Disclaimer: I don't own the rights to any of the characters and places in JRR Tolkien's 'Lord of the Rings'. I'm actually a huge fan (not that you'd think it), but writing this was more fun than doing my dissertation.
The Lord of the Sleaze
It was 9:30pm at the Prancing Pony. A pair of drunken Orcs staggered into the night. From inside, a song sounding dangerously like 'Its Raining Men' echoed down the street.
From the moment he had stepped over the threshold, Frodo had known this was a bad idea. They were due to meet up with an established crack dealer called Aragorn, who went by the 'street' name of Strider. As the four Hobbits edged into a shady corner they felt themselves being eyed by a variety of plastered men and elves, sipping pints and Bicardi Breezers respectively. The bags of pipe-weed seemed to be burning holes in Frodo's voluminous pockets.
'Someone get the drinks,' he muttered, avoiding the gazes of half a dozen dwarves, who were getting quietly mashed on the next table. Sam bravely stepped up to the bar and struggled to mount a stool, where the barman stared at him suspiciously.
'Four pints of...of..' He swept a quick glance at the bevies on offer. '...er...Old Troll, please.'
Several of the other customers sniggered unpleasantly. Even the barman seemed to be having trouble keeping a straight face as pulled the four pints and set them roughly on the stained bar before him.
'Lets see some ID first, short-arse,' he growled, leering at the Hobbits. Sam shot a nervous glance at Frodo, who turned away. Slowly, he drew his hastily forged ID from his grubby pocket, and waved it briefly under the barman's bloated nose, who snorted and walked away. Scooping up the frothy pints he scampered back to their table. There was an obvious rise in the volume of laughter in the room as they each took a large swig. They chose to ignore it.
It was at that moment that the door opened and two men entered. One was young, with unkempt dark hair and rough stubble, who whispered something to his companion and vanished into the toilets. The other was none other than Gandalf, the wizard.
'Oh! Oi, Gandalf,' yelled Pippin across the bar. A dark look came over the wizards face and he grudgingly shuffled towards them.
'So,' he began, planting himself on a stool. 'You made it. And do you have the…ahem...merchandise?' he whispered, falling upon the ancient elven tongue. Frodo discretely drew an ounce of pipe-weed from his pocket, Sam thrust forth a battered sack and Merry and Pippin threw the cover off a large cool-box held between them.
Gandalf was a well know arms dealer, supplying whenever and to whomever he could. It was rumoured that the Drug Lord Sauron himself made use of Gandalf's never ending supply of black market weaponry. The hobbits could see a row of glittering fragmentation grenades swinging from the wily old wizards belt.
'And what, may I ask, is this,' he grunted, poking at Sam's sack with his 'staff' (a cunningly disguised bazooka). Sam shakily undid the clasp and poured a battered stream of girlie mags onto the table. The dwarves began laughing again.
'And what,' said Gandalf, suppressing a chuckle, 'do you intend to do with these?'
'Sell them,' announced Sam in an airy tone.
'But they're all…tattered.' Gandalf mumbled, flicking through a back issue of Mayfair. 'What have you been doing with them?'
'Err…testing them,' gulped Sam in a hushed voice. The other Hobbits turned away, and wished they'd allowed that traffic Nazgul to take Sam away for being found drunk in charge of the Buckleberry ferry. The dwarves, on the other hand, collapsed in helpless mirth. This potentially fellowship breaking moment was interrupted by the sudden arrival of the young man with whom Gandalf had entered.
'Greetings,' he began breathlessly, more than a little shaky. 'My name is Aragorn, but you may call me The King of Gondor.'
He sat down unsteadily, scooping a copy of Hustler from the tabletop, and leafing through it dreamily.
'Give him a minute,' said Gandalf conspiratorially, tapping his hooked nose.
'Why are we here, anyway?' inquired Merry, taking another deep draught of his drink.
With a long, annoyed breath, Gandalf began.
