FBAC vs. FBFC

Haldir was ready to fall asleep at the cash register (partially because it was morning and partially because Orophin drank all the SilmarilBucks coffee) when Celeborn entered Elf-in-the-Box wearing a beard. Every elf in the restaurant looked shocked, a couple of men in the corner started snickering, and a hobbit child immediately burst into tears. Celeborn pretended not to notice any of this and headed to the kitchen like he normally did every morning, whistling a song from his favorite musical, The Barrow-Wight of the Opera.

"Celeborn, what is that on your face?" Haldir demanded. The crying hobbit child was whimpering by now and the men sitting in the corner had exploded into full-out laughter. It was giving Haldir a headache.

"What do you mean?" Celeborn asked innocently.

"It looks like you are wearing a dead animal on your face."

"Oh, this?" Celeborn reached up and touched the luxuriant golden beard that he had attached to his chin. "This is my new beard, Haldir. All the women are digging beards these days, you know. As soon as the wife sees this she'll forget she ever set eyes on that silly little dwarf."

"She's going to murder you when she sees you. I'd hide all the sharp objects if I were you."

Celeborn just laughed. "She would have murdered the old Celeborn, but I'm a changed elf now." He disappeared into the kitchen, leaving Haldir to stand boredly in front of the register and wonder where on earth Celeborn had found such a ridiculous fake beard. Hopefully the beard would catch fire while Celeborn cooked up the lembas bread.

The minutes passed slowly and Haldir expected Galadriel to show up and give Celeborn the scolding of his life, but miraculously his boss was nowhere in sight. Instead he had to deal with Aragorn, who had been banned from the restaurant for his appalling lack of hygiene, and had to personally chase him out into the parking lot. Then Legolas showed up and asked Haldir his opinion on whether or not trees should receive health care (Haldir ended up chasing him into the parking lot as well) and Pippin came wandering in wearing his Gondorian Motors uniform, complete with a nametag that simply said "Pip" in childish handwriting.

"Hey, Haldir buddy," Pippin said in his friendliest car salesman voice. "How would you like to assist me in public vandalism?"

"Why would I want to do that?" Haldir asked haughtily.

"Denethor wants me to wreck some of Saruman's cars to eliminate business competition. Come on, it will be fun!"

Haldir wondered where Pippin had learned such big words like "eliminated" and "competition" from. "I don't have time for fun."

"But don't you want to throw rocks at windshields and risk going to jail?"

"Sorry. You're on your own."

Pippin's eyes started to water and his lower lip trembled. "I can't believe no one wants to help me. I tried to ask Frodo, but he pretended to be sick, and Sam's off meeting with some elf named Glorfindel. So then I asked Merry but he refused because it's illegal and he'll get kicked out of the police force, and when I asked Faramir he refused because he didn't want to help out his dad. Doesn't anybody want to help a hobbit in need?"

"I will help you. For a price, of course," said a voice behind Pippin.

Pippin turned around and found himself faced with the palest man he had ever seen, and to make matters worse the man looked like he had accidentally shaved his eyebrows off while he was drunk one morning. "Grima Wormtongue at your service," he said, giving Pippin a creepy smile that looked like it belonged on a mental hospital inmate.

Pippin suppressed a shudder. "Um, hi. I'm looking for somebody who's skilled at slashing tires in the middle of the night and I don't think you—"

"Oh, believe me, I am an expert," said Grima. "Let's talk someplace more private and you can give me all the details."

Pippin wished he had paid more attention when Merry had lectured him on getting involved with strangers. Now this creep named Grima was leading him away by the arm and he completely forgot all the self-defense maneuvers (also taught to him by Merry) that were supposed to save him from these kinds of situations. Oh well. At least it meant that he wouldn't fail in his mission for Denethor, which meant that Denethor wouldn't roast him alive, at least not yet anyway.

Haldir watched Grima lead Pippin off into a dark corner of the restaurant and considered calling the police, when he suddenly caught sight of Galadriel out the window. She was out in the parking lot wearing a nice dress and makeup instead of her manager uniform, and soon Gimli appeared in the parking lot as well.

Haldir abandoned his post at the cash register and snuck outside.

