Lord of the Munchkins
Chapter Three: Mini Nazgûl and Deadly Nail Filers
Disclaimer: I own nothing. Not even my little cotton socks..
"Hate my life. Hate my life. Hate my life," Strider muttered as he trudged out of a forested area and onto a rolling, grassy plain.
"I know a song that gets on everybody's nerves, everybody's nerves, everybody's nerves! I know a song that gets on everybody's nerves and this is how it goes!" the hobbits sang. Strider lost count of how many times they had sang it around one million two hundred and forty-seven thousand five hundred and eight, so he came to the conclusion that they had continuously sang it for a really, really long time.
"You stupid Halflings, listen up!" Strider halted. Bill almost knocked him down, unaware of his abrupt stop. The hobbits stopped and ceased singing, except for Pippin who kept humming the tune. "See that hilly stone thing over there?" he asked, pointing at it. The hobbits tilted their heads in various directions and stood up on their toes and tried to stand on each other to see. Even though it was in clear view.
"Yes," they said finally.
"That's Weathertop."
Frodo sneezed and rubbed his nose. Sam busied himself with making a pile of dirt with his feet. Merry stared blankly at the old and worn down structure. Pippin started singing again.
"Elbereth," Strider cursed and continued up the hill with Bill. The hobbits followed.
Frodo was awakened from his dream in Happy Land to the sound of laughter and merriment just a few feet away from him. He rolled out of his cloak (which he used as a bed) and got up to see what was going on. He walked toward the firelight to find Sam, Pippin, and Merry cooking random foods.
"Oh, hello, Frodo!" said Sam when he saw Frodo.
"Fire is a chemical change," Frodo said in response. He heard something of that sort from Bilbo one time when he was rambling on about Smog and air pollution and how the world is biased and how Elrond shouldn't wear a toupee and keep denying it and then Frodo fell asleep before hearing anything else.
The other three gave him a blank stare.
"The wood is burning. Heat and light are given off. The wood is turned into ashes and smoke. Can I have some bacon?"
Merry gave Frodo another blank stare, then handed him a strip of bacon. "One moment. You said the fire gives off light, yes?"
Frodo nodded, his mouth full of bacon.
"Then—the Black Riders—they could find us!" Merry exclaimed in panic.
They peered over the ridge of stone to the ground. And sure enough, there were five short little Nazgûl on their shrunken steeds. Merry promptly stamped out the fire, and the hobbits drew their swords (the ones Strider had to stop at a gift shop to buy for them) and ran like decapitated headless chickens up some winding stairs and to the top of.. Weathertop. Top of Weathertop. Yes…
They stood, huddled, in the center of the circular stone area. Their swords were held high and ready, their minds set for battle. They also wondered where the fook Strider was to save their tails.
Finally, after five minutes, the Nazgûl came climbing and struggling up the sides of the structure, surrounding the poor, poor hobbits.
Sam wet his pants. The Nazgûl advanced, and the hobbits ran in various directions.
Somewhere on the ground on the opposite side of the stone structure (it needs a name that's something besides Weathertop, which it probably does have but I'm too lazy to look it up), Strider was sitting on the ground, attempting to pop a bulbous zit that was protruding from his nose. He had just about gotten it, when he heard the girlish screams of the young hobbits from above.
"Great," he muttered, "they must have found a grasshopper or something." This notion was shot to the underworld when he heard another scream and the all-too-familiar high-pitched screech of a Nazgûl. Strider cursed like the potty-mouthed twelve year old he was and got up, grabbing his sword, as well as a torch.
The tallest of the Nazgûl was closing in on Frodo. Being the clumsy oaf that he was, Frodo stumbled backward and landed on his little, kawaii hobbit tush.
He started to feel the Ring's power overcome him, and he took it out of his vest pocket and slipped it onto his finger.
"Stupid hobbit," hissed the Nazgûl (he has or had a name, but for our purposes we will call him Skippy.) From under his cloak, he produced a nail filer. No, not just ANY nail filer, but one of many psychedelic colors. Colors so wonderfully beautiful and flowery it made one want to gag themselves with a spoon.
