Hours later, Crackers found herself sitting cross-legged on her faux tile bedroom floor, perched on top of a pillow in order to keep from touching the hard and frigid ground. Directly in front of her was a little white Sunbeam heater that she was fond of warming herself close to for hours on end; the poor dear always seemed to be cold. More important, though, was the curious, and still inescapably real, item clutched in her left hand and that she was poised to open with her right: a standard white envelope, plain but for the publishing symbol of one J.R.R. Tolkien.
She hadn't told anyone about it, the envelope or the visit. Come and think of it, though, she didn't have a very good reason not to have. "They'll think I'm crazy"? Just who in her life did she think was not of the firm opinion that she wasn't exactly sane? No one, that she knew of; so telling someone that a forty-years-dead British author had paid her a visit in the middle of class today may or may not have surprised them. Mum, however, had still been the word as regarding her Strange Experience of the Day.
Taking a deep breath, Crackers slipped her long thumbnail underneath of the black wax seal, lifted the envelope's flap, and removed from it a single sheet of paper, about the same colour as the pages of your typical paperback. That was it? One piece of paper with writing on one side only, to give her the detailed information Tolkien had promised? She had been expecting, oh, I don't know, maybe something…more!
Despite feeling somewhat slighted, she knew she had little choice but to attempt to glean whatever information she could from the letter. She unfolded the page, only to reveal three type-written paragraphs with gaps for more specific information to be filled in by hand. She quickly scanned the letter, only to be left thinking, This sounds more like warranty information than explanations and instructions!
She read over it again, this time slowly and meticulously, wondering if she'd perhaps skipped over the part Tolkien had referred to. It said the following:
Dear CrackinAndProudOfIt _:
Congratulations! Your application to the Famous Authors Using Living Toys to Thank You (F.A.U.L.T.T.Y.) Program has been accepted! What application? thought Crackers. As a result of this, you will in the near future receive five life-sized plush toys based on characters created by _J.R.R. Tolkien_. You may recognize the names of these toys: _Maeglin_, _Curufin_, _Maedhros, _Eöl_, and _Fingon_. In fact, if you do not recognize them, there has been a grave mistake, and it is imperative that you call the following telephone number: _ for your own personal safety.
Crackers recognized the names, too well, for now she was in full-fledged panic mode: She was getting plushies of Curufin and Eöl, plushies that would apparently come to life. What was Tolkien thinking? He created the characters; he knew where the enmity of each was directed, so he had to have known that this was a disaster waiting to occur. Was this some sort of cruel punishment for having such varying taste?
Had the letter actually had the phone number written on it, she knew she would have called and played dumb, said whatever it took to get herself out of this. However, the number's blank space had been conveniently overlooked by the kind individual filling out her letter. Of course. What choice had she but to read on, though?
In the event that you do recognize these names, as you should, the plushies will become your charges from the moment they arrive on your doorstep. (If you are reading this, then they are en route.) The F.A.U.L.T.T.Y. Program is not responsible for damage incurred upon your person, your property, or your general surroundings due to misuse of your plush toys: you are. Seeing as you become liable for them, you are also strongly cautioned to keep them within your sight at all times.
Isn't that comforting? thought Crackers, eyes growing rather wide at the frightening idea of her being responsible for five elven plushies. The worst part, though, was the dread. The letter had informed her that the impending of doom of fighting plushies was even now drawing closer to her house. Why do they send out these stupid letters, anyway? she mentally complained. Maybe it would be better just to surprise the F.A.U.L.T.T.Y. Program's victims than to have them worry and panic about what was to come! She immediately recalled the notion, though. For a person of her own disposition, she knew that it was much better to "get one's head around" things beforehand.
She had but two last paragraphs left and had learned little to help her. Perhaps this final bit would, though? She began to finish reading the letter.
You must know that your plush toys, prior to being de-activated for shipping, have been educated in a few basic skills necessary in your modern world (e.g. driving a car, speaking English, shooting a gun, etc.) in the event that they should need these talents for survival.
Shoot a gun? thought Crackers. Oh, this is not good.
Also, your plushies will not come packaged with any sort of weapon, on account of unfortunate mishaps in the past involving bewilderment upon delivery and activation. For further instruction upon the arrival of your toys, their packages will contain some, but you assuredly will not be on your own in this endeavour as long as you follow one simple rule: Do not throw away this envelope. Keep it with you always, let no one else read its contents, and above all, obey whatever direction it provides you with.
Best of luck to you,
The F.A.U.L.T.T.Y. Team
And that was it. That was all of the "explanation and information" she was going to receive. She wondered if all of that business about the envelope there at the end meant she would receive more, though. It certainly sounded like it. Crackers re-read the letter and sat completely still for several minutes, staring into the depths of her heater's vents and contemplating her current predicament.
For some reason, the idea that this F.A.U.L.T.T.Y. program wasn't just going to turn these plushies loose on her and then completely evaporate made her feel considerably better. She whispered a prayer that the last sentences had indeed meant such and began to wonder if by "en route" the letter had meant that they would arrive tonight…
Her thoughts were interrupted by the sound of footsteps passing through her younger sister's room and into her own doorway. (The two bedrooms were connected by Crackers' door.) She looked up from her reflecting to see her mother, a blonde woman not unlike Crackers herself in most ways but appearance, standing just inside her room, between the chest-of-drawers and the chinchillas' cage.
"Crackers," her mother said, though she used an alternate name which I am unable to disclose, for the protection of the identities of those involved, "did you order something online? There are some packages out on the porch, and I must have been smoking dope when they got delivered, because I didn't see it happen. They're pretty big, and the weird part is that they're addressed to that username of yours, 'CrackinAndProudOfIt.' Did you use that to order something?"
(No, to answer your question, Crackers' mother does not, nor has ever, used illegal drugs; she only happens to be a very funny lady with a facetious manner of speaking.)
Crackers wasn't at all superstitious, but she mentally scolded herself for "jinxing" it by wondering how soon the plushies would arrive. She hadn't yet thought about what she would tell her family, but she got a sudden notion that she would only be believed if the proof was standing right next to her.
"Yes and no," she answered mysteriously, a wry smile inadvertently forming on her features.
She twisted her heater's knob to turn it off and began making her short way to the living room and out the door to the front porch, mother in tow. Unlocking the main door and then the storm door, the two stepped out into the cold air of January's early dusk and found on their concrete doorstep five cardboard boxes, each between six and seven and a half feet long, narrow, as if you could place dead bodies inside.
A fleeting thought asked Crackers if leaving the boxes would eventually result in their disappearance. She doubted it, but she was tempted to try… And then one of them moved.