Welcome to Redneck Country: Ch.2
A/N: Thanks to everyone for your help with redneck stories. They did actually help, although a lot of it didn't make it into the second chapter.
But fear not, for there is always the hope of a sequel (although some of you may shudder at that thought)
"Oooh! What's that?" crooned Pippin, who had, since rediscovering pints, drunk much more than his share. He staggered, more or less in the direction of an off-to-the-side courtyard. For his own safety, Merry, Frodo, and Sam followed him. In the center of the courtyard, which was on the whole very pretty, green, and flowery, was a burlap sack strung up high from a stake, with a fountain underneath. Pippin was standing in the above said fountain with a large stick, which he was using to poke the bag, and was giggling in a very annoying manner. The bag was writhing, which worried Frodo, seeing as how burlap sacks do not normally writhe. With a particularly vicious poke, Pippin simultaneously knocked the sack off the stake and hit the side of the fountain, causing him to collapse, unconscious. Merry and Sam flew to check on Pippin, who turned out to be relatively unharmed.
Frodo was a bit more curious about the sack. He crept over to it. The sack was rather normal and completely still, except for a extremely large lump. He touched the opening of the sack. A huge claw flashed out and raked across his face, and he did not notice the even huger paw that belonged to an exceptionally large cat streak out of the sack, along with the rest of the the huge claw that was finished slashing him.
Soon, the townspeople had heard of the incident, and everyone was gathered in the courtyard, staring at the four hobbits. Pippin was still out cold, Merry and Sam were attempting to hide behind the fountain, and Frodo was asking around for a bandage.
"What's all this here?" Billy had arrived at the scene.
"Dag nab it! Some idjit's gone and let the Cat out of The Bag!" said Zeke, another redneck who was immediately put on trial for letting out such a bad pun*.
"But it's true!" Frodo yelled, and everyone paused. "Pippin was drunk and was poking the bag with a stick, and it fell down. I went to open it up and the cat ran out of the sack after brutally and viciously mauling me!"
"Well now ya'll got to get that durn cat back into the sack!" yelled Billy, who was at this point rather annoyed. He stared at the Middle Earth Characters.
"I've got to lead an expedition to find Middle Earth!" said Arwen, happy for an excuse to get out of this quest.
"And I'm her wife-I mean, husband. I must accompany her." That ruled out Aragorn, who appeared to appeared to have lost his manly macho bravery of the previous quest.
Gandalf had to advise them. Legolas, Gimli, and Boromir had to be their faithful guards. The hobbits and relative evildoers stared at each other.
"Well, we've got to try to foil the heroes, so we can't do it. Besides...umm....Frodo has the Mark of the Cat!" Suron stammered, desperately hoping that the townspeople would catch on and get him and his minions out of this annoying quest thing.
"The Mark! The Mark! The Mark!" everyone yelled. Frodo had lost. He dejectedly picked up the ripped shreds of burlap, and shuffled out the courtyard, followed by sighs of relief for everyone else.
"He wasn't actually supposed to fall for that," remarked Sauron in the silence that followed
* * *
"I'm getting paid this time, right?" whined Sam as he followed Frodo.
"Yes," he sighed. Struck with a mythic quest AGAIN! There should be regulations as to how many mythic quests one can take on per lifetime.
They found themselves walking in a large field, and as unserious, nonsensical, and some might feel the need to use the word silly, plots like this one would go, in the middle of the field was a couple walking to a table with two chairs set on either side.
"I can't wait until lunch," the man said.
"Yeah. Maybe we should stop soon," the woman replied, then suddenly stared past the table.
"Don't laugh," she said, "I just saw a cat the size of New York cross that field." Frodo looked where she had pointed. There, indeed, was a
rather large cat that had probably once been in a rather large burlap sack, whose shreds he was holding now.
"Excellent. State or city?" the man didn't seem to much care about the immediate threat of a giant cat that had been trapped in a sack for a
hundred years, and was constantly growing larger, by the looks of it. The woman, however, was.
"Are you crazy? There's this huge cat running around the countryside and you're asking a question like that?"