Frodo's vision was blurred because he was sleepy and the Ring just didn't like him, but he could view the nail filer well enough. He screamed and tried to stand.
"Frodo!" Sam yelled. He was having a staring contest with one of the other Nazgûl, one we will call Scruffy. Scruffy jumped with joy, for the yelling Sam had done caused him to blink.
Skippy was very offended about the scream—he was quite fond of his nail filer that was specially ordered by Sauron from his monthly magazine entitled "Evil Household Items". In his blind rage, he stabbed (or more like poked) Frodo in the forehead with his mighty, Morgul-y coated nail filer.
Frodo wailed with pain and yanked the Ring off his finger. The poke would not have hurt so bad, if it was not for the papercut on his forehead that was inflicted when Pippin decided to fold a parchment up into a flying contraption that ended up crashing into his head in Bree. At any rate, the Morgul-ness of the nail filer was able to seep into the small wound and poison the poor widdle Ringbearer.
It was then Strider arrived, yelling enough curse words to make even a sailor piss in his pants and run home to his mommy. He skillfully fought the Nazgûl, easily taking them out. If you ask me, I'd say he had too much fun watching them burn and screech in fury and terror and pain.. *shakes her head in disgrace*
When the carnage was over, he joined the other hobbits who had gathered around Frodo. The poor thing was in some serious pain, enough to almost make Strider want to take pity on him. Almost.
"He's been stabbed by a Morgul.. nail care item," Strider commented, examining the wound.
"Is he going to die?" Pippin asked in his adorable little hobbit-like accent that just makes you want to hug him until his eyes bug out comically and he turns a funny shade of bluish purple.
Sam started wailing. Frodo began to look very uncomfortable. Strider surpressed his desires to make the hobbits suffer and answered, "Not if we find help." Strider lifted Frodo off the stone floor and carried him off, beckoning the other hobbits to follow him. "Ready the pony, and make haste," he called back to them as the scrambled up behind him. "There is not much time."
~~~~~
Bum, bum, buuuuum! I wonder what will happen to our little hairy-footed hero? Stay tuned, folks! The next chapter won't take so long. x.x I hope..
Chapter Three: Mini Nazgûl and Deadly Nail Filers
Disclaimer: I own nothing. Not even my little cotton socks..
"Hate my life. Hate my life. Hate my life," Strider muttered as he trudged out of a forested area and onto a rolling, grassy plain.
"I know a song that gets on everybody's nerves, everybody's nerves, everybody's nerves! I know a song that gets on everybody's nerves and this is how it goes!" the hobbits sang. Strider lost count of how many times they had sang it around one million two hundred and forty-seven thousand five hundred and eight, so he came to the conclusion that they had continuously sang it for a really, really long time.
"You stupid Halflings, listen up!" Strider halted. Bill almost knocked him down, unaware of his abrupt stop. The hobbits stopped and ceased singing, except for Pippin who kept humming the tune. "See that hilly stone thing over there?" he asked, pointing at it. The hobbits tilted their heads in various directions and stood up on their toes and tried to stand on each other to see. Even though it was in clear view.
"Yes," they said finally.
"That's Weathertop."
Frodo sneezed and rubbed his nose. Sam busied himself with making a pile of dirt with his feet. Merry stared blankly at the old and worn down structure. Pippin started singing again.
"Elbereth," Strider cursed and continued up the hill with Bill. The hobbits followed.
Frodo was awakened from his dream in Happy Land to the sound of laughter and merriment just a few feet away from him. He rolled out of his cloak (which he used as a bed) and got up to see what was going on. He walked toward the firelight to find Sam, Pippin, and Merry cooking random foods.
"Oh, hello, Frodo!" said Sam when he saw Frodo.
"Fire is a chemical change," Frodo said in response. He heard something of that sort from Bilbo one time when he was rambling on about Smog and air pollution and how the world is biased and how Elrond shouldn't wear a toupee and keep denying it and then Frodo fell asleep before hearing anything else.
The other three gave him a blank stare.
"The wood is burning. Heat and light are given off. The wood is turned into ashes and smoke. Can I have some bacon?"
Merry gave Frodo another blank stare, then handed him a strip of bacon. "One moment. You said the fire gives off light, yes?"
