Article: 299208 of rec.arts.books.tolkien Path: news.uchicago.edu!newsfeed.stanford.edu!postnews1.google.com!not-for-mail From: <<>> (Prembone the Magnificent) Newsgroups: rec.arts.books.tolkien,alt.fan.tolkien Subject: E-text: Book VI, Chapter 9 - At long last! Date: 29 Aug 2002 19:04:55 -0700 Organization: http://groups.google.com/ Lines: 459 Message-ID: <6e3ce81d.0208291804.5edff5f2@posting.google.com> NNTP-Posting-Host: 24.163.223.80 Content-Type: text/plain; charset=ISO-8859-1 Content-Transfer-Encoding: 8bit X-Trace: posting.google.com 1030673095 12790 127.0.0.1 (30 Aug 2002 02:04:55 GMT) X-Complaints-To: groups-abuse -aaatt- google -daht- com NNTP-Posting-Date: 30 Aug 2002 02:04:55 GMT Xref: news.uchicago.edu rec.arts.books.tolkien:299208 alt.fan.tolkien:169340 AUTHOR'S NOTE: This tale grew in the telling. There were those who said we were daft to attempt an E-text of The Lord of the Rings, but we attempted it all the same. The first Book of the E-text was in danger of sinking into the swamp; so we built a second Book. That, too, sank into the swamp, or at least veered perilously toward Disneyland; so we built a third, and a fourth, and a fifth. Upon this excellent foundation was built Book Six, and here we are: The Final Chapter!!! Yes, I know Ojevind is writing an Epilogue, but technically an Epilogue isn't a chapter, it's an Epilogue, and-- *GET ON WITH IT!!!* Ahem. As I was saying, this is a historic moment, and I can't believe I'm actually standing up here, and, well, I didn't really prepare a speech, but I do have some people I'd like to thank. A big, big thank you to Steuard Jensen, who not only beta'd this chapter and offered some excellent suggestions that made it what it is today, but also kept me advised of the progress of the project, even when Real Life interfered with my Art. Friend, advisor, diplomat, and far better at avoiding pissing people off than I could ever hope to be, I couldn't have done it without him. And thank you ever so much to O. Sharp, whose revolutionary "Scorching of the Shire" gave me just the inspiration I needed to perform what seemed like an inhumanly daunting task, to write the denoument of this grand and glorious Epic, and also played right into the ending I long envisioned, albeit in skeletal form. O.'s chapter enabled me to put some interesting pieces of flesh upon those bones. And, too, I want to thank Ojevind Lang, whose name properly has some kind of marks over a couple of the letters, but I wouldn't be a Real American if I took the trouble to correctly render a non-American name, and being less than a Real American in the post-nine-one-one world just might get me lynched. Be that as it may, my esteem and thanks go to Ojevind for agreeing, in collaboration with O. and Steuard, to allow me the honor of writing the E-text version of "The Grey Havens." I promised that I would not turn it into a "Rescue Frodo" episode, and I have kept that promise: for in truth, at this point it seems all of these characters are beyond rescuing, though at the closing of this project we shall let them all go, in the hope that they may find their cure. Last, but not least, I want to thank my Lord and Saviour Elton John, without whom none of this would have been possible. How wonderful life is while He is in the world! And now, without further doo-doo, I present to you The Final Chapter, Book VI, Chapter 9.... *** PUERTOGRISO *** (Or: The Gay Havens) by Prembone When Frodo awoke, he found that he was lying in some soft bed, but it was not upon the forest floor, that forest in which, exhausted from wandering in exile, he had lain down and prayed to whatever deity might yet give a tin penny for any prayer of his that he would never again wake up. This bed was in a bedroom, a bedroom furnished and paneled lavishly, to the point of conspicuously consumptive extravagance. Blinking, Frodo wondered if this could be heaven or this could be hell. "What's this?...I'm back to my normal size...and...my sexual confusion is gone...and...no Bilbo in my head...?" He stretched and drew a deep breath. "Why, what a dream I've had! I am glad to wake!" "FRODO! FRODO, MY DEAR FELLOW!" A great hearty laugh jolted him three feet off the bed, and back again: and there, standing by his bedside, was Sam, clad in a pinstriped suit of shiny blue serge. Great was his belly, and golden were the chains that dangled across the many-buttoned weskit that stretched valiantly across his great belly. "A great Shadow has departed!" he laughed, and in that laugh was the jingling of coin and the rustling of bills and the chinging of many a cash register and the ticking of many leagues of stock-price tape. It was a bullish laugh, eternally young and virile and full of vigor, charging upward, ever-upward, with no limits to growth. It was a laugh which captured value and freed trade in the name of Global Prosperity. "Why--Sam--I thought you were a Socialist! Then again, I thought I was dead meat. Was it all a dream, then? And is everything sad going to come untrue?" "It was no dream, Frodo," chortled Sam. "But you have