Sam knocked carefully upon Frodo's door, taking care not to make too much noise in case Frodo was either a.) resting, b.) working on a brilliant new novel, or c.) writing in the stress journal his therapist had told him to keep. Poor Frodo suffered from all sorts of nervous disorders and he rarely left the apartment, so Sam happily did all of his grocery shopping and dry cleaning when he wasn't busy greeting customers at Wal-Mart.

Frodo's door opened a moment later and Frodo himself appeared, looking pale and tired. There were dark circles under his eyes and he coughed weakly. "What is it, Sam?"

"Mr. Frodo, you wouldn't believe what's happened!" Sam whisper-shouted so he wouldn't distress Frodo. "An elf named Mr. Glorfindel wants me to be on one of them fancy commercial-whatsits for Wal-Mart. Can you believe it, Mr. Frodo? Me go on TV with elves and all! Wait till my old Gaffer hears about this!"

"That's wonderful, Sam." Frodo's eyes darted around nervously and he shuffled towards Sam so he could whisper in his ear. "Have you heard anything from my… editor?"

"No, Mr. Frodo. Not lately. Has that villain been pestering you at all?"

"I told him that I'm deathly ill so he'll leave me alone. Hopefully he'll believe that I'm wasting away in the hospital and won't hassle me about deadlines."

Personally Sam felt that Frodo's little deception wasn't too far from the truth, since his health was already poor most of the time. "My old Gaffer always told me that lyin' is a terrible crime, Mr. Frodo, but I'll do it for your sake. I swear on my prized cabbages!"

Suddenly Frodo's cell phone vibrated (ring tones always distressed his poor nerves) and after giving the phone a terrified look, Frodo tossed it to Sam.

"Hello, Mr. Caller sir!" Sam greeted like a proper little Wal-Mart greeter.

"Frodo had better have his manuscript ready or he'll be sorry," said Frodo's editor. "It was due last week."

"Um, well…. I… I…" said Sam, stammering helplessly.

"Tell him I'm in a coma!" Frodo hissed.

"Uh, Mr. Frodo is in a coma, sir! Goodbye!" Sam quickly hung up and handed the phone back to Frodo, who was coughing weakly into his handkerchief. "Well, Mr. Frodo, we're in a fine mess and no mistake."

"Have you recruited any members yet?" Gimli whispered to Galadriel.

"I'm trying to get my son-in-law to join," Galadriel whispered back. "But he's so old-fashioned. He still thinks that robes and braids on an elf are stylish!"

"What about that granddaughter of yours? Is she interested?"

"Arwen? That silly little wench seems to find unwashed mortals attractive. I doubt she even knows how to read, let alone join a club for a brilliant author."

Haldir, who was crouching behind a van and eavesdropping on the conversation, grew more confused by the second. It sure didn't sound like Gimli and Galadriel were engaging in a passionate affair behind Celeborn's back, but perhaps they were speaking in code. However, that didn't explain the mentions of Elrond and Arwen, unless the two of them were somehow involved in the affair as well…

Haldir shuddered.

"I sense an intruder," said Galadriel, using the same Almighty Manager voice she used when she suspected Celeborn of stealing ketchup packets from the kitchen. She strode behind the van and yanked Haldir by the arm. "Fool of a Haldir, have you been eavesdropping?"

"Relax, lady," said Haldir, pulling himself out of Galadriel's iron grip. "I'm just doing it for the good of this restaurant. What are you guys up to?"

"That is top secret business, elf boy," said Gimli. "Go back to your cash register!"

Galadriel sighed. "We're the founders of the Frodo Baggins Admirers Club. So far Gimli and I are the only members."

Haldir blinked. "Wait, isn't there already a Frodo Baggins Fan Club?"

"That's not a proper club," Gimli scoffed. "The Admirers Club is much better."

"We feel that the Fan Club has become much too commercialized," Galadriel explained. "They're obsessed with merchandise and throwing parties at Barnes & Noble. Gimli and I want to belong to a club that respects and admires the talents of a great author."

Haldir felt like this was his lucky day, a rare feeling that he only experienced about once or twice a year. "Mr. Baggins happens to be my favorite author," he remarked coolly. "I have a shelf full of his novels at home."

"Have you read Don't Follow the Lights: a tale of suspense by Frodo Baggins?" Gimli demanded excitedly. "It's my favorite!"

"I've read it three times, my good dwarf."

"The imagery is incredible! I was on the edge of my seat when it got towards the end!"

