- one - The Screw Up of the Millennium
Mr. Ebert tapped his fat fingers on his desk, clearly agitated. It was the
morning after Oscar night 2002,
and the Academy had just received the 876th e-mail from yet another crazed Lord
of the Rings fan who was
royally pissed that their favorite movie had not won any of the major awards -
that were so clearly deserved -
at the Oscars.
"What are we supposed to do about it?" muttered Ebert to himself. In truth,
the Academy did not plan
to do anything to satisfy the angered fans. The Academy did not give a damn
about the emails. But they still
needed to do something in case the press found out and the situation was blown
out of proportion faster than
Jordan. Ebert had been assigned the task of finding a solution to this potential
problem, as he was the only
person who had enough unexplained hate for the film to carry out the job. The
rest of the Academy didn't
actually mind the Lord of the Rings that much. Some even resurrected their cold,
lifeless bodies long enough
to enjoy it. But they still believe in their mission to be remembered as the
most biased and generally pissed
Hollywood council of them all.
Ebert continued to talk to himself, lost in aimless thought, tapping his
fingers louder and harder until
they were probably bruised.
"I mean, why does anyone care about this so-called 'scandal'? It's just a
movie."
Ha!
Wrong again, you fat git. Little did Ebert know that the Lord of the Rings
was literally not just a movie. It
was a whole universe, hidden behind a sneakily concealed portal. And this portal
was inside Ebert's filing
cabinet. The second drawer from the bottom.
I think you realize by now that Ebert is not a very aware man, to put it
lightly. To be blatantly honest, he
is just dim, and deliberately daft as well. And so the next plot twist should
come as no surprise to you.
"Figwit. Figwit!! Figwit!!!!!!" yelled Ebert, banging his fist on the desk.
"Figwit, Figwit, Figwit, Figwit,
Fiiiiiiiiiigwiiiiiiiiiit!!"
A tall being burst into the room, breathless and puffy faced. He was
immaculately dressed. Although he
was wearing a peculiar brown waist coat and green stockings decorated with
silver and black tracings, he was
still, undeniably, immaculately dressed.
"Yes, sir?" panted Figwit.
"You always take forever getting to my office, " Ebert muttered bitterly.
"I was on the 3rd floor...I ran... as fast as I could. I had to take the
stairs again... "
"The stairs? The stairs? Why not take the lift?"
"But, Mr. Ebert, the lift doesn't go to the 69th floor..."
"Figwit!!!" boomed Ebert. "Always the same excuse..." Figwit nodded
sullenly. Ebert's head suddenly
jerked upwards, as though it were high on steroids. "Where's your cloak?" he
demanded.
"I got rid of it. You said it was bothering you."
"Damn right it was. Where is it?"
"It's in my office"
"Chuck it. Shred it. Dispose of it." Figwit's eyes widened in alarm. His
mouth dropped open.
"But, sir... I got that cloak from Lothlorien -"
"A who?" Ebert did his head jerk again.
"Nothing... " muttered Figwit. Ebert put his pen down and looked Figwit in
the eye. Figwit blinked
innocently back at him. Ebert continued to stare psychopathically. "Erm, Mr.
Ebert, is there a reason you
called me up here?"
Ebert thought for a minute.
"Yes."
"Yes?"
"Yes," he confirmed. "There is. I need some help, my young apprentice. You
may have heard about the
issue with the Best Picture award...?"
"Oh yeah. It was a scandal, wasn't it? I mean, A Beautiful Mind sucked. I
really don't understand why
Fellowship didn't win."
"That, I believe, " began Ebert testily, " is the opinion of some rather
corrupt individuals who have been
e-mailing us constantly. It is my job to prevent them from doing so."
"Ah. And you need me because... ?"
"I have a plan. I need you to go to Middle Earth and perform what I hope
will be- "
"Middle Earth?" screeched Figwit. "You know about the portal to Middle
Earth?!"
"Eh? I meant New Zealand."
Figwit paused. "Oh. I didn't say anything then... er... I meant pothole.
