Disclaimer: If Tolkien knew what I'd done with HIS characters, he'd probably weep. For those of you wanting elf action, you gotta wait until chapter 3.
The Lord of the Sleaze 2
It was 12:30 at the Prancing Pony. The four Hobbits sat on the kerb outside and contemplated what had turned out to be a superb night. Somewhere down an alleyway, Boromir was noisily being sick. Aragorn was lying flat out on the pavement beside them, where Gandalf had deposited him after finding him slumped in a toilet cubicle. The old wizard himself was still trying to close a few deals before chucking out time. Pippin and Merry's cool-box full of magic mushrooms (hastily pinched on the journey to disguise the fact they'd smoked all their pipe-weed before leaving Hobbiton), was almost half empty. Frodo had made some cash from part of his weed supplies and even Sam had managed to sell some of his seedy porn to an underage Orc.
Gandalf came grinning onto the pavement, his pockets stuffed with money and IOUs.
'Still not up yet?' he muttered exasperatedly at Aragorn, and raising his staff into the air, he cried aloud in elvish, 'Gettuppa youlla zybastardo!!' before bringing it sweeping down into the rangers stomach. Aragorn awoke with a groan. Boromir stumbled into sight, still clutching a bottle Morgoth's Bitter Ale, and looking rather white.
'We should make for Weathertop,' he slurred deeply, 'it's a place where we can all just chill for a bit.' He sank down to his knees and then slowly, onto his face in the gutter.
It was to be a fairly typical night out for the Fellowship.
They decided to make their way across country to avoid the road patrols of the vile agents of Sauron. His Security Nazgul were authorized to use any means necessary to stop any drugs, porn or weapons from moving around Middle-Earth, except if under the command of the Great Enema himself. Their rhythmic piercing cries and red flashing lights brought unmentionable terror into those that saw them.
Carrying the unconscious Boromir was no easy task either. This had been left to the Hobbits after Gandalf announced he 'couldn't be arsed' and Aragorn seemed to be having enough trouble staying on his own feet as it was.
'Nice one Mr. Frodo,' growled Sam waspishly, as Boromir's lolling head bounced across the rocks. 'If we'd stayed at home, we could have been sinking a few ales in The Green Dragon and after, goin' back for a quick joint and bed.'
'I wish the weed had never come to me,' said Frodo sadly. 'I wish none of this had happened.'
'Why don't we just give it to Gandalf, its not like he's got anything better to do,' said Pippin, staring at the old wizard, who somehow during the trip, had made time for a round of golf with an aging hippy called Tom, a southward journey to meet up with his 'home-boy' Saruman and a lengthy detour to laugh at some 'stoned' trolls.
'Here, Mr. Gandalf sir?' Frodo called, running up behind the wizard, who turned round abruptly, a sinister look on his face. From the headphones of his personal stereo came the unmistakable sounds of N*SYNC. 'We were thinking – why don't you take this weed and sell it for us?'
'DON'T TEMPT ME,' roared Gandalf, cowering behind a rock. 'I'd be mashed off my face in minutes – there is no way I could stand up to the power of the One Weed!'
'But we manage it,' said Merry as Boromir started to wake up.
'That's because,' began Gandalf, in a matter of fact sort of way, 'Hobbits are so dense, they are immune. They couldn't get any more stoned so to speak.'
The quest was fully over before any of the Hobbits understood what he had been getting at.
The ancient watchtower of Amon Sul had crumbled into disrepair at the end of the second age. Crippled by strikes, the Dwarfish construction companies had sent a memo to Gondor saying it had been a rubbish site for a tower anyway, and 'why don't you build it yourself?' Now, the derelict ruins hulked forebodingly over the surrounding swamps, frequented only by drunks and crack-heads. The Fellowship had never felt so at home.
As they drew near the boarded up doorway, they became aware of curious runes and scripture, spray-painted over the walls in a variety of strange and twisted languages. Dominating them all, in a vast pink scrawl, was the message 'Elves Go Home!!' signed 'Boromir of Gondor, Son of Denethor'. Boromir muttered something about a 'strange coincidence' and hustled them inside.
