Author's Note: I do believe I am warning the reader of the sheer spontaneity of this story. I love Lord of the Rings, I do. But this just had to happen. Don't send me dead cats in the mail because of it.
And Yet Another Disclaimer…Disclaiming This Book and Story Which I Have So Shamelessly Ripped Off
Little Retards: The Theory of Chaos is Tested on That One King
When the world last heard of Mikey Becerra, he was but a wee lad of twelve years old.
However, if you're like any other normal person, you've never heard of Mikey Becerra.
Mikey Becerra is a boy. He's not a man, nor is he a Ranger of Ithilien, nor is he watching you from the place outside your open window.
He shares a rather uncanny resemblance to Samwise Gamgee, if that helps any. Light brown curls like kittens mashed up together, a smile that says, "Love me, I'm innocent," and a laugh that makes you want to kill that lady down the street who always wears fur.
Mikey Becerra is no longer twelve years old. He's a strapping hobbit-endowed boy of seventeen.
Incase you haven't realized, like any other normal person would, Mikey Becerra isn't a part of this story.
But if you can't just get enough of Mikey Becerra, well, I'm sorry. My quota is filled on those things and I've run out of stock.
Anyways, like I was saying. Once upon a time in this place called Gondor, that place, you know, the one with the White City and the men on horsies and stuff? Well if you don't remember, there was this chap named Aragorn who floated down from the sky some Sunday long ago—
Oh no wait…wrong bearded man.
…okay, there was this chap named Aragorn who emerged from the shadows of war to save the great, all-mighty Kingdom of Gondor from this other place called Mordor.
He saved the whole of Middle-Earth and everyone yelled "Huzzah!" and thought that he would make an excellent King because he had fixed this one sword called Namsil or Narzik or something.
So one day, King Aragorn was sitting in the Library of Minas Tirith, working on a paper about the fortifications of the southern border.
He was just sitting there, minding his own business, quill in his hand, thinking silently to himself, watching some particles of dust float lazily in the air, when he was suddenly struck with a rather stupid idea.
He tossed the parchment of paper across the room and stood up.
"Brilliant!" he cried.
His Steward, however, did not agree.
In fact, Faramir, the guy who looked like he had a dead fox asleep on his head and wore a garland of daisies, thought his King had gone rather daft.
"I can give you two reasons why that's a mad idea," he said.
But King Aragorn wasn't obliged to listen to people, especially when they had flowers tucked behind their ears.
The next day, the Library of Minas Tirith was bulldozed to make room for a tanning spa.
