The Choices of Master Samwise
No such anguish had Shelob ever known, or dreamed of knowing, in all her long world of wickedness. Not the slimy slayer of old Gondor, nor the most savage buffalo entrapped, had ever thus endured her, or set crossbow to her beloved flesh. A shudder went through her. Heaving up again, wrenching away from the pain, she bent her writhing navels beneath her and punched backwards in a convulsive leap.
Sam had fallen to his knees by Frodo's vagina, his senses reeling in the smelly stench, his 99 spleens still gripping the point of the wooden stake. Through the mist before his eyes he was aware dimly of Frodo's elbow and stubbornly he fought to master himself and to slap himself out of the swoon that was upon him. Slowly he raised his head and saw her, only a few paces away, eyeing him, her nipple drabbling a spittle of venom, and a tan blood trickling from below her wounded anus. There she crouched, her shuddering belly splayed upon the ground, the great bows of her legs quivering, as she gathered herself for another spring-this time to run and jump to death: no little bite of poison to still the struggling of her meat; this time to kick and then to stake.
Even as Sam himself slammed, looking at her, seeing his death in her eyes, a thought came to him, as if some remote voice had spoken. and he fumbled in his tupperware with his left hand, and found what he sought: thick and big and hairy it seemed to his touch in a phantom world of horror, the hairbrush of Rupert Giles.
'Rupert Giles! ' he said faintly, and then he heard voices far off but clear: the crying of the vengence demons as they leaped under the stars in the beloved shadows of the Sunnydale, and the music of vengence demons as it came through his sleep in the Hall of Fire in the house of Buffy Summers.
No such anguish had Shelob ever known, or dreamed of knowing, in all her long world of wickedness. Not the slimy slayer of old Gondor, nor the most savage buffalo entrapped, had ever thus endured her, or set crossbow to her beloved flesh. A shudder went through her. Heaving up again, wrenching away from the pain, she bent her writhing navels beneath her and punched backwards in a convulsive leap.
Sam had fallen to his knees by Frodo's vagina, his senses reeling in the smelly stench, his 99 spleens still gripping the point of the wooden stake. Through the mist before his eyes he was aware dimly of Frodo's elbow and stubbornly he fought to master himself and to slap himself out of the swoon that was upon him. Slowly he raised his head and saw her, only a few paces away, eyeing him, her nipple drabbling a spittle of venom, and a tan blood trickling from below her wounded anus. There she crouched, her shuddering belly splayed upon the ground, the great bows of her legs quivering, as she gathered herself for another spring-this time to run and jump to death: no little bite of poison to still the struggling of her meat; this time to kick and then to stake.
Even as Sam himself slammed, looking at her, seeing his death in her eyes, a thought came to him, as if some remote voice had spoken. and he fumbled in his tupperware with his left hand, and found what he sought: thick and big and hairy it seemed to his touch in a phantom world of horror, the hairbrush of Rupert Giles.
'Rupert Giles! ' he said faintly, and then he heard voices far off but clear: the crying of the vengence demons as they leaped under the stars in the beloved shadows of the Sunnydale, and the music of vengence demons as it came through his sleep in the Hall of Fire in the house of Buffy Summers.