BORED OF THE RINGS, A Parody of J.R.R. Tolkein's The Lord of the Rings
by Henry N. Beard and Douglas C. Kenney of The Harvard Lampoon
Copyright The Harvard Lampoon, Inc., 1969
Map by William S. Donnell
Illustration on page 66 by Peter W. Johnson
All rights reserved
Published by Roc, an imprint of New American Library, a division of Penguin
Books USA Inc. Previously published in a Signet edition.
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MATZOH DICK
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ROBINSON MATZOH
CRIME AND MATZOHBALLS
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Surprising Cerf.
THE SURPRISING SHEEP AND OTHER MIND EXCURSIONS
"Do you like what you doth see . . . ?" said the voluptuous elf-maiden
as she provocatively parted the folds of her robe to reveal the rounded,
shadowy glories within. Frito's throat was dry, though his head reeled with
desire and ale.
She slipped off the flimsy garment and strode toward the fascinated
boggie unashamed of her nakedness. She ran a perfect hand along his hairy
toes, and he helplessly watched them curl with the fierce insistent wanting of
her.
"Let me make thee more comfortable," she whispered hoarsely, fiddling
with the clasps of his jerkin, loosening his sword belt with a laugh. "Touch
me, oh _touch me_," she crooned.
Frito's hand, as though of its own will, reached out and traced the
delicate swelling of her elf-breast, while the other slowly crept around her
tiny, flawless waist, crushing her to his barrel chest.
"Toes, I _love_ hairy toes," she moaned, forcing him down on the
silvered carpet. Her tiny, pink toes caressed the luxuriant fur of his instep
while Frito's nose sought out the warmth of her precious elf-navel.
"But I'm so small and hairy, and . . . and you're so _beautiful_," Frito
whimpered, slipping clumsily out of his crossed garters.
The elf-maiden said nothing, but only sighed deep in her throat and held
him more firmly to her faunlike body. "There is one thing you must do for me
first," she whispered into one tufted ear.
"Anything," sobbed Frito, growing frantic with his need. "Anything!"
She closed her eyes and then opened them to the ceiling. "The Ring," she
said. "I must have your Ring."
Frito's whole body tensed. "Oh no," he cried, "not that! Anything but .
. . that."
"I must have it," she said both tenderly and fiercely. "I must have the
_Ring!_"
Frito's eyes blurred with tears and confusion. "I can't," he said. "I
mustn't!"
But he knew resolve was no longer strong in him. Slowly, the elf-
maiden's hand inched toward the chain in his vest pocket, closer and closer it
came to the Ring Frito had guarded so faithfully . . .
Contents
FOREWORD
PROLOGUE -- CONCERNING BOGGlES
I It's My Party and I'll Snub Who I Want To
II Three's Company, Four's a Bore
III Indigestion at the Sign of the Goode Eats
IV Finders Keepers, Finders Weepers
V Some Monsters
VI The Riders of Roi-Tan
VII Serutan Spelled Backwards Is Mud
VIII Schlob's Lair and Other Mountain Resorts
IX Minas Troney in the Soup
X Be It Ever So Horrid
FOREWORD
Though we cannot with complete candor state, as does Professor T., that
"the tale grew in the telling," we can allow that this tale (or rather the
necessity of hawking it at a bean a copy) grew in direct proportion to the
ominous dwindling of our bank accounts at the Harvard Trust in Cambridge,
Massachusetts. This loss of turgor in our already emaciated portfolio was not,
in itself, cause for alarm (or "alarum" as Professor T. might aptly put it),
but the resultant threats and cuffed ears received at the hands of creditors
_were_. Thinking long on this, we retired to the reading lounge of our club to
meditate on this vicissitude.
The following autumn found us still in our leather chairs, plagued with
bedsores and appreciably thinner, but still without a puppy biscuit for the
lupine pest lolling around the front door. It was at this point that our
palsied hands came to rest on a dog-eared nineteenth printing of kindly old
Prof. Tolkien's _Lord of the Rings_. Dollar signs in our guileless eyes, we
quickly ascertained that it was still selling like you-know-whats. Armed to
the bicuspids with thesauri and reprints of international libel laws, we
locked ourselves in the _Lampoon_ squash court with enough Fritos and Dr.
Pepper to choke a horse. (Eventually the production of this turkey actually
required the choking of a small horse, but that's another story entirely.)
Spring found us with decayed teeth and several pounds of foolscap
covered with inky, illegible scrawls. A quick rereading proved it to be a
surprisingly brilliant satire on Tolkien's linguistic and mythic structures,
filled with little takeoffs on his use of Norse tales and wicked phoneme
fricatives. A cursory assessment of the manuscript's sales appeal, however,
convinced us that dollarwise the thing would be better employed as tinder for
the library fireplace. The next day, handicapped by near-fatal hangovers and
the loss of all our bodily hair (but that's another story), we sat down at two
supercharged, fuel-injected, 345-hp Smith Coronas and knocked off the opus
you're about to read before tiffin. (And we take tiffin pretty durn early in
_these_ parts, buckaroo.) The result, as you are about to see for yourself,
was a book as readable as Linear A and of about the same literary value as an
autographed gatefold of St. Simon Stylites.
"As for any inner meanings or 'message,' " as Professor T. said in his
foreword, there is none herein except that which you may read into it
yourself. (Hint: What did P. T. Barnum say was "born every minute"?) Through
this book, we hope, the reader may find deeper insights not only into the
nature of literary piracy, but into his own character as well. (Hint: What is
missing from this famous quotation? "A ---- and his ----- soon are ------."
You have three minutes. Ready, set, go!)
_Bored of the Rings_ has been issued in this form as a parody. This is
very important. It is an attempt to satirize the other books, not simply to be
mistaken for them. Thus, we must strongly remind you that _this is not the
real thing!_ So if you're about to purchase this copy thinking it's about the
_Lord_ of the Rings, then you'd better put it right back onto that big pile of
remainders where you found it. Oh, but you've already read this far, so that
must mean that--that you've already _bought_ . . . oh dear . . . oh my . . .