'Well this is a fine mess an' no mistake Mr. Frodo,' said Sam, rolling out his blanket among the Orc droppings and discarded needles that littered the cold flagstones. 'And where have the others got to?'
Gandalf, Aragorn and Boromir had taken the room above, knowing full well that trolls used the lower one, but not bothering to tell the Hobbits. Gandalf had been very insistent on this fact that they remain quiet about this 'so as not to alarm the little fellows.' The three warriors sat round on the floor playing 'spin the Narsil' and strip poker (once Gandalf was down to his boxers, they suggested time out). The rain fell in hammering torrents outside.
Frodo was first aware of the problem when his joint went out. Shaking himself groggily to his senses, he realised he was up to his neck in water. Sam, Pippin and Merry had already vanished under the murky sludge, obviously too wrecked on their mushrooms to notice. At that moment, the door burst open and a gigantic troll lumbered forward clutching a blow-up Balrog (boasting an astonishing 18 points of entry!), which it quickly tried to hide behind its back. In the moment of fear and panic, Frodo felt a terrifying urge to just roll another joint from his pack of One Weed. He fumbled with the Rizlas before bringing the completed reefer to his lips. As soon as he inhaled, he sensed through the clouds of smoke that a vast bloodshot eye, wreathed in fluttering hardcore porn mags, had affixed him from afar. He slipped and fell backwards submerging in the water, but just before he sunk he had last vision of a scrawny figure, wearing only a pair of mithril boxer shorts, raising a staff to its shoulder and crying 'Ttake dattufu kerr!!' before the world seemed to erupt in flame.
Frodo awoke in the dark to find the other members of the Fellowship staring anxiously down at him except for Boromir who'd gone to buy refills for his hipflasks.
'You've been asleep for three days,' said Gandalf irritably, hauling him roughly to his feet. Even the other Hobbits seemed less than friendly.
'First that drunken oaf and then you,' hissed Pippin. 'If I'd wanted to carry something heavy I'd have stocked up on ale crates and headed for home after Bree.'
Looking about him, Frodo found they were crouched in a clearing around a spluttering gas stove on which Merry was attempting to cook marshmallows. Boromir came stumbling through the bushes, clutching several whisky bottles and grinned excitedly at Aragorn. They both started to whisper and snigger like schoolboys. Gradually Frodo became aware of a fell sound on the air. It was as if a vast drum was pounding faster and faster, rising and falling, the very ground seemed to shake with its rhythmic beat. Through the trees he caught a glimpse of shimmering lights floating wildly in the sky and straining his hearing to the limit he could hear shrill squeals and yells echoing in the night.
'What new devilry is this?' he cried, turning to Gandalf, who laid a comforting hand on his arm.
'Rest easy lad,' mumbled the wizard. 'You are safe here.'
Aragorn was in a high state of excitement. 'Is she here? Are you sure you've seen her?' he kept asking Boromir who nodded vigorously in between large gulps of spirit. 'Oh man, I wanna shag her so damn bad. Wonder what the price is…' He tailed off as the two of them made pumping motions with their arms and burst out laughing. Even Gandalf had to turn away in disgust. He led the Hobbits from the stand of trees and they all gazed in awe at the dale that lay before them.
Sprawling across the valley floor was what appeared to be a large warehouse. From its roof danced beams of light, which swayed through the night sky, and adorning its rotting sides were elvish signs, etched in neon bulbs, displaying enticing messages such as 'Gurrlz Gurrlz Gurrlz' and 'Ffree Voddkaa Knite'. A large and rowdy crowd queued impatiently outside, an assembly of the lowest scum of Middle-Earth. Through the air came the unending beat, as though the very mountains were at the decks and getting down to the latest in underground techno. From inside came a sudden voice, which rose above the din as if it were the gods themselves.
