frodo: alive, and taken in by the Enemy.