"That's rully baid fer yeah," the girl said in her weird-arse South African accent. I ignored her, kept shoving the Chiko Roll into my mouth. She was sipping mineral water, staring at me over the rim of the glass, twirling her greasy hair around one finger. Cam laughed and blew a smoke ring in her face, then leant over and kissed me on the cheek. "No use, love," he said to the girl. "I've tried to tell him not to do that to himself, but will he listen to me?" The smoke hung in front of me, leaving melting patterns in the hot, damp air.
"Fuck you, you Pommy bastard. What about your cigs, then, eh?" I kissed him back, flicking my tongue against his cheek. Shot a look at the girl out the corner of my eye. She was getting off on it, a bit of flush creeping up her neck, breathing a little heavy, lips caught under her teeth. What is it with chicks and watching guys get it on? It'd mostly be Cam she was watching, but, what with me being an ugly fucker. I was going to say something to the girl, hang a bit of shit, but couldn't remember her name. It was something stupid, her parents being the kind who'd painted her bedroom plain white to "avoid enforcing outdated gender stereotypes on me from a young age." Apparently. She'd immigrated about four years ago and hadn't made a single friend here, except for a sad, limp individual called Anton who dressed in crusty corduroy and whose only topic of conversation was telly shows he liked when he was little. The girl hung around us because Jen was a soft touch and couldn't be bothered to tell her where to go.
Turned to ask Jen where we were going tonight, but she was already gone, staring at her ham and cheese jaffle and sniffing a bit. Cam followed my gaze, grinned and patted Jen's arm. "Jenny, pet, you with us?"
Jen gave him a wonky smile and said yeah, she was bloody great. Then she started crying, her face all screwed up, taking big sobbing breaths and calling Gav a bastard. I gave her a hug and ate her jaffle. The South African chick started making clucking sympathy noises, which pissed me off for some reason. So I gave her thigh a bit of a stroke under the table, which shut her right up, except now she was giving me a scary predatory look. She pulled out a compact and started fixing her awful green yellow eye shadow, giving me flirty little glances and making sure I was watching. Sharon Stone she was not.
Cam was stroking Jen's hair and saying yeah, Gav was a bastard and she was far too good for him anyway and if he wanted to waste his time on an anorexic Barbie Bitchface it was his problem. I reckoned they'd be rooting like rabbits by the end of the night, what with Jen being a bit fragile and Cam being Cam. He caught my eye and mouthed, "Bit wasted," over Jen's head as she rested on the ugly laminex tabletop. I nodded; Jen'd been drowning her sorrows in some hospital strength brandy before we came to the Windmill Café. I mimed that we should ditch the whiny vegan Afrikaner cow and go to a club. Fortunately, the God of Annoyed and Awkward People intervened and the stupid girl pushed her chair across the lino floor and stood, saying, "Aih'm jest gewing to the laydies' rom. Be back in a tic."
"Yeah, sure," said Cam. Dead casual, wink wink, eh Randall? Very smooth. The Windmill didn't have a "Ladies' Room" per se, just a unisex loo with a cracked bowl and no paper. No idea how they even got away with calling it a "Café". It was a grease pit that stayed open until nearly dawn, made the best dim sims in Brisbane and charged 7 cents more for a packet of Twisties than anywhere else. The girl-oh shit! Meridian. I knew it was a bloody stupid name. Sounds like she should write historical romance, eh? Anyway, Meridian sashayed across the floor, swinging her bony hips and weaving in between the other tables. Just as she got to the door of the loo, she turned, gave me a super slow wink and ran her tongue across her lips. The fluro lights made her look even more jaundiced and ill than usual, with dark circles standing out harsh beneath her eyes. I sort of smiled back at her. It was an effort not to spew. Cam shot me a faked sympathetic look and kicked me in the crotch. Bastard.
The second she was around the corner, we grabbed Jen and piss-bolted out the front door into the night air. It reeked of the three-week old grease they used in the deep fryer; great stinking clouds of steam in the air. Me and Cam dragged Jen out of the Café, one of us under each arm. "Come on, come on, she'll be done in a minute."
"Yeah, come on Jennyjenjen. There's a pet."
But Jen just plopped down on the bench outside and sniffled. Cam threatened to lick her if she didn't move. She didn't, and he didn't. I was getting nervous; if I hung around Meridian too long, I would probably end up rooting her. This would be unfortunate, because I was planning on rooting Jen. Cam seemed to have that pretty much sewn up, but. As bloody usual. Wish I had an accent.
