Author's Note: I do not mean in any way to insult or compromise people's beliefs in my story. To take offense gives me way too much power. I am only a humble writer, and my idle thoughts are exactly that. My pseudo-blasphemous plot point is in fact honoring that which it would seem to mock, and I'm trying to give it a lot of thought. You wouldn't know it, but I was totally destroyed by nervousness for a few days after the last chapter was published, and all over what happened in those last few lines.
I don't take kindly to insults, but any suggestions and constructive criticism would be appreciated. I admit, I don't know very much when it comes to Biblical references, so I apologize for any mistakes.

Six: Sam

All eight travelers swiveled around to look at… Randall, Sam supposed. There was a long, awkward silence. Then, shattering the hush like a sledgehammer through a stained-glass window, there came a voice.

"I had to have misheard that," said Boromir. "Someone said something I didn't hear, or I thought I heard someone say something that no one actually said, but I can't have just heard what I think I did."

"Then I must be going crazy, too," Aragorn shook his head.

"So he's really John Lennon?"

Aragorn sighed exasperatedly. "You are such an idiot."

"What? Why?"

"Oh, don't act like you didn't already know he was Jesus," Legolas groaned, ignoring Boromir's apparent thick-headedness. "Just look at the stories! Extraordinary man who came to Earth to act as a sort of guardian to mankind? Died to save people, and came back from the dead?"

"Sorry, but do you think we could move off this topic?" Randall asked from the doorway. Sam noticed that the man was blushing furiously. I didn't know the Maiar could be embarrassed, he thought. "We have far graver things to speak of than who I used to be."

"Used to be?" Merry, always the critic, cocked an eyebrow.

"Come on, just leave him be," Pippin sighed, shutting his book and setting it down on the shiny mahogany tabletop. "If he doesn't want to talk about it, let's not press the issue."

"I can't tell if you're talking about him or yourself," Merry muttered under his breath. Pippin glared at him with an intensity that Sam hadn't yet seen from the young man.

"Hey, now," the blond man spoke up. "Let's not resort to being childish, eh? We're here for a reason."

"Ever the peacemaker, eh, Samwise?" Pippin remarked, a ghost of a smile on his face.

"Ahem, well," Aragorn broke the quiet (decidedly more gracefully than Boromir had). "Shall we then?"

Randall nodded, sitting down at the final open seat. "I suppose you all remember enough of times past to get a general idea of why we're here."

"Yeah, I think we all safely assumed this wasn't a reunion special for ABC," Boromir quipped. Mister Frodo laughed, and Randall smiled wryly, but that summed up most of the reaction in the room. Sam noted that Aragorn wore a look that plainly said that these sorts of lines were nothing new.

"So, how long have the two of you been traveling together?" The young man asked. "A couple of months at least, I'd say."

"Actually," Aragorn shrugged, "we've known each other since childhood. This whole thing is just a bizarre coincidence."

"Really?" Sam was amazed. "Blimey, that's lucky."

"I'm glad to see you're all so comfortable with Westron," Randall remarked.

"What, now?" Mister Frodo looked confused.

"Westron. You know, the language?"

"You mean you didn't notice?" Pippin stared at Mister Frodo as if he'd grown another limb. "God, I thought you'd just gotten used to it by the time we met."

"What?" Mister Frodo turned to Sam. "How long has this been going on?"

"A while," Sam shrugged.

"A while? Like, since Paris?"

"Longer."

"How much longer?" Sam didn't like the sudden dark tone in Mister Frodo's voice.

"Try since the Indian restaurant."

"What?"

"Boys, boys," Boromir cut in, suddenly the voice of reason. "Let's get back on topic."

"Thank you," said Randall as the men returned their gaze to him (though Mister Frodo still looked distressed). "As I was saying, it is a great need that has forced us to do the unprecedented, to do this."

"So we're revolutionizing the business of fighting evil?" Pippin cracked a crooked grin. Boromir snorted into his glass of water.

