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Chapter 2: More Key Ingredients
A tall, dark, handsome man walks around his large palace in Gondor, his arm around his latest and most permanent accessory, his wife. Not just Any Old Wife. This was an OLD WIFE, a 3751-year old designer elf-wife straight out of Rivendell. And anything designer needs to be pampered and treated with utmost care. This was no exception.
"I wuv you so much, my widdle Arwen-Snoogums," he cooed.
"I love you too, my big squishy Aragorn-Oliphaunt," she replied in a thick, deep, syruppy voice, as they clung to each other as if there was no tomorrow while walking down a flight of stairs, AND balancing a book on each of their heads with a glass of grape juice on top.
"Snoogie-pie, we are SO going to win that three-legged race on Tuesday."
"I know, sweetie. That's why we're having that pre-race winning party today."
"Is everything ready-weddie?"
"We had it ready as soon as we heard about the competition, silly," she giggled, as she hugged him tighter. The juice sloshed around in the cup, but miraculously stayed in place atop her perfect hairdo.
"Of course." He smiled down at his wife. Where would he be without her here, constantly reminding him of every single event that ever occured within his country?
"In fact," Arwen cooed, "Legolas and Gimli-wimli should have done setting up by now. Why don't we go and give them hell- I mean, go and see how they're doing?" She smiled sweetly. Slosh, agreed the juice.
"of course, Snoogles." Here was the perfect specimen of Whipped Husband. Version 3.0.
"I knew you'd agree."
By now they had crossed the courtyard and were nearing a massive stone archway. As they innocently stepped onto the threshold together, with the juice and the books, a huge glass plate came flying out to meet them.....
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yes yes, short I knows my preciousssssss........... but I had to end it somewhere and this seemed like a good place. Review reviews!