Frodo nodded, his mouth full of bacon.
"Then—the Black Riders—they could find us!" Merry exclaimed in panic.
They peered over the ridge of stone to the ground. And sure enough, there were five short little Nazgûl on their shrunken steeds. Merry promptly stamped out the fire, and the hobbits drew their swords (the ones Strider had to stop at a gift shop to buy for them) and ran like decapitated headless chickens up some winding stairs and to the top of.. Weathertop. Top of Weathertop. Yes…
They stood, huddled, in the center of the circular stone area. Their swords were held high and ready, their minds set for battle. They also wondered where the fook Strider was to save their tails.
Finally, after five minutes, the Nazgûl came climbing and struggling up the sides of the structure, surrounding the poor, poor hobbits.
Sam wet his pants. The Nazgûl advanced, and the hobbits ran in various directions.
Somewhere on the ground on the opposite side of the stone structure (it needs a name that's something besides Weathertop, which it probably does have but I'm too lazy to look it up), Strider was sitting on the ground, attempting to pop a bulbous zit that was protruding from his nose. He had just about gotten it, when he heard the girlish screams of the young hobbits from above.
"Great," he muttered, "they must have found a grasshopper or something." This notion was shot to the underworld when he heard another scream and the all-too-familiar high-pitched screech of a Nazgûl. Strider cursed like the potty-mouthed twelve year old he was and got up, grabbing his sword, as well as a torch.
The tallest of the Nazgûl was closing in on Frodo. Being the clumsy oaf that he was, Frodo stumbled backward and landed on his little, kawaii hobbit tush.
He started to feel the Ring's power overcome him, and he took it out of his vest pocket and slipped it onto his finger.
"Stupid hobbit," hissed the Nazgûl (he has or had a name, but for our purposes we will call him Skippy.) From under his cloak, he produced a nail filer. No, not just ANY nail filer, but one of many psychedelic colors. Colors so wonderfully beautiful and flowery it made one want to gag themselves with a spoon.
Frodo's vision was blurred because he was sleepy and the Ring just didn't like him, but he could view the nail filer well enough. He screamed and tried to stand.
"Frodo!" Sam yelled. He was having a staring contest with one of the other Nazgûl, one we will call Scruffy. Scruffy jumped with joy, for the yelling Sam had done caused him to blink.
Skippy was very offended about the scream—he was quite fond of his nail filer that was specially ordered by Sauron from his monthly magazine entitled "Evil Household Items". In his blind rage, he stabbed (or more like poked) Frodo in the forehead with his mighty, Morgul-y coated nail filer.
Frodo wailed with pain and yanked the Ring off his finger. The poke would not have hurt so bad, if it was not for the papercut on his forehead that was inflicted when Pippin decided to fold a parchment up into a flying contraption that ended up crashing into his head in Bree. At any rate, the Morgul-ness of the nail filer was able to seep into the small wound and poison the poor widdle Ringbearer.
It was then Strider arrived, yelling enough curse words to make even a sailor piss in his pants and run home to his mommy. He skillfully fought the Nazgûl, easily taking them out. If you ask me, I'd say he had too much fun watching them burn and screech in fury and terror and pain.. *shakes her head in disgrace*
When the carnage was over, he joined the other hobbits who had gathered around Frodo. The poor thing was in some serious pain, enough to almost make Strider want to take pity on him. Almost.
"He's been stabbed by a Morgul.. nail care item," Strider commented, examining the wound.
"Is he going to die?" Pippin asked in his adorable little hobbit-like accent that just makes you want to hug him until his eyes bug out comically and he turns a funny shade of bluish purple.
Sam started wailing. Frodo began to look very uncomfortable. Strider surpressed his desires to make the hobbits suffer and answered, "Not if we find help." Strider lifted Frodo off the stone floor and carried him off, beckoning the other hobbits to follow him. "Ready the pony, and make haste," he called back to them as the scrambled up behind him. "There is not much time."
~~~~~
Bum, bum, buuuuum! I wonder what will happen to our little hairy-footed hero? Stay tuned, folks! The next chapter won't take so long. x.x I hope..