"Why don't we call the Ghost Busters?"
"What do Ghost Busters have to do with giant cats?"
"Well, they got rid of the giant marshmallow dude."
"Cats aren't as squishy as marshmallows."
"Good point." They paused for a minute.
"So what do we do now?"
"We could....ummm.....put it in a cat carrier!"
"Where are we going to find a cat carrier big enough?"
"We could build one."
"Out of what?"
"A burlap sack!" the man exclaimed in a fit of self-proclaimed genius
"Like this one?" Frodo interjected, showing the remains of the previous burlap sack to them.
"Yes, like that," said the woman. "Except sack shaped. And how are we going to get the cat INTO the cat carrier?"
"Catnip?" suggested Sam
"Yeah, but where are we going to get enough?"
"Who knows," the woman said. "But we could always-Oh no!"
"What?" asked Sam, Frodo, and the man simultaneously. "A hillbilly just shot Bubbles!"
"Bubbles?"
"The cat."
"Oh."
"And he called him," the woman punctuated this with sobs, "a dirty varmint!" Sam and Frodo desperately ran to see if perhaps their work had
been finished for them, while the couple sat down to lunch.
"Poor Bubbles," moaned the man, after ordering pea soup.
"It never really got shot, Liam." the woman explained, "I just wanted them to go away. I'm not one for strange short people with scarred faces walking around fields with scraps of burlap"
"Oh."
* * *
Sam and Frodo stumbled through the field in the direction the woman had pointed. Had they kept going, a few things may have happened. First of
all, they may have, by some strange twist of fate, actually run into Bubbles the One Cat, been savagely mauled, and the quest would have been decidedly ended. The second possibility is that the pair would have kept running until they were hopelessly lost, and in the event of never finding civilization, yet again, the quest would have been decidedly ended. The third possibility was complicated, and without time to explain, the author will simply suffice to say that is involved a stingray, cheese puffs, a screwdriver, and a few dozen pebbles. So therefore, it was probably in the best interests of the quest that Frodo and Sam literally ran into Don, the Wonder Redneck.
"Who art thou?" the redneck asked, sitting in a meditative position.
"Aren't you a redneck?" Sam was confused by the coveralls, flannel shirt, and Shakespearian speech.
"You shalt not judge a book by his cover. Technically, a hillbilly. What dost thou seek?"
"Well, for starters, we need to get a cat now grown roughly the size of Queens into the shreds of this," Frodo held up the sack. "Then, we have
to get it back to town and string it up a pole, and after all that is done, we have to get back home, which I'm pretty positive is in another plane of existence." Don sat muttering about One Cats, Preciouses, and Birthdays. It all sounded faintly familiar. Sam tugged Frodo's sleeve.
"I think we'd best be going now, Frodo."
"Yeah." They edged off.
"NO!!" Don threw himself out of his position and latched onto Frodo's ankle. "Let me come with ya'll! Please!"
"Ummm." Frodo hesitated. "You can follow about a day behind us, as a backup team. We'll capture him, then you can take all the credit." Don's
face picked up, and a decidedly evil smile spread across his face, much like jam would spread down a vertically oriented plate.
"Ok," he slowly, and let go.
"So how do we get there?" Sam asked, always the practical hobbit. Don scurried back to where he had been sitting, and leafed a pile of papers,
finally pulling out a beat up old map
"Go straight ahead until you get to Mt. Doom Backwards," he said, examining the map.
"Mt. Mood?" Sam asked, thinking it out
"No. Mt. Doom backwards. Remember, you're dealing with a simply people."
"Ok....But isn't that a copyright violation?"
"So? Now, when you get to Mt. Doom Backwards, take a right up the side of the mountain and you will find The Burlap Sack of Carnage. The cat
will be naturally attracted to the sack. Then all you have to do is kick it into the Sinister Chasm of Mood."
"And it'll be caught there?" Don looked a bit worried about this, and then regained his composure.
"Ummm, yeah. Perfectly safe. I'll come by after you to check anyway, remember? Now, go." And her pointed off to a small hill. "There lies
your destiny."
