Disclaimer: Tolkien is a genius. All the characters are his.
Lord of the Sleaze 3
'By the beard of Galadriel,' said Aragorn through clenched teeth as the Fellowship neared the foreboding bulk of Rivendell. The queue before them stretched down to the ford below, and not even Boromir who had enough whiskey to last until Durin's Day was prepared to wait that long. Gandalf tapped his hooked nose and winked, a habit that everyone was getting more than a little fed up with. Raising his glowing staff to lead the way, the others followed him around the building, past moss covered boulders and vomit covered beers cans. Eventually they came to a door, almost indiscernible against the hastily nailed planks that comprised the walls. It was guarded by two sturdy elves, one dressed as a sailor, and the other bedecked in a full cowboy outfit, complete with leather frills.
'Hello stranger,' minced the former, in a voice that even made camp-as-they-come Merry cringe. Boromir and Aragorn's mouths dropped open in horror. Undeterred, Gandalf stepped forward and began to speak in a low stream of elvish, from which the words 'hefty bribe' and 'to see Elrond' were just about discernable. After several minutes of hard barter, the door was opened and they were led into the stale darkness, with only the light of Gandalfs Special Forces flares to lead the way. The elves led the little band down the gloomy corridor until they reached a door upon which the ancient rune of elvish greeting was etched, a fair hand with the middle finger proudly raised. Their two guides giggled about 'knocking and entering' before skipping away into the shadows. With a mighty rap on the door, Gandalf pushed his way in.
Elrond had once been a great enemy of Sauron, when at the end of the second age, he had helped defeat the Drug Lord in a drinking competition upon the depraved fields of Mordor. He could remember well the cheering hoards of Men, Elves and Orcs, gathered under the fire and smoke of Mount Doom, as he, Elrond, tall and fair, had seated himself opposite the dark majesty Sauron, enemy of the free drinkers of Middle-Earth. The armies had proceeded to drink shot for shot until nearly all lay unconscious under the foul alcoholic vapours, which rose from the Drug Lords wine cellar. It was there that Elrond had taken his last drink, forcing the next turn of 'downing it' to pass to Sauron. As he fell onto his back, it seemed although all was lost as Sauron lifted his own drink and knocked it back with a roar of victory. At that moment, Isildur of Gondor, lifted his paralytic fathers shot glass and emptied it into his own mouth. In rage, Sauron smashed the top off a bottle of vodka and proceeded to chug the whole lot, collapsing among his fallen subjects. He was defeated, and the humiliation was so great, after his excessive boasting, it was thought he would never have the nerve to rise again. His dingy pubs were shut down and the mighty super-club of Barad-Dur was flattened to the ground.
But Isildur, instead of recording this information so future generations could fight tyranny, decided he could not be arsed (partly because he couldn't write) and so rode back to Minas Tirith for some sleep. Unfortunately, he was still drunk out of his mind, and fell off his horse into the River Anduin, never to be seen again, and the knowledge of Sauron being a 'light-weight' passed out of history and into legend.
'What a loser,' whispered Sam under his breath, as the opening of the door revealed Elrond, asleep with his head on the table, a Bacardi and coke standing untouched before him. Around the walls were a number of vast portraits, mainly depicting the elven leader surrounded by scantily clad girls with a cheeky grin on his face. Others showed him carousing with minor celebrities. There he was, smoking an ounce with Balin in Moria, lying drunk with Faramir in a wheelie bin, shaking hands with Morgoth…. With a gasp, Elrond awoke and sat up, several indecent photos of Galadriel sticking to his face, which he quickly peeled off.
'Wha..aat! Who are you?' he gulped, pushing his chair into the corner, reaching weakly for his Armalite. Then recognition came over his features, and he laughed heartily. 'Gandalf, me old mucker!' he roared, pounding a ring covered fist on the desk before turning to the drinks cabinet, where Boromir was already helping himself.