An old You Am I song, "Adam's Rib", started on the radio speaker outside. It was one of Jen's favourite shimmy tracks, and she snapped out of her funk, thank God. Suddenly she was grabbing me around the waist from behind and jumping up onto my back. "Christ!" I nearly fell out onto the road, and tottered on the edge of the footpath as a four wheel drive thundered past. Then Jen was kissing my ears and laughing and saying how she never liked Gav anyway and everything was okay. Her tongue in my ear felt a bit weird, but I didn't want to spoil her mood. She jumped down and spun me around, and we had a bit of a pash under a streetlight. It was a good night, full moon and really hot and that, and Jen smelled lovely, like the frangipanis that grew outside her bedroom window. She tasted mellow and thick, from the brandy probably, and it filled my head with thoughts. I wouldn't have minded staying on like that for a while, but then Cam ran back and tackled us going, Hey, time waits for no man, my lovelies, so let's winedineandboogieondown, for tomorrow we may die! He was always coming out with shit like that. One of the reasons I loved him.
* * * * *
"I still fink y'should lemme kill it."
"I know you do, Grakka," Fosco sighed, puffing on his pipe. "But as I thought I'd already explained, obviously not thoroughly enough, that is not exactly a viable option, what? However, if you really do fancy the idea of slow, painful and inventive death then by all means, kill the Man. I'm sure they'll come up with some jolly fascinating ways to execute you."
Grakka and his brother Lardang shifted uneasily. Being Labour and Security orcs, bred for fierceness, brute strength and speed, rational thought was something of an optional extra. Thus, their cognitive process did not extend greatly beyond Kill, Eat, Fight, Step On and Smoosh Under A Rock. They looked imploringly at a short, wiry orc standing nearby, who ignored them.
"So." Fosco looked unhappily at the still form before them, and blew a thoughtful smoke-ring. A young Man, straggly, probably little more than a Boy, with hair the colour of mouldy straw (now matted with blood) sticking up at all angles from his head. He was dressed oddly, but then Fosco had seen enough of the fashions among the young Men (and Women) nowadays not to be greatly surprised by his attire. His hands were disproportionately large for his body and his nose had been broken at least once. Curiously, his face and ears were adorned with rings, much like those worn by the orcs: several in each ear, and one in his eyebrow. Fosco supposed the Boy belonged to one of those silly orc-worship cults so terribly common nowadays, and was bending over him to inspect the rings a little closer when the Boy stirred. Fosco instantly dropped down beside him, peering anxiously into the pale upturned face. The hobbit was deeply nervous: the possible repercussions if one of his workers was found to have killed a Man-Child was weighing heavily on his mind. He'd heard stories of wickedly sharp knives, boiling hot pitch, spiked whips and other things too terrible to dwell upon.
"Shut the window," said Randall, and opened his eyes. They were met by a pair of large, dark brown ones with endless lashes. Randall blinked, hard, and when he looked again the eyes had been replaced with a sword. "I think I liked it better the first time," said Randall sleepily, his tongue feeling about three times too big for his mouth. Then his sluggish synapses processed the fact that an extremely sharp sword was pointed at his head, and a course of action was decided upon:
"Shit!" Randall army-rolled desperately to one side, tried to jump to his feet and face- planted on the grass. "Ouch."
"Grakka, you fool!" yelped Fosco, struggling on his back like an overturned beetle, still lying where the orc had shoved him aside. "What are you doing? Put the sword down this instant!"
"Sorry, boss. 'S jus' instinct, like," mumbled the orc contritely.
"Yar," nodded his kinsman with enthusiasm. "He could've attacked yous, or summat. Neverrr know, do yer?"
Fosco glanced at the young Man with his face in the turf and shook his head. "Oh, do be quiet. And help me up. Him, too."
Randall yelped as a scaly pair of paws hauled him off the grass and brushed him down rather more roughly than was absolutely necessary. He gaped at the thing doing the brushing for a moment, before recognition stirred in his mind.
"You!" He yelled, backing away nervously. "The Ugly Bastard! What the hell are you doing here? You killed that girl! And the guy! And you hit me! Hard! You dickhead! Stop brushing me! Ow! Stop it! Ow!"
"Grakka, stop that at once!" Fosco, brushing his own grass off, looked at the Boy with concern. He seemed to be babbling incoherently, and the hobbit wondered whether Grakka had done any permanent damage.
"I say, Sir," he said, taking the Boy's arm gently, "Are you quite alright?"