(Tote up another one on the register, Jocko. "_Ching!_")
Lastly, we hope that those of you who _have_ read Prof. Tolkien's
remarkable trilogy already will not be offended by our little spoof of it. All
fooling aside, we consider ourselves honored to be able to make fun of such an
impressive, truly masterful work of genius and imagination. After all, that is
the most important service a book can render, the rendering of enjoyment, in
this case, enjoyment through laughter. And don't trouble yourself too much if
you don't laugh at what you are about to read, for if you perk up your pink
little ears, you may hear the silvery tinkling of merriment in the air, far,
far away. . . .
It's us, buster. _Ching!_
PROLOGUE -- CONCERNING BOGGIES
This book is predominantly concerned with making money, and from its
pages a reader may learn much about the character and the literary integrity
of the authors. Of boggies, however, he will discover next to nothing, since
anyone in the possession of a mere moiety of his marbles will readily concede
that such creatures could exist only in the minds of children of the sort
whose childhoods are spent in wicker baskets, and who grow up to be muggers,
dog thieves, and insurance salesmen. Nonetheless, judging from the sales of
Prof. Tolkien's interesting books, this is a rather sizable group, sporting
the kind of scorchmarks on their pockets that only the spontaneous combustion
of heavy wads of crumpled money can produce. For such readers we have
collected here a few bits of racial slander concerning boggies, culled by
placing Prof. Tolkien's books on the floor in a neat pile and going over them
countless times in a series of skips and short hops. For them we also include
a brief description of the soon-to-be-published-if-this-incredible-dog-sells
account of Dildo Bugger's earlier adventures, called by him _Travels with
Goddam in Search of Lower Middle Earth_, but wisely renamed by the publisher
_Valley of the Trolls_.
Boggies are an unattractive but annoying people whose numbers have
decreased rather precipitously since the bottom fell out of the fairy-tale
market. Slow and sullen, and yet dull, they prefer to lead simple lives of
pastoral squalor. They don't like machines more complicated than a garrote, a
blackjack, or a luger, and they have always been shy of the "Big Folk" or
"Biggers," as they call us. As a rule they now avoid us, except on rare
occasions when a hundred or so will get together to dry-gulch a lone farmer or
hunter. They are a little people, smaller than dwarves, who consider them
puny, sly, and inscrutable and often refer to them as the "boggie peril." They
seldom exceed three feet in height, but are fully capable of overpowering
creatures half their size when they get the drop on them. As for the boggies
of the Sty, with whom we are chiefly concerned, they are unusually drab,
dressing in shiny gray suits with narrow lapels, alpine hats, and string ties.
They wear no shoes, and they walk on a pair of hairy blunt instruments which
can only be called feet because of the position they occupy at the end of
their legs. Their faces have a pimply malevolence that suggests a deep-seated
fondness for making obscene telephone calls, and when they smile, there is
something in the way they wag their foot-long tongues that makes Komodo
dragons gulp with disbelief. They have long, clever fingers of the sort one
normally associates with hands that spend a good deal of time around the necks
of small, furry animals and in other people's pockets, and they are very
skillful at producing intricate and useful things, like loaded dice and booby
traps. They love to eat and drink, play mumblety-peg with dim-witted
quadrupeds, and tell off-color dwarf jokes. They give dull parties and cheap
presents, and they enjoy the same general regard and esteem as a dead otter.
It is plain that boggies are relatives of ours, standing somewhere along
the evolutionary line that leads from rats to wolverines and eventually to
Italians, but what our exact relationship is cannot be told. Their beginnings
lie far back in the Good Old Days when the planet was populated with the kind
of colorful creatures you have to drink a quart of Old Overcoat to see
nowadays. The elves alone preserve any records of that time, and most of them
are filled with elf-stuff, raunchy pictures of naked trolls and sordid
accounts of "orc" orgies. But the boggies had clearly lived in Lower Middle
Earth for a long time before the days of Frito and Dildo, when, like a very
old salami that suddenly makes its presence known, they came to trouble the
councils of the Small and the Silly.
This was all in the Third, or Sheet-Metal, Age of Lower Middle Earth,
and the lands of that age have long since dropped into the sea and their
inhabitants into bell jars at the Ripley's Believe-It-or-Not Odditorium. Of
their original home, the boggies of Frito's time had lost all records, partly
because their level of literacy and intellectual development could have been
equaled by a young blowfish and partly because their fondness for genealogical
studies made them dislike the notion that their elaborately forged family
trees had roots about as steady as Birnham Wood. It is nevertheless clear from
their heavy accents and their fondness for dishes cooked in Brylcreem that
somewhere in their past they went west in steerage. Their legends and old
songs, which deal mainly with oversexed elves and dragons in heat, make
passing mention of the area around the Anacin River, between Plywood and the
Papier-Mache Mountains. There are other records in the great libraries of
Twodor which lend credence to such a notion, old articles in the _Police
Gazette_ and the like. Why they decided to undertake the perilous crossing
into Oleodor is uncertain, though again their songs tell of a shadow that fell
upon the land so that the potatoes grew no more.
Before the crossing of the Papier-Mache Mountains, the boggies had
become divided into three distinct breeds: Clubfoots, Stools, and Naugahydes.
The Clubfoots, by far the most numerous, were swarthy, shifty-eyed, and short;
their hands and feet were as deft as crowbars. They preferred to live in the
hillsides where they could mug rabbits and small goats, and they supported
themselves by hiring out as torpedoes for the local dwarf population. The
Stools were larger and oilier than the Clubfoots, and they lived in the fetid
lands at the mouth and other orifices of the Anacin River, where they raised
yaws and goiters for the river trade. They had long, shiny, black hair, and
they loved knives. Their closest relations were with men, for whom they
handled occasional rubouts. Least numerous were the Naugahydes, who were
taller and wispier than the other boggies and who lived in the forests, where
they maintained a thriving trade in leather goods, sandals, and handicrafts.
They did periodic interior-decorating work for the elves, but spent most of
their time singing lurid folk songs and accosting squirrels.
Once across the mountains, the boggies lost no time establishing
themselves. They shortened their names and elbowed their way into all the
country clubs, dropping their old language and customs like a live grenade. An
unusual easterly migration of men and elves from Oleodor at this same time
makes it possible to fix the date the boggies came on the scene with some
accuracy. In the same year, the 1,623rd year of the Third Age, the Naugahyde
brothers, Brasso and Drano, led a large following of boggies across the
Gallowine River disguised as a band of itinerant graverobbers and took control
from the high King at Ribroast. * [* Either Arglebargle IV or someone else.]
