The Imladris Hall of Flame
NescaFrodo did not recall much of the feast afterward, only that the food was good, the coffee excellent, and that Dwarves and Elves should not be allowed sharp implements like forks while dining in mixed company. Leaving Gildoroy and Gloinchop to their imbroglio, he followed Lord Elground out of the feast hall and down the corridor, following the sounds of music echoing through the dark passages.
He came to the Hall of Flame, where many popular and classical Elven artists had been inducted, (as well as indentured) and were now playing sweet music and singing joyfully (and in some cases, somewhat forcefully). Many of the hall guests were lying on beanbags, sipping coffee and tea, or hanging around the stage, waving lit candles and swaying. Lindiranged and the All Elven Mouthharp Orchestra was just winding into their version of 'You're so vain'. Arwenchiel was listening, but not smiling at all.
In a remote corner, next to a small hearthfire, sat a small figure, puffing on a pipe. NescaFrodo was drawn to him; he looked oddly familiar in this weird Elvish discotheque. The half-caff approached him cautiously.
Lord Elground clapped a hand on NescaFrodo's shoulder and propelled him gently toward the figure.
"This is the moment you have been looking forward to, NescaFrodo! Here is a friend you have long missed!"
"Bilbean?" NescaFrodo asked hopefully. The figure raised his head. It was not Bilbean! "Who are you, sir?"
"My name is Tolkien. I am standing in for Bilbean for a moment; he lost our bet and had to go for coffee. I am glad to get to meet you at last, NescaFrodo. I want to apologize to you on behalf of the person writing this parody. She says she is sorry about the hard times you are going to be having, but there's really no other way to go. 'Angst Sells', that's her motto."
NescaFrodo was speechless. "Are you really Mr. Tolkien? Wow! How come you don't have a coffee-name like all of us?"
"She wouldn't dare," Tolkien said softly, eyeing the writer.
"I am glad to meet you, too, Mr. Tolkien. I have a question for you, if you don't mind..."
The old man puffed on his pipe. "Ask me anything," he said amid a cloud of Old Toblerone.
"Well, I was wondering about a few things, actually... Who is Tom Bombadil? And where are the Entwives? Just how long do Elves live, and can drinking too much coffee really stunt your growth? How many shillings are in an American dollar, and when will Hollywood learn that the average moviegoer has more intelligence than a boiled peanut?"
"Good questions, all... oh, is that the time? You must excuse me, my dear NescaFrodo. I just remembered that I have an appointment with some American movie-producer named George Lucas... he has a screenplay he needs advice on. I'll see you later..." The old man jumped up and hurried away, leaving NescaFrodo with his questions unanswered and his coffee-cup empty.
"Authors," he grumbled, tipping his cup and letting the last drop fall on his tongue. "They never give you a straight answer..."