"I suppose," Randall shrugged, smiling good-naturedly. "We have toiled for many a year in attempts of battling this for which he have summoned you, and—"

"Dude, cut the archaic language," Aragorn interrupted. "You sound like you're reading a monologue. Just relax. We're not in the book, we're sitting in front of you."

Randall shrugged. "Fine. We've tried everything we could, but nothing's worked. Consider yourselves the last resort."

"Ouch."

"Shut up, Barry."

"I don't mean that as an insult," Randall said. "Think of it as a matter of retirement. You've already done your service to the universe, so to speak. This wouldn't be happening if we hadn't literally tried everything else."

"So what is this 'big evil' that we're expected to fight?" Legolas asked.

"A deeply interlaced, elite society," Randall replied. "The nine major conglomerates that dictate to the world."

Silence.

"So," Mister Frodo said slowly. "We're battling corporate homogeneity?"

"Essentially."

"Well, shit."

"Language," Boromir tutted. Mister Frodo looked miffed.

"This is really the great evil you can't deal with without us?" Merry demanded.

"Come on, like it wasn't expected," Legolas rolled his eyes.

"Shut up, you didn't know," the young man retorted.

"Hey, leave him alone," Pippin protested, shooting Merry an imploring look.

"How exactly are we expected to go up against these corporate superpowers, anyway?" Sam asked.

"It's actually easier than one might think," Randall said. "These nine aren't much more than vessels in the long run. The real adversary is a hidden power than in fact controls all of them."

"Sorry, 'hidden power'?" Aragorn looked up inquisitively.

"In all outward appearances, it's a small company based in San Francisco," Randall said. "Red Eye, Inc. No one is aware of its hold over international media save for those in control of it."

"Wait," Boromir cut in. "I know enough about business to know that there is no way one tiny little company can control the world like that… is there?"

"Easily enough," Gandalf replied, making his first real contribution to the meeting. "Remember, this isn't the first time one entity has used nine others to grab hold of the world."

"So you're saying that Sauron's back?" Merry asked.

"No," Randall asserted. "Sauron was indeed destroyed in the Third Age. But do not be foolish enough to think that there were not many who learned from his work."

"We're dealing with a copycat?"

"Isn't every epic good-versus-evil confrontation a carbon copy of some other?" Gimli said wisely.

"Go swill your wine," Legolas muttered.

"Sauron was not the first to forge an object of great power," Gandalf said, "nor was he the last. Many have tried, few have succeeded, but we have been confronted with the realization that this situation is one that will not simply remedy itself. We must 'think outside the box,' so to speak."

"I've heard a lot, Mithrandir," Legolas said, "but I never thought I'd hear you say 'think outside the box." Pippin giggled.

"Okay," Mister Frodo said. "Doesn't seem to be much to it. We bust in there, fire some bullets, and get the Ring, or whatever this bad boy is."

"No," Aragorn, Boromir, Gimli, and Legolas all said at once.

"No guns," Aragorn reasserted.

"Why not?" Mister Frodo looked confused. "I mean, my flags are out for gun control, but this would seem to be a pretty valid need."

"Because guns are for cowards, little man," Boromir sighed, as if this were the most obvious thing in the world. "There's no skill, no sense of honor, in firing a gun. To fight with blades takes thought and precision, to injure takes more. Trust me, we're far less likely to make silly mistakes and heedlessly take lives."

"Well spoken, old bean," Aragorn said softly, smiling.

"Very well spoken indeed," Randall nodded approvingly. "We're sending the four of you—" he pointed to Aragorn, Boromir, Legolas, and Gimli, "—to retrieve the Ring from San Francisco."

"So it is a ring this time?" Gimli asked.

"Good of you to check," Gandalf remarked. "Yes, it is indeed a ring again."

"I want to go along," Mister Frodo said loudly. Everyone looked at him, surprised.

"You sure, Mister Frodo?"

"Jimmy," he whispered coolly.

"Sorry," Sam cringed. "'Jimmy'."