Once everyone was sorted with a drink, they all sat round while Elrond grumbled about labour shortages and rising prices. Inevitably, the discussion came round to Sauron and the ongoing war. The Hobbits listened spellbound as Elrond told tales of the trials and strife of his people, which got more trying and strife-filled as the drink went down. Eventually, even Gandalf began to look at his Rolex, until Boromir interrupted the reverie by falling heavily off his stool, clutching his hipflask to his lips. Elrond glowered at him, before turning to Frodo.
'I believe you have something to show me, junior,' he said patronisingly. Slowly, Frodo walked towards the table and drew the bag of pipe-weed from his trousers, placing it on the table.
'Fuck me!' exclaimed Elrond, rising to his feet, a look of unparalleled horror on his face. 'The One Weed! So the legends were true!'
He began to pace the room, deep in thought. The others waited patiently. Boromir was discretely filling his pockets with brandy miniatures.
'What does it mean?' said Sam innocently. Elrond looked at him distastefully and began.
'Long ago, when Sauron's power was growing he went for a walk on the ash-covered slopes of Mount Doom. There, upon the scorched earth, he found a plant; a plant which was to cause unending terror and general bother to the peoples of the Earth, for he had found the One Weed. When smoked, it had the power to render any creature to the service of the Drug Lord, dependent on its effect forever. This was how he enslaved the races of Middle-Earth!! Every week he would give three ounces to the elves, seven to the dwarves and nine to the race of man – just enough so that they would be enslaved for all time. When Sauron fell on the plains of Mordor, the One Weed was in his pocket, and while everyone was unconscious a porn-loving drunkard called Gollum stole it. He took the Weed deep under the Misty Mountains, and there he smoked himself to oblivion. There, lying on a beanbag with long, greasy hair and bloodshot eyes, he lived far beyond his years until, after getting mashed one night, he dropped the Weed where it was found by the Hobbit called Bilbo Baggins, who took it back to the Shire. Anyway, basically Sauron has been looking for it ever since, for if he retrieves it, the world will once again become dependant on its evil power.'
Elrond raised his hands dramatically, and then saw everyone was asleep and put them down again. Gandalf awoke with a snort.
'What do we do then?' he grunted, pushing his pointed hat out of his eyes.
'The Weed must be cast into the fires of Mount Doom,' said Elrond. 'Once there, the fumes will cover the whole of Middle-Earth. Everyone will be high and the power of Sauron will be no more! Who will go to for-fill this quest?'
'What's it worth to you?' said Frodo crossing his arms.
'Free entry and drinks in Rivendell for the rest of your lives?' said Elrond tentatively.
'DONE!!!' cried all the Hobbits.
'Starting tonight!?!' interjected Boromir hopefully.
'Go on then,' said Elrond wearily. The Fellowship stampeded for the bar next door.
From the start it was obvious that Legolas and Gimli were pretty hard up. Bored of waiting for the others to arrive, they had both got jobs as lap dancers after much grovelling before the feet of Lord Elrond. Now, bedecked in feathers and troll-skin hot pants, they were cavorting around the few 'unemployed' women to be found in Rivendell. The fact that Gimli had to be lifted by the customer before he could perform his lap dance was the primary reason why he was sitting in the corner nursing a double scotch, and Legolas was sprawled decadently across the knees of three elven tarts as they stuffed mithril coins into his waistband. For the second time of the evening, Aragorn and Boromir gaped in disgust.
'I would never have believed one could stoop so low,' growled Gandalf, surveying the two of them as they sheepishly pulled off their tasselled headdresses and sat down with the rest of the Fellowship in a darkened corner. 'We've been off braving unmentionable dangers while you've made complete gimps of yourselves. Anyway,' he spoke irritably. 'You're coming with us now. If we've got to go to Mordor, we want an elf and a dwarf to suffer as well – been getting away with it for far too long.'
His berating was interrupted by the arrival a golden-haired beauty, who danced tantalisingly before their table a while before slinking away. Aragorn gasped audibly.
'Oh Man!' he cheered, thumping his hands on the table. 'Did you see how hot she was. Oh man…' he tailed off, staring around the table. Boromir looked incredulous.