And so they set off, on an epic quest to find an oversized cat. It was tough. It was arduous. The author would, at this moment, like to point
out that she has a nasty habit of lying.
Sam and Frodo shuffled up the oh-so-not-steep slopes of Mt. Doom Backwards, Frodo with a bag of cheese puffs in each hand, and Sam dragging
along a catnip-essence soaked string, which Bubbles was not-so-stealthily stalking. They reached the top of the hill-er, mountain, and took a good
look around.
"It's not here," Frodo commented in the silence
"What do you mean it's not there?" Sam was incredulous.
"I mean there's no Burlap Sack of Carnage. Or a Chasm of Mood, for that matter."
"You mean I dragged that cat AND catnip all the way up the mountain and there's no damn Burlap Sack of Carnage?" Frodo could not answer, as he was knocked down by Don, who grabbed the catnip soaked string, which was now hooked onto the cat's claws, and danced up and don in his odd redneck fashion shouting, "I've got my Precious the Cat! I'VE GOT IT! I'VE GO-"
"Oh, there it is." Sam peered down into the yawning chasm where Don and Bubbles had fallen, conveniently, right into the now found Burlap Sack of Carnage, which had apparently fallen down into the chasm.
"Well, that settles it," said Frodo. "Don't we get to go home now?"
"Not until the author decides to," Sam explained.
"Oh." So they waited. And waited. And waited. And after a few seconds, they ran into town, started up and angry mob, and at pitchfork point, the author typed the following words:
THE END
Three Cats for the Elven-kings under the sky,
Seven for the Dwarf-lords in their halls of stone.
Nine for Mortal Men doomed to die,
One for the Redneck on his dark throne
In the land of Ya'll where the Pitchforks lie.
One Cat to rule them all, One Cat to find them,
One Cat to bring them all, and in the shadows, viciously stalk and pounce on them.
In the Land of Ya'll where the Pitchforks lie
*The redneck was eventually tried, and convicted, and sentenced to run up
and down the cornfields screaming "I am a Dunklet!" seven times. Let this be
a lesson to all of you.
A/N: Thanks to everyone for your help with redneck stories. They did actually help, although a lot of it didn't make it into the second chapter.
But fear not, for there is always the hope of a sequel (although some of you may shudder at that thought)
"Oooh! What's that?" crooned Pippin, who had, since rediscovering pints, drunk much more than his share. He staggered, more or less in the direction of an off-to-the-side courtyard. For his own safety, Merry, Frodo, and Sam followed him. In the center of the courtyard, which was on the whole very pretty, green, and flowery, was a burlap sack strung up high from a stake, with a fountain underneath. Pippin was standing in the above said fountain with a large stick, which he was using to poke the bag, and was giggling in a very annoying manner. The bag was writhing, which worried Frodo, seeing as how burlap sacks do not normally writhe. With a particularly vicious poke, Pippin simultaneously knocked the sack off the stake and hit the side of the fountain, causing him to collapse, unconscious. Merry and Sam flew to check on Pippin, who turned out to be relatively unharmed.
Frodo was a bit more curious about the sack. He crept over to it. The sack was rather normal and completely still, except for a extremely large lump. He touched the opening of the sack. A huge claw flashed out and raked across his face, and he did not notice the even huger paw that belonged to an exceptionally large cat streak out of the sack, along with the rest of the the huge claw that was finished slashing him.
Soon, the townspeople had heard of the incident, and everyone was gathered in the courtyard, staring at the four hobbits. Pippin was still out cold, Merry and Sam were attempting to hide behind the fountain, and Frodo was asking around for a bandage.
"What's all this here?" Billy had arrived at the scene.
"Dag nab it! Some idjit's gone and let the Cat out of The Bag!" said Zeke, another redneck who was immediately put on trial for letting out such a bad pun*.
"But it's true!" Frodo yelled, and everyone paused. "Pippin was drunk and was poking the bag with a stick, and it fell down. I went to open it up and the cat ran out of the sack after brutally and viciously mauling me!"