"Personally my favorite is The Bite of Sting," said Galadriel. "I do love a good epic filled with bravery and bloodshed. Though I've always thought that its sequel, The Sting of Victory, doesn't measure up to the original."

"The Sting of Victory is too depressing," said Haldir. "I dearly hope he doesn't make that series a trilogy, because I can't imagine a happy ending for the hero."

"Let's all meet at my house at seven o'clock tonight," said Gimli. "I'll provide dwarf cakes and we can discuss ways of recruiting members!"

And just like that, Haldir was a member of the Frodo Baggins Admirers Club. It was certainly better than being just a cashier at a fast-food restaurant.

Faramir walked into the kitchen so he could grab some carrot sticks to go with the book of poetry he was planning to read, but as soon as he entered the room he turned pale and tried not to gag. "D-dad?" he stammered. "Is that a deer carcass lying on the kitchen counter?"

Indeed there was the dead body of a deer stretched out on the counter and Denethor was busy carving it up with a strange gleam in his eyes. "We are meat eaters in this household, Faramir. We are having deer for dinner tonight and you are going to like it."

"No, I think I'll just have a salad."

"Then I will disown you!"

"You say that every single day, dad," said Boromir, who had just walked in with a piece of half-eaten beef jerky in his hand. He went over to the fruit bowl, which had been filled with jerky instead of fruit, and grabbed another piece. "Is it okay if Eomer comes over again? We're gonna shoot some hoops in front of the garage."

"Of course, my favorite son," said Denethor. "I know your friends appreciate my cooking, unlike somebody around here."

Faramir perked up as soon as Boromir mentioned Eomer. "Is his sister coming?"

"Might as well invite her," said Boromir. "Eomer said she's good at basketball."

Faramir disliked sports of all kinds and in high school he always got picked last when they divided up into teams for P.E. class, but he was still convinced that he and Eowyn were Soul Mates and was more determined than ever to woo her. Eager to get away from Denethor and his horrifying attempts at "dinner," Faramir quickly snagged some carrot sticks from the fridge and darted off to his bedroom, where he sat around and read Elvish for about an hour. Maybe if he wrote Eowyn a poem in Elvish, he could finally impress her.

By the time Eomer and Eowyn arrived at the house, Denethor had five heaping plates of deer meat on the table and Faramir had composed several lines of Elvish poetry. "Dad, I'm not eating this," he said, eyeing his plate with horror. "I'll just make myself a sandwich or something."

"You will not leave this table until you eat at least one bite," said Denethor, glowering at his youngest son.

"But dad, I'm a vegetarian."

"Faramir, you're embarrassing me in front of our guests. Be quiet and eat."

Faramir sighed and sat down at the table beside Eowyn, who was chatting with Boromir and Eomer about some basketball game the three of them had all watched. "Good evening, fair lady," said Faramir. "You are more beautiful than the sun and the moon."

"Dude, your brother is such a nerd," Eomer whispered to Boromir.

"I took a Shakespeare personality quiz on the internet today," Faramir told Eowyn as she munched on her deer. "It told me that I'm Benvolio from Romeo and Juliet. And then I took the quiz for you and it said that you're Viola from Twelfth Night."

"Who's Viola?" said Eowyn. "Want to play basketball with us after dinner?"

"Um… want to hear a poem I wrote for you first? It's in Elvish."

"I don't know Elvish," said Eowyn, laughing. "You're hilarious."

"Dude," Eomer whispered to Boromir again. "Make the nerd stop flirting with my sister."

"Dude, stop him yourself," Boromir whispered back.

Faramir soon became aware that Eomer was glaring at him, and to make matters worse Denethor was also glaring at him. "Um… I'll be in the bathroom," he said nervously. He slipped away from the table to hide in his room yet again. "I am so uncool," he said forlornly, throwing himself onto his bed and grabbing his Elvish dictionary for comfort. "If I want Eowyn to like me I have to become cool, which means I need to seek coolness advice." After thinking hard for a minute, he grabbed his phone and dialed a number.

Author's Note: For those of you who are not Shakespeare nerds like myself and Faramir, Benvolio (Romeo and Juliet) is a gentle, reasonable, pacifist kind of guy, and Viola (Twelfth Night) dresses up in male clothing and pretends to be a man. Quite fitting for Faramir and Eowyn.