'THIS IS MC ELROND, KICKING IT LIVE FOR ALL YOU PEOPLE. ARE YOU READY TO PARTY? I SAID, ARE YOU READY TO PARTY? [wild cheers] THEN LET DJ GLORFINDEL ROCK YOUR WORLD. SPIN IT MAN, OH YEAH…
Despite these dark times, the Elven stronghold of Rivendell was still a place of merriment, sexual escapades and underage drinking…
Coming Soon – 'The Whorehouse of Elrond'
The Lord of the Sleaze 2
It was 12:30 at the Prancing Pony. The four Hobbits sat on the kerb outside and contemplated what had turned out to be a superb night. Somewhere down an alleyway, Boromir was noisily being sick. Aragorn was lying flat out on the pavement beside them, where Gandalf had deposited him after finding him slumped in a toilet cubicle. The old wizard himself was still trying to close a few deals before chucking out time. Pippin and Merry's cool-box full of magic mushrooms (hastily pinched on the journey to disguise the fact they'd smoked all their pipe-weed before leaving Hobbiton), was almost half empty. Frodo had made some cash from part of his weed supplies and even Sam had managed to sell some of his seedy porn to an underage Orc.
Gandalf came grinning onto the pavement, his pockets stuffed with money and IOUs.
'Still not up yet?' he muttered exasperatedly at Aragorn, and raising his staff into the air, he cried aloud in elvish, 'Gettuppa youlla zybastardo!!' before bringing it sweeping down into the rangers stomach. Aragorn awoke with a groan. Boromir stumbled into sight, still clutching a bottle Morgoth's Bitter Ale, and looking rather white.
'We should make for Weathertop,' he slurred deeply, 'it's a place where we can all just chill for a bit.' He sank down to his knees and then slowly, onto his face in the gutter.
It was to be a fairly typical night out for the Fellowship.
They decided to make their way across country to avoid the road patrols of the vile agents of Sauron. His Security Nazgul were authorized to use any means necessary to stop any drugs, porn or weapons from moving around Middle-Earth, except if under the command of the Great Enema himself. Their rhythmic piercing cries and red flashing lights brought unmentionable terror into those that saw them.
Carrying the unconscious Boromir was no easy task either. This had been left to the Hobbits after Gandalf announced he 'couldn't be arsed' and Aragorn seemed to be having enough trouble staying on his own feet as it was.
'Nice one Mr. Frodo,' growled Sam waspishly, as Boromir's lolling head bounced across the rocks. 'If we'd stayed at home, we could have been sinking a few ales in The Green Dragon and after, goin' back for a quick joint and bed.'
'I wish the weed had never come to me,' said Frodo sadly. 'I wish none of this had happened.'
'Why don't we just give it to Gandalf, its not like he's got anything better to do,' said Pippin, staring at the old wizard, who somehow during the trip, had made time for a round of golf with an aging hippy called Tom, a southward journey to meet up with his 'home-boy' Saruman and a lengthy detour to laugh at some 'stoned' trolls.
'Here, Mr. Gandalf sir?' Frodo called, running up behind the wizard, who turned round abruptly, a sinister look on his face. From the headphones of his personal stereo came the unmistakable sounds of N*SYNC. 'We were thinking – why don't you take this weed and sell it for us?'
'DON'T TEMPT ME,' roared Gandalf, cowering behind a rock. 'I'd be mashed off my face in minutes – there is no way I could stand up to the power of the One Weed!'
'But we manage it,' said Merry as Boromir started to wake up.
'That's because,' began Gandalf, in a matter of fact sort of way, 'Hobbits are so dense, they are immune. They couldn't get any more stoned so to speak.'
The quest was fully over before any of the Hobbits understood what he had been getting at.
The ancient watchtower of Amon Sul had crumbled into disrepair at the end of the second age. Crippled by strikes, the Dwarfish construction companies had sent a memo to Gondor saying it had been a rubbish site for a tower anyway, and 'why don't you build it yourself?' Now, the derelict ruins hulked forebodingly over the surrounding swamps, frequented only by drunks and crack-heads. The Fellowship had never felt so at home.
As they drew near the boarded up doorway, they became aware of curious runes and scripture, spray-painted over the walls in a variety of strange and twisted languages. Dominating them all, in a vast pink scrawl, was the message 'Elves Go Home!!' signed 'Boromir of Gondor, Son of Denethor'. Boromir muttered something about a 'strange coincidence' and hustled them inside.
'Well this is a fine mess an' no mistake Mr. Frodo,' said Sam, rolling out his blanket among the Orc droppings and discarded needles that littered the cold flagstones. 'And where have the others got to?'