Randall looked down and jumped. "Bugger me, a dwarf!" He put a hand gingerly to his head, winced, and examined the fresh blood on his fingers. "I think you hit me harder than I thought. Hey," he noticed the orc as though for the first time, "What's up with your face? Are you okay?" A thought struck him, and he turned to the Short Arse. "Are you guys with one of those freak shows? Because I think your Ugly Bugger just killed some Swedish back-packers. Or maybe," he looked around hazily; the bodies of the young man and the girl were nowhere to be seen. "Maybe that was just me. I think I might sit down for a bit." His legs buckled, and Randall sat down heavily, rubbing his temples.
Fosco knelt next to him in alarm; the boy was making not a whit of sense, but he seemed to be greatly distressed about something. "Sir," he asked again, "Are you quite alright?"
Randall looked at the Short Arse, then to the Ugly Bugger, and back again. "Um, do you speak English?"
Fosco raised an eyebrow quizzically.
"Uh, Habla espan-yol? Speekn zee Deuytch?" hazarded Randall in what fractured phrasebook languages he could remember. The Short Arse continued to look blank, and Randall had a bit of a panic. "Oh, shit. Shit. Shit! I've gotten so wasted I've forgotten how to speak properly, haven't I? Or I'm in another country, aren't I? I bloody bet I am. Oh, damn damn bugger and damn!" Randall yelled, slamming his fist into the ground.
Fosco patted his arm reassuringly, nodding and smiling. "Uhhm, Suhr?" said Grakka, uneasily, moving closer to his brother. The smaller orc remained silent, sharpening his claws impassively with a knife. 'Suhr, arre yeh sure we carrnt kill 'im? He could get narsty."
"No, Grakka." Fosco sighed, watching as the young man tried unsuccessfully to kick himself in the posterior. The hobbit took out his pouch, and began filling a small clay pipe. "You know the penalties for harming a Man. We can't take the risk. Besides, the poor thing's obviously deranged, probably thanks to you."
"No, he's not," said the third orc, without looking up from his manicure. "He's perfectly sane. Well, near enough. He's talking lucidly. He obviously just doesn't speak the Common Tongue. Not everyone's culture's been overwhelmed by our *Lords*, you know." The orc's accent was crisp and flawless, with none of the guttural inflections common to his kind: he would have been at home in the courts of Gondor.
Fosco looked hard at the slim, muscular orc, not a great deal taller than himself. "I see," he said irritably. 'And what, pray, leads you to that conclusion, eh, Nurtz?" He re-lit his pipe, noting that he was running low on weed.
"Simple." The orc held his claws away for inspection, seemingly pleased with his work.. "Grakka said the Man-Child yelled something he didn't understand directly before the great brute employed his usual method of dealing with things he doesn't understand, yes? So, presumably, if the Boy was talking like that *before* he was beaten half to death, it made perfect sense to him. Allowing, of course, for the assumption that he wasn't mad to begin with. He hasn't answered any of your perfectly innocent questions, so one can suppose he didn't understand them. He dresses strangely, though-" Lurtz paused, casting a critical eye over the miserable creature crouched warily on the grass before him, "not in the way of the Gondor youths, and in a manner unsuited to the climate at this time of year. Those clothes and boots seem reasonably well-made, if a little worn, so he's not a peasant." Nurtz slipped the knife into his belt, stood, and stretched, popping the ligaments in his neck. "On the other hand, he chose to use a rock instead of the spare sword against Grakka, so he's not a noble; or if he is, an extraordinarily untrained one. So, one can deduce that he is from somewhere rather warmer, which has been at peace for some time, speaks not the Common Tongue and, judging by the way he's looking at you, *Sir*," The orc managed to make the usually respectful term sound roughly equivalent to 'maggot vomit', "is unused to Halfings and most probably Orcs as well," he finished with a smug half-smile at Fosco.
The hobbit and the other orcs gaped at him for a second- then Grakka reached out and ponderously smacked Lurtz upside the head. The smaller orc gave a quiet grunt as he fell to the ground. Fosco arched an eyebrow at his minion, who shrugged casually. "Smart arsed mongrel fing," he snorted at the prone form of Lurtz. "Kaarnt keepis mowf shut, cannee?"
Fosco sighed. "Quite. Still," he pursed his lips, "It makes sense, though, what? And if he is noble, as well as a *foreign* type," (Fosco pronounced it with some distaste, sharing his race's distrust of all things 'foreign'. Terribly greasy food, you know.) "Then it's most likely someone will be looking for him. I suppose we shall just have to take him with us, at least until our next stop. No," he held up a hand to halt Grakka and Lardang's growls of protest, "I've made up my mind. Besides," he added thoughtfully, "If he is a noble, we may get something extra for our troubles, what?"
