Disclaimer - The usual, don't own it, can't own it, will never own it etc.
A/N - If you thought my 11pm fics were insane, I am currently writing this by the light of a street lamp coming in through my window, a newly opened can of Dr Pepper ® in my hand and my clock showing 3.05am. This was thought of a while back and for no real reason I feel like writing this now. Lucky I can write without looking eh? For the purposes of this fic, everyone is alive and well…
LOTR Explain All:
Pyromania
The spotlight fell upon an old man with long grizzled hair and a long grey robe type garment. He looked glum, almost as if someone had died as the harsh light illuminated his features. The clapping quietened before finally stopping as he stared around the expanse of the hall.
"I am Denethor, steward of Gondor. I have been dragged – I have decided to instruct you on how to do something that is close to my heart; how to make the ideal fire for the home or one of those little business trips to Moria."
Hollers came from the back rows which were silenced when Denethor raised his hand.
"The trick to the perfect fire is fuel,"
Another spotlight fell upon a pile of mismatched logs over to his right. He hobbled over to them, tapping each individual log with his walking stick.
"I personally find the best type of log to use is oak. It is a common tree, and while you're chopping some branches off you can catch a rogue squirrel. Voila! Dinner!"
He reached into the pile and pulled out a fagot of oak sticks and a very dead rodent that did seem to have once been a squirrel. Some shrieks of horror came from the audience which just made the steward sigh in annoyance.
"Oh come on, they we're going to take over the world. We might as well kill their armies and feed ourselves in the process."
Silence came over the spectators as they debated with themselves whether Denethor was right in the head.
"To get the best fire, you must first check the fuel is dry. This is stone dry as it has been inside, but if outside look for broken branches under trees for the driest tinder. Now, the sticks alone are not enough to start a fire. You need adequate tinder. You could use things from a tinderbox, but I prefer to use other things; such as my cape!"
At that, he took hold of his cape and tore a strip off the edge. He then arranged some of the sticks in the main pile around the fabric in a kind of triangle.
"This is the ideal shape of the fire you want. It burns upwards, and the flame is more intense as it is spread out less. Next is how to start your fire."
His eyes lit up and he threw the squirrel into the audience causing more screams and the sight of a hobbit running around with the rotting creature on his head, obscuring his sight. A friendly elf tried to help the Halfling, but got head butted in the stomach for his trouble to the sound of a large disgusting squelch. Both sat down to continue watching the show, holding their breath against the dead squirrel juices over their clothes.
"That was a waste you know. Well anyway, to lighting the fire. The conventional method is to rub sticks together, or to whack stones off each other. I meanwhile, have borrowed this for my purposes."
Denethor reached into his pocket and came out holding a black lighter with a partially naked female elf on it.
"This is actually Boromir's, but he doesn't know I have it."
An angry shout came from backstage, followed by a hollow thump.
"Well I guess he does now," the Steward continued, oblivious to the commotion.
"So now the fire is lit, it will go strong for a few hours. One this size can't do that much; cook a small meal and keep you from freezing perhaps. I prefer the big ones though!"
A huge spotlight fell on a massive pyre of logs to his left with a can and unlit torch lying next to it. he walked over and picked up the can.
"This is oil. This can lengthen the amount of time the fire burns for. I would say this one can last 12 hours and can probably burn something the size of a man."
He poured the oil over the logs, leaning heavily on his walking stick for support. Emptying the can, he threw it over his shoulder into the audience. Fortunately, the person it hit had already died of boredom and couldn't care less. Turning back to the audience, he held up the torch.
"This is so you can light it without sending yourself up in flames. Now let us test this out. BRING OUT THE BROTHER!"
Four men entered carrying a stretcher on which lay an unconscious man.
"No! That's Boromir. Go get the other one. You know, shorter, strange accent, the idiot!"
The men rushed off again to put Boromir back and fetch the other one. In the meantime, Denethor had gotten out the lighter and was looking at the motif. The men returned not long after, this time carrying an unconscious Faramir.
"Yes, well done. Put him on those logs and be gone," he said, waving them away.
"And now my friends, I will show you how fire is fun!"
He lit the torch using the lighter and leaned in to set the pyre alight, with Faramir atop. There was a shout from backstage as a small hobbit in Gondorian Military gear rushed in and smashed into the Steward.
"What the…? Peregrin Took, get off me!" he screamed as he tried to push the clinging Halfling away from him.
Unfortunately, the hobbit was too small and the old man had lost all sense of balance with a torch instead of a walking stick.
He dropped the torch and fell backwards into the orchestra pit amid shouts from the trumpeters. The audience broke out in cheers and applause for Pippin who took a bow before turning to help Faramir.
"And that was Denethor, who may have some trouble extracting that trumpet… Anyone got any margarine? We will return after this short break." Gandalf commentated as the curtain closed on the pyromaniac's piece.