slept long and hard--" "--and full of--yeah, yeah--" "Oh, ho ho!" Sam's belly shook, when he laughed, like a bowl full of caviar. "Do you wonder, Ring-eater, at the restoration of your stature and sanity and sexual orientation? For you know the power of that which has been destroyed; and all that was done by that power has passed away. And, lo! It has been six long months that you have lain in slumber, regaining your health; and though to Mortal mind six months may seem but half a year, in the reckoning of the Markets an entire Age of the Shire has come and gone. The Old Order has been overthrown, and a new Golden Age of Capitalism has begun!" "Capitalism!" gasped Frodo. "Why, Sam, can it be--?" "Yes, Frodo." Sam smiled benevolently. "Capitalism has returned to the Shire--but it is all right; for this time, *I* am on *top*." He gave Frodo a lewd and knowing wink--which prompted thoughts that made Frodo blush from the curls on his head to the curls on his feet. "For you see," Sam went on, "it is the wont of human economic behavior that Socialist utopias are doomed to dwindle under the weight of their own benevolence; and so it has come to pass. SELFISHNESS!" he roared, knocking about three months off Frodo's life expectancy. "Selfishness, my dear fellow. *That* is what makes the world go round. And here we are, and we are RICH! Filthy, stinking, ever-loving other-people's-money RICH!" And he laughed again, and on and on he laughed, and Frodo was caught up in great rolling waves of laughter at the prospect of once again being filthy, stinking, ever-loving other-people's-money rich; or perhaps it was from the sheer relief of not having been flayed alive and roasted for a scooby snack for the dalmatians of the proletarian firehouse; however it may be explained, Frodo laughed long and hard and full with Sammy. Great was their laughter, and great was their mirth, and great was their joy that was built upon the backs of the oppressed classes. And Frodo laughed all the merrier as he came to understand that this, truly, was the ending: Not only the days but the nights, too, would be beautiful and blessed; for to Frodo's eyes, as if he were seeing with OtherVisionTM, Sam's true and hidden desires were at last laid bare. "Oh, *Sam!*" cried Frodo, springing from his bed and leaping into Sam's arms. And Sam said not a word, but went straight to his work, locking the bedroom door and busying himself with removing Frodo's nightshirt. *** When their passion had at long last been played out, Sam rolled onto his side and propped himself up on one elbow. "We can't be doing this, anymore, you know," he said, looking soberly into Frodo's eyes. Frodo's lower lip quivered. It usually worked, but this time Sam was having none of it. *Damn it. He means it.* "Damn it. I mean it." With his other hand Sam reached for Frodo's and clasped it. "I'm a married Hobbit, now. I've got an image to maintain, an empire to build. I can't be frisking about with you, however much I may wish to." Frodo said nothing, but tears began to well up. "Oh, Frodo, Frodo," sighed Sam. "We'll always have the Emyn Mail." With his hefty hand he gently lifted Frodo's chin, till the other Hobbit was looking into his eyes. Sam gave Frodo a reserved, masculine smile. "Here's looking at you." *** Frodo settled quietly into the role of homewrecking fifth wheel at the newly remodeled Money-Bags End. He worked sporadically on finishing a book filled with dirty limericks he had composed especially for Sam; but he no longer had the heart to enjoy them, and the project was soon abandoned. In later years the unfinished manuscript, entitled by Frodo *The Red-light Book of Shire-smut*, being translated into the scholarly tongue as *Chiquita Banana*, became a source of popular drinking songs among learned University Students. In still later years *Chiquita Banana* was transformed by the renowned Bywater composer Farl Orcc into a musical arrangement for orchestra and chorus, which made classical music aficionados feel Very Refined indeed, to listen to Great Music inspired by a Work in the Scholarly Tongue. If he could not have Sam, Frodo at least found some consolation--among other sensations--in spending countless hours sliding down the firepole that Sam had left as a quaint relic of the mansion's former incarnation. Sam did his best to make Frodo feel at home. For, as it turned out, it *was* Frodo's home: When the dust of wheeling and dealing and proletarian revolution had settled, the beginning and end of the matter was that Frodo was still the full owner of Money-Bags End, nee Bag End, and all the varied and sundry properties thereof. The document that Frodo had drawn up for Sam had, upon a closer examination of the fine print, bequeathed to Sam not the ownership but merely the authority to *manage* Frodo's property in the event of Frodo's absence, temporary or otherwise, from the same. But Sam had proven himself far better at managing other people's (namely, Frodo's) money in the past six months than Frodo had done for the past six years times three; and so Frodo now readily