Randall, who had watched this entire lengthy exchange without a damn clue what was happening, decided it would be a good idea not to piss off the deformed foreign freaks who obviously had some kind of grudge against other tourists and liked beating each other unconscious, which was possibly part of their act. He turned to the Short Arse, noting that the little weirdo was dressed like an extra in a BBC period drama, and gave a smile that tried quite hard to be friendly. "Um, look," he began, and then realised they probably hadn't learnt English since the last time he tried, and began to mime while speaking very slowly and loudly (no-one knows why this helps). "Uh, Can." Pleading hand gesture. "You." Pointing at Fosco and the orcs. "Help." Frantic hand movements. "Me?" Pointing at self.
Fosco, surprisingly, gathered most of what Randall was getting at, and mimed back, speaking slowly and loudly. "You." Point at Randall. "Come." Beckoning. "With." Pointing behind his shoulder. "Us." Sweeping arm movements, big smile. They nodded happily at each other. Randall climbed rather unsteadily to his feet, his head muddled enough not to question the situation any further, and followed the Freaks down an overgrown path. Grakka dragged the unconscious Lurtz roughly along behind him, making sure to go over as many rocks and nettle patches as possible.
After a few minutes tramping, they had reached another clearing almost identical to the one from which they had come, except for the carts. There were three of them parked in the middle of the glade: large and rather decrepit horse-drawn wagons, covered with canvas. There were more hulking, child-molesty looking people milling about, though none quite so large as those he'd been following. Some were fiddling with harnesses; others were adjusting the canvas coverings of the carts; all seemed to be preparing to leave. The midgety thing strode across to talk to one of his freaks. The Ugly Bastards went off as well, presumably to dump their unconscious colleague somewhere, their rank stench thankfully following them. Randall thought he heard a muffled cry from one of the carts, but the ugly bloke nearest to it aimed a savage kick in the general direction and the noise stopped. Randall shook his spinning head, trying empty the glue that had obviously been poured in through his ears. He felt a tug on his sleeve, and looked down into the broad, good-natured face of the Short Arse. The odd little bugger gestured at the crude seat front cart,. Randall nodded, and climbed up behind the freakish driver, followed by the Short Arse.
The little bloke called an order, and the carts lurched slowly off down the dusty roadway ahead, some of the Differently Formed guys strolling along beside. They were talking amongst themselves in an unusual tongue; either that, or they all had really nasty throat infections. Randall looked about at the countryside with an increasing sense of unease. Now that his head was beginning to sort itself out, he was getting bloody worried. He had no idea where he was, or what continent he was on.
Everyone he'd met so far had either been a young Nazi, a midget or a misshapen weirdo with the worst dermatitis he'd seen since that blind date a few years back, no-one spoke English, he had possibly just seen two people horribly murdered or had a remarkable vivid hallucination of said scenario and he was bleeding from the head. There are some things that even your lucky underwear can't help you with. He felt a gentle tap on his arm, and looked across at the midget. He had a pleasant little face, with large, bright brown eyes and a warm smile. He mimed what looked like "Are you okay?"
Randall grinned back, and gave an "I've been better" gesture. The midget bent, rummaging under the seat, and emerged with a pack, which he emptied onto the seat between them. There was cheese, bread, a bottle of wine and what looked like mushrooms. He motioned that Randall should help himself, which the boy did without any further prompting. He tried a chunk of the cheese, which made his tongue crawl, so he concerned himself chiefly with the wine. Randall hoped it was strong enough to get him drunk: he wasn't liking the worrying thoughts niggling at his brain as the carts rumbled along. He took a swig of the liquor and grimaced, trying to get a grip on things.
All right, time to take stock: He was in a strange, woodland country filled with very short people who really liked cheese, mushrooms and wine and wore bizarre clothes; beautiful girls and disturbingly effeminate boys; ugly fuckers who had no concept of deodorant and really, really didn't like strangers; and not one of them spoke Engl-
Randall's eyes widened. "Oh, bugger me," he wailed, startling the hobbit. "I'm in FRANCE!"
AN: Orc-worshipping cults? Men taking over Middle Earth? What the hell am I doing?!? Well, they actually come directly from Tolkien himself (see "The New Shadow") so it's canon. Sort of. I'm not trying to completely screw up Middle Earth. This is just my interpretation of Tolkien's worst nightmare; elves getting buggered over, hobbits becoming as corrupt as Men, Men generally being bastards, and orcs being widely accepted. And the Elvish orgies are coming. Honest. :) Thanks and salutations to the ever-radiant MJ, Queen of the Beta: Who loves ya, buddy?