"Well now ya'll got to get that durn cat back into the sack!" yelled Billy, who was at this point rather annoyed. He stared at the Middle Earth Characters.
"I've got to lead an expedition to find Middle Earth!" said Arwen, happy for an excuse to get out of this quest.
"And I'm her wife-I mean, husband. I must accompany her." That ruled out Aragorn, who appeared to appeared to have lost his manly macho bravery of the previous quest.
Gandalf had to advise them. Legolas, Gimli, and Boromir had to be their faithful guards. The hobbits and relative evildoers stared at each other.
"Well, we've got to try to foil the heroes, so we can't do it. Besides...umm....Frodo has the Mark of the Cat!" Suron stammered, desperately hoping that the townspeople would catch on and get him and his minions out of this annoying quest thing.
"The Mark! The Mark! The Mark!" everyone yelled. Frodo had lost. He dejectedly picked up the ripped shreds of burlap, and shuffled out the courtyard, followed by sighs of relief for everyone else.
"He wasn't actually supposed to fall for that," remarked Sauron in the silence that followed
* * *
"I'm getting paid this time, right?" whined Sam as he followed Frodo.
"Yes," he sighed. Struck with a mythic quest AGAIN! There should be regulations as to how many mythic quests one can take on per lifetime.
They found themselves walking in a large field, and as unserious, nonsensical, and some might feel the need to use the word silly, plots like this one would go, in the middle of the field was a couple walking to a table with two chairs set on either side.
"I can't wait until lunch," the man said.
"Yeah. Maybe we should stop soon," the woman replied, then suddenly stared past the table.
"Don't laugh," she said, "I just saw a cat the size of New York cross that field." Frodo looked where she had pointed. There, indeed, was a
rather large cat that had probably once been in a rather large burlap sack, whose shreds he was holding now.
"Excellent. State or city?" the man didn't seem to much care about the immediate threat of a giant cat that had been trapped in a sack for a
hundred years, and was constantly growing larger, by the looks of it. The woman, however, was.
"Are you crazy? There's this huge cat running around the countryside and you're asking a question like that?"
"Why don't we call the Ghost Busters?"
"What do Ghost Busters have to do with giant cats?"
"Well, they got rid of the giant marshmallow dude."
"Cats aren't as squishy as marshmallows."
"Good point." They paused for a minute.
"So what do we do now?"
"We could....ummm.....put it in a cat carrier!"
"Where are we going to find a cat carrier big enough?"
"We could build one."
"Out of what?"
"A burlap sack!" the man exclaimed in a fit of self-proclaimed genius
"Like this one?" Frodo interjected, showing the remains of the previous burlap sack to them.
"Yes, like that," said the woman. "Except sack shaped. And how are we going to get the cat INTO the cat carrier?"
"Catnip?" suggested Sam
"Yeah, but where are we going to get enough?"
"Who knows," the woman said. "But we could always-Oh no!"
"What?" asked Sam, Frodo, and the man simultaneously. "A hillbilly just shot Bubbles!"
"Bubbles?"
"The cat."
"Oh."
"And he called him," the woman punctuated this with sobs, "a dirty varmint!" Sam and Frodo desperately ran to see if perhaps their work had
been finished for them, while the couple sat down to lunch.
"Poor Bubbles," moaned the man, after ordering pea soup.
"It never really got shot, Liam." the woman explained, "I just wanted them to go away. I'm not one for strange short people with scarred faces walking around fields with scraps of burlap"
"Oh."
* * *
Sam and Frodo stumbled through the field in the direction the woman had pointed. Had they kept going, a few things may have happened. First of
all, they may have, by some strange twist of fate, actually run into Bubbles the One Cat, been savagely mauled, and the quest would have been decidedly ended. The second possibility is that the pair would have kept running until they were hopelessly lost, and in the event of never finding civilization, yet again, the quest would have been decidedly ended. The third possibility was complicated, and without time to explain, the author will simply suffice to say that is involved a stingray, cheese puffs, a screwdriver, and a few dozen pebbles. So therefore, it was probably in the best interests of the quest that Frodo and Sam literally ran into Don, the Wonder Redneck.