Downstairs. In the, erm..." Figwit
fumbled for words. "In the canteen. They have pots. Of chicken soup. And, er,
holes as well. In the sink. Holes
in the sink where they drain the water."
"Um..."
"No, it's true! It's true! They have potholes. I meant to say potholes!"
"Figwiiiiiiiiiiiiiit!" yelled Ebert. Figwit shut up. "You said there was a
portal."
"No, there is chicken soup in the - "
"Figwit..."
"Yes, I did say portal; it's in your filing cabinet, second drawer from the
bottom," confessed Figwit
quickly. "And it takes you directly to Mount Doom. That's the problem with it."
"Right then... cool. This will make everything much easier," chuckled Ebert
happily.
"Oh."
Ebert leaned forward, a malicious glint in his eye. He took a piece of
paper and scribbled something on
it. "Now what I want you to do is..."
Figwit took the piece of paper. His eyes widened in shock.
Later that week, Figwit was feeling rather nervous. He took a deep breath
and then walked through the
door to Ebert's office. Inside were two other Academy members and Ebert himself.
"Hello everyone," he said in a high pitched voice. Everyone nodded in
greeting. Figwit fumbled with his
black cloak, and for the first time, Ebert noticed that he was wearing it again.
Ebert narrowed his eyes, but
didn't say anything. He was far too worried about what was about to happen to
give a sausage roll about
anything else.
Ebert realized that he hadn't explained to Figwit in great detail what he
was supposed to do, but instead
had simply taken Figwit's shocked look as his understanding of the task. Oh well.
"Are you ready?" asked an Academy member.
"Yes," replied Figwit. He couldn't quite believe he was saying this, and
quickly reminded himself that a
massive bundle of cash would be waiting for him as soon as he got back to our
dimension.
"Good. I trust that you will -"
"Oh, wait," interrupted the other Academy member. "Here, Mr. Figwit. I
almost forgot." He handed a
small, rectangular, plastic object to Figwit. At the top there was a metal
mechanism. It all looked rather
complicated, and more than a little bit clever. Figwit gazed at it in awe.
"What is it?" he asked. The Academy member coughed.
"It is," he said, "a lighter. I believe that it will help you on this
mission of yours."
"But... er... who... um...?" asked Figwit, confused.
"Oh, crap!" yelled Ebert. "Mary Poppins is on the telly soon!" A distant
look came into the Academy
members' eyes.
"Ah, fond memories," said one.
"Yes, a glorious specimen of film at it's best, unaffected by the
mediocrity of today's cinema... fucking
Star Wars." he added bitterly. They all stood in silence for a moment.
"Erm," began Figwit. "Again I ask, why exactly do I need a lighter?"
"Dammit, Figwit!" snapped Ebert. "I thought you understood! You seem to
understand how much
you're going to receive for this task, don't you? Why can't you remember what
your mission actually is, you -
"
"Of course, Mr. Ebert, sir. Of course I remember," Figwit said hastily.
"Then you should walk into the filing cabinet now, otherwise we're going to
miss Mary Poppins! And,
don't forget, if you begin with the woods then it will spread quicker. I believe
that there is often an Easterly
wind this time of year in Middle Earth."
"What?!?!" yelled poor Figwit.
"Start with the woods! And then do the flippin' task again in Gondor, you
pratt! Then Rohan, then
Lórien, then the Shire and then Mordor!!"
"So you want me to do it again and again? But I might not have enough
flour!!"
"What?!?!" yelled stupid Ebert.
"And sugar! How can I do this if I don't have the right ingredients or
equipment?"
"What are you talking about, man? All the equipment you need is right there
in your hand!"
"How can you say that?" argued Figwit. "The only reason why I have what I
need is that I packed my
satchel myself! Oh, I suppose you weren't even aware that I had to do that? Well,
it looks like someone has
been relying too heavily on his ready meals!"
"What are you on about, man? Sometimes I don't have a clue why I hired you,
Figwit. Half the
unemployed people out there know how to execute such a simple a task properly!