"Fuck you, you Pommy bastard. What about your cigs, then, eh?" I kissed him back, flicking my tongue against his cheek. Shot a look at the girl out the corner of my eye. She was getting off on it, a bit of flush creeping up her neck, breathing a little heavy, lips caught under her teeth. What is it with chicks and watching guys get it on? It'd mostly be Cam she was watching, but, what with me being an ugly fucker. I was going to say something to the girl, hang a bit of shit, but couldn't remember her name. It was something stupid, her parents being the kind who'd painted her bedroom plain white to "avoid enforcing outdated gender stereotypes on me from a young age." Apparently. She'd immigrated about four years ago and hadn't made a single friend here, except for a sad, limp individual called Anton who dressed in crusty corduroy and whose only topic of conversation was telly shows he liked when he was little. The girl hung around us because Jen was a soft touch and couldn't be bothered to tell her where to go.
Turned to ask Jen where we were going tonight, but she was already gone, staring at her ham and cheese jaffle and sniffing a bit. Cam followed my gaze, grinned and patted Jen's arm. "Jenny, pet, you with us?"
Jen gave him a wonky smile and said yeah, she was bloody great. Then she started crying, her face all screwed up, taking big sobbing breaths and calling Gav a bastard. I gave her a hug and ate her jaffle. The South African chick started making clucking sympathy noises, which pissed me off for some reason. So I gave her thigh a bit of a stroke under the table, which shut her right up, except now she was giving me a scary predatory look. She pulled out a compact and started fixing her awful green yellow eye shadow, giving me flirty little glances and making sure I was watching. Sharon Stone she was not.
Cam was stroking Jen's hair and saying yeah, Gav was a bastard and she was far too good for him anyway and if he wanted to waste his time on an anorexic Barbie Bitchface it was his problem. I reckoned they'd be rooting like rabbits by the end of the night, what with Jen being a bit fragile and Cam being Cam. He caught my eye and mouthed, "Bit wasted," over Jen's head as she rested on the ugly laminex tabletop. I nodded; Jen'd been drowning her sorrows in some hospital strength brandy before we came to the Windmill Café. I mimed that we should ditch the whiny vegan Afrikaner cow and go to a club. Fortunately, the God of Annoyed and Awkward People intervened and the stupid girl pushed her chair across the lino floor and stood, saying, "Aih'm jest gewing to the laydies' rom. Be back in a tic."
"Yeah, sure," said Cam. Dead casual, wink wink, eh Randall? Very smooth. The Windmill didn't have a "Ladies' Room" per se, just a unisex loo with a cracked bowl and no paper. No idea how they even got away with calling it a "Café". It was a grease pit that stayed open until nearly dawn, made the best dim sims in Brisbane and charged 7 cents more for a packet of Twisties than anywhere else. The girl-oh shit! Meridian. I knew it was a bloody stupid name. Sounds like she should write historical romance, eh? Anyway, Meridian sashayed across the floor, swinging her bony hips and weaving in between the other tables. Just as she got to the door of the loo, she turned, gave me a super slow wink and ran her tongue across her lips. The fluro lights made her look even more jaundiced and ill than usual, with dark circles standing out harsh beneath her eyes. I sort of smiled back at her. It was an effort not to spew. Cam shot me a faked sympathetic look and kicked me in the crotch. Bastard.
The second she was around the corner, we grabbed Jen and piss-bolted out the front door into the night air. It reeked of the three-week old grease they used in the deep fryer; great stinking clouds of steam in the air. Me and Cam dragged Jen out of the Café, one of us under each arm. "Come on, come on, she'll be done in a minute."
"Yeah, come on Jennyjenjen. There's a pet."
But Jen just plopped down on the bench outside and sniffled. Cam threatened to lick her if she didn't move. She didn't, and he didn't. I was getting nervous; if I hung around Meridian too long, I would probably end up rooting her. This would be unfortunate, because I was planning on rooting Jen. Cam seemed to have that pretty much sewn up, but. As bloody usual. Wish I had an accent.