In return for the King's grudging acquiescence, they set up toll booths on the
roads and bridges, waylaid his messengers, and sent him suggestive and
threatening letters. In short, they settled down for a long stay.
Thus began the history of the Sty, and the boggies, with an eye to the
statutes of limitations, started a new calendar dating from the crossing of
the Gallowine. They were quite happy with their new land, and once again they
dropped out of the history of men, an occurrence which was greeted with the
same universal sense of regret as the sudden death of a mad dog. The Sty was
marked with great red splotches on all the AAA maps, and the only people who
ever passed through were either hopelessly lost or completely unhinged. Aside
from these rare visitors, the boggies were left entirely to themselves until
the time of Frito and Dildo. While there was still a King at Ribroast, the
boggies remained nominally his subjects, and to the last battle at Ribroast
with the Slumlord of Borax, they sent some snipers, though who they sided with
is unclear. There the North Kingdom ended, and the boggies returned to their
well-ordered, simple lives, eating and drinking, singing and dancing, and
passing bad checks.
Nonetheless, the easy life of the Sty had left the boggies fundamentally
unchanged, and they were still as hard to kill as a cockroach and as easy to
deal with as a cornered rat. Though likely to attack only in cold blood, and
killing only for money, they remained masters of the low blow and the gang-up.
They were crack shots and very handy with all sorts of equalizers, and any
small, slow, and stupid beast that turned its back on a crowd of boggies was
looking for a stomping.
All boggies originally lived in holes, which is after all hardly
surprising for creatures on a first-name basis with rats. In Dildo's time,
their abodes were for the most part built above ground in the manner of elves
and men, but these still retained many of the features of their traditional
homes and were indistinguishable from the dwellings of those species whose
chief function is to meet their makers, around August, deep in the walls of
old houses. As a rule, they were dumpling-shaped, built of mulch, silt, stray
divots, and other seasonal deposits, often whitewashed by irregular pigeons.
Consequently, most boggie towns looked as though some very large and untidy
creature, perhaps a dragon, had quite recently suffered a series of
disappointing bowel movements in the vicinity.
In the Sty as a whole there were at least a dozen of these curious
settlements, linked by a system of roads, post offices, and a government that
would have been considered unusually crude for a colony of cherrystone clams.
The Sty itself was divided into farthings, half-farthings, and Indian-head
nickels ruled by a mayor who was elected in a flurry of ballot-box stuffing
every Arbor Day. To assist him in his duties there was a rather large police
force which did nothing but extract confessions, mostly from squirrels. Beyond
these few tokens of regulation, the Sty betrayed no signs of government. The
vast majority of the boggies' time was taken up growing food and eating it and
making liquor and drinking it. The rest of it was spent throwing up.
_Of the Finding of the Ring_
As is told in the volume previous to this hound, _Valley of the Trolls_,
Dildo Bugger set out one day with a band of demented dwarves and a discredited
Rosicrucian named Goodgulf to separate a dragon from his hoard of short-term
municipals and convertible debentures. The quest was successful, and the
dragon, a prewar basilisk who smelled like a bus, was taken from behind while
he was clipping coupons. And yet, though many pointless and annoying deeds
were done, this adventure would concern us a good deal less than it does, if
that is possible, except for a bit of petty larceny Dildo did along the way to
keep his hand in. The party was ambushed in the Mealey Mountains by a roving
pack of narcs, and in hurrying to the aid of the embattled dwarves, Dildo
somehow lost his sense of direction and ended up in a cave a considerable
distance away. Finding himself at the mouth of a tunnel which led rather
perceptibly down, Dildo suffered a temporary recurrence of an old inner-ear
problem and went rushing along it to the rescue, as he thought, of his
friends. After running for some time and finding nothing but more tunnel, he
was beginning to feel he had taken a wrong turn somewhere when the passage
abruptly ended in a large cavern.
When Dildo's eyes became adjusted to the pale light, he found that the
grotto was almost filled by a wide, kidneyshaped lake where a nasty-looking
clown named Goddam paddled noisily about on an old rubber sea horse. He ate
raw fish and occasional side orders to travel from the outside world in the
form of lost travelers like Dildo, and he greeted Dildo's unexpected entrance
into his underground sauna in much the same way as he would the sudden arrival
of a Chicken Delight truck. But like anyone with boggie ancestry, Goddam
preferred the subtle approach in assaulting creatures over five inches high
and weighing more than ten pounds, and consequently he challenged Dildo to a
riddle game to gain time. Dildo, who had a sudden attack of amnesia regarding
the fact that the dwarves were being made into chutney outside the cave,
accepted.
They asked each other countless riddles, such as who played the Cisco
Kid and what was Krypton. In the end Dildo won the game. Stumped at last for a
riddle to ask, he cried out, as his hand fell on his snub-nosed .38, "What
have I got in my pocket?" This Goddam failed to answer, and growing impatient,
he paddled up to Dildo, whining, "Let me see, let me see." Dildo obliged by
pulling out the pistol and emptying it in Goddam's direction. The dark spoiled
his aim, and he managed only to deflate the rubber float, leaving Goddam to
flounder. Goddam, who couldn't swim, reached out his hand to Dildo and begged
him to pull him out, and as he did, Dildo noticed an interesting-looking ring
on his finger and pulled it off. He would have finished Goddam off then and
there, but pity stayed his hand. _It's a pity I've run out of bullets_, he
thought, as he went back up the tunnel, pursued by Goddam's cries of rage.
Now it is a curious fact that Dildo never told this story, explaining
that he had gotten the Ring from a pig's nose or a gumball machine--he
couldn't remember which. Goodgulf, who was naturally suspicious, finally
managed with the aid of one of his secret potions* [* Probably Sodium
Pentothal.] to drag the truth out of the boggie, but it disturbed him
considerably that Dildo, who was a perpetual and compulsive liar, would not
have concocted a more grandiose tale from the start. It was then, some fifty
years before our story begins, that Goodgulf first guessed at the Ring's
importance. He was, as usual, dead wrong.