And almost all of them
have proper names! I mean, c'mon: Figwit. Figwit is a stupid name. What was your
mother drinking?"
Figwit went red. "Well, when you were born, your mother was probably
wondering why she had given
birth to an ignorant little fu -"
"Eeeek!" squeaked an Academy member. Ebert and Figwit shut up. "Marry
Poppins! We've missed the
first five minutes!" Ebert glanced at his watch and shoved Figwit in front of
the filing cabinet.
"Get going, man! And remember what I've just told you!"
"What?" sulked Figwit. "I don't have a proper name?" Ebert rolled his eyes
and made for the door. The
other two members were already half way down the corridor to the TV room.
"Go on! I have to go now. Don't come back till you've finished, and don't
think that you're going to be
allowed to wear that black cloak forever, man! You're not Darth Vader, y'know?"
With that, Ebert was gone,
his pudgy frame out of the room startlingly quickly. All was silent.
Sighing heavily, Figwit slowly lowered himself into the filing cabinet.
In ten minutes, Figwit had arrived on the other side of the portal, right
outside Mount Doom. Shivering,
he gazed up at the giant, dominating lump of ash and rock. It seemed rather
intimidating. He knew he would
have to climb it.
Figwit wearily slung his satchel on his back, leapt deftly onto the pathway
and there he began his hour
long journey. All the time, he muttered about his employer. Figwit really had no
idea what Ebert had been
talking about. And why was he now carrying a lighter? The flour, milk and yeast
were heavy enough.
Finally, Figwit puffed his way to the entrance of the Crack of Mount Doom.
He crept into a discreet
corner close to the mountain's inside wall and lay the ingredients out on the
ledge, barely able to stand the
heat. He was just beginning to mix in the sugar when he realized that there was
someone else on the ledge.
Figwit slowly turned around, hoping that it was whom he thought it was.
He saw a dark, hooded figure stooped over a pot of something bright and
shiny. It seemed human, was
deep in concentration and had obviously not noticed him. Figwit relaxed.
He got up and bounded lightly over to the end of the ledge where the
mysterious person sat.
"Ahem." Figwit coughed. The figure swiftly concealed the pot with a swish
of his cloak and spun
around in astonishment.
"Figwit?" he gasped, his voice a mixture of surprise and amusement. "What
are you doing here? I
thought you'd left Middle Earth for good..." Sauron removed his hood, and his
sunken eyes gazed at Figwit
in disbelief.
"Hey, Sauron, man. How are you doing?"
"Good, good, very good... What are you doing here? Isn't that other
dimension satisfactory anymore?"
"Oh, it's alright, but I've got a task to do in Middle Earth for my boss."
"He knows that you can get to Middle Earth?" Sauron exclaimed, and Figwit
noticed with slight
surprise how scarily red his friend's glowing eyes were. "I thought that was our
secret."
"Yeah, but I have to do this mission thing. Ebert's been getting real moody
lately. Problems with his
sexuality, I guess."
Sauron nodded. "How long can you stay for?"
"I reckon I can stay a good year or so; time goes fast here, and even
faster for an elf like I. By the time I
get back to my dimension only a day will have passed. Why do you ask?"
"Well, I have a bit of advice for you, Figgy. You might want to get back to
your dimension sooner than
you planned. I have work to do in Middle Earth. Not all of it will be very
pleasant. You should get out of my
way - you know I can never remember who my friends are when world domination and
my ego get in the
way."
"Oh, alright," said Figwit, taken aback. There was an awkward silence while
they pondered on world
domination.
"So, erm," began Figwit. "Tell me, Sauron, how exactly do you plan to
dominate Middle Earth? You
never struck me as the dominating type."
Sauron seemed slightly nervous. He glanced around to make sure no one else
was listening, and
carefully lifted his cloak up off the pot, revealing a molten, white hot metal
that looked suspiciously like gold.
"That, my friend, is how I will dominate this world," Sauron said quietly,
with a grin which would have
made Nick from My Family jealous.
Figwit stared at the contents of the pot, eyebrows raised slightly.