An old You Am I song, "Adam's Rib", started on the radio speaker outside. It was one of Jen's favourite shimmy tracks, and she snapped out of her funk, thank God. Suddenly she was grabbing me around the waist from behind and jumping up onto my back. "Christ!" I nearly fell out onto the road, and tottered on the edge of the footpath as a four wheel drive thundered past. Then Jen was kissing my ears and laughing and saying how she never liked Gav anyway and everything was okay. Her tongue in my ear felt a bit weird, but I didn't want to spoil her mood. She jumped down and spun me around, and we had a bit of a pash under a streetlight. It was a good night, full moon and really hot and that, and Jen smelled lovely, like the frangipanis that grew outside her bedroom window. She tasted mellow and thick, from the brandy probably, and it filled my head with thoughts. I wouldn't have minded staying on like that for a while, but then Cam ran back and tackled us going, Hey, time waits for no man, my lovelies, so let's winedineandboogieondown, for tomorrow we may die! He was always coming out with shit like that. One of the reasons I loved him.
* * * * *
"I still fink y'should lemme kill it."
"I know you do, Grakka," Fosco sighed, puffing on his pipe. "But as I thought I'd already explained, obviously not thoroughly enough, that is not exactly a viable option, what? However, if you really do fancy the idea of slow, painful and inventive death then by all means, kill the Man. I'm sure they'll come up with some jolly fascinating ways to execute you."
Grakka and his brother Lardang shifted uneasily. Being Labour and Security orcs, bred for fierceness, brute strength and speed, rational thought was something of an optional extra. Thus, their cognitive process did not extend greatly beyond Kill, Eat, Fight, Step On and Smoosh Under A Rock. They looked imploringly at a short, wiry orc standing nearby, who ignored them.
"So." Fosco looked unhappily at the still form before them, and blew a thoughtful smoke-ring. A young Man, straggly, probably little more than a Boy, with hair the colour of mouldy straw (now matted with blood) sticking up at all angles from his head. He was dressed oddly, but then Fosco had seen enough of the fashions among the young Men (and Women) nowadays not to be greatly surprised by his attire. His hands were disproportionately large for his body and his nose had been broken at least once. Curiously, his face and ears were adorned with rings, much like those worn by the orcs: several in each ear, and one in his eyebrow. Fosco supposed the Boy belonged to one of those silly orc-worship cults so terribly common nowadays, and was bending over him to inspect the rings a little closer when the Boy stirred. Fosco instantly dropped down beside him, peering anxiously into the pale upturned face. The hobbit was deeply nervous: the possible repercussions if one of his workers was found to have killed a Man-Child was weighing heavily on his mind. He'd heard stories of wickedly sharp knives, boiling hot pitch, spiked whips and other things too terrible to dwell upon.
"Shut the window," said Randall, and opened his eyes. They were met by a pair of large, dark brown ones with endless lashes. Randall blinked, hard, and when he looked again the eyes had been replaced with a sword. "I think I liked it better the first time," said Randall sleepily, his tongue feeling about three times too big for his mouth. Then his sluggish synapses processed the fact that an extremely sharp sword was pointed at his head, and a course of action was decided upon:
"Shit!" Randall army-rolled desperately to one side, tried to jump to his feet and face- planted on the grass. "Ouch."
"Grakka, you fool!" yelped Fosco, struggling on his back like an overturned beetle, still lying where the orc had shoved him aside. "What are you doing? Put the sword down this instant!"
"Sorry, boss. 'S jus' instinct, like," mumbled the orc contritely.
"Yar," nodded his kinsman with enthusiasm. "He could've attacked yous, or summat. Neverrr know, do yer?"
Fosco glanced at the young Man with his face in the turf and shook his head. "Oh, do be quiet. And help me up. Him, too."
Randall yelped as a scaly pair of paws hauled him off the grass and brushed him down rather more roughly than was absolutely necessary. He gaped at the thing doing the brushing for a moment, before recognition stirred in his mind.
"You!" He yelled, backing away nervously. "The Ugly Bastard! What the hell are you doing here? You killed that girl! And the guy! And you hit me! Hard! You dickhead! Stop brushing me! Ow! Stop it! Ow!"
"Grakka, stop that at once!" Fosco, brushing his own grass off, looked at the Boy with concern. He seemed to be babbling incoherently, and the hobbit wondered whether Grakka had done any permanent damage.
"I say, Sir," he said, taking the Boy's arm gently, "Are you quite alright?"
Randall looked down and jumped. "Bugger me, a dwarf!" He put a hand gingerly to his head, winced, and examined the fresh blood on his fingers. "I think you hit me harder than I thought. Hey," he noticed the orc as though for the first time, "What's up with your face? Are you okay?" A thought struck him, and he turned to the Short Arse. "Are you guys with one of those freak shows? Because I think your Ugly Bugger just killed some Swedish back-packers. Or maybe," he looked around hazily; the bodies of the young man and the girl were nowhere to be seen. "Maybe that was just me. I think I might sit down for a bit." His legs buckled, and Randall sat down heavily, rubbing his temples.
