And I'm back, with beer! :D I'm so sorry for the unbelievably long wait for this chapter, but the last few months I have been crazy busy finishing off my degree. I simply had no time at all to sit down and write any of this story, and to be honest I was struggling when I did find the time to bring in the funny. Then I had a massive brainstorming session with a friend and the jokes just suddenly flowed forth, so I have to thank her a lot for that! •hands her a beer•
Thank you so much for the reviews and faves, everyone. I can honestly say that I am extremely flattered by all the kind words and I promise to reply to each review individually from now on. And no more seven month hiatuses, I promise!
XXX
In an idyllic landscape, upon an idyllic lake, a little rowing boat bobbed up and down upon the gentle current. Two fishing lines arced into the water as the sun sparkled upon the surface of the lake; a scene of tranquillity and contentment which only served to emphasize the impending tragedy which was about to strike at the heart of this peaceful community... The scene of the excruciatingly brutal and violent murder of-
Sméagol let out a frustrated sigh.
"Bloody hell, I'm bored."
His cousin Déagol looked up from his fishing rod and shot him an anxious look.
"What was the narrator just saying about a brutal and violent murder?"
Sméagol waved a hand.
"Oh, nothing. It's not important, my love. Just enjoy your screen time whilst you can."
And so they both continued with their fishing, relishing the glow of the dawn, the graceful lines of their fishing rods as they arced into the water... Long story short, they both fell asleep faster than Samwise Gamgee at a shindig without a buffet. After what seemed an eternity there was a sharp tug upon Déagol's fishing line as one of the fish finally deigned to bite. They both woke up with a start.
"I've got one!" Déagol cried, flailing his arms about wildly in joy. "I've got a fish, Sméagol!"
"Thank Eru for that," Gollum muttered, wiping the drool from his chin.
The fish tugged upon the line again, this time a lot harder. The two descended into raucous laughter at this, having gone apparently hysterical with boredom. Sméagol watched with delight as his cousin fought frantically against his fishing rod, urging him to reel it in, but instead the almighty strength of the fish was enough to tip Déagol out of the boat and into the water with a huge splash. Go figure. Soon nothing but his hat remained to float upon the surface of the water.
Sméagol leant over the edge of the rocking boat with a frown.
"Why didn't you just let go of the friggin' rod?" He brushed the water from his shirtsleeves. "Idiot."
Beneath the surface a huge CGI fish pulled Déagol across the bottom of the lake with its apparently fantastical strength. Fortunately Déagol had at least the good sense to let go of his fishing rod as he held a huge breath, but he paused when he noticed something glinting at the bottom of the lake, half-buried in the sand. It was the Ring. Déagol let forth a stream of bubbles from his mouth as he smiled at the sight.
"Ooh, shiny."
Eagerly he closed his hand about the Ring before hauling himself dripping wet out of the water, struggling onto the grassy bank like a limp fish. When he had regained his feet at last he opened his palm to reveal the Ring and a whole heap of mud. Déagol poked at it in fascination as his companion ran over to check on him, calling his name and laughing at his seemingly-apparent-but-obviously-not-dead condition.
Sméagol's eyes went wide the moment that he saw the Ring.
"Give us that, Déagol, my love," he said quietly.
Déagol turned and gave a snort of derision.
"Why should I?" he said. "This is what? Eighteen, nineteen carats gold? This baby is going straight on eBay…"
Sméagol put a hand upon his cousin's shoulder.
"Because it's my birthday," he insisted, "and I wants it."
"But I already bought you a present," said Déagol. "I got you that bloody iPhone – it isn't my fault you can't get a decent signal on it…"
The strange smile on Sméagol's face disappeared. With a growl he attempted to snatch the Ring away, but Déagol refused to let him have it. He held it up above his head and began to dance about, keeping it just out of reach of his cousin's desperate upward lunges.
"Give me it!" Sméagol cried.
Déagol simply continued to dodge his lunges and stuck his tongue out in disdain.
"Over my dead body!"
At these words something in Sméagol snapped. His hand shot out and slapped Déagol square in the face with a flourish.
Déagol staggered back and raised a hand to his reddening cheek.
"Um, ow?"
And Déagol lashed out and kicked his cousin hard in the knee. Sméagol gave a yelp and hopped about a little as he cradled his injured leg.
"Ow!" he cried. "Sissy kicker!"
Sméagol retaliated with a pathetic slap to Déagol's arm, eliciting another cry of pain. And so the battle lines were drawn, and the two cousins broke out into an unbelievably girly fight full of weak slaps, hair pulling and all other manner of lame offensive moves. Somehow they both ended up bent over, holding each other firmly in a headlock with reddened faces and tangled hair.
"Okay," Sméagol managed, gasping for air, "this is getting a little embarrassing…"
"I agree!" Déagol winced, straining against the headlock.
