Roast Chicken?

Frodo stopped, gasping for breath. "I can't go on much farther, Sam," he said, panting.

Sméagol poked his head up over the top of the hill. "Come, hobbitses! Must hurry!" His head

disappeared again.

Sam glared where Sméagol's head had just been. He went to the top of the hill and screamed

down the other side, "Hold on a minute, will ya?! Poor Mr. Frodo needs a break!"

Frodo shook his head. "I'll be fine, Sam. Sméagol's right. We should be going."

"But at least have somethin' ta eat!" pouted Sam. "I brought a roast chicken, just for our

eatin' pleasure!"

Frodo stared. "Roast chicken, Sam? Why in Middle-Earth didn't you tell me?!"

"Well, sir, I was saving it till your birthday. But Mr. Frodo, I think it's goin' bad!" He dug

around in his pack and pulled out a maggoty, moldy, and very smelly roast chicken. He took one

look and burst into tears. "I was sure it'd keep till your birthday! And now it's spoiled!"

Frodo rolled his eyes. "You always were a dramatic one, weren't you Sam?" he

said under his breath.

Sam sniffed and looked up, his eyes filled with tears. "Whazzat, Mr. Frodo? Anything you

need, I'll do it for you. It's all my fault about the roast chicken…" he started bawling again.

Frodo looked around, embarrassed. "Sam! I demand that you stop your blubbing this instant!

You're making a scene! Bring your sniveling to a halt! Stop! Now! End it here!

COMPRENDO?!"

Sam's head shot up, thinking Frodo said the last word in Elvish. "Why, Mr. Frodo! I didn't

know you knew Elvish! I mean, I know some Elvish verbal communication, but never in all my

48 years would I have guessed that YOU knew-"

Frodo shook his head and in disbelief said, "Wait, wait, wait, Sam. YOU know Elvish?"

Sam went red as a beet. "Well, sir, Rosie Cotton's been learnin' me some suitable elvish

verbal communication."

Frodo rolled his eyes just as Sméagol came bounding up the hill. "Is that scrumptious,

crunchable dead chicken we smells?" With his tongue out and panting, he reminded Sam of a

dog that wants a bone. Unfortunately for him, Sam didn't like dogs, ever since that one bit him

when he was just a kid.

Sam glared at Sméagol. "It's not for you, you little-" But Frodo cut him off.

"Sam, WE surely can't eat it. He can have it, if he wants it that bad."

Sam grumbled. "Oh…here you go. Hope he gets sick," He mumbled under his breath.

Sméagol devoured it like he hadn't eaten in days.

And, in truth, he hadn't. When he was finished, there wasn't a piece of meat left on that

chicken. In fact, there wasn't even a BONE left on that there chicken!

He got onto his feet swaying this way and that, trying to stay upright, which was hard, being

that his stomach had extended about 10 inches.

They had just started walking down the path, when Sméagol lost his footing and started

rolling down the hill, screaming all the way.

"I've got 'im!" Sam yelled. "I've got-OOOFF!"

Smeagol had smacked into Sam, and now they were BOTH rolling down the hill. "Sam!"

Frodo cried, "Watch out for that-" BOOM! "Tree."

Sam sat up, with a lump on his head the size of one of them potatoes Pippin and Merry had

stolen from Farmer Maggot. He grumbled something inaudible, but Frodo heard something

about, "Meant to hit me, fat ol' thing", "Can't WAIT till we get to Mordor", and, "Finally be rid

of 'im!"

Frodo smirked. "Come on, Sam. We must be going, remember?"

Sam groaned. "Whatever you say, Mr. Frodo. Whatever you say."

THE END