BORED OF THE RINGS
I
IT'S MY PARTY AND I'LL SNUB WHO I WANT TO
When Mr. Dildo Bugger of Bug End grudgingly announced his intention of
throwing a free feed for all the boggies in his part of the Sty, the reaction
in Boggietown was immediate--all through the messy little slum could be heard
squeals of "Swell!" and "Hot puppies, _grub!_" Slavering with anticipation,
several recipients of the invitations devoured their little engraved scrolls,
temporarily deranged by transports of gluttony. After the initial hysteria,
however, the boggies returned to their daily routines and, as is their wont,
lapsed back into a coma.
Nevertheless, jabbering rumors spread through the tatty lean-tos of
recent shipments of whole, bewildered oxen, great barrels of foamy suds,
fireworks, tons of potato greens, and gigantic hogsheads of hogs' heads. Even
huge bales of freshly harvested stingwort, a popular and remarkably powerful
emetic, were carted into town. News of the fête reached even unto the
Gallowine, and the outlying residents of the Sty began to drift into town like
peripatetic leeches, each intent on an orgy of freeloading that would make a
lamprey look like a piker.
No one in the Sty had a more bottomless gullet than that drooling and
senile old gossip Haf Gangree. Haf had spent his life as the town's faithful
beadle, and had long since retired on the proceeds of his thriving blackmail
racket.
Tonight, Fatlip, as he was called, was holding forth at the Bag Eye, a
sleazy dive more than once closed down by Mayor Fastbuck for the dubious
behavior of the establishment's buxom "B-boggies," who were said to be able to
roll a troll before you could say "Rumpelstiltskin." The usual collection of
sodden oafs were there, including Fatlip's son, Spam Gangree, who was
presently celebrating his suspended sentence for the performing of an
unnatural act with an underage female dragon of the opposite sex.
"The whole thing smells pretty queer to me," said Fatlip, as he inhaled
the acrid fumes of his nose-pipe. "I'm meaning the way Mr. Bugger is throwing
this big bash when for years he's not so much as offered a piece o' moldy
cheese to his neighbors." The listeners nodded silently, for this was
certainly the case. Even before Dildo's "strange disappearance" he had kept
his burrow at Bug End guarded by fierce wolverines, and in no one's memory had
he ever contributed a farthing to the Boggietown Annual Mithril Drive for
Homeless Banshees. The fact that no one else ever had either did not excuse
Dildo's famed stinginess. He kept to himself, nurturing only his nephew and a
mania for dirty Scrabble.
"And that boy of his, Frito," added bleary-eyed Nat Clubfoot, "as crazy
as a woodpecker, _that_ one is." This was verified by Old Poop of Backwater,
among others. For who hadn't seen young Frito walking aimlessly through the
crooked streets of Boggietown, carrying little clumps of flowers and muttering
about "truth and beauty" and blurting out silly nonsense like "Cogito ergo
boggum"?
"He's an odd one, all right," said Fatlip, "and I wouldn't be at all
surprised if there weren't something in that talk of his having dwarfish
sympathies." At this point there was an embarrassed silence, particularly from
young Spam, who had never believed the unproved charges that the Buggers were
"scroll-carrying dwarves." As Spam pointed out, real dwarves were shorter and
smelled much worse than boggies.
"That's pretty stout talk," laughed Fatlip, wagging his right foreleg,
"about a body what's only _borrowed_ the name of Bugger!"
"Aye," chimed Clotty Peristalt. "If that Frito weren't the seed of a
crossbow wedding, then I don't know lunch from din-din!" The roisterers all
laughed aloud as they remembered Frito's mother, Dildo's sister, who rashly
plighted her troth to someone from the wrong side of the Gallowine (someone
known to be a hafling, i.e. part boggie, part opossum). Several of the members
took this up and there followed a series of coarse* [* Coarse to anyone except
a boggie, of course.] and rather simpleminded jests at the expense of the
Buggers.
"What's more," said Fatlip, "Dildo's always acting . . . mysterious, if
you know what I mean."
"There are those that say he acts like he's got something to hide, they
say," came a strange voice from the corner shadows. The voice belonged to a
man, a stranger to the boggies of the Bag Eye, a stranger they had
understandably overlooked because of his rather ordinary black cape, black
chain mail, black mace, black dirk, and perfectly normal red glowing fires
where his eyes should have been.
"Them what say that may be right," agreed Fatlip, winking at his cronies
to tell them a punchline was coming. "But them that say such may be wrong,
too." After the general hilarity resulting from the typical Gangree gaff died
down, few had noticed that the stranger had disappeared, leaving only a
strange, barnyard odor behind him.
"But," insisted little Spam, "it _will_ be a good party!"
To this they all agreed, for there was nothing a boggie loved more than
an opportunity to stuff himself until he was violently ill.
The season was cool, early autumn, heralding the annual change in the
boggie dessert from whole watermelons to whole pumpkins. But the younger
boggies who were not yet too obese to trundle their hulkish selves through the
thoroughfares of the town saw evidence of a future treat at the forthcoming
celebration: fireworks!
As the day of the party drew nearer, carts drawn by sturdy plow-goats
rolled through the bullrush gates of Boggietown, laden with boxes and crates,
each bearing the X-rune of Goodgulf the Wizard and various elvish brand names.
The crates were unloaded and opened at Dildo's door, and the mewling
boggies wagged their vestigial tails with wonder at the marvelous contents.
There were clusters of tubes mounted on tripods to shoot rather outsized roman
candles; fat, finned skyrockets, with odd little buttons at the front end,
weighing hundreds of pounds; a revolving cylinder of tubes with a crank to
turn them; and large "cherry bombs" that looked to the children more like
little green pineapples with a ring inserted at the top. Each crate was
labeled with an olive-drab elf-rune signifying that these toys had been made
in the elf-shops of a fairy whose name was something very much like "Amy
Surplus."
Dildo watched the unpacking with a broad grin and sent the young ones
scampering with a vicious swipe of a well-honed toenail. "G'wan, beat it,
scram!" he called merrily after them as they disappeared. He then laughed and
turned back to his boggie-hole, to talk to his guest within.
"This'll be one fireworks display they won't forget," cackled the ageing
boggie to Goodgulf, who was puffing his cigar rather uncomfortably in a chair
of tasteless elvish-modern. The floor around it was littered with four-letter
Scrabble arrangements.
"I am afraid that you must alter your plans for them," said the Wizard,
unsnaggling a clot of tangled hair in his long, dirtygray beard. "You cannot
use extermination as a method for settling your petty grudges with the
townspeople."
