Title: Pancakes and Tequila Don't Mix
Author: Ivory Tower
Disclaimer: Tolkien owns the hobbits. I wish I owned the Sheriff, and the Metatron, and Snape, but I don't.
Frodo Baggins was bored. He wanted some excitement and adventure in his predictable life. One day, at 1:45 p.m., Frodo decided to establish a whorehouse. Twas Pippin who had actually given him the idea, as Pippin's fondness for french whores was widely known. There would be french whores at Frodo's brothel, to be sure. There would be whores from all walks of life-a sort of international whorehouse! Hobbits, elfs, dwarfs, orcs-hey, people like variety.
Excited with his idea, Frodo sat down at his desk and began to write. First, he needed a catchy name. "Frodo's Fun House". Nah, too ordinary. "Frodo's International House of Whores". Too fancy. This was hard. With a sigh, Frodo lay down his quill and propped his head on his hand. Sam came in from the garden for a drink of water.
"What're you doing, Mr. Frodo?"
"I'm trying to think of a name for the brothel I'm starting, but it's not working out too well, Sam."
"How about 'The Best Little Whorehouse In Middle Earth'?"
"That is the most unoriginal title I've ever heard."
"Well, all right then. Try this: 'Mister Frodo's House of Whores'."
"Nah, too boring. This isn't working out at all."
"Where are you going to find whores to fill the whorehouse, Mr. Frodo?"
"I don't know, Sam. Maybe this isn't such a good idea." A sudden knock on the door distracted them. "Tell whoever it is to go away, Sam. I'm too pre-occupied for company right now."
"We don't want any! Go away," Samwise shouted out the window.
"Oh, I think you'll want what I have out here in my...bag," said a smooth, deep, velvety male voice that made both Frodo and Sam tingle even though they were straight.
Curiosity made Sam open the door to reveal a tall, thin man with long, unruly black hair, black eyes, a black beard, black clothes, and a black bag. His smile vaguely reminded Sam of Grima Wormtongue. Frodo stood next to Sam and stared up at this slightly creepy man.
"Who are you," demanded Sam
"Call me-the Sheriff."
"The Sheriff? Of what," asked Frodo.
"Of the very nearly legendary Start Your Own Whorehouse Home Business Kit." The Sheriff barged into the hobbit hole with a quick, graceful swoop. Sam eyed the greasy salesman with suspicion.
"Are you related to Grima Wormtongue?"
"No," replied the Sheriff smoothly, unzipping his large black duffle bag. "Nor am I related to Severus Snape, Hans Gruber, Dr. Lazarus, Alan Rickman, or that assholish Metatron!"
Just then, a pillar of flame filled the room, nearly scaring the two hobbits witless.
"Behold! I am the Metatron! The one true voice for Auntie Wickwacks Chocolate Pancake Mix!"
"Mmmm....paaaancakes," drooled Frodo.
"Choooocolaaaaate," moaned Sam as though he'd just experienced Nirvana.
The Sheriff grabbed a bucket of water and doused the flaming pillar, revealing a dark-haired man in a drenched buisiness suit who looked an awful lot like the Sheriff, save he was clean cut.
"Get out," snarled the Sheriff. "No one wants your bloody pancake mix!"
"Do you actually think that you can help these little creatures run a successful whorehouse?"
"That's why I'm here, you flaming fuck! Now, get out before I pluck your ass hairs out with my zircon encrusted tweezers."
The Metatron raised his eyebrows, then smiled down at the two puzzled hobbits. "Never trust a man with zircon encrusted tweezers. You never know where he's used them."
"Um, okay," said Frodo.
"Now see here," yelled Samwise at the two feuding salesmen. "Mr. Frodo wants to start a whorehouse, and he wants that chocolate pancake mix. Can't you see the terrible burden he's under? You must help him!"
The Sheriff smiled the most untrustworthy smile seen on this side of Middle Earth.