"Who art thou?" the redneck asked, sitting in a meditative position.
"Aren't you a redneck?" Sam was confused by the coveralls, flannel shirt, and Shakespearian speech.
"You shalt not judge a book by his cover. Technically, a hillbilly. What dost thou seek?"
"Well, for starters, we need to get a cat now grown roughly the size of Queens into the shreds of this," Frodo held up the sack. "Then, we have
to get it back to town and string it up a pole, and after all that is done, we have to get back home, which I'm pretty positive is in another plane of existence." Don sat muttering about One Cats, Preciouses, and Birthdays. It all sounded faintly familiar. Sam tugged Frodo's sleeve.
"I think we'd best be going now, Frodo."
"Yeah." They edged off.
"NO!!" Don threw himself out of his position and latched onto Frodo's ankle. "Let me come with ya'll! Please!"
"Ummm." Frodo hesitated. "You can follow about a day behind us, as a backup team. We'll capture him, then you can take all the credit." Don's
face picked up, and a decidedly evil smile spread across his face, much like jam would spread down a vertically oriented plate.
"Ok," he slowly, and let go.
"So how do we get there?" Sam asked, always the practical hobbit. Don scurried back to where he had been sitting, and leafed a pile of papers,
finally pulling out a beat up old map
"Go straight ahead until you get to Mt. Doom Backwards," he said, examining the map.
"Mt. Mood?" Sam asked, thinking it out
"No. Mt. Doom backwards. Remember, you're dealing with a simply people."
"Ok....But isn't that a copyright violation?"
"So? Now, when you get to Mt. Doom Backwards, take a right up the side of the mountain and you will find The Burlap Sack of Carnage. The cat
will be naturally attracted to the sack. Then all you have to do is kick it into the Sinister Chasm of Mood."
"And it'll be caught there?" Don looked a bit worried about this, and then regained his composure.
"Ummm, yeah. Perfectly safe. I'll come by after you to check anyway, remember? Now, go." And her pointed off to a small hill. "There lies
your destiny."
And so they set off, on an epic quest to find an oversized cat. It was tough. It was arduous. The author would, at this moment, like to point
out that she has a nasty habit of lying.
Sam and Frodo shuffled up the oh-so-not-steep slopes of Mt. Doom Backwards, Frodo with a bag of cheese puffs in each hand, and Sam dragging
along a catnip-essence soaked string, which Bubbles was not-so-stealthily stalking. They reached the top of the hill-er, mountain, and took a good
look around.
"It's not here," Frodo commented in the silence
"What do you mean it's not there?" Sam was incredulous.
"I mean there's no Burlap Sack of Carnage. Or a Chasm of Mood, for that matter."
"You mean I dragged that cat AND catnip all the way up the mountain and there's no damn Burlap Sack of Carnage?" Frodo could not answer, as he was knocked down by Don, who grabbed the catnip soaked string, which was now hooked onto the cat's claws, and danced up and don in his odd redneck fashion shouting, "I've got my Precious the Cat! I'VE GOT IT! I'VE GO-"
"Oh, there it is." Sam peered down into the yawning chasm where Don and Bubbles had fallen, conveniently, right into the now found Burlap Sack of Carnage, which had apparently fallen down into the chasm.
"Well, that settles it," said Frodo. "Don't we get to go home now?"
"Not until the author decides to," Sam explained.
"Oh." So they waited. And waited. And waited. And after a few seconds, they ran into town, started up and angry mob, and at pitchfork point, the author typed the following words:
THE END
Three Cats for the Elven-kings under the sky,
Seven for the Dwarf-lords in their halls of stone.
Nine for Mortal Men doomed to die,
One for the Redneck on his dark throne
In the land of Ya'll where the Pitchforks lie.
One Cat to rule them all, One Cat to find them,
One Cat to bring them all, and in the shadows, viciously stalk and pounce on them.
In the Land of Ya'll where the Pitchforks lie
*The redneck was eventually tried, and convicted, and sentenced to run up
and down the cornfields screaming "I am a Dunklet!" seven times. Let this be
a lesson to all of you.