'That was a bloke you idiot,' he roared, and the Fellowship fell about with laughter at the look of utter despair on Aragorn's face.
'Maybe,' said Legolas, perking up suddenly, 'its time for a drink!'
The night wore on. The Hobbits sat tightly around the table, staring furtively about them, as the place got fuller and more raucous. DJ Glorfindel was bringing down the house with his ambient grooves. Someone had let some Orcs in, who were now break dancing amid a crowd of cheering revellers. At first they heeded Gandalf warning to 'stay well away from the hookers my lads, for evil will come of it', until about five minutes later when they saw the old wizard being led away by a voluptuous elf who had his beard entwined round her hand. Merry and Pippin disappeared in the direction of the dance floor where Aragorn and Boromir were already making a complete arse of themselves. As Frodo watched, Aragorn advanced drunkenly upon a young elven lady and tried to wrap his arms around her waist. Moments later, he was reeling after receiving a sharp slap in the face.
'That's one of Elrond's daughters you idiot!' roared Boromir, jumping up and down with his hipflask in the air. Aragorn left the room in rage.
Frodo suddenly felt a soft touch on his arm.
'Not now Sam,' he snapped and looked round to find himself staring into the eyes of a young elf maiden, who smiled sweetly and slid her hand up his thigh. Sam stood and gave him the 'thumbs up' behind her head, before stumbling to the bar. The elf whispered huskily in his ear,
'For ten, my little Hobbit, you'll have a lap-dance, but for twenty it's up to you what you get…'
Frodo awkwardly reached into his pocket for ten coins, but as he did his hand touched the One Weed in its leather pouch. Instantly, there seemed to be a voice in his head; 'THE TWENTY, THE TWENTY.' For a moment, he fought against it but then felt his will crumbling. 'Why not,' he thought and withdrew twenty mithril coins which he stuffed clumsily into the elf's straining bikini.
'Ammgonash ag-yoos enzless' she whispered in elvish, before leading him from the room.
Coming Soon – 'The Flight from Rivendell'
Lord of the Sleaze 3
'By the beard of Galadriel,' said Aragorn through clenched teeth as the Fellowship neared the foreboding bulk of Rivendell. The queue before them stretched down to the ford below, and not even Boromir who had enough whiskey to last until Durin's Day was prepared to wait that long. Gandalf tapped his hooked nose and winked, a habit that everyone was getting more than a little fed up with. Raising his glowing staff to lead the way, the others followed him around the building, past moss covered boulders and vomit covered beers cans. Eventually they came to a door, almost indiscernible against the hastily nailed planks that comprised the walls. It was guarded by two sturdy elves, one dressed as a sailor, and the other bedecked in a full cowboy outfit, complete with leather frills.
'Hello stranger,' minced the former, in a voice that even made camp-as-they-come Merry cringe. Boromir and Aragorn's mouths dropped open in horror. Undeterred, Gandalf stepped forward and began to speak in a low stream of elvish, from which the words 'hefty bribe' and 'to see Elrond' were just about discernable. After several minutes of hard barter, the door was opened and they were led into the stale darkness, with only the light of Gandalfs Special Forces flares to lead the way. The elves led the little band down the gloomy corridor until they reached a door upon which the ancient rune of elvish greeting was etched, a fair hand with the middle finger proudly raised. Their two guides giggled about 'knocking and entering' before skipping away into the shadows. With a mighty rap on the door, Gandalf pushed his way in.