Fosco knelt next to him in alarm; the boy was making not a whit of sense, but he seemed to be greatly distressed about something. "Sir," he asked again, "Are you quite alright?"
Randall looked at the Short Arse, then to the Ugly Bugger, and back again. "Um, do you speak English?"
Fosco raised an eyebrow quizzically.
"Uh, Habla espan-yol? Speekn zee Deuytch?" hazarded Randall in what fractured phrasebook languages he could remember. The Short Arse continued to look blank, and Randall had a bit of a panic. "Oh, shit. Shit. Shit! I've gotten so wasted I've forgotten how to speak properly, haven't I? Or I'm in another country, aren't I? I bloody bet I am. Oh, damn damn bugger and damn!" Randall yelled, slamming his fist into the ground.
Fosco patted his arm reassuringly, nodding and smiling. "Uhhm, Suhr?" said Grakka, uneasily, moving closer to his brother. The smaller orc remained silent, sharpening his claws impassively with a knife. 'Suhr, arre yeh sure we carrnt kill 'im? He could get narsty."
"No, Grakka." Fosco sighed, watching as the young man tried unsuccessfully to kick himself in the posterior. The hobbit took out his pouch, and began filling a small clay pipe. "You know the penalties for harming a Man. We can't take the risk. Besides, the poor thing's obviously deranged, probably thanks to you."
"No, he's not," said the third orc, without looking up from his manicure. "He's perfectly sane. Well, near enough. He's talking lucidly. He obviously just doesn't speak the Common Tongue. Not everyone's culture's been overwhelmed by our *Lords*, you know." The orc's accent was crisp and flawless, with none of the guttural inflections common to his kind: he would have been at home in the courts of Gondor.
Fosco looked hard at the slim, muscular orc, not a great deal taller than himself. "I see," he said irritably. 'And what, pray, leads you to that conclusion, eh, Nurtz?" He re-lit his pipe, noting that he was running low on weed.
"Simple." The orc held his claws away for inspection, seemingly pleased with his work.. "Grakka said the Man-Child yelled something he didn't understand directly before the great brute employed his usual method of dealing with things he doesn't understand, yes? So, presumably, if the Boy was talking like that *before* he was beaten half to death, it made perfect sense to him. Allowing, of course, for the assumption that he wasn't mad to begin with. He hasn't answered any of your perfectly innocent questions, so one can suppose he didn't understand them. He dresses strangely, though-" Lurtz paused, casting a critical eye over the miserable creature crouched warily on the grass before him, "not in the way of the Gondor youths, and in a manner unsuited to the climate at this time of year. Those clothes and boots seem reasonably well-made, if a little worn, so he's not a peasant." Nurtz slipped the knife into his belt, stood, and stretched, popping the ligaments in his neck. "On the other hand, he chose to use a rock instead of the spare sword against Grakka, so he's not a noble; or if he is, an extraordinarily untrained one. So, one can deduce that he is from somewhere rather warmer, which has been at peace for some time, speaks not the Common Tongue and, judging by the way he's looking at you, *Sir*," The orc managed to make the usually respectful term sound roughly equivalent to 'maggot vomit', "is unused to Halfings and most probably Orcs as well," he finished with a smug half-smile at Fosco.
The hobbit and the other orcs gaped at him for a second- then Grakka reached out and ponderously smacked Lurtz upside the head. The smaller orc gave a quiet grunt as he fell to the ground. Fosco arched an eyebrow at his minion, who shrugged casually. "Smart arsed mongrel fing," he snorted at the prone form of Lurtz. "Kaarnt keepis mowf shut, cannee?"
Fosco sighed. "Quite. Still," he pursed his lips, "It makes sense, though, what? And if he is noble, as well as a *foreign* type," (Fosco pronounced it with some distaste, sharing his race's distrust of all things 'foreign'. Terribly greasy food, you know.) "Then it's most likely someone will be looking for him. I suppose we shall just have to take him with us, at least until our next stop. No," he held up a hand to halt Grakka and Lardang's growls of protest, "I've made up my mind. Besides," he added thoughtfully, "If he is a noble, we may get something extra for our troubles, what?"