"I don't need to go on the mission or anything," Mister Frodo (Jimmy, Sam reminded himself) continued. "But I know the city, and I can get them where they need to go quickly and quietly."

Sam felt the need to be the voice of reason. "I'm sure Mister Gandalf and Mister Randall already have a job for—"

"That's a marvelous idea," Randall said, taking Sam by surprise. "Frodo and Sam, you two go to San Francisco with the others."

"Jimmy," corrected Mister Frodo, but with decidedly less conviction than usual, Sam noted.

"Oi!" Merry spoke up. "We're not staying behind!"

"Yeah," Pippin agreed enthusiastically. "We're not the bloody home front! What are we supposed to do while they're all living it up in California, sit here and knit?"

Mister Frodo stifled his laughter.

Pippin smirked at the older boy. "No, wait, that's what you'd do," he sneered.

"It's just a hobby!" Mister Frodo protested.

"You two have a job all your own," Randall cut their side conversation short. "Pip, you and Merry proved to be an invaluable asset diplomatically during our last conflict. We plan to send you on a similar mission."

"And that would be…"

"Going into a forest that is seemingly impenetrable for such small forces as you, and yet finding aid and purpose there."

"And where would that be?" Pippin asked.

"Where else?" Merry replied. "New York."


"So what's your game plan?"

Sam looked up at Pippin from his seat on the bed. The four young men were sprawled around Merry's room, talking of this and that in an aimless way that had become quite routine over their time together. Mister Frodo was lying on the floor, his legs up in the air against the wall in what he told them was a yoga pose of some sort. Pippin was perched on top of the desk, his nose buried in yet another book, this time The Perks of Being a Wallflower. Sam was spread-eagled on the bed, watching Merry pace shirtless around the room, seemingly unable to decide what to wear.

"Game plan about what?" Sam asked.

"The whole Sanfran thing," Pippin said from behind his book. "Randall already said you can't be conspicuous, so that would probably count out friend's places and such."

"Why don't you ask Mister Frodo about that?"

"He's meditating."

"It's Jimmy, and we're still planning out the lodging situation," said Mister Frodo from the floor. Pip shrugged, returning to his book.

"Pippin," Merry turned to the young man, "which shirt should I wear?" He held up two collared shirts on hangers. One was a dark shade of cherry red, the other an odd orange-ish tone.

"How am I supposed to know?" Pippin said without looking up.

"Because you're, you know…"

"Just because I like to kiss other boys doesn't mean I know the first thing about fashion," Pip sighed.

"The burgundy one," Mister Frodo said.

"What?" Merry looked surprised.

"Wear the burgundy one," the young man repeated. "You look good in regal colors: maroon, eggplant, and the like. You might do well to burn the orange one too; it makes you look like an overgrown butternut squash."

Merry stared at Mister Frodo for a moment or two before indeed putting on the red shirt. "Is there something you failed to tell me, cousin?"

"I'm not your cousin," Mister Frodo said, but with a joking sort of smile. "Come on, I'm from San Francisco. At my high school, you either dressed well or joined a gang."

"A rather sad set of choices you had there, eh?" Pip remarked.

"Besides, it's no good to judge. Just because I do know the first thing about fashion doesn't mean I like—"

"Les stéréotypes sont bêtes," Pippin said loudly. "Laissez-la."

"Really make me wish I'd taken French, don't you, Pip?" Sam smiled teasingly. Pippin winked, returning to his book.

Merry had taken his guitar from its case, and was sitting on the edge of the bed, idly strumming a couple of chords and humming. Sam couldn't tell what song he was playing, but he got the distinct feeling that he'd recognize the name.

"You like them, do you?" Mister Frodo asked, flipping himself over and propping his face up with his forearms.

"Who?" Merry asked, still strumming.

"The Beatles. That's 'For No One'."

"Is it?" Merry said. "I hadn't noticed."

"I know my Beatles songs," Mister Frodo replied, smiling proudly. "That's off Revolver, quite possibly the greatest album ever made. I'd say you like them, or at least you love that song."

"Why do you say that?"