"You see?" Sauron whispered.
"Erm... yes?"
"Really? Do you really understand the sheer marvellousity of my plan?"
Sauron asked excitedly.
Figwit coughed. "Ah, well, erm... actually, no."
"Oh. Alright then." There was another awkward silence. Figwit hastily spoke.
"Erm, you're a great guy, Sauron, and I know you're real clever and
everything, but er, well, how
exactly does this work?"
"It's quite simple really. I pour all of my malice, greed and will to
dominate all life into this gold that
will form into a ring. And then I will wear it on my finger and the world will
automatically be mine, no?"
"Well... isn't that a bit of a crazy idea? I mean, it works in the film,
just about -"
"What film?"
"Oh, nothing... But in real Middle Earth it might be hard to pull off."
"I'm quite confident that I can do it," Sauron assured. "It can't be that
hard. It's such an amazingly
brilliant plan - and so easy as well! Imagine, using a ring, I can kill
everyone!"
"But what was all that crap about pouring malice and greed and all that
shit into it? How do you do
that?"
"I asked myself that same question, but I suppose that I just have to tell
it creepy stories or something."
Sauron shrugged. "I'm not too sure, to be honest."
"So you will talk to it? And then wear it and the world will 'automatically
be yours', as you say?"
"Precisely."
"It'll never work."
Sauron went red. "It will!"
"It won't! Trust me on this one, Sauron; this is the crappiest idea I've
ever heard."
"Fine then, Figwit. What are you doing in Mount Doom that is so clever?
Eh?" Sauron said testily, his
voice quivering with emotion.
"I am making a fruit scone." said Figwit with as much pride and dignity as
he could muster.
"A fruit scone. What for?"
"To destroy Middle Earth."
"You psycho."
"You as well."
"We're both retards."
"I agree... do you think it'll work?" asked Figwit nervously.
"Not really. But we'll see how it goes. I think that a piece of jewelry
will take over the world before a
fruit scone will, but we'll see how it goes..."
"I think that you're wrong."
"How about a bet?"
"On what?"
"I bet you my metallic mask-head-gear-thingy that I will take over the
world before you."
"The shiny black mask-head-gear-thingy?"
"The shiny black mask-head-gear-thingy."
"Done. And if you do win, which you won't, I'll give you my black cloak."
"Cool."
"Right. I'll see you when I come to claim my mask. I actually have a use
for it, unlike you."
"Chal," said Sauron as Figwit went back to his corner and slowly baked the
fruit scone, more
determined than ever.
Hours passed and Sauron had long gone by the time the scone was done.
Figwit inhaled sharply when
he caught sight of his work of golden brown art. It smelled delicious.
"No doubt many will be after you on your travels, my creation. But I know
you'll do fine," Figwit
whispered psychotically. "I christen you... Kemen Yäve Ar Ruth Lhach! It is now
all down to you, young one!"
He placed Kemen Yäve near the entrance of the Crack. With a swish of his black
elven cloak, Figwit was gone.
Figwit appeared in Ebert's office, realizing that Ebert still had not
returned from watching Mary
Poppins. In fact, only ten minutes had passed in this dimension.
Figwit walked proudly to the desk, where a piece of bright yellow paper
caught his eye. He recognized
it as the instructions that he translated from English to Elvish when Ebert
assigned him his first important task
- the task he had just completed. It was quite difficult to translate, Figwit
remembered. He had little
experience with translating English on paper, and had found this particular
order hard to read in his native
tongue, as it was not an order he read everyday.
He picked it up, smiling smugly, confident that he had already performed
this task and that he had
performed it well. Once again, his grey eyes skimmed over the surface as he
translated it for the second time
that day - this time free from the psychotic and intimidating stare of Richard
Ebert.
"Burn," he read aloud, eyes creased in concentration.
"Middle... Earth."
He cleared his throat.
"With a ... lighter?"
5 minutes passed.
"And."
10 minutes passed.
"Pop down to Upper Crust afterwards."
... pause.
"To buy me a fruit scone."
Figwit's eyes popped out of his head. "Woowee."
