Chapter 25: The Peter Jackson Memorial Presumptive Oscar Winning CGI Epic Battle Sequence, as well as Inordinately Long Chapter Heading

And so, Bilbo presented himself to Bard and the ElvenKing, yada, yada, yada…they tried to bribe Thorin with the Arkenstone, yada, yada, yada…it failed miserably and it looked as if war would break out between the dwarves and elves and men, yada, yada, yada…

"Hold on, just a moment," groused an old man in a grey cloak sitting outside a tent in the ElvenKing's camp. "That is no way to tell a story -- damned disrespectful if you ask me!"

The narrator (that would be Narrator #5), who had attempted to refrain from delving into editorial of a personal nature throughout the last several chapters, politely reminded the bearded gent that the parody had reached its twenty-fifth chapter, whereas the original tale had only required nineteen chapters to tell the same story.

"Bah, you're right," the old man grumbled dejectedly. "This has gotten tedious. Get it over with."

"Gandalf!" Bilbo shouted excitedly. "You have been missed – this whole quest has gotten ridiculous since you left." The hobbit paused to reflect a moment, then added, "Well…even more ridiculous since you left. The whole thing has been quite silly, really."

"What can one expect of a story revolving around hobbits and dwarves?" Gandalf spat. "An epic populated with squat, bearded folk and an equally stubby main character with hairy feet, all running about harum-scarum like addle-pated ninnies? It is preposterous! I need a new agent! I deserve a better role than this -- I've been in the Royal Shakespeare Company, I'll have you know!"

Bilbo, having no acquaintance with Shakespeare, but certain the reference was of a pejorative nature, decided to change the subject. "But...Gandalf, where have you been? Why did you leave?"

The wizard scowled and then sighed mournfully, "It was all the damned singing. Middle-earth has become reminiscent of an Off-Broadway 'Sweeney Todd' musical revival. This isn't Tolkien; it is Andrew Lloyd-Webber on crack!"

Bilbo considered correcting Gandalf about the Sweeney Todd remark (it was written by Stephen Sondheim, not Andrew Lloyd-Webber, after all), but he thought better of it, given the wizard's agitated state. "Well, whether the story is preposterous or not, we're in a real pickle, and that's putting it lightly. Thorin has got Dain's army behind him now, and soon the dwarves shall attack the elves and the men of Laketown. Gandalf, you have to do something! You've got to stop them from killing each other!"

"I don't have to do anything," Gandalf said with a knowing smile, while condescendingly patting the troubled hobbit's head. "The narrator will supply the appropriate response to our problem."

With that prescient but abrupt segue, the narrator, having a handily prepared response at the ready, launched into a grim description of events occurring elsewhere. It would seem that the son of Marian, the slain Goblin King (also named Marian, as Goblins weren't terribly imaginative), had commanded all the goblins from every part of the Misty Mountains – even Mount Gundabad, which was rather like an orkish ski resort – to join him in attacking the dwarves of Erebor and avenging the murder of his father, which had maid Marian very angry (he-he, sorry about that). Among the great goblinish army that seethed like fierce black locusts along the nightmarishly undulating horizon were the wargs (who were still quite upset about the burning pinecone incident of Chapter Ten), and above the beastly battalions hovered horrid squadrons of vampire bats, which seemingly migrated from a tropical to a temperate zone simply to take part in the carnage.

"Ummm…Gandalf," Bilbo peeped fearfully, "this was not the type of response I was seeking."

"Look at the bright side, dear Bilbo," Gandalf chirped cheerfully. "Just think of all the thousands of singers who shall be bumped off in a single engagement."

This did little to assuage Bilbo's apprehension. Fortunately, his friends wisely decided to call a parlay in lieu of this imminent threat. Dain of the Iron Hills met Bard and the ElvenKing in the camp of the elves to devise a strategy against the oncoming orcs and wargs.

"I'm a' tinkin' dem Oörcs mit der Vörks vill æt us if giffen 'alf der schænce," the ElvenKing said worriedly.

Dain, who was still quite suspicious of the elves (and did not hold them in high esteem, in any case), scoffed at the ElvenKing, "Nay, laddie, Orcs dinna eat wi' forks. 'Tis the beasties' uncouth manner tha' they eat wi' their ain two haunds."

The ElvenKing scowled at Dain and replied, "Nein, nein, seely collöqvial-schpækink dörf, I zed Vörks, dem schnårly doggie-like tings mit der vångs und hær!"

"Och!" Dain cried in dismay. "D'ye ken the færy's blather? I dinna catch nae word 'o' it. 'Tis nae guid spaekin' whit th' maun, as it's sure tae taek a forenicht tae lairn his brogue. Can ye scrive it doun, please? We hae tae get gang!"

The irritated ElvenKing turned to his captain, Götterdämmerungsdottir, who shrugged and replied, "I am at a loss as well, your majesty. I was never one for Northumbrian or Highland dialects."

But with the timely aid of Gandalf (who threatened to strike anyone dead with a bolt of lightning if they used over-the-top accents), the allies quickly formed ranks to quell the mutual threat. The armies of the dwarves, elves and men took up positions along the spurs of the mountain, with Bilbo and Gandalf standing fast with the elvish contingent (for Bilbo, it seemed like the safest place). But just as the orcs and wargs with their savage shrieks and war whoops fell upon the allies' bristling armies, the door to Narrator #5's tidy study burst off its hinges with a wood splintering kick. There in the doorway stood a disheveled man panting heavily in between bouts of manic mumbling.