Elrond had once been a great enemy of Sauron, when at the end of the second age, he had helped defeat the Drug Lord in a drinking competition upon the depraved fields of Mordor. He could remember well the cheering hoards of Men, Elves and Orcs, gathered under the fire and smoke of Mount Doom, as he, Elrond, tall and fair, had seated himself opposite the dark majesty Sauron, enemy of the free drinkers of Middle-Earth. The armies had proceeded to drink shot for shot until nearly all lay unconscious under the foul alcoholic vapours, which rose from the Drug Lords wine cellar. It was there that Elrond had taken his last drink, forcing the next turn of 'downing it' to pass to Sauron. As he fell onto his back, it seemed although all was lost as Sauron lifted his own drink and knocked it back with a roar of victory. At that moment, Isildur of Gondor, lifted his paralytic fathers shot glass and emptied it into his own mouth. In rage, Sauron smashed the top off a bottle of vodka and proceeded to chug the whole lot, collapsing among his fallen subjects. He was defeated, and the humiliation was so great, after his excessive boasting, it was thought he would never have the nerve to rise again. His dingy pubs were shut down and the mighty super-club of Barad-Dur was flattened to the ground.
But Isildur, instead of recording this information so future generations could fight tyranny, decided he could not be arsed (partly because he couldn't write) and so rode back to Minas Tirith for some sleep. Unfortunately, he was still drunk out of his mind, and fell off his horse into the River Anduin, never to be seen again, and the knowledge of Sauron being a 'light-weight' passed out of history and into legend.
'What a loser,' whispered Sam under his breath, as the opening of the door revealed Elrond, asleep with his head on the table, a Bacardi and coke standing untouched before him. Around the walls were a number of vast portraits, mainly depicting the elven leader surrounded by scantily clad girls with a cheeky grin on his face. Others showed him carousing with minor celebrities. There he was, smoking an ounce with Balin in Moria, lying drunk with Faramir in a wheelie bin, shaking hands with Morgoth…. With a gasp, Elrond awoke and sat up, several indecent photos of Galadriel sticking to his face, which he quickly peeled off.
'Wha..aat! Who are you?' he gulped, pushing his chair into the corner, reaching weakly for his Armalite. Then recognition came over his features, and he laughed heartily. 'Gandalf, me old mucker!' he roared, pounding a ring covered fist on the desk before turning to the drinks cabinet, where Boromir was already helping himself.
Once everyone was sorted with a drink, they all sat round while Elrond grumbled about labour shortages and rising prices. Inevitably, the discussion came round to Sauron and the ongoing war. The Hobbits listened spellbound as Elrond told tales of the trials and strife of his people, which got more trying and strife-filled as the drink went down. Eventually, even Gandalf began to look at his Rolex, until Boromir interrupted the reverie by falling heavily off his stool, clutching his hipflask to his lips. Elrond glowered at him, before turning to Frodo.
'I believe you have something to show me, junior,' he said patronisingly. Slowly, Frodo walked towards the table and drew the bag of pipe-weed from his trousers, placing it on the table.
'Fuck me!' exclaimed Elrond, rising to his feet, a look of unparalleled horror on his face. 'The One Weed! So the legends were true!'
He began to pace the room, deep in thought. The others waited patiently. Boromir was discretely filling his pockets with brandy miniatures.
'What does it mean?' said Sam innocently. Elrond looked at him distastefully and began.
'Long ago, when Sauron's power was growing he went for a walk on the ash-covered slopes of Mount Doom. There, upon the scorched earth, he found a plant; a plant which was to cause unending terror and general bother to the peoples of the Earth, for he had found the One Weed. When smoked, it had the power to render any creature to the service of the Drug Lord, dependent on its effect forever. This was how he enslaved the races of Middle-Earth!! Every week he would give three ounces to the elves, seven to the dwarves and nine to the race of man – just enough so that they would be enslaved for all time. When Sauron fell on the plains of Mordor, the One Weed was in his pocket, and while everyone was unconscious a porn-loving drunkard called Gollum stole it. He took the Weed deep under the Misty Mountains, and there he smoked himself to oblivion. There, lying on a beanbag with long, greasy hair and bloodshot eyes, he lived far beyond his years until, after getting mashed one night, he dropped the Weed where it was found by the Hobbit called Bilbo Baggins, who took it back to the Shire. Anyway, basically Sauron has been looking for it ever since, for if he retrieves it, the world will once again become dependant on its evil power.'
Elrond raised his hands dramatically, and then saw everyone was asleep and put them down again. Gandalf awoke with a snort.