'Long ago there were the elves, the firstborn. Basically they did bugger all except drink, take mind-expanding substances and surf for porn on the net. Those were happy times and with the arrival of men, they became even merrier. Interracial sex never bothered the elves and the men were more than willing to get stuck in. It was towards the end of the second age that the great super-clubs were set up, mighty metropolises of debauchery like Rivendell and Lothlorien. Then began the dark times. Denied the right to set up a chain of trendy wine bars stretching from Hobbiton to Mordor, a young go-getter called Sauron became dissatisfied with the ways of the world. Instead he brought a run-down restaurant called Barad-dur and started on his quest for domination of Middle-Earth, inciting violence through selling weapons and churning out dodgy designer drugs. Before he knew it, he was at the forefront of a fast growing global empire, threatening all of what had gone before. Now he has many names; the Drug Lord due to his monopoly on the illegal substances trade, and the Great Enema through his porn business. But the time has come for all those who feel oppressed by this vile supremacy, to rise up and fight against the evil, even if it means using his own weapons against him!!'
'Bugger me,' exclaimed Pippin.
'And what,' said Aragorn, suddenly alert, 'do you lot think you can do to help?'
'We're willing to start moving in on his patch and make a quick buck off his clients,' said Frodo tentatively.
'Well said, my lad,' chimed in Gandalf, looking up from reassembling his sidearm.
With a mighty drunken roar, the door swung open and in walked a tall warrior. Across his back was slung an enormous shield bearing the emblem of Gondor; an overflowing shot glass crossed with a large cigar. He had lank hair, a scruffy beard and smelt like a meltdown at the brewery. Boromir had arrived.
Boromir was a drunken womaniser. Even as he entered he scanned the crowd, spotted the elf maidens on a hen night and began staring lecherously at them, his tongue lolling from his mouth.
'Hey darlin's,' he bawled at them, as the barman poured his usual jug of Bitter Dwarfbeard. 'Who wants a peek at my sword?' He cheekily held up a splendid blade. The Hobbits winced. The elf maidens ignored him. Aragorn laughed uproariously and shouted, 'nice one Boromir,' in an unnervingly sincere voice. As a spoiled rich kid from Gondor, Boromir was the perfect candidate for finding clients for Aragorn and the two often 'worked' together.
'Gandy,' he slurred, pinching the wizard's hat and placing it rakishly upon his own head, and sitting down heavily. 'What's the plan, man…and where's that girly elf and Gimli?'
'They're meeting us at Rivendell,' said Aragorn. 'They said they couldn't be arsed to walk to Bree for a pub, when it was singles night at the greatest club this side of the Misty Mountains, so sod 'em. Besides,' he muttered, pulling a battered flyer from his pocket. 'I worked out that when we get there, its going to be strippers night. The finest elf girls in Middle-Earth will get naked and dance for your pleasure, courtesy of MC Elrond,' he quoted, grinning childishly.
'In that case,' said Boromir heartily, 'lets get leathered!! Another round please!!'
'How about a song?' said Frodo, springing onto the table. The others cheered him on as Merry and Pippin set up a backing beat. He began to rap an elvish song about the early days of Middle-Earth, when the world was still untouched by the evils of Sauron.
I'm the town drunk, yes I'm the town drunk,
All the other town drunks are just imitating,
So won't the real drunk please stand up, please stand up, please stand up,
And hold both of those pints in each hand up,
And be proud to be out of your head,
And passed out in bed,
Once more time, drink as you go...
Probably due to the powerful effects of the Old Troll, Frodo lost his footing and fell from the table. As he flailed his arms, the bag of weed he had been clutching in his pocket flew from his grip and sailed across the room to land with a thud on the bar. There was a stunned silence. The barman stalked towards the package and gingerly picked it up.
'You fuckwit,' whispered Sam in Frodo's ear.
'I can explain,' began Aragorn lurching to his feet but he was cut off the barman's excited cry.