Dildo studied his old friend with shrewd appraisal. The old Wizard was
robed in a threadbare magician's cloak long out of fashion, with a few
spangles and sequins hanging precariously at the ragged hems. On his head was
a tall, battered conical hat sloppily covered with glow-in-the-dark cabalistic
signs, alchemical symbols, and some off-color dwarfish graffiti, and in his
gnarled, nail-bitten hands was a bent length of silvered maggotwood that
served doubly as a "magic" wand and backscratcher. At this moment Goodgulf was
using it in its second office as he studied the worn toes of what in these
days would be taken for black basketball sneakers. Hightops.
"Looking a little down-at-the-heels, Gulfie," chuckled Dildo. "Slump in
the old Wizard racket, eh?"
Goodgulf looked pained at the use of his old school nickname, but
adjusted his robes with dignity. "It is no fault of mine that unbelievers
ridicule my powers," he said. "My wonders will yet again make all gape and
quail!" Suddenly he made a pass with his scratcher and the room was plunged
into darkness. Through the blackness Dildo saw that Goodgulf's robes had
become radiant and bright. Odd letters appeared mysteriously on the front of
his robe, reading in elvish, _Will Thee Kiss Me in the Dark, Baby?_
Just as suddenly the light returned to the comfortable burrow, and the
inscription faded from the conjurer's breast. Dildo rolled his eyes upward in
his head and shrugged.
"Really now, Gulfie," said Dildo, "that kind of stuff went out with
high-button greaves. No wonder you've got to moonlight card-sharking at hick
carny shows."
Goodgulf was unperturbed by his friend's sarcasm. "Do not mock powers
beyond your knowledge, impudent hairfoot," he said, as five aces materialized
in his hand, "for you see the efficacy of my enchantments!"
"All I see is that you've finally got the hang of that silly sleeve-
spring," chuckled the boggie as he poured a bowl of ale for his old companion.
"So why don't you leave off with your white-mice-and-pixie-dust routine and
tell me why you've honored me with your presence? _And_ appetite."
The Wizard paused a moment before speaking to focus his eyes, which had
recently developed a tendency to cross, and looked gravely at Dildo.
"It is time to talk of the Ring," he said.
"Ring, ring? What ring?" said Dildo.
"Thee knows only too well what Ring," said Goodgulf. "The Ring in thy
pocket, Master Bugger."
"Oooooh, _that_ Ring," said Dildo with a show of innocence, "I thought
you meant the ring you leave in my tub after your seances with your rubber
duck."
"This is not the time for the making of jests," said Goodgulf, "for Evil
Ones are afoot in the lands, and danger is abroad."
"But--" began Dildo.
"Strange things are stirring in the East . . ."
"But--"
"Doom is walking the High Road . . ."
"But--"
"There is a dog in the manger . . ."
"But--"
". . . a fly in the ointment . . ."
Dildo clapped his paw frantically over the working mouth of the Wizard.
"You mean . . . you mean," he whispered, "_there's a Balrog in the woodpile?_"
"Mmummffleflug!" affirmed the gagged magician.
Dildo's worst fears had come to pass. After the party, he thought, there
would be much to be decided.
Although only two hundred invitations had been sent, Frito Bugger should
not have been surprised to see several times that number sitting at the huge
troughlike tables under the great pavilion in the Bugger meadows. His young
eyes widened as he moped about observing legions of ravenous muzzles tearing
and snatching at their roasts and joints, oblivious to all else. Few faces
were familiar to him in the grunting, belching press that lined the gorging-
tables, but fewer still were not already completely disguised in masks of
dried gravy and meat sauce. It was only then that the young boggie realized
the truth in Dildo's favorite adage, "It takes a heap o' vittles to gag a
boggie."
It was, nevertheless, a splendid party, decided Frito, as he dodged a
flying hamhock. Great pits had been dug simply to accommodate the mountains of
scorched flesh the guests threw down their well-muscled throats, and his Uncle
Dildo had devised an ingenious series of pipelines to gravity-flow the
hundreds of gallons of heady ale into their limitless paunches. Moodily, Frito
studied his fellow boggies as they noisily crammed their maws with potato
greens and jammed stray bits of greasy flesh into their jackets and coin-
purses "for later." Occasionally an overly zealous diner would fall
unconscious to the ground, much to the amusement of his fellows, who would
take the opportunity to pelt him with garbage. Garbage, that is, that they
weren't stowing away "for later."
All around Frito was the sight and sound of gnashing boggie teeth,
gasping boggie esophagi, and groaning, pulsating boggie bellies. The din of
the gnawing and munching almost drowned out the national anthem of the Sty,
which the hired orchestra was now more or less performing.
"We boggies are a hairy folk
Who like to eat until we choke.
Loving all like friend and brother,
And hardly ever eat each other.
Ever hungry, ever thirsting,
Never stop till belly's bursting.
Chewing chop and pork and muttons,
A merry race of boring gluttons.
Sing: Gobble, goggle, gobble, gobble,
Gobble, gobble, gobble, gobble.
Boggies gather round the table,
Eat as much as you are able.
Gorge yourselves from moon till noon
(Don't forget your plate and spoon).
Anything edible, we've got dibs on,
And hope we all die with our bibs on.
Ever gay, we'll never grow up,
Come! And sing and play and throw up!
Sing: Gobble, gobble, gobble, gobble,
Gobble, gobble, gobble, gobble!"
Frito wandered past the rows of tables, hoping to find the squat,
familiar figure of Spam. "Gobble, gobble, gobble . . . he murmured to himself,
but the words seemed strange. Why did he feel so alone amidst the merrymakers,
why had he always thought himself an intruder in his own village? Frito stared
at the phalanxes of grinding molars and foot-long forked tongues that lolled
from a hundred mouths, pink and wet in the afternoon sun.
At that moment there was a commotion at the head table, where Frito
should have been sitting as a guest of honor. Uncle Dildo was standing on his
bench and making motions for quiet, wishing to make his after-dinner speech.
After a flurry of jeers and the knocking together of a few heads, every fuzzy,
pointed ear and glass eye strained to catch what Dildo had to say.