"But of course," he said, slowly reached into his black bag, and produced...a bottle of tequila. "Fetch," he yelled, pitching the bottle out the window. The Metatron gasped and dove after it. "Now then," said the Sheriff, motioning the two hobbits over. "Every successful whorehouse needs-"
The Metatron walked in through the hobbit door, drinking quite liberally. "Hey, thanks. This is my secret ingredient for Auntie Wickwack's Chocolate Pancakes."
The Sheriff scowled an ugly scowl at the angel. "You lying bastard!" He fumbled in his black bag, and produced a pair of zircon encrusted tweezers. "Don't force me to use these!" The hobbits squeaked in terror, and scrambled away from the deranged sheriff.
"You poor fool," spat the Metatron, beginning to feel the tequila. "God is on *my* side, and don't you forget it."
"I wouldn't count on that," boomed a female voice.
"Oh...go to hell," mumbled the Metatron, sloshing his tequila.
Frodo suddenly got a truly brilliant idea. "We can have the biggest, best whorehouse in the whole world," he yelled, eyes gleaming with anticipation.
The Metatron paused in getting the Sheriff in a headlock. "Come again?"
"Women, pancakes, and tequila! What man can pass that up? I've even thought of a name: Tequila Sunrises, Pancakes, and Porn!"
Sam nodded, impressed. "I'd go to your whorehouse, Mr. Frodo."
The Metatron released the Sheriff. "So would I."
The Sheriff took a swig of tequila and wiped his mouth with his hand. "Three words: Location. Location. Location. The place has to be easily accesible for a man with a rock hard, hard on to-"
"They get the point, you sick bastard," interrupted the Metatron, grabbing for his bottle.
Frodo grinned almost lecherously. "I know the perfect place..."
Two weeks later...
Gimli stood in line with the other men, and tilted his head back.
"Ahhh, smell those pancakes!"
Gandalf made several lewd comments concerning prostitutes and bottles of syrup.
Aaragorn smirked. "I have a nice big sausage to put between a couple of nice warm pancakes, if you know what I mean."
The men roared with laughter. Samwise appeared at the entrance of the newly established brothel.
"Let the fun begin," he yelled, and cut the ribbon across the doorway.
Behind the scenes...
The Metatron was far too drunk to make pancakes on his own. Frodo sent the Sheriff into the kitchen to help out.
"You're pathetic," the Sheriff told the Metatron, who gave him the finger. "You're not supposed to consume the ingredients."
"You're not supposed to 'inspect' the whores to make sure they're in working order."
"Is that griddle hot enough?"
"Why don't you sit on it and see?"
The Sheriff gritted his teeth and began to pour pancakes. He thought longingly of his zircon encrusted tweezers that Frodo had confiscated a week earlier. Damn that son of a bitch Robin Hood! This was all his fault. The Sheriff contented himself by imagining a scenario that involved himself sneaking in through Robin Hood's window, zircon encrusted tweezers in one hand, and a bucket of plaster in another. Slowly, methodically he would pluck out each and every one of that silky boy's ass hairs. Then, he would take pleasure in promptly plastering Robin Hood's ass shut. See what Maid Marion thought of her husband then, the bitch!
The Metatron distracted the Sheriff's thoughts by softly singing, "Satan can be your friend," in a most jovial voice as he mixed pancake batter. The Sheriff groaned inwardly when he thought of the endless stream of weeks working with this asshole.
Frodo and Sam stood on the balcony and watched clients flock inside.
"Well, you've done it, Mr. Frodo. You've established your own whorehouse."
"This is only the beginning, Sam. I'm thinking of writing my own erotic literature and publishing it. Elves love good erotica."
Somewhere in a distant forest, a time hole opens, and a man in black drops from the sky. Grumbling, he gets to his feet and dusts off his billowing black robes. His long, greasy black hair hangs in his face as he opens a briefcase containing several brochures and magazines. There are also several cards reading: Severus Snape, licensed writer of erotic literature, and Master of Potions.
"I'm going to teach these little dunderheads how to write the most horrific smut on the planet."
~FIN~
A/N: Why is the Sheriff alive when he was killed in the movie, you ask? Because I like him that way.
