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And then [insert name here] entered the room.
The room was small, like a lot of rooms are. Unless they are big. It had a floor, like most rooms do. Unless they are a tube, which I won't go into right now. And it had four walls, like a lot of rooms possess. Unless it is a triangle, but that is another story completely.
Just learn to deal with disappointment, folks. Because that is all the exposition you are getting.
Harry Potter… wait, no Dean Winchester… wait, no Percy Jackson. To hell it with, all of them together. Harry Dean Jackson, hereafter known as HDJ walked into that small non-triangular room. The one luckily with a floor. For walking.
"Ah, what the bloody bollocks! Three old ladies knitting the pantyhose of death! Sammy! Expectorate Petroleum!" HDJ barked as he looked up and saw his opponent on the opposite side of the chamber, which need I remind you had more than three sides.
The other man looked over at HDJ and gesticulated his gray hand until oodles and oodles of fluffy little pink bunnies flew out of his wand.
"I bet you can't eat just one!" the gnarled necromancer replied. "Or my name isn't Frodo Baggins."
"But your name isn't Frodo Baggins," HDJ remarked. "It's Samwood Gangrene."
"Who told?" the washed-out wizbag whined, wearily whetting his whistle.
No, really, I said whetting his whistle and not wetting his whistle. Because SG likes to keep his whistle sharp, so he whets it. With a stone. A philosopher's stone to be exact. Cheap at $2.99 from your local Walmart, Halloween aisle. And get me a slushie while you are it, damn it.
Right then a thumping pounding whumping sound was heard on the side of the small hall, which if you remember had the normally accepted allotment of four walls. And a floor. When the rubble fell away, HDJ and SG could see that it was a boy with whitish blonde hair and a pinched little face and that he had two big lumps of flesh with him, named Gag and Reflex. And luckily, Yoflam Ocard had his Gag-Reflex under control.
"Brilliant," HDJ complained. "He's brought a cave troll with him. Or two."
"They are actually gollums, you harry twat," retorted the tow-haired brat. "You know, the kinds made out of clay. Now take off all your clothes and dance for me, Scar-boy. Except I want you to put this single red boot on. And this wig. That way you'll look like that annoying little vampire Blecha Swine."
"Hmmm, that is something I would like to see too," SG piped in as he, well… lit up a pipe.
But that is the end of this chapter because the narrator can no longer manage both running from the dogs and typing at the same time. Join us tomorrow for another installment of "Bong Hits for Gandalf." Thank you and good night.