Chapter 21: The Point At Which The Story Gets Definitely Silly
Narrator #4 was in a terrible spot. Here he was, limping to the cusp of chapter twenty-one with no real end in sight, and the original Hobbit had lasted only nineteen chapters! The crotchety publisher – a shrewish woman with limited vision who counted words as a miser counts pennies -- was constantly harping on him, demanding in no uncertain terms that the story had better reach a stunning climax, and soon, or else a fifth narrator would be hired to draw the tale to a swift, and financially satisfactory, conclusion. With limited means and precipitous time constraints, Narrator #4 did what previously had been unthinkable: he would go to the source, the progenitor, the promethean creator who had lit the spark that set this tale aflame.
No, silly, he didn't dig up Tolkien's corpse for a one-sided chat at tea (as morbidly humorous as that moldering meeting might be); rather, he paid a visit to Stratford-on-Avon and the Oxfordshire Sanitarium for the Literary and Criminally Insane. Having received a thorough orientation from the facility's administrator, and duly warned to keep fingers and other bodily extremities away from the cell doors, Narrator #4 strode warily through the shabby warren of hallways and corridors in search of his reluctant muse. The place reeked of antiseptic and urine, an oddly pungent combination found almost exclusively in hospitals and kennels. The halls were dimly lit by fluorescents that hissed and blinked as if they were as mad as the occupants, and as he passed each cell, he overheard mutterings and mumblings, shouts and accusations, and literary criticisms standard for both an asylum and the London Times:
"It was a dark stormy night. It was a dark stormy night. It was a dark stormy night. It was a dark stormy night…"
"An ellipsis is a series of three points with spaces between them inserted into a quotation to indicate the omission of material from the original…"
"Gertrude Stein has often been dubbed 'The Mother of Modernism,' though there is a sense in which she also spawned a great deal of the plurality of postmodern society, not to mention the disembodied eclecticism of the Internet. I, on the other hand, would refer to her as the 'mama of Dada', Dadaism being the uncanny ability to neatly frame steaming piles of manure and peddling it as art to a public more than willing to ignore the smell – if only to be perceived as having good taste. It was not an artistic or literary movement; it was a bowel movement..."
Through an endless procession of halls, lobbies and corridors, Narrator #4 came at last to a dead end, and the final cell. In place of the usual metal grating, the cell was encased in thick Plexiglas, the type one finds protecting immigrant cashiers in rundown convenience stores in any high-crime neighborhood, and inside the paper-strewn cubicle sat a solitary figure seemingly engrossed in writing some great epic. But narrator #4 quickly noticed that the man could not be writing anything, for in place of a pen or a pencil, the manic hand that was fervently scribbling was holding a drinking straw, and the page remained blank.
"The guards took away all my writing utensils," the man said quietly, not bothering to look up. "It seems the administrator was quite upset that I attempted to use his forehead as a storyboard. I guess you could say I got under his skin."
Narrator #4 moved to reply, but the man behind the glass interrupted him, saying, "I knew you would be coming. It was only a matter of time. And I have time, but you don't."
Narrator #4 made another attempt to speak, but was again cut off. "My story…the story…the Hobbit parody…is floundering, is it not?"
"Well, no, not actually floundering," Narrator #4 sputtered.
"Nonsense! You would not be here if it were going great guns."
"Well, it is getting a tad bit overlong," Narrator #4 replied rather defensively, "but the writing is fine!"
"Is it now?" the man replied with a wry smile. "And you've moved through different elements of Pythonesque humor: mock-operettas, witty anachronisms, idiomatic and colloquial dialogue, transvestitism and fart jokes?"
"Yes…yes, all those. I've even resorted to puns with dragon oronyms."
"Tsk, tsk, and now you need a nude erection…I mean, new direction?" the man chuckled. "You've hit a brick wall, eh? Or rather, the writing is on the wall, and the medusa has trapped you in her stony gaze?"
"Yes," Narrator #4 sighed with a shiver, recalling the last meeting with his gorgonish publisher, "and now I need your help."
The man bolted up from his bedside and beamed victoriously. Reaching underneath his shabby mattress, the man retrieved a coffee-stained manila envelope bulging with paper. "I have taken great pains to hide this," the man whispered, evincing a memory of some personal trauma. "Fortunately, the guards rarely perform cavity searches." So saying, he jammed the envelope through a metal door flap usually meant for dishes.
Narrator #4 gingerly lifted the envelope with two fingers as if he were picking up a soiled diaper.
"Careful with that manuscript," the man hissed. "The editor who last read it did not fare so well. I ate his liver with some fava beans and a nice chianti."
Narrator #4 smiled uneasily at the cinematic allusion and replied, "I don't like liver, personally – or in person, for that matter."
"Oh, it's wonderful smothered in onions and catsup. I would have had more; unfortunately the police came during the second course."
"Yes, well, I have to go. I am sure it's time for your medication, or lobotomy, or whatever."
"Ahem."
Narrator #4 smacked his lips drowsily, trying to relieve the dread cotton mouth that insidiously encroaches on one's salivary glands during sleep.
"Ahem!"
He groaned groggily, stiffly shifting his painfully indented elbows off the hard edge of his desk.
"Damn it, man, must we sit about here all night?"
"Oh, sorry, have you been waiting long?"
Thorin, red-faced and indignant, growled, "While you've been pleasantly napping, we've been stuck here in this unpleasant hole wondering if and when we will be eaten by Smaug!"
