The Mouth of Sour'on
The Captains rode toward the gates of the Black Café with a great guard of horsemen, banners and herald and trumpeters, with Grandélf as the chief herald, Aromagorn with the sons of Elground, and Héomer of Yuban, and Legolatté and Gemli and Drippin were also bidden to go, so that all the Enemies of Bad Coffee would have a witness, and so that nobody had to drink it all themselves.
They came within a cry of the gates, and there halted. The trumpeters blew upon their horns, the heralds stood out and sent their voices up over the battlements of Mordonut:
"Come forth!" they cried. "Let the Chef of the Black Café come forth! Justice shall be done upon him! For wrongfully he has made tradewar on Gondaroma and the Free Peoples of Middle-girth! Therefore the King of Gondaroma demands that he should atone for his evils, cease the brewing of bitter beverages, and shuffle off to Buffalo! This here town isn't big enough for the both of us, pilgrim!" they shouted.
There was a long silence, and just as Aromagorn and the others began to turn away, a loud drumroll was heard, and the braying of a multitude of kazoos sounded, buzzing flatly over their heads. The black gates opened with a clang and a bang, and through the gap rode the embassy from Sour'on.
At its head there rode a tall and evil shape, mounted upon a black horse—if horse it was—for it was no more than a thin broomstick with the end carved in the shape of a fanged beast. The rider trotted forward on his own feet, mimicking the movements of a frisky pony. At his side an aide walked, banging two halves of a coconut together.
The figure was robed in black, and black was his lofty helm that he wore so that it covered his eyes, if he in truth possessed such; yet this was no Nútralite but a living man. The Junior chef of Barad-Dunkin he was, and his named is remembered nowhere except in the remote cooking-school of the East, where it was written repeatedly on the dean's detention list for starting food-fights and talking back to the teachers; he reined in his hobby-horse and he said, "I am the Mouth of Sour'on. Does anyone have any Chapstick?"
He was accompanied by a small group of goth-punks he had picked up in the mall parking-lot inside the Black Café. They leered menacingly through their multiple piercings and tried to look bored and mournful at the same time. Now halting a few steps before the Captains of the West they looked them up and down and laughed.
"Is there anyone in this rout that has authority to treat with me?" the tall figure asked, looking at Aromagorn now with a sneer. "Or indeed with wit to understand me? Who's in charge of this monkey outfit?"
Aromagorn answered him not, but stared at him until he blinked and backed up. "I am a herald and ambassador and cannot be assailed! Read the script!" he cried.
"My script says that you don't ride away from this meeting with your head, no-eyes," Grandélf said calmly. "But we'll dispense with the gratuitous movie-violence if you get on with saying what you've come to say. We did not come here to treat with Sour'on the faithless and sugar-free."
"So! Then thou art the spokesman for this rabble, old greybeard," said the Messenger. He tried to ignore Aromagorn, who was still staring at him and fingering the hilt of his sword, mumbling, "I don't see any white flag, do you, Legolatté?"
The Messenger cleared his throat and began again, "Have we not heard of thee at whiles, old one, and of thy wanderings, ever brewing mischief and tinko at a safe distance? But this time thou hast stuck thy nose in too far, and thou shalt see what comes to him who seeks to begin a blacklist against Sour'on the Great. I have tokens I was bidden to show to thee-- to thee in especial, if thou shouldst dare to come to the Café without a reservation." He signed to one of his guards, and he came forward carrying a black menu with a dark tassel.
The Messenger cuffed him and sent him back to the end of the line, signaling for another guard to come forward. He brought a parcel wrapped in black tablecloth, and this the Messenger opened and to the wonder and dismay of the Captains he held up first a battered spatula with the initials S.G. engraved on the handle, and next a mocha-brown cloak such as all the Fellowship had worn out of Lóriandadánish, pinned by a brooch shaped like a flowering coffeebush, and last a worn pear of mithril long-johns with the initials N.T. embroidered in the back-flap. The faded letters could barely be read through the tears in the fellowship's eyes, for it appeared to be the same garment that an old half-caff had given to his nephew on the outset of this ill-fated adventure.
"NescaFrodo!" Drippin cried in horror. Grandélf thrust him back; but Mouthy laughed at them.
"So you have yet another of these imps with you!" he cried. "I swear… they're like cockroaches! You see one and there's a hundred more that you can't see, creeping around in your pantry. Luckily they are quite easy to kill, as we found out with your little friend... NescaFrodo, did you say his name was? You cannot deny that you know him now... I mean, knew him..." Sour'on's lieutenant laughed in the face of their anguish.
"Stick a sock in it, sewer-mouth," Grandélf said, "We do not wish to deny it. I take it that you have now said what you had come to say. I suggest you get yourself and your fanclub back inside the Café, before you find yourself several inches shorter than you were when you got out of bed this morning!"
The Mouth of Sour'on frowned, then gathering the reins of his hobby-horse in one hand, he stuck his tongue in the general direction of the King and turned around, bumping into one of the leaves of the gates in his haste. He cursed, tore off his helmet, and kicked the sniggering goths ahead of him. The door closed with a slam behind them.
The Companions of NescaFrodo bowed their heads in horror, fearing in their hearts that their brave friend would never drink coffee with them again. Grandélf gathered the tokens that the Messenger had left behind, but as he made a bundle of the objects, something fell from the folds of the cloth, fluttering to the ground at the wiseacre's feet.
Drippin, who was standing close, stooped quickly and picked it up. "Grandélf..."
"What is it, Drippin?" the old man said, sniffing deeply and wiping tears from his beard.
"Look at this. It's a receipt from Cafépress Lord of the Coffee Merchandise, for three genuine Beta-workshop replicas; Sam's Ranger-made spatula, a Lóriandadánish travel-cloak with secret inner lembas-pockets, and one pair of Dwarvish anti-wrinkle underwear, size petite." Drippin looked up at Grandélf, hope sparkling in his eyes. "You know what this means?"
"Yeah," muttered Grandélf. "It means that I'm not going to get half as much as I had hoped on my Quest souvenirs during the next Rivendell Bake and Garage Sale."
Then Grandélf raised his eyes and looked toward the East, toward the distant cone of stone that was smoking and belching flames into the air.
"Go NescaFrodo," he whispered, and he smiled.