NOTE: The text program I use to write this with either doesn't do italic and bold, or I don't know how. *glares at evil text program* So, that being the case, I shall use double colons to express a thought or a stressed word. I ::think:: that'll work. *nods*
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Meanwhile, Merry and Pippin were having a secret meeting under the table. They were looking at the envelope, which had been glued, taped, and tied with string, as if the person it was given to never wanted to see what was inside again.
"Should we open it, then?" Pippin whispered.
Merry looked at the envelope carefully. "It's only fitting," he determined.
He slid a butter knife swiped from the table top under the stuff holding it together and flipped it open. He pulled out a letter that smelt of bad perfume, and two photos.
The edges of the pink stationary were crumpled, and the ink was splotched with drops of water, as if the reader had been blubbering over it.
The letter, written with a purple gel pen, read:
Hey Pegean! Cindy and I went to this quaint little restaurant by the wharf today. Our lunch wasn't anything spectacular, (soybean sandwiches, veggie fries, that sort of thing) but what REALLY got us was a very unique dessert: a deep-fried twinkie! Imagine! It was even better than a standard twinkie. We had two each, but don't worry, we squeezed most of the oils and fats out beforehand. The inventions of today! You know, I'm a bit sick of watching what I eat to an extent. I'm going to put away my diet charts and open a confectioner's shop. Cindy seconds it. We'll be starting cooking classes next month. Later! Love ya! Doris
The two hobbits thought this over for a moment. They looked at the pictures. Two women, who reminded them vaguely of Pegean, held fluffy golden cakes in one picture. In the other, a close up of one of the cakes with it's end bitten off was seen, revealing white cream in the middle.
"So that's a deep-fried twinkie," breathed Pippin, who felt his present hunger double.
"We ought to tell someone about this," Merry pointed out. "But who?"
They pondered this over for a minute, then looked at each other and said simultaneously, "Gandalf!"
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Gandalf the Gray was deeply irritated. This woman many years younger than him stole his favorite pipe and was telling him what to eat. He was so absorbed in his angry thoughts he wasn't expecting a tug on his robes, and when that happened he nearly jumped off his chair. Pretending to adjust his boot, he peered under the table and saw two familiar faces.
"Meriadoc Brandybuck and Peregrin Took, I should have known," he said with a smile.
Pippin thought sarcastically, ::He can't say anything else when he sees us, can he?:: What he said was, "We've got something you should see." He passed the envelope to Gandalf and scooted away.
The Wizard quickly read the note. ::This is good:: he thought. ::We can get rid of her this way. But how to use it? I can't do it::
He looked down the table and saw a man glowering at the Health Inspector, who at this time was talking about Red Meat. He was proud, valorous, and (by the way he was looking at the food) HUNGRY. Surely he'd help the hobbits.
Gandalf waved the envelope around under the table, and Merry and Pippin crawled over. Gandalf handed it to them and whispered to them, the most important thing being, "Boromir." He sat up in his chair and pretended to listen to Pegean's lecture, hoping they'd come up with a plan soon.
The hobbits, having listened to Gandalf, were trying to find Boromir. But all they could see from under the table were breeches and boots, which looked alike: worn down and travel-stained.
::Boromir? No, shoes aren't nice enough. Boromir? No, Boromir doesn't wear this color. Aha! Boromir!::
Even though they had only seen him for a few moments, they could remember that he was outfitted handsomely. This fellow's boots were polished, though obviously worn, and his breeches had the barest traces of travel.
It's him!" Pippin said. He reached out to pull lightly on Boromir's breeches, but Merry grabbed his hand. "How do you know it really is him?"
Pippin looked carefully at Boromir's boot, which was resting on the heel. He saw tiny writing on the sole, and remembered when eavesdropping on the council what Boromir had talked about. "Look Merry! 'Made in Gondor'!"
"Must be him, I s'pose," Merry concluded, and tugged on the hem of Boromir's breeches.