_My fellow boggies_, he said, _my fellow Poops and Peristalts,
Barrelgutts and Hangbellies, Needlepoints, Liverfiaps, and Nosethingers_.
(Nose_fingers!_ corrected an irate drunk who, true to his family name, had it
jammed into his nostril to the fourth joint.)
_I hope you have all stuffed yourselves until you are about to be sick_.
This customary greeting was met with traditional volleys of farting and
belching, signifying the guests' approval of the fare.
_I have lived in Boggietown, as you all know, most of my life, and I
have developed opinions of you all, and before I leave you all for the last
time, I want to let you all know what you have all meant to me_. The crowd



BORED OF THE RINGS, A Parody of J.R.R. Tolkein's The Lord of the Rings
by Henry N. Beard and Douglas C. Kenney of The Harvard Lampoon
Copyright The Harvard Lampoon, Inc., 1969
Map by William S. Donnell
Illustration on page 66 by Peter W. Johnson
All rights reserved
Published by Roc, an imprint of New American Library, a division of Penguin
Books USA Inc. Previously published in a Signet edition.
Other HARVARD LAMPOON Parodies in the Great Books Series
DAVID MATZOHFIELD
THE MATZOH OF CASTERBRIDGE
TWO YEARS BEFORE THE MATZOH
MATZOH DICK
LITTLE MATZOHS
ROBINSON MATZOH
CRIME AND MATZOHBALLS
HARVARD LAMPOON Parodies in the Not-So-Great Series
VALLEY OF THE MATZOHS
ROSEMATZOH'S BABY
THE MATZOHBITIONIST
Also Available in the HARVARD LAMPOON Series
The smash-hit long-playing album of hilarious rock parodies featuring the
Surprising Cerf.
THE SURPRISING SHEEP AND OTHER MIND EXCURSIONS
"Do you like what you doth see . . . ?" said the voluptuous elf-maiden
as she provocatively parted the folds of her robe to reveal the rounded,
shadowy glories within. Frito's throat was dry, though his head reeled with
desire and ale.
She slipped off the flimsy garment and strode toward the fascinated
boggie unashamed of her nakedness. She ran a perfect hand along his hairy
toes, and he helplessly watched them curl with the fierce insistent wanting of
her.
"Let me make thee more comfortable," she whispered hoarsely, fiddling
with the clasps of his jerkin, loosening his sword belt with a laugh. "Touch
me, oh _touch me_," she crooned.
Frito's hand, as though of its own will, reached out and traced the
delicate swelling of her elf-breast, while the other slowly crept around her
tiny, flawless waist, crushing her to his barrel chest.
"Toes, I _love_ hairy toes," she moaned, forcing him down on the
silvered carpet. Her tiny, pink toes caressed the luxuriant fur of his instep
while Frito's nose sought out the warmth of her precious elf-navel.
"But I'm so small and hairy, and . . . and you're so _beautiful_," Frito
whimpered, slipping clumsily out of his crossed garters.
The elf-maiden said nothing, but only sighed deep in her throat and held
him more firmly to her faunlike body. "There is one thing you must do for me
first," she whispered into one tufted ear.
"Anything," sobbed Frito, growing frantic with his need. "Anything!"
She closed her eyes and then opened them to the ceiling. "The Ring," she
said. "I must have your Ring."
Frito's whole body tensed. "Oh no," he cried, "not that! Anything but .
. . that."
"I must have it," she said both tenderly and fiercely. "I must have the
_Ring!_"
Frito's eyes blurred with tears and confusion. "I can't," he said. "I
mustn't!"
But he knew resolve was no longer strong in him. Slowly, the elf-
maiden's hand inched toward the chain in his vest pocket, closer and closer it
came to the Ring Frito had guarded so faithfully . . .
Contents
FOREWORD
PROLOGUE -- CONCERNING BOGGlES
I It's My Party and I'll Snub Who I Want To
II Three's Company, Four's a Bore
III Indigestion at the Sign of the Goode Eats
IV Finders Keepers, Finders Weepers
V Some Monsters
VI The Riders of Roi-Tan
VII Serutan Spelled Backwards Is Mud
VIII Schlob's Lair and Other Mountain Resorts
IX Minas Troney in the Soup
X Be It Ever So Horrid
FOREWORD
Though we cannot with complete candor state, as does Professor T., that
"the tale grew in the telling," we can allow that this tale (or rather the
necessity of hawking it at a bean a copy) grew in direct proportion to the
ominous dwindling of our bank accounts at the Harvard Trust in Cambridge,
Massachusetts. This loss of turgor in our already emaciated portfolio was not,
in itself, cause for alarm (or "alarum" as Professor T. might aptly put it),
but the resultant threats and cuffed ears received at the hands of creditors
_were_. Thinking long on this, we retired to the reading lounge of our club to
meditate on this vicissitude.
The following autumn found us still in our leather chairs, plagued with
bedsores and appreciably thinner, but still without a puppy biscuit for the
lupine pest lolling around the front door. It was at this point that our
palsied hands came to rest on a dog-eared nineteenth printing of kindly old
Prof. Tolkien's _Lord of the Rings_. Dollar signs in our guileless eyes, we
quickly ascertained that it was still selling like you-know-whats. Armed to
the bicuspids with thesauri and reprints of international libel laws, we
locked ourselves in the _Lampoon_ squash court with enough Fritos and Dr.
Pepper to choke a horse. (Eventually the production of this turkey actually
required the choking of a small horse, but that's another story entirely.)
Spring found us with decayed teeth and several pounds of foolscap
covered with inky, illegible scrawls. A quick rereading proved it to be a
surprisingly brilliant satire on Tolkien's linguistic and mythic structures,
filled with little takeoffs on his use of Norse tales and wicked phoneme
fricatives. A cursory assessment of the manuscript's sales appeal, however,
convinced us that dollarwise the thing would be better employed as tinder for
the library fireplace. The next day, handicapped by near-fatal hangovers and
the loss of all our bodily hair (but that's another story), we sat down at two
supercharged, fuel-injected, 345-hp Smith Coronas and knocked off the opus
you're about to read before tiffin. (And we take tiffin pretty durn early in
_these_ parts, buckaroo.) The result, as you are about to see for yourself,
was a book as readable as Linear A and of about the same literary value as an
autographed gatefold of St. Simon Stylites.