Mr. Ebert tapped his fat fingers on his desk, clearly agitated. It was the
morning after Oscar night 2002,
and the Academy had just received the 876th e-mail from yet another crazed Lord
of the Rings fan who was
royally pissed that their favorite movie had not won any of the major awards -
that were so clearly deserved -
at the Oscars.
"What are we supposed to do about it?" muttered Ebert to himself. In truth,
the Academy did not plan
to do anything to satisfy the angered fans. The Academy did not give a damn
about the emails. But they still
needed to do something in case the press found out and the situation was blown
out of proportion faster than
Jordan. Ebert had been assigned the task of finding a solution to this potential
problem, as he was the only
person who had enough unexplained hate for the film to carry out the job. The
rest of the Academy didn't
actually mind the Lord of the Rings that much. Some even resurrected their cold,
lifeless bodies long enough
to enjoy it. But they still believe in their mission to be remembered as the
most biased and generally pissed
Hollywood council of them all.
Ebert continued to talk to himself, lost in aimless thought, tapping his
fingers louder and harder until
they were probably bruised.
"I mean, why does anyone care about this so-called 'scandal'? It's just a
movie."
Ha!
Wrong again, you fat git. Little did Ebert know that the Lord of the Rings
was literally not just a movie. It
was a whole universe, hidden behind a sneakily concealed portal. And this portal
was inside Ebert's filing
cabinet. The second drawer from the bottom.
I think you realize by now that Ebert is not a very aware man, to put it
lightly. To be blatantly honest, he
is just dim, and deliberately daft as well. And so the next plot twist should
come as no surprise to you.
"Figwit. Figwit!! Figwit!!!!!!" yelled Ebert, banging his fist on the desk.
"Figwit, Figwit, Figwit, Figwit,
Fiiiiiiiiiigwiiiiiiiiiit!!"
A tall being burst into the room, breathless and puffy faced. He was
immaculately dressed. Although he
was wearing a peculiar brown waist coat and green stockings decorated with
silver and black tracings, he was
still, undeniably, immaculately dressed.
"Yes, sir?" panted Figwit.
"You always take forever getting to my office, " Ebert muttered bitterly.
"I was on the 3rd floor...I ran... as fast as I could. I had to take the
stairs again... "
"The stairs? The stairs? Why not take the lift?"
"But, Mr. Ebert, the lift doesn't go to the 69th floor..."
"Figwit!!!" boomed Ebert. "Always the same excuse..." Figwit nodded
sullenly. Ebert's head suddenly
jerked upwards, as though it were high on steroids. "Where's your cloak?" he
demanded.
"I got rid of it. You said it was bothering you."
"Damn right it was. Where is it?"
"It's in my office"
"Chuck it. Shred it. Dispose of it." Figwit's eyes widened in alarm. His
mouth dropped open.
"But, sir... I got that cloak from Lothlorien -"
"A who?" Ebert did his head jerk again.
"Nothing... " muttered Figwit. Ebert put his pen down and looked Figwit in
the eye. Figwit blinked
innocently back at him. Ebert continued to stare psychopathically. "Erm, Mr.
Ebert, is there a reason you
called me up here?"
Ebert thought for a minute.
"Yes."
"Yes?"
"Yes," he confirmed. "There is. I need some help, my young apprentice. You
may have heard about the
issue with the Best Picture award...?"
"Oh yeah. It was a scandal, wasn't it? I mean, A Beautiful Mind sucked. I
really don't understand why
Fellowship didn't win."
"That, I believe, " began Ebert testily, " is the opinion of some rather
corrupt individuals who have been
e-mailing us constantly. It is my job to prevent them from doing so."
"Ah. And you need me because... ?"
"I have a plan. I need you to go to Middle Earth and perform what I hope
will be- "
"Middle Earth?" screeched Figwit. "You know about the portal to Middle
Earth?!"
"Eh? I meant New Zealand."
Figwit paused. "Oh. I didn't say anything then... er... I meant pothole.