"So we should stop?"
"Yes!"
And in agreement they broke apart on three. For the longest time both just stood there with bent knees, attempting to regain their breath. Suddenly Déagol rolled his eyes in frustration and straightened up again.
"Fine!" he said. "Just take the bleeding thing. It doesn't go with any of my clothes anyways."
And he opened his palm and deposited the Ring in Sméagol's outstretched hand. Sméagol snatched it up and studied it with jubilant eyes, then gave a grin and patted Déagol on the shoulder.
"Thanks, cous," he said. "Much appreciated."
Sméagol bit down upon the Ring with his teeth to check that it was indeed real gold. His smile widened when he had ascertained the value of his find, and he was still beaming as he slipped the Ring inside his trouser pocket.
A weary sigh came from off-camera, and Peter Jackson removed his headphones and kneaded the bridge of his nose in frustration.
"Um, guys?" he ventured. "This really isn't very dramatic."
Déagol put his hands upon his hips.
"Well, what did you have in mind then?"
"The script says that you throttle him to death!" Jackson cried, waving a copy at him for good measure. "It establishes the completely inescapable evil of the Ring! A hissy fit bitch slapping contest just does not have the same effect."
"But we're trying to create art here!" Sméagol moaned. As a techie walked past with a lighting rig he whirled around and added in an angry voice: "Am I going to walk around and rip your f***ing lights down, in the middle of a scene? Idiot…"
"Okay, okay," Jackson said, raising a placating hand. "Just calm down. There's no need to go all Christian Bale on his ass."
The lighting technician backed away sheepishly as Sméagol's face turned an angry shade of red. Jackson just returned his headphones to his ears and moved back behind the camera, shaking his head in annoyance.
"Please, let's just get one more take," he said. "And this time stick to the script, okay? This bloody film trilogy is hard enough to parody without going off on these wild tangents which lend themselves so ineffectively to a decent punchline…"
XXX
Um, yeah.
So eventually poor Sméagol went all method on his cousin's ass and murdered the guy in cold blood. And then he descended into madness as the Ring began to take its hold, abandoning his usual beauty regime and ripping his clothes to shreds as he scrambled about the rocky landscape and screamed melodramatically at the heavens. Apparently his own people had cursed him and driven him away into the wilds, and there he slowly transformed into Gollum, crying emo tears in the rain and eating raw fish which he caught with his own bare hands.
When his inner darkity darkness became simply too much Gollum crawled into an opening which led deep into the Misty Mountains. There he forgot even his own name, and the very implausible set up to a very profitable movie franchise soon began as his bulbous eyes adjusted to the darkness.
"My prrreciousss…" he purred.
XXX
In the darkening windswept landscape loud snores emanated from a large lump of hobbit rolled up in a sleeping bag. Another hobbit-shaped lump sitting beside him reached out and whacked him soundly across the back of the head. The snoring duly seized as Sam turned over with a series of grunts, muttering something incomprehensible about pie.
They had rested for the night in a stony alcove jutting out of the barren landscape, and Sam had done nothing but sleep, eat most of their rations and waste the water in their flasks in order to wash his socks whenever they felt 'too dirty'. When Frodo pointed out that Sam did not even need to wear socks the hobbit simply shot him a dirty look and muttered something about carrying-the-entire-trilogy-on-his-considerably-handsome-and-underappreciated-shoulders.
Frodo gave a sigh and scratched distractedly at his neck. Then he looked about shiftily before reaching for the Ring which was currently hanging around his neck, drawing it out upon its long chain and cradling it between his fingers with quickening breaths. He wrinkled his nose in disgust when he realise how badly he needed a manicure.
The hobbit hurriedly returned the Ring to the folds of his shirt when he heard Gollum returning from another useless therapy session. His excited face appeared from above as he hung down from the ceiling of the alcove, turning into a scowl as he noticed their current state of undress.
"Wake up you lazy buggers!" he cried, swinging down to join them and kicking at Sam furiously. "Seriously, if you two can't even stay awake for this bloody film then how do you expect the audience to?"
Gollum's vicious kicks seemed to do the trick, for eventually Sam sat up and arched his back as he stretched. Gollum slinked away with a satisfied smirk. The fat hobbit's groan cut short, however, when he noticed Frodo beside him, sitting there with extremely bloodshot eyes. He was clutching a steaming mug of coffee in his hand emblazed with the words 'Hobbits do it better than your old gaffer.' He looked like hell.
"Haven't you had any sleep, Mr. Frodo?"
The hobbit glared at him.
"Sam, you snore like a bloody foghorn. Of course I didn't get any sleep."
Frodo sipped at his coffee as Sam clambered groggily to his feet, running a tired hand across his face as he took in their surroundings in the grey light of day.
"Must be getting late," he muttered.