Author: Ivory Tower
Disclaimer: Tolkien owns the hobbits. I wish I owned the Sheriff, and the Metatron, and Snape, but I don't.
Frodo Baggins was bored. He wanted some excitement and adventure in his predictable life. One day, at 1:45 p.m., Frodo decided to establish a whorehouse. Twas Pippin who had actually given him the idea, as Pippin's fondness for french whores was widely known. There would be french whores at Frodo's brothel, to be sure. There would be whores from all walks of life-a sort of international whorehouse! Hobbits, elfs, dwarfs, orcs-hey, people like variety.
Excited with his idea, Frodo sat down at his desk and began to write. First, he needed a catchy name. "Frodo's Fun House". Nah, too ordinary. "Frodo's International House of Whores". Too fancy. This was hard. With a sigh, Frodo lay down his quill and propped his head on his hand. Sam came in from the garden for a drink of water.
"What're you doing, Mr. Frodo?"
"I'm trying to think of a name for the brothel I'm starting, but it's not working out too well, Sam."
"How about 'The Best Little Whorehouse In Middle Earth'?"
"That is the most unoriginal title I've ever heard."
"Well, all right then. Try this: 'Mister Frodo's House of Whores'."
"Nah, too boring. This isn't working out at all."
"Where are you going to find whores to fill the whorehouse, Mr. Frodo?"
"I don't know, Sam. Maybe this isn't such a good idea." A sudden knock on the door distracted them. "Tell whoever it is to go away, Sam. I'm too pre-occupied for company right now."
"We don't want any! Go away," Samwise shouted out the window.
"Oh, I think you'll want what I have out here in my...bag," said a smooth, deep, velvety male voice that made both Frodo and Sam tingle even though they were straight.
Curiosity made Sam open the door to reveal a tall, thin man with long, unruly black hair, black eyes, a black beard, black clothes, and a black bag. His smile vaguely reminded Sam of Grima Wormtongue. Frodo stood next to Sam and stared up at this slightly creepy man.
"Who are you," demanded Sam
"Call me-the Sheriff."
"The Sheriff? Of what," asked Frodo.
"Of the very nearly legendary Start Your Own Whorehouse Home Business Kit." The Sheriff barged into the hobbit hole with a quick, graceful swoop. Sam eyed the greasy salesman with suspicion.
"Are you related to Grima Wormtongue?"
"No," replied the Sheriff smoothly, unzipping his large black duffle bag. "Nor am I related to Severus Snape, Hans Gruber, Dr. Lazarus, Alan Rickman, or that assholish Metatron!"
Just then, a pillar of flame filled the room, nearly scaring the two hobbits witless.
"Behold! I am the Metatron! The one true voice for Auntie Wickwacks Chocolate Pancake Mix!"
"Mmmm....paaaancakes," drooled Frodo.
"Choooocolaaaaate," moaned Sam as though he'd just experienced Nirvana.
The Sheriff grabbed a bucket of water and doused the flaming pillar, revealing a dark-haired man in a drenched buisiness suit who looked an awful lot like the Sheriff, save he was clean cut.
"Get out," snarled the Sheriff. "No one wants your bloody pancake mix!"
"Do you actually think that you can help these little creatures run a successful whorehouse?"
"That's why I'm here, you flaming fuck! Now, get out before I pluck your ass hairs out with my zircon encrusted tweezers."
The Metatron raised his eyebrows, then smiled down at the two puzzled hobbits. "Never trust a man with zircon encrusted tweezers. You never know where he's used them."
"Um, okay," said Frodo.
"Now see here," yelled Samwise at the two feuding salesmen. "Mr. Frodo wants to start a whorehouse, and he wants that chocolate pancake mix. Can't you see the terrible burden he's under? You must help him!"
The Sheriff smiled the most untrustworthy smile seen on this side of Middle Earth.