Downstairs. In the, erm..." Figwit
fumbled for words. "In the canteen. They have pots. Of chicken soup. And, er,
holes as well. In the sink. Holes
in the sink where they drain the water."
"Um..."
"No, it's true! It's true! They have potholes. I meant to say potholes!"
"Figwiiiiiiiiiiiiiit!" yelled Ebert. Figwit shut up. "You said there was a
portal."
"No, there is chicken soup in the - "
"Figwit..."
"Yes, I did say portal; it's in your filing cabinet, second drawer from the
bottom," confessed Figwit
quickly. "And it takes you directly to Mount Doom. That's the problem with it."
"Right then... cool. This will make everything much easier," chuckled Ebert
happily.
"Oh."
Ebert leaned forward, a malicious glint in his eye. He took a piece of
paper and scribbled something on
it. "Now what I want you to do is..."
Figwit took the piece of paper. His eyes widened in shock.
Later that week, Figwit was feeling rather nervous. He took a deep breath
and then walked through the
door to Ebert's office. Inside were two other Academy members and Ebert himself.
"Hello everyone," he said in a high pitched voice. Everyone nodded in
greeting. Figwit fumbled with his
black cloak, and for the first time, Ebert noticed that he was wearing it again.
Ebert narrowed his eyes, but
didn't say anything. He was far too worried about what was about to happen to
give a sausage roll about
anything else.
Ebert realized that he hadn't explained to Figwit in great detail what he
was supposed to do, but instead
had simply taken Figwit's shocked look as his understanding of the task. Oh well.
"Are you ready?" asked an Academy member.
"Yes," replied Figwit. He couldn't quite believe he was saying this, and
quickly reminded himself that a
massive bundle of cash would be waiting for him as soon as he got back to our
dimension.
"Good. I trust that you will -"
"Oh, wait," interrupted the other Academy member. "Here, Mr. Figwit. I
almost forgot." He handed a
small, rectangular, plastic object to Figwit. At the top there was a metal
mechanism. It all looked rather
complicated, and more than a little bit clever. Figwit gazed at it in awe.
"What is it?" he asked. The Academy member coughed.
"It is," he said, "a lighter. I believe that it will help you on this
mission of yours."
"But... er... who... um...?" asked Figwit, confused.
"Oh, crap!" yelled Ebert. "Mary Poppins is on the telly soon!" A distant
look came into the Academy
members' eyes.
"Ah, fond memories," said one.
"Yes, a glorious specimen of film at it's best, unaffected by the
mediocrity of today's cinema... fucking
Star Wars." he added bitterly. They all stood in silence for a moment.
"Erm," began Figwit. "Again I ask, why exactly do I need a lighter?"
"Dammit, Figwit!" snapped Ebert. "I thought you understood! You seem to
understand how much
you're going to receive for this task, don't you? Why can't you remember what
your mission actually is, you -
"
"Of course, Mr. Ebert, sir. Of course I remember," Figwit said hastily.
"Then you should walk into the filing cabinet now, otherwise we're going to
miss Mary Poppins! And,
don't forget, if you begin with the woods then it will spread quicker. I believe
that there is often an Easterly
wind this time of year in Middle Earth."
"What?!?!" yelled poor Figwit.
"Start with the woods! And then do the flippin' task again in Gondor, you
pratt! Then Rohan, then
Lórien, then the Shire and then Mordor!!"
"So you want me to do it again and again? But I might not have enough
flour!!"
"What?!?!" yelled stupid Ebert.
"And sugar! How can I do this if I don't have the right ingredients or
equipment?"
"What are you talking about, man? All the equipment you need is right there
in your hand!"
"How can you say that?" argued Figwit. "The only reason why I have what I
need is that I packed my
satchel myself! Oh, I suppose you weren't even aware that I had to do that? Well,
it looks like someone has
been relying too heavily on his ready meals!"
"What are you on about, man? Sometimes I don't have a clue why I hired you,
Figwit. Half the
unemployed people out there know how to execute such a simple a task properly!
