Chapter Eleven: A Spree in Bree, Part I

It was raining, as the special effects crew had gone on break and forgotten to turn off the gloomy atmospherics from Chapter Ten. The sopping-wet Hobbits stood before the gates of Bree, with its ramshackle wooden palisades encircling the muddy environs of the main town, which abutted the equally muddy Bree-Hill. Mud was, of course, Bree's chief export, partly because there was so much of it, and also because of its high clay content, which made admirable brick for the adobe structures of the Anasazi and Hopi tribes in Southwestern Dunland, an area long ruled by the white-supremacist Rohirrim, a nomadic band of mercenary Norsemen with obvious Anglo-Saxon traits, who acted as condottieri for the decadent and diminished Gondorion Empire. Through an imperialistic dogma of Manifest Destiny, the Rohirrim colonized and eventually overran Dunland, to the detriment of the native people…

"I thought that whole rambling, post-modern narrative shtick was played out in the previous 'Hobbit' parody," Frodo grumbled.

"Well, it has gotten us from the Barrow Downs all the way to Bree without several pages of interminable dialogue with Tom Bombadil," Merry sighed in relief.

"And all the walking, let's not forget all the miles of walking," Sam added.

"Good points," Frodo replied, now equally relieved. "Perhaps the narrator can kindly get us past the page upon page of in-depth descriptions of the 'Big Folk' and 'Little Folk' demographics of Bree and the town's tedious history; and, without further ado, get us to the Prancing Pony."

Being that it was well past nightfall and raining, the Bree-gates were shut. After much knocking, the old gatekeeper appeared with a lantern and peered suspiciously over the gate.

"'Ere now," the gatekeeper bemoaned in his quaint, English idiom:

Who's that knocking on my door?
Its gotta be a quarter to four.
Is it you again coming 'round for more?

Frodo, remembering the proper etiquette for secret passwords and ancient door-opening rituals, replied:

Can't you hear me knockin' on your window?
Can't you hear me knockin' on your door?
Can't you hear me knockin' down your dirty street, yeah!

The gatekeeper slyly replied:

I hear you knocking,
But you can't come in.
I hear you knocking,
Go back where you been!

Not to be deterred by a sudden change of lyric from Rod Stewart to Dave Edmunds (obviously meant to confuse the uninitiated stranger), Frodo remained constant with his Richards/Jagger composition:

Can't you hear me knockin', ahh, are you safe asleep?
Can't you hear me knockin', yeah, down the gaslight street?
Can't you hear me knockin', yeah, throw me down the keys.

The gatekeeper, satisfied that he had performed his duty satisfactorily, mumbled, "Alright, alright then," as he swung the gate open. Still, he eyed the road-weary travellers with some amazement: "Four Hobbits, eh? and from the Shire by the sound of your outlandish accent."

"Yes, we are travelers from Buckland on our way to The Prancing Pony, if you must know," Frodo answered rather indignantly.

"The Prancing Pony, eh?" the gatekeeper said with a wink and a nod. "Lookin' for some action at the inn, is it? Tryin' to get somethin' ye can't get in the Shire, hmmm? Takin' a walk on the wild side, are ye? Big women bobbin' Hobbits? HAH! Hope you brought some rope or a step stool!"

"Our business is our own," Frodo huffed in irritation.

"Your business is your own, is it? Ho-ho, m'lads! Far be it from me to go a' pryin' into your Perian perversions," the gatekeeper winked knowingly. "'What happens in Bree stays in Bree', as the travel brochures tell. Say no more, my friends, I get it…and I hope you 'get it' too."

"Look, I don't know what you're getting at, but we are merely seeking a room for the night," Frodo growled.

"All four of ye, and one room?" the gatekeeper laughed. "Well, that don't leave much space for the drunken wenches and the llamas. But it'll be quite cozy, no doubt!"

"Look, are you going to let us in?" Merry interrupted angrily.

"Yes, I am getting soaked," Pippin grumbled.

"Not quite the 'wet' you want to 'get', eh, my horny li'l hobbit?" The gatekeeper said as he nudged Pippin. "Say no more, say no more!" He reached into his robe and pulled out several small items. "Here you go, my likely lads, two complimentary Prancing Pony buy-one, get-one-free, all-you-can-eat buffet coupons, and some Elf-tickler condoms from Madame Hardbottle's House of Red Light." He motioned Pippin closer and whispered, "They're ribbed for her pleasure too!"

Finally, the disgusted Hobbits guided their ponies past the leering gatekeeper and slogged as quickly as possible through the muck and mire of Bree's main thoroughfare, aptly named 'The Strip'. "Don't do anything I wouldn't do!" the gatekeeper shouted after them. "Keep away from them Dwarvish prostitutes, as you can't tell male from female…lest you're into a bit of the strange. Not that there's anything wrong with that, mind you!"