agreed--yea, insisted--that Sam was entitled to a full half-share, fifty-fifty, down the middle, partners for life, in deed if not in flagrante delicto. *** Well, the fundamental things apply as time goes by; and as time went by, Sam had a vague concern about his partner in capitalism. It might have had something to do with Frodo's increasing withdrawal from society functions; or it might have had to do with his increasing habit of muttering things to himself in a strange tongue; or it might have had to do with his increasing fondness for poring over a well-worn and much-dogeared copy of *Final Exit*. Even worse, it was rumored amongst the better circles of Hobbiton that Frodo had been seen wandering the woods at night, scantily clad. More than one reliable witness reported that Frodo had taken to wearing a codpiece imprinted with an Elven Rune, which he would often finger. *** Spring turned to summer, and summer turned to autumn, and Frodo turned to Sam and asked if he would accompany him on a short journey. "How short?" asked Sam, his voice husky and low. Frodo looked up at Sam. "Why do you ask, Sam? Does it matter? I promise you'll come back home, safe and sound." "OH, MR. FRODO!" cried Sam, bursting into tears and flinging himself upon Frodo. "That's hard, it is! And I don't mean in a good way! You're planning to leave me, aren't you?" he blubbered. "Sam--" "I tried, Mr. Frodo! I really did try, but it's no good pretending any longer that I don't love you!" He sobbed bitterly, his capitalist-pig hulk heaving as if he were but a simple gardener in love with a simple country squire in a simple hole-in-the-ground village in an underprivileged country. Frodo's eyes were wide, and stunned, as they peered over Sam's quivering shoulder. "There, there, Sam," he said soothingly. "We'll think of something." *** On the twenty-second of September they set forth from Money-Bags End, Sam wearing a camel trench-coat over his suit and a dashing fedora cocked at an angle over one eye, and Frodo clad in what looked to Sam like audition-wear for a role in a Yuletide shopping season commercial: green tights and a green leotard with a round, red, poinsettia-style collar adorning his neck and a jingle-bell-trimmed pointy red cap adorning his head and that damned Rune-graven codpiece adorning...erm, where codpieces usually adorn. Sam had no idea where the hell they were going, but as long as he was with Frodo, everything would be all right. The road went ever on and on. It was evening, some days later, and the stars were glimmering in the sky as they passed out of the Shire through what may well have been the Last Great Woodland on the Edge of Middle-earth. Sam was silent, deep in libidinous reverie, and looking forward to making camp for the night. Presently he became aware that Frodo was singing softly to himself, singing an old corporate takeover song, but the words were not the same. Still round the corner there may wait A cure for this curst bachelor fate; And though I oft have passed you by, Together we were meant to lie. O! Fairest among Mortal or Elf! When I think about you, I touch myself. And as if in answer, from around the corner a clear, strong Elven voice arose in song: Down by the Shire Gardens my love and I did meet. He passed through the Shire Gardens with little hairy feet. He bid me take him sailing when I pass far o'er the sea, And I, being smitten by his beauty, quite gladly did agree. Sam cringed, wondering how the Elves had come by their reputation for fair poetry, second to none. Just then he and Frodo emerged from the woods to arrive at a seaport. A haven it was, dark and gray; and at the haven awaited a large, white ship, long and hard and full of-- *GET ON WITH IT!* --Elves. And standing among the Elves, who were waiting with some impatience, was none other than Bilbo himself, distracted as usual with contemplations that provoked him to smirk rather wickedly and chuckle sordidly to himself. "You're alive!" exclaimed Frodo. Bilbo started and looked up, blinking bemusedly. "Hullo, Frodo!" he said. "Yes, I am alive, and no thanks to El Rond--the old forger. But we left him behind some time ago in the--*at*, *at* the river, so he will trouble us no more." He rubbed his hands gleefully and beamed chipperly at Frodo. "Well, Frodo, we're off to where the blessed go at it day and night, and no one ever loses his mojo. Are you coming?" At these words, a dark, lanky Elf with devastating bedroom eyes stepped forward and draped his arm possessively around Frodo's shoulders. "Yes, I am coming," said Frodo, reaching to lightly stroke the Elf's hand. "Where are you going, Frodo?" cried Sam, though at last he understood what was happening. The matching Elven-Rune codpieces told him all he needed to know. "Over the Sea, Sam," said Frodo. Sam blinked. "And I can't come." "Well...no, Sam, I don't think that would be a good idea." Frodo glanced up questioningly at the Elf, then looked back to Sam, his voice suddenly stern. "Listen, Sam. Rosie's waiting back at Money-Bags End, and when this ship leaves, I'm going to be on it, and you're going to be on your way back to her." "But--I thought we--you and me--" "Rosie needs you, Sam. The Shire needs you. I know you love me, and I love you, but if there's one thing I've learned, Sam, it's that the happiness of three little people don't amount to a hill of beans in this world." The tears glittered in Frodo's eyes, or maybe they were in Sam's own eyes as he gazed back at Frodo. Even as the Elves made ready to depart, Frodo and Sam stood there, on the quay, suddenly overcome with misty water-colored memories of the way they were. *Can it be it was all so simple, then?