And almost all of them
have proper names! I mean, c'mon: Figwit. Figwit is a stupid name. What was your
mother drinking?"
Figwit went red. "Well, when you were born, your mother was probably
wondering why she had given
birth to an ignorant little fu -"
"Eeeek!" squeaked an Academy member. Ebert and Figwit shut up. "Marry
Poppins! We've missed the
first five minutes!" Ebert glanced at his watch and shoved Figwit in front of
the filing cabinet.
"Get going, man! And remember what I've just told you!"
"What?" sulked Figwit. "I don't have a proper name?" Ebert rolled his eyes
and made for the door. The
other two members were already half way down the corridor to the TV room.
"Go on! I have to go now. Don't come back till you've finished, and don't
think that you're going to be
allowed to wear that black cloak forever, man! You're not Darth Vader, y'know?"
With that, Ebert was gone,
his pudgy frame out of the room startlingly quickly. All was silent.
Sighing heavily, Figwit slowly lowered himself into the filing cabinet.
In ten minutes, Figwit had arrived on the other side of the portal, right
outside Mount Doom. Shivering,
he gazed up at the giant, dominating lump of ash and rock. It seemed rather
intimidating. He knew he would
have to climb it.
Figwit wearily slung his satchel on his back, leapt deftly onto the pathway
and there he began his hour
long journey. All the time, he muttered about his employer. Figwit really had no
idea what Ebert had been
talking about. And why was he now carrying a lighter? The flour, milk and yeast
were heavy enough.
Finally, Figwit puffed his way to the entrance of the Crack of Mount Doom.
He crept into a discreet
corner close to the mountain's inside wall and lay the ingredients out on the
ledge, barely able to stand the
heat. He was just beginning to mix in the sugar when he realized that there was
someone else on the ledge.
Figwit slowly turned around, hoping that it was whom he thought it was.
He saw a dark, hooded figure stooped over a pot of something bright and
shiny. It seemed human, was
deep in concentration and had obviously not noticed him. Figwit relaxed.
He got up and bounded lightly over to the end of the ledge where the
mysterious person sat.
"Ahem." Figwit coughed. The figure swiftly concealed the pot with a swish
of his cloak and spun
around in astonishment.
"Figwit?" he gasped, his voice a mixture of surprise and amusement. "What
are you doing here? I
thought you'd left Middle Earth for good..." Sauron removed his hood, and his
sunken eyes gazed at Figwit
in disbelief.
"Hey, Sauron, man. How are you doing?"
"Good, good, very good... What are you doing here? Isn't that other
dimension satisfactory anymore?"
"Oh, it's alright, but I've got a task to do in Middle Earth for my boss."
"He knows that you can get to Middle Earth?" Sauron exclaimed, and Figwit
noticed with slight
surprise how scarily red his friend's glowing eyes were. "I thought that was our
secret."
"Yeah, but I have to do this mission thing. Ebert's been getting real moody
lately. Problems with his
sexuality, I guess."
Sauron nodded. "How long can you stay for?"
"I reckon I can stay a good year or so; time goes fast here, and even
faster for an elf like I. By the time I
get back to my dimension only a day will have passed. Why do you ask?"
"Well, I have a bit of advice for you, Figgy. You might want to get back to
your dimension sooner than
you planned. I have work to do in Middle Earth. Not all of it will be very
pleasant. You should get out of my
way - you know I can never remember who my friends are when world domination and
my ego get in the
way."
"Oh, alright," said Figwit, taken aback. There was an awkward silence while
they pondered on world
domination.
"So, erm," began Figwit. "Tell me, Sauron, how exactly do you plan to
dominate Middle Earth? You
never struck me as the dominating type."
Sauron seemed slightly nervous. He glanced around to make sure no one else
was listening, and
carefully lifted his cloak up off the pot, revealing a molten, white hot metal
that looked suspiciously like gold.
"That, my friend, is how I will dominate this world," Sauron said quietly,
with a grin which would have
made Nick from My Family jealous.
Figwit stared at the contents of the pot, eyebrows raised slightly.
"You see?" Sauron whispered.