"May I help you?" Narrator #5 said in an unperturbed and highly unlikely manner.

"Yes," the man at the door hissed malevolently, "step away from the keyboard -- this parody is mine!"

"Fool! I shall do no such thing," Narrator #5 replied indignantly, finally recognizing Narrator #1 from the frayed remnants of the straightjacket that hung in tatters from his torso. "You had your chance at completing the story, and you failed miserably -- particularly with your pathological insistence on forcing your point of view into the narrative."

"But…it was funny!" the man sputtered angrily.

"No, it was tiresome," Narrator #5 countered, "and it detracted from the plot."

"Oh, as if a spacey ElvenKing ranting in fractured Norwegian is funny," Narrator #1 spat sarcastically. "Your entire treatment is boring!"

"And…and you are a looney," Narrator #5 replied hastily.

"O-o-o-o! that was a stellar comeback!" Narrator #1 laughed.

"Loo-ney, loo-ney!" Narrator #5 mocked. "You're nothing but a freak. Come see the stark-raving narrating freak!"

Narrator #1 growled with inchoate rage and sprang at Narrator #5, but Narrator #5 was tensed and ready, forcefully hurling his PC's wireless mouse, which smote Narrator #1 squarely in the forehead. Narrator #1 reeled from the concussive blow, but he managed to grab a throw pillow from a nearby sofa and bashed Narrator #5 with a wicked smack upside the head.

Meanwhile, things were going badly in the war. The fierce elvish spearmen, hating the orcs for their bad hygiene and egregious table manners, had won great renown with their initial foray into the orc's undisciplined lines; yet the sheer weight of orkish numbers eventually forced the elvish surge back. The dwarves wielded their mattocks with ferocious abandon, bludgeoning orc and warg with puissant power; but for all their mighty exploits, they too tired under the seemingly limitless waves of orc and their rabid assault. Bard and the men of Laketown sang Queen's 'News of the World' album in its entirety (complete with rousing renditions of 'We Will Rock You' and 'We are the Champions'), but this only infuriated the maddened orcs, who, as everyone knows, were music snobs and partial to Broadway show tunes.

"To hell with this!" Bilbo grumbled as the orcs drew nearer. He placed his magic ring on his finger and promptly disappeared (bravery is one thing, being mutilated by orcs is entirely another).

Narrator #5 had tumbled backwards over his desk from the savage throw pillow assault, but quickly regained his composure, fending off further pillow pummeling with a reading lamp he had purchased at auction in London twelve years earlier. You know the type of lamp: the kind once ubiquitous in finer municipal libraries, with a handsomely patinaed brass base and a semi-cylindrical downturned shade of green hand-blown glass. Very traditional, but functional and stylish in a modern application all the same. Nevertheless, Narrator #4 ignored the sentimental value he placed on the lamp and wielded it manfully, and struck a glancing blow to Narrator #1's jaw. Narrator #1 staggered for a moment, but shrugged off the effects of the hit, countering with a vicious backhand strike using 'Roget's International Thesaurus, 6th Edition' (which Narrator #5 had recently received as a birthday gift). Narrator #5 reflected on the power of words and their sometimes-hurtful usage as the book struck him.

Elsewhere, the now transparent Bilbo watched in growing dismay as the allies slowly yielded ground to the orkish attack. The ElvenKing angrily shouted out orders that none of the elves understood, and Gandalf stood beside him, grim but resolute, seemingly preparing for one last cataclysmic blast of magic before the end; either that, or he was attempting to summon up his agent to fire him. Suddenly, a sputtered note from an off-key bugle echoed from within the Gates of Erebor, and Thorin and his companions roared forth from their mountain sanctuary.

Thorin, resplendent in gleaming mithril mail and a fearsome dragon helm, wielded a great battle-axe over his head and bellowed above the fray, "To me, O valiant dwarves and elves, to me!"

Just then, a glorious beam of sunlight rent the glowering clouds and shone full and bright on an improbable sight in the valley below.

"What, is it the eagles again?" Bilbo muttered, remembering that Tolkien's favorite deus ex machina was indeed the great eagles, who flew to the rescue numerous times in both the Silmarillion and Lord of the Rings, as well as in the hobbit's own sordid saga.

But straining his eyes for a better glimpse of the miraculous event, Bilbo could ascertain, even from such a great distance, that it was not eagles. "What, then, is that mighty Beorn in the monstrous visage of a great bear?" Yet even as Bilbo mouthed the words, he could plainly see that it was not Beorn.

With the stunning clarity afforded by the use of the magic ring, Bilbo gasped with growing surprise (and incredulity) as the vision became clear: it was jolly Tom Bombadil in his bright boots of yellow, merrily singing and dancing with oblivious unconcern hither and thither about the battlefield. With him, in long, foliated lines that resembled a vast marching orchard, were the blooming entwives, who, as the old tales maintain, had supposedly been missing for ages. And, like most women scorned by wayward husbands, boy, were they pissed! Orcs and wargs were crushed or sent flying like paper dolls as the horticultural harridans hewed their way through the crumbling enemy rear guard.

Bilbo was about to cry out in joy (or consternation, the chronicles are unclear on this point), when a boulder loosed from higher up the mount struck him full on his helmet. "Can this story get any sillier?" Bilbo thought as he slipped into unconsciousness, "A bit more, it seems," he murmured, and then surrendered to oblivion.