"I am dreadfully sorry, but…"
"Look, have a 'Silence-of-the-Lambs-Revisited' dream sequence on your own time."
"B-a-a-h, b-a-a-h, b-a-a-h," Bombur bleated mockingly.
"Certainly, I'll get right back to it...the story, that is."
"Bloody fan-fic amateur!"
"Now wait just a moment!"
"No, I've waited quite long enough!" Thorin bellowed. "Where is Narrator #1? The story moved along much better with him."
"Well, if you must know, Mister Smarty-Dwarf, he's in an insane asylum, charged with cannibalism!"
"And Narrator #2?"
"He was eaten by Narrator #1."
"Ooooh! talk about yer bitin' satire," Bombur interrupted.
"Shut-up!" Thorin spat, and then glared back at Narrator #4. "What about Narrator #3?"
"He's in hiding for fear of being eaten by Narrator #1."
"We want Narrator #3 back."
"You've got to be joking."
"No, I am not," Thorin said forcefully, and in a fit of pique plopped down next to the sputtering campfire. Jutting his whiskered jaw forward in indignation, he loudly exclaimed, "and I shan't be moving from this spot until you are replaced by Narrator #3!"
"You…you can't be serious. I am the narrator; you must do what I say!"
Gloin then stood up. "Well, technically speakin', 'ee don't 'ave to follow your lead," the dwarf stated adopting a rather official tone. "As union steward for the Dwarves with Limited Speaking Roles, I concur with Thorin's assessment 'o' the situation – even if 'ee is management and all. My comrades and I in the DWLSR support Thorin's right for this 'ere sit-down strike, and in the fraternal bonds 'o' Dwarfhood, we'll be joinin' 'im in 'is struggle against oppression -- or narration as the case may be."
"Hear, hear! Hear, hear!" the Dwarves with Limited Speaking Roles all shouted in unison (and in the process used up their remaining lines).
"Please, please -- let's be reasonable!" Narrator #4 cried.
But the Dwarves ignored the narrator's ardent plea and began singing 'We Shall Overcome' (as they were now on strike, the DWLSR were no longer bound by contractual agreements).
Narrator #4 became angry. "Look, if you don't get moving, I'll have Smaug come back and burn you all to cinders!"
"HELL NO, WE WON'T GO! HELL NO, WE WON'T GO! HELL NO, WE WON'T GO!"
"I'll show you!" Narrator #4 shrieked, "I'll show you all!" And with winged speed, the narrator began manically pecking away at his keyboard.
~ooOOooOOoo~
In the meantime, the malevolent Smaug was well on his way to Laketown, endeavoring once and for all to crush the impudent Men who had dared aid the Dwarves in their failed attempt to retake Erebor (or whatever it was they were doing lurking about in that nettlesome corridor). As the great golden dragon hovered above Long Lake getting a lay of the land, he was spotted by a pair of alert guards. Well, semi-alert actually, or half-dozing more likely. In any case, in their drowsing, lackadaisical manner, they noticed something peculiar.
Guard #1: Look up there, what's that I see?
Something moves above the clouds quite unnaturally.
Guard #2: I see naught but wisps of clouds.
Now please, I'm trying to nap, so don't be loud.
Guard #1: Right up there, you horse's ass --
The moon, it darkened as a shadow passed!
Guard #2: Horse's ass?
Guard #1: Yes, horse's ass.
Guard #2: Well, I aint seen nuffin',
And aint nuffin' passed!
Guard #1: Nuffin's passed?
Guard #2: No, nuffin's passed!
Just then, Bard passed the guard post, bemoaning his fate as usual.
Bard: Don't cry for me dear old Laketown,
The truth is I'm still not famous!
All through my poor days,
My bare existence.
I have no promise --
I'm really listless.
Guard #1: 'Ere now Bard, I know it's late,
And I hate to interrupt you bemoanin' yer fate,
But look up yon, when clouds have passed --
There's something strange to see at last.
Bard: Rows and floes of angel hair,
And ice cream castles in the air,
And feather canyons ev'rywhere --
I've looked at clouds that way.
But now they only block the sun,
They rain and snow on ev'ryone,
So many things I would have done,
But clouds got in my way.
I've looked at clouds from both sides now,
From up and down, and still somehow
It's cloud illusions I recall --
I really dont know clouds at all.
Guard #2: 'Ees gone funny.
Yes, perhaps Bard had 'gone funny', but in truth, the bedraggled bowman saw naught but clouds. Because, at the last moment, the dragon Smaug had decided to forestall his attack on Laketown, and flew swiftly back to Erebor.
"I did WHAT?" Smaug growled in fury as he halted abruptly in mid-air.
"You…ummm…decided to fly back to Erebor."
"I have done no such thing!" Smaug boomed.
"Yes, you have."
"No, I have not!"
"Oh, but you most certainly have."
"I beg to differ, I most certainly have not!"
"Have!"
"Have not!"
"Yes, you have. You have got the sinking feeling that even now the Dwarves have overrun the Lonely Mountain, and are presently fortifying their position for an inevitable siege."
"Hmmm…perhaps you are right…"
"Of course I am right; I am the narrator, after all!"
Narrator #4 snickered coldly as Smaug heeded his subtle machinations and flew with great haste back to Erebor. Narrator #4 would soon exact his revenge on the stubborn Dwarves!