'What do we do then?' he grunted, pushing his pointed hat out of his eyes.
'The Weed must be cast into the fires of Mount Doom,' said Elrond. 'Once there, the fumes will cover the whole of Middle-Earth. Everyone will be high and the power of Sauron will be no more! Who will go to for-fill this quest?'
'What's it worth to you?' said Frodo crossing his arms.
'Free entry and drinks in Rivendell for the rest of your lives?' said Elrond tentatively.
'DONE!!!' cried all the Hobbits.
'Starting tonight!?!' interjected Boromir hopefully.
'Go on then,' said Elrond wearily. The Fellowship stampeded for the bar next door.
From the start it was obvious that Legolas and Gimli were pretty hard up. Bored of waiting for the others to arrive, they had both got jobs as lap dancers after much grovelling before the feet of Lord Elrond. Now, bedecked in feathers and troll-skin hot pants, they were cavorting around the few 'unemployed' women to be found in Rivendell. The fact that Gimli had to be lifted by the customer before he could perform his lap dance was the primary reason why he was sitting in the corner nursing a double scotch, and Legolas was sprawled decadently across the knees of three elven tarts as they stuffed mithril coins into his waistband. For the second time of the evening, Aragorn and Boromir gaped in disgust.
'I would never have believed one could stoop so low,' growled Gandalf, surveying the two of them as they sheepishly pulled off their tasselled headdresses and sat down with the rest of the Fellowship in a darkened corner. 'We've been off braving unmentionable dangers while you've made complete gimps of yourselves. Anyway,' he spoke irritably. 'You're coming with us now. If we've got to go to Mordor, we want an elf and a dwarf to suffer as well – been getting away with it for far too long.'
His berating was interrupted by the arrival a golden-haired beauty, who danced tantalisingly before their table a while before slinking away. Aragorn gasped audibly.
'Oh Man!' he cheered, thumping his hands on the table. 'Did you see how hot she was. Oh man…' he tailed off, staring around the table. Boromir looked incredulous.
'That was a bloke you idiot,' he roared, and the Fellowship fell about with laughter at the look of utter despair on Aragorn's face.
'Maybe,' said Legolas, perking up suddenly, 'its time for a drink!'
The night wore on. The Hobbits sat tightly around the table, staring furtively about them, as the place got fuller and more raucous. DJ Glorfindel was bringing down the house with his ambient grooves. Someone had let some Orcs in, who were now break dancing amid a crowd of cheering revellers. At first they heeded Gandalf warning to 'stay well away from the hookers my lads, for evil will come of it', until about five minutes later when they saw the old wizard being led away by a voluptuous elf who had his beard entwined round her hand. Merry and Pippin disappeared in the direction of the dance floor where Aragorn and Boromir were already making a complete arse of themselves. As Frodo watched, Aragorn advanced drunkenly upon a young elven lady and tried to wrap his arms around her waist. Moments later, he was reeling after receiving a sharp slap in the face.
'That's one of Elrond's daughters you idiot!' roared Boromir, jumping up and down with his hipflask in the air. Aragorn left the room in rage.
Frodo suddenly felt a soft touch on his arm.
'Not now Sam,' he snapped and looked round to find himself staring into the eyes of a young elf maiden, who smiled sweetly and slid her hand up his thigh. Sam stood and gave him the 'thumbs up' behind her head, before stumbling to the bar. The elf whispered huskily in his ear,
'For ten, my little Hobbit, you'll have a lap-dance, but for twenty it's up to you what you get…'
Frodo awkwardly reached into his pocket for ten coins, but as he did his hand touched the One Weed in its leather pouch. Instantly, there seemed to be a voice in his head; 'THE TWENTY, THE TWENTY.' For a moment, he fought against it but then felt his will crumbling. 'Why not,' he thought and withdrew twenty mithril coins which he stuffed clumsily into the elf's straining bikini.
'Ammgonash ag-yoos enzless' she whispered in elvish, before leading him from the room.
Coming Soon – 'The Flight from Rivendell'