"It's getting late because you slept half of the day away, you gormless tit." Frodo took another sip of his coffee and then pursed his lips in pleasure. "Oh Eru, that's the stuff…"
The next moment the ground began to shake as Mount Doom made with the distant rumblings. Frodo's face fell as hot coffee sloshed all over his shirt.
"Come on!" Gollum cried, calling to the hobbits over his shoulder. "We can stop at Starbucks on the way if you like. Get your butts in gear!"
"But what about breakfast?" asked Sam.
Gollum rolled his eyes.
"We'll grab a latte and a muffin on the way. Come on! No time to lose, silly!"
And so with many a groan and a curse the hobbits gathered up their things and began to pick their way through the rocky landscape, setting off once more on their glorified hike towards Mordor and the nearest branch of Starbucks.
XXX
Beneath the murky eaves of Fangorn Forest a company of familiar riders trampled through the undergrowth, glancing around anxiously for any sign of approaching fangirls. As they went the camera swept skywards above the canopy of the trees as the obligatory caption appeared emblazed across the screen:
The Lord of the Rings: The Return of the King
(a.k.a. The Neverending Story Part IV)
It was not long before the company emerged from the fringes of the forest and looked out upon the ruined sight of Isengard; a surly-looking janitor mopped doggedly at the stagnant water which covered the ground and gave them a grunt of acknowledgement. Upon the stone wall before them sat Merry and Pippin, their legs dangling merrily as they helped themselves to the spoils of war. Merry staggered drunkenly to his feet as he saw the riders approach.
"Welcome, my lords, to the third movie!" he announced in a loud and inebriated voice. "I suspect you will find it much more accommodating than the last installment, especially when it comes to the partitioning of action sequences…"
"And we have beer!" chimed in Pippin, thrusting his tankard into the air.
The riders reined in their horses and came to a halt, staring at the hobbits in bewilderment and joy. Gimli put his hands upon his hips.
"You bastards!" he cried. "You jammy, jammy bastards! A merry hunt you've lead us on, and now we find you feasting and smoking! Don't you know that this is a PG-13?"
Pippin waved his tankard of beer in dismissal.
"We are sitting on the field of victory, enjoying a few well-earned comforts."
"In other words," said Merry, plopping back down upon the wall, "we are both getting majorly stoned. Care to join us?"
The hobbit took an inviting drag upon his pipe and blew out a cloud of smoke. Pippin inspected his own discarded pipe with a frown, and then nodded towards a barrel nearby.
"Longbottom leaf," he said. "It has already helped us to block out the horrific experience that was Treebeard… And we have food aplenty!" Pippin gestured to the provisions laid out around them. "The salted pork is particularly good," he added. With a frown he looked down at his gurgling stomach. "For some reason I am starting to get the munchies…"
Aragorn sighed and then turned back to the other riders.
"On second thought, let's not go to Isengard," he muttered gloomily. "It is a silly place."
And so they all just shrugged and turned back the way that they had come, rendering their long journey to Isengard pretty much pointless (at least in the theatrical version, anyways).
XXX
In the end the lure of a free bar proved to be too much, and so Théoden led the company back to Meduseld for the post-Helm's Deep memorial service and disco. As they galloped across the vast plains Éowyn stood upon the steps outside the Golden Hall and watched their approach, her dress and hair strewn about angstily in the breeze. Later she presented Théoden with the ceremonial cup as he addressed the gathered assembly inside the Golden Hall.
"Tonight," announced Théoden, "we remember those who gave their blood to defend this country." He held out his goblet in reverence. "Hail the victorious dead! Um, y'know, Haldir… Háma… a bunch of other people whose names I don't remember…"
Everybody else raised their goblets in turn.
"Hail!" they cried.
And so much drunkenness and debauchery began. Along each wall stood a table laden with enough buffet food to curb even Samwise Gamgee's appetite, and everybody partook of the free bar and opened keg after keg of ale much to the chagrin of the catering staff. It did not take long for a rather tipsy Legolas to take on Gimli in a drinking game, having taken affront to his suggestion that a delicate elven princeling could not hope to prevail against the 'legendary constitution of the dwarves'. Others took to the dance floor in a vain bid to prove their skills. It was not a pretty sight.
A roving Éowyn eventually came upon Aragorn amongst the milling partygoers, and she brushed down the sides of her pretty blue dress and then adjusted her bra in a nearby mirror before flouncing over to him with a grin. He stopped and turned to her as she held out a goblet of wine towards him.
"Westu, Aragorn, hál," she said.
His face fell.
"Huh?"
Éowyn shoved the goblet at him, wine sloshing down its sides and spilling onto the floor.
"Just drink from the bloody cup, m'kay?"
The ranger looked down at the proffered drink with a frown. Then he gestured to the gaudy badge pinned to his lapel.
"But I'm the designated driver."
"Just do it," she snarled.