"Because you've played that every time you've picked up a guitar since Paris."

Pippin pointed at Mister Frodo's shirt, which had the cover of Abbey Road silk-screened on it. "You're obsessed, you," he commented.

"Never said I wasn't," Mister Frodo smiled.

"Hey," Pip looked at the other three young men. "Four of them, four of us. How do you like that?"

"Are you suggesting we start a band?" Sam looked skeptical. "I've never been much for instruments."

"Not necessarily a band," Pippin rolled his eyes good-naturedly. "It just makes you wonder. These certainly aren't the first lives we've had."

"You're forgetting that only two of them are dead, Pippin my dear."

"Three, if you count Paul," Mister Frodo laughed.

"Fine," Pippin shut his book and crossed his arms in front of his chest, leaning back on the window behind him. "If we were the Beatles, who would be which?"

"You'd be John, without a doubt," Mister Frodo pointed at the younger teen. "You're a total ham, and you've got this mysterious air that could easily veil a turbulent childhood."

"Not bad," Pip grinned approvingly. "Okay then, O Beatlemaster, what about the rest of you?"

"Well, Merry's most definitely Paul."

"Why do you say that?" Asked Merry.

"Because you're probably the only one of us who can tune a guitar," Mister Frodo smiled. "Plus you are most definitely the romantic of the group."

"No way."

"Don't deny it, you sod," Sam called from the bed. "I saw those French schoolgirls gushing over you on the train." Pippin cackled as Merry blushed, looking back down at the guitar.

"What about me?" Sam asked.

"You're Ringo," Pippin said.

"What? Why?"

"You're the 'conventional' one, the one who's happy to go right to work when the rest of us would probably just sit around and laugh at nothing." Sam thought about it for a moment, then nodded in agreement.

"Does that make you George, then?" Pippin asked Mister Frodo.

"I suppose," Mister Frodo shrugged.

"Yeah," Merry nodded approvingly. "You are George, through and through. You're the quiet one with a strong spiritual foundation, and the one most reluctant to embrace this newfound path."

"That, and you and I are the most likely to sit around and trip on acid," Pippin joked. Mister Frodo smiled.

"You wouldn't happen to be a total god on the guitar, would you?" Sam asked, propping himself up on his elbows.

Mister Frodo didn't answer, just smiled gently and shut his eyes in meditation.


"I can't help but feel a bit depressed," Merry said.

"Why?" Asked Sam.

"Just when we're all back together, we're breaking apart again. I was hoping that we'd get to be together for at least a little while."

"Don't worry, Paulie," Mister Frodo cuffed him lightly on the arm. "We'll be back together soon enough."

"George is right, Merry," Pippin nodded. "It won't be long." Some unspoken agreement had transpired since their conversation in the hotel room the afternoon before; to do away with what discomfort and lingering disbelief he still had over the entire situation, Mister Frodo had taken to referring to the other three hobbits by their 'counterparts'. Sam found it strange, but it put Mister Frodo at ease, so he went along with it, while Merry and Pippin simply played along because they thought it was fun.

"Let's get a move on, then," Legolas shouted from outside the hotel, waving an arm. Sam bent down to pick his suitcase up from the floor of the lobby, shifting the strap onto his shoulder.

"What do you think of him?" Pippin asked.

"Who?"

"Legolas," the boy said. "I'm fascinated by him. I think he's a trip." His eyes lit up as he said this.

"I suppose," Mister Frodo shrugged.

"Why does everyone keep saying that?" Merry sighed. "I hate the word 'suppose.' It seems so pretentious."

The four headed outside, where the rest of their party waited. Randall was handing out tickets and typed-up sheets of information.

"Boromir," he said. "You've demonstrated an unusual amount of comprehension of the situation. I want you to be the acting leader of this stage of the operation."

Boromir crossed his arms proudly. "Best be showing me a little more respect, eh, J-Man?" Aragorn rolled his eyes in reply.

"The six of you will be split up for the majority of the journey," Randall continued. "Sam and Frodo—"

"Jimmy."