'Wahay!!' he shouted, holding the bag aloft for all to see. 'Now we can really get this party going!!!'
Coming Soon – 'A Joint in the Dark'
The Lord of the Sleaze
It was 9:30pm at the Prancing Pony. A pair of drunken Orcs staggered into the night. From inside, a song sounding dangerously like 'Its Raining Men' echoed down the street.
From the moment he had stepped over the threshold, Frodo had known this was a bad idea. They were due to meet up with an established crack dealer called Aragorn, who went by the 'street' name of Strider. As the four Hobbits edged into a shady corner they felt themselves being eyed by a variety of plastered men and elves, sipping pints and Bicardi Breezers respectively. The bags of pipe-weed seemed to be burning holes in Frodo's voluminous pockets.
'Someone get the drinks,' he muttered, avoiding the gazes of half a dozen dwarves, who were getting quietly mashed on the next table. Sam bravely stepped up to the bar and struggled to mount a stool, where the barman stared at him suspiciously.
'Four pints of...of..' He swept a quick glance at the bevies on offer. '...er...Old Troll, please.'
Several of the other customers sniggered unpleasantly. Even the barman seemed to be having trouble keeping a straight face as pulled the four pints and set them roughly on the stained bar before him.
'Lets see some ID first, short-arse,' he growled, leering at the Hobbits. Sam shot a nervous glance at Frodo, who turned away. Slowly, he drew his hastily forged ID from his grubby pocket, and waved it briefly under the barman's bloated nose, who snorted and walked away. Scooping up the frothy pints he scampered back to their table. There was an obvious rise in the volume of laughter in the room as they each took a large swig. They chose to ignore it.
It was at that moment that the door opened and two men entered. One was young, with unkempt dark hair and rough stubble, who whispered something to his companion and vanished into the toilets. The other was none other than Gandalf, the wizard.
'Oh! Oi, Gandalf,' yelled Pippin across the bar. A dark look came over the wizards face and he grudgingly shuffled towards them.
'So,' he began, planting himself on a stool. 'You made it. And do you have the…ahem...merchandise?' he whispered, falling upon the ancient elven tongue. Frodo discretely drew an ounce of pipe-weed from his pocket, Sam thrust forth a battered sack and Merry and Pippin threw the cover off a large cool-box held between them.
Gandalf was a well know arms dealer, supplying whenever and to whomever he could. It was rumoured that the Drug Lord Sauron himself made use of Gandalf's never ending supply of black market weaponry. The hobbits could see a row of glittering fragmentation grenades swinging from the wily old wizards belt.
'And what, may I ask, is this,' he grunted, poking at Sam's sack with his 'staff' (a cunningly disguised bazooka). Sam shakily undid the clasp and poured a battered stream of girlie mags onto the table. The dwarves began laughing again.
'And what,' said Gandalf, suppressing a chuckle, 'do you intend to do with these?'
'Sell them,' announced Sam in an airy tone.
'But they're all…tattered.' Gandalf mumbled, flicking through a back issue of Mayfair. 'What have you been doing with them?'
'Err…testing them,' gulped Sam in a hushed voice. The other Hobbits turned away, and wished they'd allowed that traffic Nazgul to take Sam away for being found drunk in charge of the Buckleberry ferry. The dwarves, on the other hand, collapsed in helpless mirth. This potentially fellowship breaking moment was interrupted by the sudden arrival of the young man with whom Gandalf had entered.
'Greetings,' he began breathlessly, more than a little shaky. 'My name is Aragorn, but you may call me The King of Gondor.'
He sat down unsteadily, scooping a copy of Hustler from the tabletop, and leafing through it dreamily.
'Give him a minute,' said Gandalf conspiratorially, tapping his hooked nose.
'Why are we here, anyway?' inquired Merry, taking another deep draught of his drink.
With a long, annoyed breath, Gandalf began.