"Erm... yes?"
"Really? Do you really understand the sheer marvellousity of my plan?"
Sauron asked excitedly.
Figwit coughed. "Ah, well, erm... actually, no."
"Oh. Alright then." There was another awkward silence. Figwit hastily spoke.
"Erm, you're a great guy, Sauron, and I know you're real clever and
everything, but er, well, how
exactly does this work?"
"It's quite simple really. I pour all of my malice, greed and will to
dominate all life into this gold that
will form into a ring. And then I will wear it on my finger and the world will
automatically be mine, no?"
"Well... isn't that a bit of a crazy idea? I mean, it works in the film,
just about -"
"What film?"
"Oh, nothing... But in real Middle Earth it might be hard to pull off."
"I'm quite confident that I can do it," Sauron assured. "It can't be that
hard. It's such an amazingly
brilliant plan - and so easy as well! Imagine, using a ring, I can kill
everyone!"
"But what was all that crap about pouring malice and greed and all that
shit into it? How do you do
that?"
"I asked myself that same question, but I suppose that I just have to tell
it creepy stories or something."
Sauron shrugged. "I'm not too sure, to be honest."
"So you will talk to it? And then wear it and the world will 'automatically
be yours', as you say?"
"Precisely."
"It'll never work."
Sauron went red. "It will!"
"It won't! Trust me on this one, Sauron; this is the crappiest idea I've
ever heard."
"Fine then, Figwit. What are you doing in Mount Doom that is so clever?
Eh?" Sauron said testily, his
voice quivering with emotion.
"I am making a fruit scone." said Figwit with as much pride and dignity as
he could muster.
"A fruit scone. What for?"
"To destroy Middle Earth."
"You psycho."
"You as well."
"We're both retards."
"I agree... do you think it'll work?" asked Figwit nervously.
"Not really. But we'll see how it goes. I think that a piece of jewelry
will take over the world before a
fruit scone will, but we'll see how it goes..."
"I think that you're wrong."
"How about a bet?"
"On what?"
"I bet you my metallic mask-head-gear-thingy that I will take over the
world before you."
"The shiny black mask-head-gear-thingy?"
"The shiny black mask-head-gear-thingy."
"Done. And if you do win, which you won't, I'll give you my black cloak."
"Cool."
"Right. I'll see you when I come to claim my mask. I actually have a use
for it, unlike you."
"Chal," said Sauron as Figwit went back to his corner and slowly baked the
fruit scone, more
determined than ever.
Hours passed and Sauron had long gone by the time the scone was done.
Figwit inhaled sharply when
he caught sight of his work of golden brown art. It smelled delicious.
"No doubt many will be after you on your travels, my creation. But I know
you'll do fine," Figwit
whispered psychotically. "I christen you... Kemen Yäve Ar Ruth Lhach! It is now
all down to you, young one!"
He placed Kemen Yäve near the entrance of the Crack. With a swish of his black
elven cloak, Figwit was gone.
Figwit appeared in Ebert's office, realizing that Ebert still had not
returned from watching Mary
Poppins. In fact, only ten minutes had passed in this dimension.
Figwit walked proudly to the desk, where a piece of bright yellow paper
caught his eye. He recognized
it as the instructions that he translated from English to Elvish when Ebert
assigned him his first important task
- the task he had just completed. It was quite difficult to translate, Figwit
remembered. He had little
experience with translating English on paper, and had found this particular
order hard to read in his native
tongue, as it was not an order he read everyday.
He picked it up, smiling smugly, confident that he had already performed
this task and that he had
performed it well. Once again, his grey eyes skimmed over the surface as he
translated it for the second time
that day - this time free from the psychotic and intimidating stare of Richard
Ebert.
"Burn," he read aloud, eyes creased in concentration.
"Middle... Earth."
He cleared his throat.
"With a ... lighter?"
5 minutes passed.
"And."
10 minutes passed.
"Pop down to Upper Crust afterwards."
... pause.
"To buy me a fruit scone."
Figwit's eyes popped out of his head. "Woowee."