"You two will take the first flight, and meet the others when their flight comes a few hours later." He handed them two nonstop tickets to San Francisco for later that evening. "Jimmy, I asked you to secure hotel reservations?"

"Done," Mister Frodo nodded. "In two different hotels, just like the planes."

"Good work. The first flight leaves in three hours, and you'll need to arrive some time before that, so I'll leave you to say your goodbyes."

"Cool beans," Mister Frodo said. Sam gave him a look. "What?"

"'Cool beans'? Honestly, that has to be the strangest term of agreement I've ever heard."

"Seriously? Sam, you really need to be exposed to the world."

Sam looked back at Merry and Pippin, who were lurking on the outskirts as if they didn't feel like they quite belonged in the little plan-making powwow. Sam strode over to them, and enveloped Merry in a tight hug.

"Don't worry, Mer," he murmured in the other hobbit's ear. "We'll be back before you even realize we're gone."

"Promise?" Merry laughed hollowly. Sam smiled, hugging Merry tighter.

Releasing each other, the two looked to see Pippin and Mister Frodo in a similar embrace.

"See you soon, Johnny Boy," Mister Frodo said.

"Not if I see you first," Pippin responded in a slightly softer tone. Mister Frodo laughed, patting Pip on the back.

"Sirs?" A voice said. Sam and Mister Frodo turned to see Fred standing next to the open door of their car. "I'm afraid we must go." Nodding, the two finished their goodbyes.

Sam ducked into the black Rolls Royce, but Mister Frodo turned back around to face Merry and Pippin. He put his palms together in a prayer position, and bowed slightly.

"Namaste!" he called to the two before he too got into the car.

"What's that supposed to mean?" Pippin shouted after them.

Mister Frodo leaned out the window. "Look it up!"


"What on earth…"

"What?" Mister Frodo looked confused.

"You changed!" Sam was stunned.

"And?" The younger man didn't seem to see this as reason for surprise.

"Why?"

"Because we just got off a plane," Mister Frodo explained. "I felt gross."

"So why didn't you wait to shower when we check into the hotel?"

"Because…" Mister Frodo trailed off.

"What is it?"

"Because I have another outfit for that," he said quickly.

"Good lord."

Mister Frodo ignored him, checking his hair in the mirror of the SFO bathroom.

"I can't get over this," he murmured.

"Can't get over what?" Asked Sam.

"My hair. When I left, I had stringy black hair, à la John Lennon in 1966. Now I've got this crazy mop of unruly curls that are, despite my best efforts, brown, and look a good two inches shorter than before."

"I'm sure it's just the humidity," Sam chuckled. "Don't forget, we've been in very humid areas for the last six weeks."

"Six weeks," Mister Frodo said softly. "Has it really been that long?"

"Six weeks," Sam nodded. "Summer is almost over."

They were silent for a few moments.

"Come on," Sam said, putting a hand on Mister Frodo's shoulder. "The others should be here by now."


"Welcome, guests and travelers!"

Sam and Mister Frodo looked up to see a slip of a woman waiting in the doorway of the inn. To Sam, she didn't really seem to be a woman, more of a vibrant smile from within a flurry of shimmering scarves. He shifted his bag onto his other shoulder, and held his hand out to be shaken. She took it with both of her small white hands and squeezed it gently.

"Welcome to the Red Vic," she said with an airy, sweet tone. "I'm Iris Moon."

"Namaste, Iris," Mister Frodo said, bowing as he had to Merry and Pippin at their departure. Iris smiled widely.

"You have a perfectly lovely aura, my dear," she sighed. "A handsome shade of blue, with some green here and there." Sam found such a statement quite odd, but Mister Frodo seemed to take it in stride.

"Thank you," he smiled. "Usually I've been told that it's the other way around."

"That can happen sometimes," she replied. "I'm inclined to think you've had a monumental change in your spiritual being recently. Am I correct?"

"One could say that," Mister Frodo shrugged.