"How do we find The Prancing Pony?" Sam asked as he stumbled doggedly through the mud.

"I assume it's that pink stucco building with 'The Prancing Pony' in large, neon letters," Frodo said in dismay.

And there before them stood the 'Pony', a garish quasi-Tudor structure with the aforementioned fluorescent pink daub-and-wattle walls intersected with faux-wood polyurethane beams and neoclassic statues of cherubic ponies pissing into a weedy, green pond. A neon sign buzzed and blinked 'VACANCY' as the rain fell, and since there was a valet, a rather shabby-looking and bumbling Halfling named Nob, the Hobbits did not need to park their ponies.

Sam stood at the dimly lit doorway of the Inn locked in concentration as he read a sign. "It says: 'Happy Hour from four to six pm weekdays'," he reiterated slowly, "and 'Karaoke with D.J. Turin Turambar every Sat and Sun' – I guess that means the weekend."

"Karaoke or not, let's get in out of this rain," Frodo said with a shiver (but whether from the chill downpour, or the thought of drunken, off-key singing is up for conjecture). "Hopefully the grill is still open so we can get a bite to eat."

The inn's main room was near filled to the rafters with an incessant buzz of drunken blather, clanking tankards and clinking silverware. The crowd was a mixed-bag of local mannish farmers, hammered Hobbits, and a sprinkling of seedy characters that were obviously foreign to Bree: a group of swarthy Southron travelers newly arrived from up the Greenway, a few somber looking dwarves from out East, and one or two sinister ranger-types hiding their criminal scowls beneath hooded cowls in the shadowy recesses of the room. Fortunately for the Hobbits, two nearby drunks slumped completely out of their chairs and lay face-first in the sawdust, spit and spilled ale, leaving their table unoccupied. Being hungry and thirsty, the Hobbits decided to forego the niceties of politeness and civility, and climbed over the drunks to usurp their table. A portly, red-faced man in a white apron came hustling and bustling by with his over laden tray tipping tankards of ale precariously from side to side.

"Excuse me, can we…" Frodo called in the man's direction.

"'Arf a minnit, 'arf a minnit, if'n you please," the man bellowed over his shoulder and was soon lost in the crowd.

A few moments later, the red-faced man came back, but he steamed right past the Hobbit's table again. "Pardon me…" Pippin said as the waiter breezed by.

"'Old yorn 'orses, 'old yorn 'orses," the man huffed and disappeared again.

"The service here sucks," Sam grumbled in time with his rumbling tummy.

The man then suddenly reappeared, wiping his hands fastidiously on his dirty apron. "Evenin' kind soirs," the man said, brushing the sweat from his forehead with his stained shirtsleeve, "what'll you be wantin'?"

"Beds for four and dinner, if you please," Frodo said. "Are you Barliman Butterbur?"

"'At's roight, Butterbur's me name and innkeepin's me game – bein' that I'm mos'ly innerested 'in keepin' you 'ere spendin' yorn money as long as possible!" Barliman laughed. He then clapped his hands to his forehead, as if he were trying to remember something…something very important…something key to the entire plot… something a wizard had told him not to forget or he would flay him alive! "Four 'Obbits! He cried in perplexity, "and outta ther Shire, by yer queer talk – beggin yer li'l massers' pardon fer the inference. 'At reminds me 'o' sumptin' a' portant; unfortunately, I shan't be rememberin' it till it's far too late – in keepin' wi' ther storyline 'n' all."

"That's quite all right, Butterbur," Frodo shrugged. "This is Mr. Brandybuck, Mr. Took and Mr. Gamgee, and I am Mr. Incognito…I mean Mr. Anonymous…errr…Underhill…Mr. Underhill…just an unassuming travelling Hobbit with a Ring…I mean without a Ring…heh…no Ring but the ringing in my ears, which is what happens when I'm hungry…oh my poor ears!"

Butterbur stared dumbly at Frodo for a moment and said, "'Ere now, it's gone again. In one ear 'n' out ter other, as the sayin' goes. If I 'ad 'alf a mind, that'd be 'alf a mind more'n I got now!" he said in his homely, self-effacing manner. "Anyways, one thing drives out ter other, so to speak, but it's been just 'at busy tonight. Got damn for'ners crawlin' out'er th' walls, present company excepted. But we got some noice, cozy 'Obbit rooms fer you li'l massers, and I'll be 'avin' dinner whipped up fer ye quicker than you can say 'Pe'er Piker pilched a pack 'o' peckered pumpernickel'."

But before the Hobbits could decipher what Butterbur just said, he was bustling off again. "Karaoke starts in an hour," he said over his shoulder. "Make yerselves to 'ome. Sure'n there'll be some innerested ears to 'ear wot tales ye got fer th' tellin'."

"What an atrocious accent," Merry said, shaking his head in disbelief.

"I'm sure it'll only be gettin' worser," Sam said prophetically.