Chapter 4: A Shortcut to Terrible Dads
While trouble brewed in Mordor and strange things happened in the Shire, even more appalling circumstances were going on in the white city of Minas Tirith. The city was all astir because Sunfire, Arwen's evil twin and infamous PlayElf model, was currently doing a photoshoot near the Anduin River. She was posing as a "Sexy Huntress," which involved standing at the riverbank (topless, of course) wearing chainmail panties and knee-high boots. In one hand, she carried a hunting bow. In the other, she clutched the severed head of an orc. A bloody arrow protruded from the middle of the orc's forehead.
"What nonsense!" scoffed Boromir, glaring at Sunfire with nothing but scorn in his rugged, masculine heart. "As if a mere woman could slay an orc all by herself!"
"Well, she didn't really," said the PlayElf photographer poised near the riverbank, ready to snap the picture. "It's just a photoshoot."
"Yeah," said Sunfire, glaring back at Boromir with her dusky, mysterious, bewitching orbs that shone with the fire of a thousand sunsets. "It's just a photoshoot. So back off!"
"Never," said Boromir, with a proud shake of his head. "I don't take orders from females."
"Sir, I do have to ask you to step away from the area," said the photographer. "You're distracting our top model."
"Distracting her? She's the one who's distracting us men, standing there with her chest on display like a common hussy. I could have that wench thrown in the dungeon faster than you could say boobies!"
"So do it," dared Sunfire.
"Maybe I shall," declared Boromir.
The sexy PlayElf model continued to glare at him, while the Anduin River rippled behind her like a ribbon of cold, watery sapphires. Sunfire's midnight hair streamed behind her, while her ruby/cherry/strawberry lips pouted at the camera. The sunshine glinted off her chainmail panties.
The whole thing annoyed Boromir. Women weren't supposed to wear chainmail. They shouldn't even touch the stuff, unless they were polishing it of course, because polishing was work and work was the only task suitable to a member of the lesser sex. Boromir tried to think of more insults to throw at the scantily-clad wench, but his thoughts were quickly interrupted by the most pitiful sound in the world:
The sound of his brother's crutches.
If anyone ever asked, Faramir would tell them he got run over by a merchant's cart, but Boromir knew the truth. Faramir limped on those crutches because he had fallen victim yet again to their father's senseless cruelty. This time, Denethor had gone much too far. In his latest rage, he broke Faramir's leg, cracked his spine, reshaped his nose, dislocated his right butt cheek, and gave him carpal tunnel syndrome in both wrists.
Today was Faramir's first day out of the hospital.
Everywhere Faramir went, men gasped and women wept (like weaklings) at the sight of his terrible injuries. Even Sunfire, glaring sexily at Boromir, felt pity for the poor man on his crutches. She would have cried for days if she knew the reason Faramir had been beaten so savagely.
"Where's all the Lucky Charms?" Denethor demanded, searching furiously through his cereal cupboard.
Faramir sat at the kitchen table, trembling with fear. A very incriminating bowl of cereal sat in front of him. He hastily threw a napkin over it, hoping to hide the bowl's contents from his father's cruel eyes.
"I said," bellowed Denethor, slamming the cupboard shut, "where's all the Lucky Charms?"
"P-perhaps we've run out, Father," stammered poor Faramir. "We st-still have Apple Jacks."
"I hate Apple Jacks! They don't taste like apple!"
"There's Frosted Flakes."
"Which are definitely not gr-r-reat! I want Lucky Charms, Faramir. I want to know why they've vanished and and I want answers from you immediately."
"I-I don't know, Father. Please—"
WHACK!
Denethor hit Faramir with a kitchen chair. Faramir slumped against the table. His head struck the bowl of cereal, causing it to tip over sideways. Lucky Charms spilled out of the bowl and landed all over the floor.
"FARAMIR!" Denethor roared. "You worthless, good-for-nothing—"
[The rest of this flashback has been removed due to its extreme, unnecessary violence. Please remain calm.]
"Hello, brother," Faramir said sadly as he limped over to Boromir. Faramir always sounded sad, especially after a beating.
"How's your butt cheek?" Boromir asked.
Faramir winced. "Still sore. You can't imagine how hard it is sit on the toilet."
"Dad really clobbered you good, didn't he? This is even worse than that time you forgot to take out the trash."
"Or the time I wore Father's least favorite color," said Faramir. He would never wear flaming-hot magenta ever again.
"Perhaps you should seek help, little brother. Not from a woman, of course, unless you need the floor scrubbed or dinner cooked."
"No, I'll be all right, Boromir. I know Father loves me. Deep down, he really does!"
"He loves to beat the stuffing out of you," muttered Boromir.
The PlayElf photoshoot came to an end. Sunfire donned a cloak that barely concealed her generous rack, and decided to keep the chainmail panties. When she walked, the chainmail tinkled against her nether region like dozens of tiny bells. Boromir scowled at her as she retreated.
"I had a dream last night," Faramir spoke up sadly. "A strange voice spoke to me and recited this poem:
Seek for the sword that was broken,
Just like your nose the other week.
If your father hits you any harder,
You won't be able to speak.