"As for any inner meanings or 'message,' " as Professor T. said in his
foreword, there is none herein except that which you may read into it
yourself. (Hint: What did P. T. Barnum say was "born every minute"?) Through
this book, we hope, the reader may find deeper insights not only into the
nature of literary piracy, but into his own character as well. (Hint: What is
missing from this famous quotation? "A ---- and his ----- soon are ------."
You have three minutes. Ready, set, go!)
_Bored of the Rings_ has been issued in this form as a parody. This is
very important. It is an attempt to satirize the other books, not simply to be
mistaken for them. Thus, we must strongly remind you that _this is not the
real thing!_ So if you're about to purchase this copy thinking it's about the
_Lord_ of the Rings, then you'd better put it right back onto that big pile of
remainders where you found it. Oh, but you've already read this far, so that
must mean that--that you've already _bought_ . . . oh dear . . . oh my . . .
(Tote up another one on the register, Jocko. "_Ching!_")
Lastly, we hope that those of you who _have_ read Prof. Tolkien's
remarkable trilogy already will not be offended by our little spoof of it. All
fooling aside, we consider ourselves honored to be able to make fun of such an
impressive, truly masterful work of genius and imagination. After all, that is
the most important service a book can render, the rendering of enjoyment, in
this case, enjoyment through laughter. And don't trouble yourself too much if
you don't laugh at what you are about to read, for if you perk up your pink
little ears, you may hear the silvery tinkling of merriment in the air, far,
far away. . . .
It's us, buster. _Ching!_
PROLOGUE -- CONCERNING BOGGIES
This book is predominantly concerned with making money, and from its
pages a reader may learn much about the character and the literary integrity
of the authors. Of boggies, however, he will discover next to nothing, since
anyone in the possession of a mere moiety of his marbles will readily concede
that such creatures could exist only in the minds of children of the sort
whose childhoods are spent in wicker baskets, and who grow up to be muggers,
dog thieves, and insurance salesmen. Nonetheless, judging from the sales of
Prof. Tolkien's interesting books, this is a rather sizable group, sporting
the kind of scorchmarks on their pockets that only the spontaneous combustion
of heavy wads of crumpled money can produce. For such readers we have
collected here a few bits of racial slander concerning boggies, culled by
placing Prof. Tolkien's books on the floor in a neat pile and going over them
countless times in a series of skips and short hops. For them we also include
a brief description of the soon-to-be-published-if-this-incredible-dog-sells
account of Dildo Bugger's earlier adventures, called by him _Travels with
Goddam in Search of Lower Middle Earth_, but wisely renamed by the publisher
_Valley of the Trolls_.
Boggies are an unattractive but annoying people whose numbers have
decreased rather precipitously since the bottom fell out of the fairy-tale
market. Slow and sullen, and yet dull, they prefer to lead simple lives of
pastoral squalor. They don't like machines more complicated than a garrote, a
blackjack, or a luger, and they have always been shy of the "Big Folk" or
"Biggers," as they call us. As a rule they now avoid us, except on rare
occasions when a hundred or so will get together to dry-gulch a lone farmer or
hunter. They are a little people, smaller than dwarves, who consider them
puny, sly, and inscrutable and often refer to them as the "boggie peril." They
seldom exceed three feet in height, but are fully capable of overpowering
creatures half their size when they get the drop on them. As for the boggies
of the Sty, with whom we are chiefly concerned, they are unusually drab,
dressing in shiny gray suits with narrow lapels, alpine hats, and string ties.
They wear no shoes, and they walk on a pair of hairy blunt instruments which
can only be called feet because of the position they occupy at the end of
their legs. Their faces have a pimply malevolence that suggests a deep-seated
fondness for making obscene telephone calls, and when they smile, there is
something in the way they wag their foot-long tongues that makes Komodo
dragons gulp with disbelief. They have long, clever fingers of the sort one
normally associates with hands that spend a good deal of time around the necks
of small, furry animals and in other people's pockets, and they are very
skillful at producing intricate and useful things, like loaded dice and booby
traps. They love to eat and drink, play mumblety-peg with dim-witted
quadrupeds, and tell off-color dwarf jokes. They give dull parties and cheap
presents, and they enjoy the same general regard and esteem as a dead otter.
It is plain that boggies are relatives of ours, standing somewhere along
the evolutionary line that leads from rats to wolverines and eventually to
Italians, but what our exact relationship is cannot be told. Their beginnings
lie far back in the Good Old Days when the planet was populated with the kind
of colorful creatures you have to drink a quart of Old Overcoat to see
nowadays. The elves alone preserve any records of that time, and most of them
are filled with elf-stuff, raunchy pictures of naked trolls and sordid
accounts of "orc" orgies. But the boggies had clearly lived in Lower Middle
Earth for a long time before the days of Frito and Dildo, when, like a very
old salami that suddenly makes its presence known, they came to trouble the
councils of the Small and the Silly.
This was all in the Third, or Sheet-Metal, Age of Lower Middle Earth,
and the lands of that age have long since dropped into the sea and their
inhabitants into bell jars at the Ripley's Believe-It-or-Not Odditorium. Of
their original home, the boggies of Frito's time had lost all records, partly
because their level of literacy and intellectual development could have been
equaled by a young blowfish and partly because their fondness for genealogical
studies made them dislike the notion that their elaborately forged family
trees had roots about as steady as Birnham Wood. It is nevertheless clear from
their heavy accents and their fondness for dishes cooked in Brylcreem that
somewhere in their past they went west in steerage. Their legends and old
songs, which deal mainly with oversexed elves and dragons in heat, make
passing mention of the area around the Anacin River, between Plywood and the
Papier-Mache Mountains. There are other records in the great libraries of
Twodor which lend credence to such a notion, old articles in the _Police
Gazette_ and the like. Why they decided to undertake the perilous crossing
into Oleodor is uncertain, though again their songs tell of a shadow that fell
upon the land so that the potatoes grew no more.
Before the crossing of the Papier-Mache Mountains, the boggies had
become divided into three distinct breeds: Clubfoots, Stools, and Naugahydes.
