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Thranduil swung his hips as he walked. It was very distracting for everyone behind him, doomed to watch those leather-clad hips sway back and forth, back and forth, back and forth...

Galadriel was oblivious to this, as she was next to Thranduil, chatting gaily. There were like two peas in a pod. Two sassy old bitches.

Thranduil house turned out to be a trailer at the back of the surface. It was large, pink, and decorated with sequins everywhere. And had giant antlers attached to the front.

"This is the Elk," announced Thranduil proudly, hand on his hip. "It's my pride and joy."

Elrond was trying his best not to throw up. "I'm sure Legolas would have been so proud," he said weakly.

Thranduil waved his hand flippantly. "Oh Elrond, you old tart, who cares what my crusty old son would have thought of it? His taste was so passe."

Now Elrond wished he would throw up, just to prove a point.

He opened the door and led them inside. If Elrond had thrown up, he was sure it would have been butterflies and rainbows in a place this fairylike. The walls were covered with newspaper clippings of both Marilyn Monroe and Marilyn Manson, and the seats were large plush high-heeled shoes. Galadriel sank into one without hesitation, and Bilbo and Frodo disappeared into one together, the tops of their curly heads poking out.

Gandalf hit his staff against one of the plush high-heels and turned it into a real armchair, feeling triumphant as he sank into it.

"Since when can you do that kind of magic?" asked Galadriel curiously.

"Don't question me, Gally, or certain drawings of you and a certain wizard with bird shit on his face will go public."

Galadriel crossed her arms. "Prick."

"Takes one to know one."

Thranduil got them all drinks. Elrond and the other large adults had been seriously looking forward to a potent wine, so they were sorely disappointed when Thranduil handed them all glasses of chocolate milk.

"I've gone off the drinking," he revealed, smiling proudly. "I have to keep a good figure, after all."

Everyone stared at Thranduil.

Bilbo poked his head far enough out of the chair to squeak, "The spiders once said they'd grow wings the day you stopped drinking."

Alarmed, Gandalf said quickly, "Thranduil, for the sake of us all, drink! we don't want spiders with wings."

"Or would they be wings with spiders attached?" mused Elrond philosophically. He was largely ignored, except by Frodo, who seriously thought about it.

Thranduil sat on the ledge of his bright pink dresser and crossed his legs. Every stared at his legs. How could you not?

"So, what are you boys doing here in the present? You were supposed to have skipped this world a long time ago."

"Our boat got sidetracked," said Gandalf. None of them really understood it themselves. "I think we may have chosen a bad boat."

"Nonsense," scoffed Thranduil. "Círdan made that boats. All his boats are like goats."

"What?" said Galadriel. "You make about as much sense as a moldy lemon."

"They're both flawless."

"...Of course."

Suddenly it dawned on them. Círdan! He had once said he wouldn't leave until all the Elves were gone- if Thranduil was still there, that meant he had to be around!"

"Círdan!" shouted Elrond and Galadriel at the same time. "Thrandy, do you know where he is?" Their reply in unison must have directly resulted from their in-law powers.

Thranduil tapped a finger against his chin. "Let me see...I think he's in New York, New York."

"New York, New York? If they couldn't think of two separate names, it must be a small town!" cried Gandalf. "Let us be going!" Picking up the drooling hobbits, he dashed out of the room. Galadriel waved bye to Thranduil as she passed. Elrond just gave him the finger.

Thranduil looked around at five glasses of chocolate milk. He clapped his hands in delight. "More for me!"

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