Randall, who had watched this entire lengthy exchange without a damn clue what was happening, decided it would be a good idea not to piss off the deformed foreign freaks who obviously had some kind of grudge against other tourists and liked beating each other unconscious, which was possibly part of their act. He turned to the Short Arse, noting that the little weirdo was dressed like an extra in a BBC period drama, and gave a smile that tried quite hard to be friendly. "Um, look," he began, and then realised they probably hadn't learnt English since the last time he tried, and began to mime while speaking very slowly and loudly (no-one knows why this helps). "Uh, Can." Pleading hand gesture. "You." Pointing at Fosco and the orcs. "Help." Frantic hand movements. "Me?" Pointing at self.
Fosco, surprisingly, gathered most of what Randall was getting at, and mimed back, speaking slowly and loudly. "You." Point at Randall. "Come." Beckoning. "With." Pointing behind his shoulder. "Us." Sweeping arm movements, big smile. They nodded happily at each other. Randall climbed rather unsteadily to his feet, his head muddled enough not to question the situation any further, and followed the Freaks down an overgrown path. Grakka dragged the unconscious Lurtz roughly along behind him, making sure to go over as many rocks and nettle patches as possible.
After a few minutes tramping, they had reached another clearing almost identical to the one from which they had come, except for the carts. There were three of them parked in the middle of the glade: large and rather decrepit horse-drawn wagons, covered with canvas. There were more hulking, child-molesty looking people milling about, though none quite so large as those he'd been following. Some were fiddling with harnesses; others were adjusting the canvas coverings of the carts; all seemed to be preparing to leave. The midgety thing strode across to talk to one of his freaks. The Ugly Bastards went off as well, presumably to dump their unconscious colleague somewhere, their rank stench thankfully following them. Randall thought he heard a muffled cry from one of the carts, but the ugly bloke nearest to it aimed a savage kick in the general direction and the noise stopped. Randall shook his spinning head, trying empty the glue that had obviously been poured in through his ears. He felt a tug on his sleeve, and looked down into the broad, good-natured face of the Short Arse. The odd little bugger gestured at the crude seat front cart,. Randall nodded, and climbed up behind the freakish driver, followed by the Short Arse.
The little bloke called an order, and the carts lurched slowly off down the dusty roadway ahead, some of the Differently Formed guys strolling along beside. They were talking amongst themselves in an unusual tongue; either that, or they all had really nasty throat infections. Randall looked about at the countryside with an increasing sense of unease. Now that his head was beginning to sort itself out, he was getting bloody worried. He had no idea where he was, or what continent he was on.
Everyone he'd met so far had either been a young Nazi, a midget or a misshapen weirdo with the worst dermatitis he'd seen since that blind date a few years back, no-one spoke English, he had possibly just seen two people horribly murdered or had a remarkable vivid hallucination of said scenario and he was bleeding from the head. There are some things that even your lucky underwear can't help you with. He felt a gentle tap on his arm, and looked across at the midget. He had a pleasant little face, with large, bright brown eyes and a warm smile. He mimed what looked like "Are you okay?"
Randall grinned back, and gave an "I've been better" gesture. The midget bent, rummaging under the seat, and emerged with a pack, which he emptied onto the seat between them. There was cheese, bread, a bottle of wine and what looked like mushrooms. He motioned that Randall should help himself, which the boy did without any further prompting. He tried a chunk of the cheese, which made his tongue crawl, so he concerned himself chiefly with the wine. Randall hoped it was strong enough to get him drunk: he wasn't liking the worrying thoughts niggling at his brain as the carts rumbled along. He took a swig of the liquor and grimaced, trying to get a grip on things.
All right, time to take stock: He was in a strange, woodland country filled with very short people who really liked cheese, mushrooms and wine and wore bizarre clothes; beautiful girls and disturbingly effeminate boys; ugly fuckers who had no concept of deodorant and really, really didn't like strangers; and not one of them spoke Engl-
Randall's eyes widened. "Oh, bugger me," he wailed, startling the hobbit. "I'm in FRANCE!"
AN: Orc-worshipping cults? Men taking over Middle Earth? What the hell am I doing?!? Well, they actually come directly from Tolkien himself (see "The New Shadow") so it's canon. Sort of. I'm not trying to completely screw up Middle Earth. This is just my interpretation of Tolkien's worst nightmare; elves getting buggered over, hobbits becoming as corrupt as Men, Men generally being bastards, and orcs being widely accepted. And the Elvish orgies are coming. Honest. :) Thanks and salutations to the ever-radiant MJ, Queen of the Beta: Who loves ya, buddy?