Gandalf, Aragorn and Boromir had taken the room above, knowing full well that trolls used the lower one, but not bothering to tell the Hobbits. Gandalf had been very insistent on this fact that they remain quiet about this 'so as not to alarm the little fellows.' The three warriors sat round on the floor playing 'spin the Narsil' and strip poker (once Gandalf was down to his boxers, they suggested time out). The rain fell in hammering torrents outside.
Frodo was first aware of the problem when his joint went out. Shaking himself groggily to his senses, he realised he was up to his neck in water. Sam, Pippin and Merry had already vanished under the murky sludge, obviously too wrecked on their mushrooms to notice. At that moment, the door burst open and a gigantic troll lumbered forward clutching a blow-up Balrog (boasting an astonishing 18 points of entry!), which it quickly tried to hide behind its back. In the moment of fear and panic, Frodo felt a terrifying urge to just roll another joint from his pack of One Weed. He fumbled with the Rizlas before bringing the completed reefer to his lips. As soon as he inhaled, he sensed through the clouds of smoke that a vast bloodshot eye, wreathed in fluttering hardcore porn mags, had affixed him from afar. He slipped and fell backwards submerging in the water, but just before he sunk he had last vision of a scrawny figure, wearing only a pair of mithril boxer shorts, raising a staff to its shoulder and crying 'Ttake dattufu kerr!!' before the world seemed to erupt in flame.
Frodo awoke in the dark to find the other members of the Fellowship staring anxiously down at him except for Boromir who'd gone to buy refills for his hipflasks.
'You've been asleep for three days,' said Gandalf irritably, hauling him roughly to his feet. Even the other Hobbits seemed less than friendly.
'First that drunken oaf and then you,' hissed Pippin. 'If I'd wanted to carry something heavy I'd have stocked up on ale crates and headed for home after Bree.'
Looking about him, Frodo found they were crouched in a clearing around a spluttering gas stove on which Merry was attempting to cook marshmallows. Boromir came stumbling through the bushes, clutching several whisky bottles and grinned excitedly at Aragorn. They both started to whisper and snigger like schoolboys. Gradually Frodo became aware of a fell sound on the air. It was as if a vast drum was pounding faster and faster, rising and falling, the very ground seemed to shake with its rhythmic beat. Through the trees he caught a glimpse of shimmering lights floating wildly in the sky and straining his hearing to the limit he could hear shrill squeals and yells echoing in the night.
'What new devilry is this?' he cried, turning to Gandalf, who laid a comforting hand on his arm.
'Rest easy lad,' mumbled the wizard. 'You are safe here.'
Aragorn was in a high state of excitement. 'Is she here? Are you sure you've seen her?' he kept asking Boromir who nodded vigorously in between large gulps of spirit. 'Oh man, I wanna shag her so damn bad. Wonder what the price is…' He tailed off as the two of them made pumping motions with their arms and burst out laughing. Even Gandalf had to turn away in disgust. He led the Hobbits from the stand of trees and they all gazed in awe at the dale that lay before them.
Sprawling across the valley floor was what appeared to be a large warehouse. From its roof danced beams of light, which swayed through the night sky, and adorning its rotting sides were elvish signs, etched in neon bulbs, displaying enticing messages such as 'Gurrlz Gurrlz Gurrlz' and 'Ffree Voddkaa Knite'. A large and rowdy crowd queued impatiently outside, an assembly of the lowest scum of Middle-Earth. Through the air came the unending beat, as though the very mountains were at the decks and getting down to the latest in underground techno. From inside came a sudden voice, which rose above the din as if it were the gods themselves.
'THIS IS MC ELROND, KICKING IT LIVE FOR ALL YOU PEOPLE. ARE YOU READY TO PARTY? I SAID, ARE YOU READY TO PARTY? [wild cheers] THEN LET DJ GLORFINDEL ROCK YOUR WORLD. SPIN IT MAN, OH YEAH…
Despite these dark times, the Elven stronghold of Rivendell was still a place of merriment, sexual escapades and underage drinking…
Coming Soon – 'The Whorehouse of Elrond'