'Long ago there were the elves, the firstborn. Basically they did bugger all except drink, take mind-expanding substances and surf for porn on the net. Those were happy times and with the arrival of men, they became even merrier. Interracial sex never bothered the elves and the men were more than willing to get stuck in. It was towards the end of the second age that the great super-clubs were set up, mighty metropolises of debauchery like Rivendell and Lothlorien. Then began the dark times. Denied the right to set up a chain of trendy wine bars stretching from Hobbiton to Mordor, a young go-getter called Sauron became dissatisfied with the ways of the world. Instead he brought a run-down restaurant called Barad-dur and started on his quest for domination of Middle-Earth, inciting violence through selling weapons and churning out dodgy designer drugs. Before he knew it, he was at the forefront of a fast growing global empire, threatening all of what had gone before. Now he has many names; the Drug Lord due to his monopoly on the illegal substances trade, and the Great Enema through his porn business. But the time has come for all those who feel oppressed by this vile supremacy, to rise up and fight against the evil, even if it means using his own weapons against him!!'
'Bugger me,' exclaimed Pippin.
'And what,' said Aragorn, suddenly alert, 'do you lot think you can do to help?'
'We're willing to start moving in on his patch and make a quick buck off his clients,' said Frodo tentatively.
'Well said, my lad,' chimed in Gandalf, looking up from reassembling his sidearm.
With a mighty drunken roar, the door swung open and in walked a tall warrior. Across his back was slung an enormous shield bearing the emblem of Gondor; an overflowing shot glass crossed with a large cigar. He had lank hair, a scruffy beard and smelt like a meltdown at the brewery. Boromir had arrived.
Boromir was a drunken womaniser. Even as he entered he scanned the crowd, spotted the elf maidens on a hen night and began staring lecherously at them, his tongue lolling from his mouth.
'Hey darlin's,' he bawled at them, as the barman poured his usual jug of Bitter Dwarfbeard. 'Who wants a peek at my sword?' He cheekily held up a splendid blade. The Hobbits winced. The elf maidens ignored him. Aragorn laughed uproariously and shouted, 'nice one Boromir,' in an unnervingly sincere voice. As a spoiled rich kid from Gondor, Boromir was the perfect candidate for finding clients for Aragorn and the two often 'worked' together.
'Gandy,' he slurred, pinching the wizard's hat and placing it rakishly upon his own head, and sitting down heavily. 'What's the plan, man…and where's that girly elf and Gimli?'
'They're meeting us at Rivendell,' said Aragorn. 'They said they couldn't be arsed to walk to Bree for a pub, when it was singles night at the greatest club this side of the Misty Mountains, so sod 'em. Besides,' he muttered, pulling a battered flyer from his pocket. 'I worked out that when we get there, its going to be strippers night. The finest elf girls in Middle-Earth will get naked and dance for your pleasure, courtesy of MC Elrond,' he quoted, grinning childishly.
'In that case,' said Boromir heartily, 'lets get leathered!! Another round please!!'
'How about a song?' said Frodo, springing onto the table. The others cheered him on as Merry and Pippin set up a backing beat. He began to rap an elvish song about the early days of Middle-Earth, when the world was still untouched by the evils of Sauron.
I'm the town drunk, yes I'm the town drunk,
All the other town drunks are just imitating,
So won't the real drunk please stand up, please stand up, please stand up,
And hold both of those pints in each hand up,
And be proud to be out of your head,
And passed out in bed,
Once more time, drink as you go...
Probably due to the powerful effects of the Old Troll, Frodo lost his footing and fell from the table. As he flailed his arms, the bag of weed he had been clutching in his pocket flew from his grip and sailed across the room to land with a thud on the bar. There was a stunned silence. The barman stalked towards the package and gingerly picked it up.
'You fuckwit,' whispered Sam in Frodo's ear.
'I can explain,' began Aragorn lurching to his feet but he was cut off the barman's excited cry.
'Wahay!!' he shouted, holding the bag aloft for all to see. 'Now we can really get this party going!!!'
Coming Soon – 'A Joint in the Dark'