"Ahem," Sam cleared his throat. "We have reservations?"

"Ah, yes," Iris said, beckoning the two to follow her into the building. "Your names, if you please?"

"The reservation's for the name 'Underhill," Mister Frodo said. Iris smiled bemusedly. "His name is Sam, and I'm—"

"That would make you 'Frodo', would it not?" Iris laughed. "I recognized the surname when you made the reservations. It makes sense; the two of you struck me as somehow different, closer to heart than most of our usual guests, and, may I say, that is saying something."

For the first time, Mister Frodo seemed a bit uneasy with the petite older woman. "We have the, er, Redwood Forest room?"

"Indeed," said Iris. "Here, let me help you with your things."

She led them to a room that struck Sam's fancy in a way few hotel rooms did. It was decorated in shades of green, with a mural of a forest on the wall. He set his things on the floor, and sat down gently on the bed.

"I could definitely feel at home here," he said brightly.

"Well, that's cool." Mister Frodo sprawled on the bed. "Let's get something to eat, I'm dying for dinner."

"Sounds good— aaah!" Sam threw his head back, just barely keeping the blood dripping from his nose from getting on his shirt. "Another one!"

"Sorry," Mister Frodo went to get tissues. "You don't know how dry the climate is here until you come back from Europe."

"It's no problem," Sam reassured as he moved to the floor, pinching the bridge of his nose. "Where do you want to eat?"

"There's Mexican food everywhere you look," Mister Frodo said, "and, oooh, there's Thai. Think of the best Elvish fare we ever had, and add peanuts and lime."

"Interesting," Sam said slowly, unconvinced. "Anything a little closer to the range of normal? I've never been much for foreign cuisine."

"Well, there's pizza," Mister Frodo said after a couple of seconds. "There's Fat Slice down the street, and Escape from New York's pretty good."

"Where's the best pizza place in the area?" Sam said, knowing Mister Frodo would have a definitive answer.

"North Beach."


"Wow, you weren't kidding," Sam said fifteen minutes later.

They were seated on the curb in front of the little North Beach Pizza a few blocks away, each working on a slice of cheese pizza.

"Less talk, more eat," Mister Frodo mumbled through a mouthful of pizza. Sam laughed, stuffing the last bite of crust into his mouth. He leaned back, lying down on the cool sidewalk with a satisfied look on his face.

"Now what do we do?" He said as Mister Frodo finished off his slice.

"Now we walk up and down Haight Street until it's time for supper," said Mister Frodo quite matter-of-factly.

"Sounds good," Sam nodded, standing and brushing himself off. They made their way over to the famed street in silence, save for Mister Frodo's overdramatic pantomime of vomit as they passed through the parking lot of the McDonald's on the corner. He quickly recovered from his feigned sickness, though, once they reached the window of the next building on the street, a behemoth of a store called Amoeba Music.

"Oh my God," he sighed contentedly. "I love this place."

"What's so special about it?" Sam asked, uncomprehending.

"What's so special? I practically grew up in this store! Amoeba was my third parent!"

"…Okay."

Mister Frodo looked faintly peeved, but let it slide as they walked further down the street.

"So, you never told me," he said. "How did you find out about… the thing?"

"The thing?" Sam was confused for a moment. "Oh, the 'thing.' You know you don't have to call it that. If they'd wanted us to keep our plans a secret, they'd have told us. Besides, it's not like we're especially needed yet. We're effectively safe."

"I know," Mister Frodo sighed exasperatedly. "But still, I don't really want to think about that part of it. I'm home, and that's all that matters right now."

"Then why'd you ask me how I found out?"

"Why do you keep avoiding the question?"

Sam sighed. He'd been hoping Mister Frodo wouldn't notice.

"I was in Avebury," he said. "The stone circles, you know? Well, I was wandering around, looking at the stones, when I spotted a little pathway off to the left down the hill. I didn't follow it, but I could see a little gate at the end of it, and a little garden. I know it was unlikely, but it looked like the path led inside the hill on the other side. It fascinated me for a few minutes, and I didn't hear the absurdity of my thoughts until I accidentally said them aloud to myself."