*~~*~~*~~*~~*~~*~~*~~*~~*~~*~~*~~*~~*~~*~~*~~*~~*~~*~~*~~*~~*~~*~~*~~*~~*~~
Meanwhile, Merry and Pippin were having a secret meeting under the table. They were looking at the envelope, which had been glued, taped, and tied with string, as if the person it was given to never wanted to see what was inside again.
"Should we open it, then?" Pippin whispered.
Merry looked at the envelope carefully. "It's only fitting," he determined.
He slid a butter knife swiped from the table top under the stuff holding it together and flipped it open. He pulled out a letter that smelt of bad perfume, and two photos.
The edges of the pink stationary were crumpled, and the ink was splotched with drops of water, as if the reader had been blubbering over it.
The letter, written with a purple gel pen, read:
Hey Pegean! Cindy and I went to this quaint little restaurant by the wharf today. Our lunch wasn't anything spectacular, (soybean sandwiches, veggie fries, that sort of thing) but what REALLY got us was a very unique dessert: a deep-fried twinkie! Imagine! It was even better than a standard twinkie. We had two each, but don't worry, we squeezed most of the oils and fats out beforehand. The inventions of today! You know, I'm a bit sick of watching what I eat to an extent. I'm going to put away my diet charts and open a confectioner's shop. Cindy seconds it. We'll be starting cooking classes next month. Later! Love ya! Doris
The two hobbits thought this over for a moment. They looked at the pictures. Two women, who reminded them vaguely of Pegean, held fluffy golden cakes in one picture. In the other, a close up of one of the cakes with it's end bitten off was seen, revealing white cream in the middle.
"So that's a deep-fried twinkie," breathed Pippin, who felt his present hunger double.
"We ought to tell someone about this," Merry pointed out. "But who?"
They pondered this over for a minute, then looked at each other and said simultaneously, "Gandalf!"
*~~*~~*~~*~~*~~*~~*~~*~~*~~*~~*~~*~~*~~*~~*~~*~~*~~*~~*~~*~~*~~*~~*~~*~~*~~
Gandalf the Gray was deeply irritated. This woman many years younger than him stole his favorite pipe and was telling him what to eat. He was so absorbed in his angry thoughts he wasn't expecting a tug on his robes, and when that happened he nearly jumped off his chair. Pretending to adjust his boot, he peered under the table and saw two familiar faces.
"Meriadoc Brandybuck and Peregrin Took, I should have known," he said with a smile.
Pippin thought sarcastically, ::He can't say anything else when he sees us, can he?:: What he said was, "We've got something you should see." He passed the envelope to Gandalf and scooted away.
The Wizard quickly read the note. ::This is good:: he thought. ::We can get rid of her this way. But how to use it? I can't do it::
He looked down the table and saw a man glowering at the Health Inspector, who at this time was talking about Red Meat. He was proud, valorous, and (by the way he was looking at the food) HUNGRY. Surely he'd help the hobbits.
Gandalf waved the envelope around under the table, and Merry and Pippin crawled over. Gandalf handed it to them and whispered to them, the most important thing being, "Boromir." He sat up in his chair and pretended to listen to Pegean's lecture, hoping they'd come up with a plan soon.
The hobbits, having listened to Gandalf, were trying to find Boromir. But all they could see from under the table were breeches and boots, which looked alike: worn down and travel-stained.
::Boromir? No, shoes aren't nice enough. Boromir? No, Boromir doesn't wear this color. Aha! Boromir!::
Even though they had only seen him for a few moments, they could remember that he was outfitted handsomely. This fellow's boots were polished, though obviously worn, and his breeches had the barest traces of travel.
It's him!" Pippin said. He reached out to pull lightly on Boromir's breeches, but Merry grabbed his hand. "How do you know it really is him?"
Pippin looked carefully at Boromir's boot, which was resting on the heel. He saw tiny writing on the sole, and remembered when eavesdropping on the council what Boromir had talked about. "Look Merry! 'Made in Gondor'!"
"Must be him, I s'pose," Merry concluded, and tugged on the hem of Boromir's breeches.