The Steward's wrath will show you
That Doom is near at hand.
For Isildur's Bane shall waken,
And you'll be too weak to stand."
"What does it mean?" asked Boromir.
Faramir sank down onto a boulder, too weary to stand on his crutches a moment longer. "I don't know. I need to seek the elves in Rivendell so they can interpret this dream for me."
"Figures an elf would specialize in dreams," scoffed Boromir. "They're all a bunch of sissies. But how do you expect to go to Rivendell, Faramir? You can barely walk!"
"I'll manage somehow," Faramir said sadly, looking down at his broken leg.
"Nonsense. Let me go in your place, even though I despise elves and anyone else who is not of the great and powerful race of men! Dream interruption is a silly business, fit for women and weaklings, but I can't let my only brother perish on such a dangerous journey."
"Very well," sighed Faramir. "You can go to Rivendell for me, and then Father will heap praise upon you, as usual."
"Is that what this is about? Faramir, there's nothing you can do that will make Dad approve of you. Don't you remember the last time you tried to get him to love you?"
"Faramir, this is stupid," Boromir insisted.
"Just hear me out for one moment—"
"Faramir, painting fake blood on my chest is not going to make Dad love you."
This was enough to make Faramir pause. Clutching a can of red pain, he frowned at Boromir. "You didn't listen to the plan at all."
"Oh, I listened, all right," said Boromir. "Your oh-so-wise plan involves throwing red paint on my chest, gluing a broken arrow to my shirt, and dragging me over to Father's chair so I can pretend to gasp and moan—"
"You're not going to gasp and moan!" Faramir interrupted, tossing his paint brush into the air. "You're going to tell Father how I rescued you single-handedly from an ambush. How I fought off the deadly blade that would have taken your head from your body! How I saved his favorite son. I'll be a hero in his eyes."
Boromir studied the dark-red can of paint Faramir had brought with him. "That doesn't look very convincing. Dad's going to think I got too drunk at lunch and spilled sauce on myself."
"Oh, Father's eyes are starting to fail, anyway," said Faramir. "He actually praised me yesterday. But then he rubbed his eyes and realized I wasn't you."
An awkward silence crept between them until Boromir coughed and gestured at the arrow clutched in Faramir's hand. "That doesn't look very convincing either."
"What are you saying, Boromir? Are you suggesting my brilliant plan isn't going to work?"
Boromir remained silent, though skepticism was written all over his face.
Faramir's mouth dropped open sadly. "You-you're looking at me like this isn't going to work. Of course it will work, Boromir. I'll show you!"
[It didn't work. The rest of this flashback has also been removed to spare the reader from gruesome, unnecessary violence.]
"I guess you're right," Faramir said sorrowfully. "A journey to the elves wouldn't impress Father. He despises them almost as much as you do." He sighed. "Have fun in Rivendell for me."
"Small chance of that," sneered Boromir. "The place is crawling with filthy elves."
Speaking of elves, a similar situation was unfolding in the forest of Mirkwood. Aragorn, everyone's favorite rugged hero, had successfully captured Gollum and placed him in the custody of King Thranduil. Thranduil was the meanest, cruelest elf Aragorn had ever met, so he was the perfect person to keep Gollum imprisoned.
"Yes, perfect indeed," Thranduil muttered to himself, seated upon his throne. He had been steadily drinking wine all day, which worsened his already-violent temper. "It all would have been perfect, if it wasn't for that dim-witted son of mine."
Thranduil's dim-witted son, Legolas, was supposed to be babysitting Gollum that morning. Legolas was not the best choice for a babysitter. He had two blackened eyes, which he could barely see out of, thanks to the beating Thranduil gave him at breakfast ("That'll teach you to eat the last of the Rice Krispies!). He also had a thick bandage over one ear, also thanks to the beating at breakfast, and was temporarily hard of hearing. This made it easy for Gollum to slip past him. Gollum gleefully disappeared into the forest, while Legolas—half-blind and half-deaf—tried to track him down and failed.
"Too bad a giant spider didn't eat him," Thranduil muttered into his wine goblet. Thranduil often wished for giant spiders to eat Legolas. "That would be a fine punishment. But I suppose I'll go down to the dungeon and give him another beating. That will be fun."
No one knew why it gave Thranduil such pleasure to beat his only son within an inch of his life. Maybe it was the barrel of wine he consumed each day, but something about the sight of Legolas drove Thranduil into a bloodthirsty rage. Maybe Legolas was born with it. Maybe it was Maybelline. Whatever the reason, Thranduil was only happy when he was whacking his son completely senseless.
"Or better yet," Thranduil mused, pouring more wine into his goblet, "I could send Legolas on a hazardous trip to Rivendell. Someone needs to tell Elrond about Gollum's escape. Legolas can barely comb his own hair, thanks to that last beating I gave him. Such a journey will surely finish him off!"
Thranduil spent a good five minutes laughing evilly into his goblet.
He finally stopped when he realized that all the elves in the royal court were staring at him.
"What are you looking at?" he barked at the nearest elf. "Go fetch my worthless son and tell him he's off to Rivendell! Immediately."