"What'd you say?"

"I remember saying, 'That's a right good-sized hole, but I reckon it's not nearly as nice as Bag End.' Then everything just sort of made sense. It was a nice coincidence that Gandalf was in the gift shop later, or maybe more than coincidence. He never told me one way or the other, but I bet he was there to meet me."

"Wow, I like your story better than mine," said Mister Frodo. "It's a bit embarrassing every time I tell it. 'Oh, how'd I find out? Why, I dumped my girlfriend and ditched my best friend, then went and ate Indian food with a complete stranger."

"Not a complete stranger," Sam remarked.

"Not the point."

"I know."

"You always do," said Mister Frodo, lapsing into an uncomfortable silence.

"I'm sorry it happened that way," Sam ventured.

"I'm not," Mister Frodo shrugged. "I may like to gripe about it, but my life wasn't going nearly as well as I'd have you believe."

"What do you mean?"

"I was a burnout kid, a stoner with no plan and no direction."

"I'm sure it wasn't that bad."

"It was," he said flatly. "I'd always had my future laid out before me. I was going to go to college, get a degree, be someone. But then I looked around and realized I was a total loser."

"Loser?"

"I was the shiny, skinny kid who had no friends and lived in the school library. There's one in every school. I was someone, but that someone was a no one." Mister Frodo sighed. "So I changed. I started making friends, pretending to like what they liked, until I believed myself. By the time I woke up, I was so far off-course that I almost didn't graduate, much less make it into college, but by then I convinced myself that I didn't care."

"Really?" Sam let out a low whistle. "That's, well… I don't quite know."

"I believe the word you're looking for is 'pathetic," said Mister Frodo.

"What about that one bloke you talk about a lot?" Sam asked. "Freddy?"

"Frankie," he corrected. "My best friend from diapers on. I basically dragged him along into the in crowd. Before that, he had found his niche as a video production geek. The funny thing was, he ended up feeling more at home with the new crowd than I did." Mister Frodo stopped, inhaling deeply from the Nag Champa incense wafting from an open shop door. "If I left my entire high school social life behind, he's the only one I'd miss."

"That's rather bleak, Mister Frodo," Sam remarked.

Mister Frodo looked over at him, his eyes hooded with a melancholy that Sam hadn't seen the likes of since Mordor.

"It's Jimmy," he said softly.

"Sorry."

They stopped in front of a store with an elaborate display of musical instruments.

"Come on," Mister Frodo jerked his head toward the entrance to the store. "If you're going to be Ringo, you need a drumset."

"A drumset?" Sam was apprehensive. "Are you sure we can afford that?"

"Of course," replied Mister Frodo. "Didn't you get a credit card before we left?"

Sam felt in his pocket, and sure enough, there was an envelope containing something that certainly felt like a card.

"Randall told me before we left Prague," Mister Frodo explained. "Somehow or another, our little company has acquired effectively unlimited finances. Something to do with ten thousand years of prudent investment."

"Well, that's convenient," remarked Sam as they went inside. He was content to browse, but Mister Frodo had been serious. In no time, the eager young man had chosen a set of Ludwig drums for Sam, and was pressing a pair of drumsticks into his hand.

"Try these on for size," he smiled.

"But I don't know how to play," Sam protested.

"So, you'll learn."

Sam shrugged, taking the sticks. He had to admit, they felt rather nice between his fingers, like a tiny taste of what he had felt that day in Avebury. He smiled at Mister Frodo, who was standing next to him with a knowing smile.

"You know that this means, don't you?" Sam pointed at Mister Frodo with one of his drumsticks. "You need a George Harrison guitar."

Mister Frodo looked away

"Oh, come on, what are you afraid of? You can't make a bigger fool of yourself than I will on the drums."

Mister Frodo let out a short, bitter laugh. He picked up a brown Rickenbacker off a stand nearby and slipped the strap over his shoulder. Picking up a pick off the counter next to them, he gave a little sigh of exasperation, and played.

