Ahem. HOW GANDALF ESCAPED. Sort of.

Yes, Gandalf had been pulled into the chasms beneath the bridge of Khaza-dum by the Balrog, but presently he had fouler foes to contend with.

The Balrog was easily bought off (after killing Gandalf a myriad of times without inflicting the slightest evidence of death upon him) and so Gandalf had trekked out of Moria. He meant to follow the rest of the Fellowship into Lothlorien, but a pylon had cleverly sent him the wrong way.

Confused and disoriented, Gandalf arrived at the front gate of Mordor.

"Huh," he had remarked.

Now he was bound and chained, and being constantly interrogated by the severed body parts of Sauron.

"Where is the ring?" asked the Mouth of Sauron for the umpteenth time.

"I have no freaking clue," replied Gandalf for the umpteenth time.

"Why not?" asked the Mouth.

"Because, you creep, I fell off a cliff, then I was kidnapped and murdered by Saruman, then I was attacked and murdered several times by a Balrog, and now I'm here. I've had very little involvement in this, despite the fact that your side keeps killing me."

"This is sooooooooooooooooooooooo unfair," said the Mouth as one of the feet stomped in fury.

"You've given up, then? Can I go?" asked Gandalf hopefully.

"Everyone here is so useless! Where the hell are the Nine, anyway? Isn't their one purpose in life to find the ring and be slaves to it? Wait, how many purposes did I just mention? Well who cares, everyone sucks."

The eye cried bitterly.

The hand dialled the palantir.

"Hello there," came a low, seductive voice from the depths of the orb, "you're speaking to smexy Saruman, who's this?"

"It's me, you moron, what the frig, answer the palantir in a professional manner!" yelled the Mouth.

"Oh, uh, whoops, I mean, one million apologies, my Lord Sauron. What can I do for you, O Mighty One?"

"Since Gandalf is no help at all," began the Mouth.

"Gandalf? I thought he was dead!"

"Nope, you can't kill me," Gandalf chimed in, "I've got something to do, apparently."

"Okay then, Jesus allegory," Saruman replied.

"Shut up, you insufferable wizards! Saruman, have you seen the Nine anywhere?"

"Yeah… four of them are in Bermuda, they sent me a postcard. The other five are still wringing out their cloaks from that time that that chick actually did something which was weird because she's a chick."

"ARRRRRRRRRRRGH!" bellowed the Mouth.

"But my Lord, my army is almost ready to attack the peasants who love horses a little too much. And not just Uruks! I have almost convinced the wildmen to join us!"

The Mouth's mouth curled into a smile. It was a frightening sight. Blood and gore trickled down the lips, the skin on the Mouth's face cracked unpleasantly (although when is that pleasant?), and as his tall, pointy, black teeth were revealed a stench of rot smacked Gandalf in the face with the kind of power only the Mouth of Sauron's mouth could command.

"That is positively hunky dory!" the Mouth squealed, dancing for joy. "Okay, Saruman, you get back to that," he hung up the palantir. "And you, my pretty…"

Gandalf, bound and chained, shrunk against the stone wall, positively trying to merge his molecules with the wall's. The Mouth and all of the other severed body parts advanced cruelly. Both hands, scraggily, long-fingered, and rotting, reached for him. The feet, iron-toed, advanced at a slow, menacing, heartbeat pace.

The pancreas squelched. The torso loomed. The hips swayed. Even the eye gazed down at Gandalf from the sky light.

"You are going to help me make gift baskets!"

"For what, you fiend?"

"For whom, you mean."

"I definitely don't mean 'for whom'."

The Mouth turned away and threw its arms to the sky in abandon. "Resist if you want. Stay chained to the wall if you so choose. But if you don't volunteer your services I'll sing."

"O murderous dastardly evil-doer! I shall never give in!"

"Suit yourself."

Hours later, the Mouth had gone through all of his favourite classic Dwarven Mining tunes, the entire score of That Really Tragic Elf Who Was Aragorn's Mother Probably, and every advertising jingle tooted by travelling salesgnomes from the deepest pits of Mordor to the tallest trees of Lothlorien.

At this point, Gandalf was almost fed up. He was certainly irritated. The Mouth was singing some national anthems.

"Horses, horses, horses," it sang to conclude the Rohan national anthem.

Gandalf's glare looked almost painful to sustain on his face. "Fine!" he finally burst. "I'll help you make gift baskets! Now will you please SHUT UP!"

"But there are so many other national anthems I love to sing!" the Mouth said regrettably. He happily handed Gandalf some ribbon and a large basket, and mused, "like the Gondor one!"

"Gloin's sopping wet jockstrap," Gandalf cursed.

"Oh Gondor, I am Denethor, I am the leader of you, and I command you! I am the great, amazing, almighty, incredible, fantastic, supreme, bold, remarkable, miraculous, exceptional, astonishing, wonderful, marvellous, astounding, extraordinary, incomparable, orgasmic, splendid, spectacular, majestic Denethor, and I love you! But I love me more!"

Gandalf was stunned.

"Denethor wrote it."

"No kidding."

Late that night while the Mouth was snoring in a pile of sleeping bits of Sauron, Gandalf used the ribbon to scale down the tower. He landed softly, then quietly turned to face his freedom.

Instead, he found himself face-to-face with the thousands of orcs who made Mordor their home.

Dun dun dun.