* thought Sam. *Or has time rewritten every line?* "Sam," said Frodo in a hushed voice. "If we had the chance to do it all again, tell me...would we? Could we...?" Just then, out of the corner of his eye, Sam caught a movement in the woods. "Listen, Frodo!" he suddenly barked out, giving Frodo a shove. "When this ship leaves with that Elf on it, you're going to be on it with him! 'Cause if there's one thing I've learned--" *shove* "--it's that the happiness of three little--um, two little people and one Elf--don't amount to--" "Wait a minute, those are *my* lines," protested Frodo, pouting. "Damn it, Frodo!" shouted Sam, shoving Frodo up the gangplank. "Hurry! *Hurry!*" Frodo hurried, stopping at the top only to say, "Oh, by the way, Sam, here are the papers signing over my fifty percent of Money-Bags End to you--" "Yes, yes, whatever! Just *GO!*" cried Sam, catching the thick envelope and stuffing it into his suit pocket as he cast an anxious glance back toward the woods. And Frodo went aboard the ship, clasping the hand of the waiting Elf, whence they disappeared straightaway to somewhere below the deck of the ship. And the gangplank was drawn up, and magically the ship propelled itself at about Mach 5 away from the shore, and vanished into a thick fog that rolled in with great haste. Sam breathed a sigh of relief. He turned, and watched as Morrie ran toward him, wearing a monocle and clad in a black leather uniform. "Ach! Baggins hahs gott avay! Eru in Himmel!" he cried in an incredibly-bad-even-for-Hollywood Teutonic accent. "Vell, Meister Gamchee," intoned the one-handed mobster through a serpentine sliver of a smile, "you vood do vell to come mit me, vitout a fight." Sam stood his ground, staring stonily at Morrie. "Very vell." Morrie raised his eyebrows and cocked his pistol--or was that pistoled his-- *GET ON WITH IT!* Ahem. Morrie raised his eyebrows and cocked his pistol. "I shahll count zu zehn, und may ze besst Hoppit vin." He paced slowly toward Sam. "Eins...zwei...drei...vier...fuenf...sechs...sieben...acht...neun--" BAM! BAM! BAM-BAM-BAM!!! "AAACCCHH!!! du Hamsterlieber!!!" cried Morrie, clutching his chest as crimson bloomed across the starched white shirt under his leather trench coat. He collapsed, slowly, elegantly, into a scarlet-and-black heap upon the dark gray stone from which the seaport had been carved. BAM! BAM! BAM-BAM-BAM!!! "All right, Bam-Bam, you can shut up," muttered Sam, blowing the smoke from the end of his pistol. "The bastard's dead." The white-haired club-wielding tot ambled off, back through the time-warp whence he'd come. Sam looked up, then, to see Pipsqueak emerging from behind a tree, regarding him with new admiration. "You know, Sam," he said, linking his arm with Sam's, "I think this could be the start of a beautiful friendship." "No, thank you," declared Sam, pulling his arm free. "I've had enough 'friendship' to last me a lifetime." Yet he cast a last, wistful glance over his shoulder, at the darkling sea upon which the ship had vanished into the fog. A little tear glimmered in the corner of his eye, and he sniffed. Pipsqueak watched him, and decided it was best to leave the old soldier to his memories. He slipped off, saying nothing, but was singing by the time he reached the first bordello on the border of the Shire. *** At last Sam began to walk slowly homewards, the waves of the sea echoing in his heart; and he slept, and walked some more, and slept some more, and walked some more, and so forth and so on, until at last he was ascending the Hill to the front door of Money-Bags End. And there was yellow light within, and the promising aromas of a sumptous seven-course meal wafting to greet him when he stepped inside; and Rosie was waiting in the parlor, hands planted on her hips and one eyebrow raised in expectation. "Well?" said Rosie. "Well." A slow grin spread over Sam's face. "We're home free." "You mean--?" "I *mean*," declared Sam, flinging his arms around his plump capitalist trophy-wife, "it's OURS! ALL OURS!" He threw back his head and laughed heartily as he swung Rosie around in an exuberant dance. "We're in the money! We're in the money!" "I told you!" laughed Rosie. "Didn't I tell you he'd do it, if you just played your cards right and had a bit of patience?" "That you did, my Rose; that you did." Sam halted their dance and pressed Rosie to himself for a kiss. "Baby," he said. "You're the greatest." *** THE END *** (But stay tuned for the Epilogue...)