And played.

Sam was hypnotized by the ease and grace with which Mister Frodo made the guitar sing. It was poetry to watch the hands dance up and down the neck, touching the strings gently like a lover's caress. He played classical and rock, salsa and metal, for ten full minutes before lowering the pick. Sam let out a little gasp as he stopped, as if he'd been pulled from an embrace too soon.

"Hey, man, you can play!" A man called from across the shop.

"He's right," Sam agreed enthusiastically. "You are a guitar god after all. Why didn't you tell us?"

"Because I haven't picked one up in nearly two years," Mister Frodo looked away again. "Not since I got my new friends, so to speak."

"Another reason to leave them behind," Sam muttered, softly enough that no one heard but himself.


The next morning, the two got up early to walk in Golden Gate Park. Sam let out a sigh of comfort as they passed into the park, slipping off his shoes to feel the ground beneath his toes. Mister Frodo followed suit, kicking off the worn Birkenstocks that had become so familiar to the other hobbit.

"So what do you think of San Francisco?" Mister Frodo asked after the two had walked for a while.

"It's… different," replied Sam.

"Different good or different bad?"

"Good, I think," Sam said. "I'm not sure. Everything seems so young, so full of vibrancy, so new. Everything in Europe is dripping with age and a certain amount of expected refinement."

"I know what you mean," remarked Mister Frodo. "I never really noticed it before, but compared to the great cities of the world, San Fran is like a rebellious teenager, saying 'here I am, and fuck you if you can't understand me."

"Someone's seen Almost Famous."

Mister Frodo blushed, looking suddenly like a little boy. The look was only passing though, as his eyes caught something in the distance.

"Don't move," he whispered.

"What?" Sam asked, looking around.

"I told you not to move!"

"Sorry," he said, as he spotted the reason Mister Frodo was suddenly so tense. Just barely fifty yards from them, moving among the trees, was a man in a dark, expensive-looking suit and dark sunglasses. It was a bit odd, but not especially menacing, that is until he noticed two identical men approaching from two other directions. Gripping the grass, he realized exactly who, no, what he was seeing.

"Wraiths," he whispered.

"Run," said Mister Frodo.

Sam didn't need to be told twice. In a flash, the two were up, dashing through the woods as swiftly as any deer, without even taking care to bring their shoes along. They sped through the park as fast as they could manage, but the wraiths followed like shadows.

They ran across the street, heading back into the Haight. Without even needing to communicate, Sam and Mister Frodo both turned into the crowd inside Amoeba. Neither slowed as they entered; Sam managed to keep on his feet as he slid down the wheelchair ramp, but Mister Frodo lost his footing on the steps and fell, his head hitting the concrete floor with a loud crack.

"Mister Frodo!" Sam yelped, picking him up by the collar of his jacket and dragged him into the Used Rock aisle. Propping the Mister Frodo into a sitting position, Sam slapped him lightly.

"Wake up, come on now."

"I'm okay," Mister Frodo groaned as he came out of his daze, rubbing his head where it had hit the cement. "Just a little bruised."

Sam let out a sigh of relief. "I was good and scared there for a moment, Mister Frodo."

"I'm okay, Sam," Mister Frodo reassured him.

Sam smiled to himself, noticing that it was the first time Mister Frodo hadn't corrected him about his name.


Author's Note: Thanks to my reviewers, as always. I now officially have more reviews on this story than on any other! Go me!

As always, check my fanfiction Livejournal for tidbits and other nice things. I don't believe I have as many cool things for this chapter as I did for the last one, but who knows, I may make some as time goes on.

Sorry if all the Beatles references in this chapter annoyed you. Another facet of my geekiness transcending genres. I'm also sorry if this chapter read like a tourist campaign for San Francisco.

Oh, and the Red Vic is a real B&B on Haight Street, run by a woman named Sami Sunchild. I completely disclaim. I've never stayed there, but I've always wanted to. sigh Someday...

Peace and love for you all.