"But of course," he said, slowly reached into his black bag, and produced...a bottle of tequila. "Fetch," he yelled, pitching the bottle out the window. The Metatron gasped and dove after it. "Now then," said the Sheriff, motioning the two hobbits over. "Every successful whorehouse needs-"
The Metatron walked in through the hobbit door, drinking quite liberally. "Hey, thanks. This is my secret ingredient for Auntie Wickwack's Chocolate Pancakes."
The Sheriff scowled an ugly scowl at the angel. "You lying bastard!" He fumbled in his black bag, and produced a pair of zircon encrusted tweezers. "Don't force me to use these!" The hobbits squeaked in terror, and scrambled away from the deranged sheriff.
"You poor fool," spat the Metatron, beginning to feel the tequila. "God is on *my* side, and don't you forget it."
"I wouldn't count on that," boomed a female voice.
"Oh...go to hell," mumbled the Metatron, sloshing his tequila.
Frodo suddenly got a truly brilliant idea. "We can have the biggest, best whorehouse in the whole world," he yelled, eyes gleaming with anticipation.
The Metatron paused in getting the Sheriff in a headlock. "Come again?"
"Women, pancakes, and tequila! What man can pass that up? I've even thought of a name: Tequila Sunrises, Pancakes, and Porn!"
Sam nodded, impressed. "I'd go to your whorehouse, Mr. Frodo."
The Metatron released the Sheriff. "So would I."
The Sheriff took a swig of tequila and wiped his mouth with his hand. "Three words: Location. Location. Location. The place has to be easily accesible for a man with a rock hard, hard on to-"
"They get the point, you sick bastard," interrupted the Metatron, grabbing for his bottle.
Frodo grinned almost lecherously. "I know the perfect place..."
Two weeks later...
Gimli stood in line with the other men, and tilted his head back.
"Ahhh, smell those pancakes!"
Gandalf made several lewd comments concerning prostitutes and bottles of syrup.
Aaragorn smirked. "I have a nice big sausage to put between a couple of nice warm pancakes, if you know what I mean."
The men roared with laughter. Samwise appeared at the entrance of the newly established brothel.
"Let the fun begin," he yelled, and cut the ribbon across the doorway.
Behind the scenes...
The Metatron was far too drunk to make pancakes on his own. Frodo sent the Sheriff into the kitchen to help out.
"You're pathetic," the Sheriff told the Metatron, who gave him the finger. "You're not supposed to consume the ingredients."
"You're not supposed to 'inspect' the whores to make sure they're in working order."
"Is that griddle hot enough?"
"Why don't you sit on it and see?"
The Sheriff gritted his teeth and began to pour pancakes. He thought longingly of his zircon encrusted tweezers that Frodo had confiscated a week earlier. Damn that son of a bitch Robin Hood! This was all his fault. The Sheriff contented himself by imagining a scenario that involved himself sneaking in through Robin Hood's window, zircon encrusted tweezers in one hand, and a bucket of plaster in another. Slowly, methodically he would pluck out each and every one of that silky boy's ass hairs. Then, he would take pleasure in promptly plastering Robin Hood's ass shut. See what Maid Marion thought of her husband then, the bitch!
The Metatron distracted the Sheriff's thoughts by softly singing, "Satan can be your friend," in a most jovial voice as he mixed pancake batter. The Sheriff groaned inwardly when he thought of the endless stream of weeks working with this asshole.
Frodo and Sam stood on the balcony and watched clients flock inside.
"Well, you've done it, Mr. Frodo. You've established your own whorehouse."
"This is only the beginning, Sam. I'm thinking of writing my own erotic literature and publishing it. Elves love good erotica."
Somewhere in a distant forest, a time hole opens, and a man in black drops from the sky. Grumbling, he gets to his feet and dusts off his billowing black robes. His long, greasy black hair hangs in his face as he opens a briefcase containing several brochures and magazines. There are also several cards reading: Severus Snape, licensed writer of erotic literature, and Master of Potions.
"I'm going to teach these little dunderheads how to write the most horrific smut on the planet."
~FIN~
A/N: Why is the Sheriff alive when he was killed in the movie, you ask? Because I like him that way.