Aragorn snatched the cup from her with a pout and downed the entire thing in one chug. He passed it back to her with a glare, wine now dribbling down his chin and staining the front of his shirt.
"You only needed to take a sip," she deadpanned.
Aragorn did not answer, but simply turned on his heel and walked away into the intoxicated crowd. Éowyn watched him go with her head tilted and her eyes fixed upon the alluring sway of his hips. She was only snapped out of her stupor by the sound of somebody regally clearing their throat.
She turned with a start to find Théoden standing behind her, wearing a crown fashioned out of tin foil at a rather jaunty angle. A goblet of wine was in his hand.
"Hi."
Éowyn folded her arms.
"Uncle, how much have you been drinking?"
Théoden gave a shrug and knocked back his wine.
"Two, maybe three kegs," he said blearily, waving his goblet about. "I forget. Lost count after the first four."
Éowyn rubbed at her forehead in frustration.
"Seriously?" she said. "I'm actually trying to score at the moment. Do you think that you could sober up a bit and start acting like, y'know, a king?"
"And what about Aragorn?" Théoden grinned and pointed out across the crowd, where the ranger was standing near the bar in the corner, knocking back shots like there was no tomorrow. "An honourable man, indeed."
A frown spread across Éowyn's face as she watched Aragorn getting into a rather furious argument with Legolas about his alcohol consumption. It ended with the elf comatose upon the floor after a single punch.
Théoden shook his head good naturedly.
"Don't listen to me," he said. "You are young and tonight is for you. Come on – let's go down the disco."
Théoden put an inviting hand upon her arm, but Éowyn simply brushed him off with a scowl.
"Look," she said, indicating the ridiculous crown atop his head. "If you insist on wearing that in public you're gonna spend the rest of the evening all by yourself."
"Oh yeah?" Théoden folded his arms in disdain. "If you're gonna make me choose between you and the hat? I choose the hat."
And he flounced off in indignation, leaving Éowyn feeling very foolish as she stood all alone, clutching her now-empty ceremonial goblet to her chest.
It was going to be a very long night.
XXX
As the disco raged on Merry and Pippin were to be found dancing upon one of the long wooden tables, their tankards of beer sloshing everywhere as they drunkenly serenaded the cheering crowd gathered about them. Gandalf was standing in the corner near the speakers, bopping his head rather pathetically to the beat as he watched the hobbits dancing. At any other shindig he would have looked extremely out of place, not to mention disturbingly shady.
Eventually a fellow reveller stumbled over and offered the wizard a drink. Gandalf turned and looked in surprise upon Aragorn. He was now wearing Théoden's tin foil crown, but he had attached to it the large badge bearing his alcohol-free credentials. He swayed upon his feet where he stood, multi-coloured party streamers strewn across his shoulders. Wine was sloshed down the front of his shirt.
"I'm the designated driver!" he said with a childish grin.
"Aragorn, are you drunk?"
The ranger snorted in derision.
"Drunk," he murmured giddily. "I mean, that's such a strong word… Kind of a guttural Anglo-Saxon word. Drunk."
"So are you?"
More swaying.
"Yup."
Gandalf gave him a stern look as he passed the ranger his flask of coffee. With a grimace Aragorn took a swig and then returned it, but he did not remove his crown.
"No news of Frodo?" he asked blearily.
Gandalf shook his head.
"No word," he said in frustration. "Nothing." He screwed the top back on the flask and then slipped it back inside his robes. From his other pocket he withdrew his Blackberry and tapped the screen in frustration. "I don't think he's getting any signal…"
Aragorn frowned and leant over to snatch a look at it.
"What does his Facebook status say?"
The wizard was silent for a moment as he scrolled through the tabs on his screen. Somewhere behind them one of the hobbits stumbled over to a potted plant in the corner and promptly threw up in it.
"It says 'Frodo Baggins is getting too old for this shit,' Gandalf told him. "And underneath that it says 'Biblo Boggins likes this.' That was posted about a week ago."
Aragorn brushed some of the streamers from his shoulder.
"Biblo Boggins?"
Gandalf just shook his head.
"I don't think Bilbo's quite gotten the hang of this new-fangled technology…"
The ranger gave him a look and then adjusted his makeshift crown. He swayed a little more as the strains of another ear-piercing ballad drifted over from the nearby karaoke machine. Éomer had been hogging the microphone all night and insisted on singing nothing but Barry Manilow.
"We have time," said Aragorn after a moment. "Every day Frodo moves closer to Mordor."
Gandalf turned to him.
"Do we know that?"
"Yup." Aragorn patted the bulge in his shirt pocket. "Says so in the script."
The wizard frowned as he reached inside his robes again and withdrew a pile of stapled sheets.
"Did you get that copy this morning?" he asked as he rifled distractedly through the pages. "I think I've been working from an outdated draft again…"