The Clubfoots, by far the most numerous, were swarthy, shifty-eyed, and short;
their hands and feet were as deft as crowbars. They preferred to live in the
hillsides where they could mug rabbits and small goats, and they supported
themselves by hiring out as torpedoes for the local dwarf population. The
Stools were larger and oilier than the Clubfoots, and they lived in the fetid
lands at the mouth and other orifices of the Anacin River, where they raised
yaws and goiters for the river trade. They had long, shiny, black hair, and
they loved knives. Their closest relations were with men, for whom they
handled occasional rubouts. Least numerous were the Naugahydes, who were
taller and wispier than the other boggies and who lived in the forests, where
they maintained a thriving trade in leather goods, sandals, and handicrafts.
They did periodic interior-decorating work for the elves, but spent most of
their time singing lurid folk songs and accosting squirrels.
Once across the mountains, the boggies lost no time establishing
themselves. They shortened their names and elbowed their way into all the
country clubs, dropping their old language and customs like a live grenade. An
unusual easterly migration of men and elves from Oleodor at this same time
makes it possible to fix the date the boggies came on the scene with some
accuracy. In the same year, the 1,623rd year of the Third Age, the Naugahyde
brothers, Brasso and Drano, led a large following of boggies across the
Gallowine River disguised as a band of itinerant graverobbers and took control
from the high King at Ribroast. * [* Either Arglebargle IV or someone else.]
In return for the King's grudging acquiescence, they set up toll booths on the
roads and bridges, waylaid his messengers, and sent him suggestive and
threatening letters. In short, they settled down for a long stay.
Thus began the history of the Sty, and the boggies, with an eye to the
statutes of limitations, started a new calendar dating from the crossing of
the Gallowine. They were quite happy with their new land, and once again they
dropped out of the history of men, an occurrence which was greeted with the
same universal sense of regret as the sudden death of a mad dog. The Sty was
marked with great red splotches on all the AAA maps, and the only people who
ever passed through were either hopelessly lost or completely unhinged. Aside
from these rare visitors, the boggies were left entirely to themselves until
the time of Frito and Dildo. While there was still a King at Ribroast, the
boggies remained nominally his subjects, and to the last battle at Ribroast
with the Slumlord of Borax, they sent some snipers, though who they sided with
is unclear. There the North Kingdom ended, and the boggies returned to their
well-ordered, simple lives, eating and drinking, singing and dancing, and
passing bad checks.
Nonetheless, the easy life of the Sty had left the boggies fundamentally
unchanged, and they were still as hard to kill as a cockroach and as easy to
deal with as a cornered rat. Though likely to attack only in cold blood, and
killing only for money, they remained masters of the low blow and the gang-up.
They were crack shots and very handy with all sorts of equalizers, and any
small, slow, and stupid beast that turned its back on a crowd of boggies was
looking for a stomping.
All boggies originally lived in holes, which is after all hardly
surprising for creatures on a first-name basis with rats. In Dildo's time,
their abodes were for the most part built above ground in the manner of elves
and men, but these still retained many of the features of their traditional
homes and were indistinguishable from the dwellings of those species whose
chief function is to meet their makers, around August, deep in the walls of
old houses. As a rule, they were dumpling-shaped, built of mulch, silt, stray
divots, and other seasonal deposits, often whitewashed by irregular pigeons.
Consequently, most boggie towns looked as though some very large and untidy
creature, perhaps a dragon, had quite recently suffered a series of
disappointing bowel movements in the vicinity.
In the Sty as a whole there were at least a dozen of these curious
settlements, linked by a system of roads, post offices, and a government that
would have been considered unusually crude for a colony of cherrystone clams.
The Sty itself was divided into farthings, half-farthings, and Indian-head
nickels ruled by a mayor who was elected in a flurry of ballot-box stuffing
every Arbor Day. To assist him in his duties there was a rather large police
force which did nothing but extract confessions, mostly from squirrels. Beyond
these few tokens of regulation, the Sty betrayed no signs of government. The
vast majority of the boggies' time was taken up growing food and eating it and
making liquor and drinking it. The rest of it was spent throwing up.
_Of the Finding of the Ring_
As is told in the volume previous to this hound, _Valley of the Trolls_,
Dildo Bugger set out one day with a band of demented dwarves and a discredited
Rosicrucian named Goodgulf to separate a dragon from his hoard of short-term
municipals and convertible debentures. The quest was successful, and the
dragon, a prewar basilisk who smelled like a bus, was taken from behind while
he was clipping coupons. And yet, though many pointless and annoying deeds
were done, this adventure would concern us a good deal less than it does, if
that is possible, except for a bit of petty larceny Dildo did along the way to
keep his hand in. The party was ambushed in the Mealey Mountains by a roving
pack of narcs, and in hurrying to the aid of the embattled dwarves, Dildo
somehow lost his sense of direction and ended up in a cave a considerable
distance away. Finding himself at the mouth of a tunnel which led rather
perceptibly down, Dildo suffered a temporary recurrence of an old inner-ear
problem and went rushing along it to the rescue, as he thought, of his
friends. After running for some time and finding nothing but more tunnel, he
was beginning to feel he had taken a wrong turn somewhere when the passage
abruptly ended in a large cavern.
When Dildo's eyes became adjusted to the pale light, he found that the
grotto was almost filled by a wide, kidneyshaped lake where a nasty-looking
clown named Goddam paddled noisily about on an old rubber sea horse. He ate
raw fish and occasional side orders to travel from the outside world in the
form of lost travelers like Dildo, and he greeted Dildo's unexpected entrance
into his underground sauna in much the same way as he would the sudden arrival
of a Chicken Delight truck. But like anyone with boggie ancestry, Goddam
preferred the subtle approach in assaulting creatures over five inches high
and weighing more than ten pounds, and consequently he challenged Dildo to a
riddle game to gain time. Dildo, who had a sudden attack of amnesia regarding
the fact that the dwarves were being made into chutney outside the cave,
accepted.
They asked each other countless riddles, such as who played the Cisco
Kid and what was Krypton. In the end Dildo won the game. Stumped at last for a
riddle to ask, he cried out, as his hand fell on his snub-nosed .38, "What
have I got in my pocket?" This Goddam failed to answer, and growing impatient,
he paddled up to Dildo, whining, "Let me see, let me see." Dildo obliged by
pulling out the pistol and emptying it in Goddam's direction. The dark spoiled
his aim, and he managed only to deflate the rubber float, leaving Goddam to
flounder. Goddam, who couldn't swim, reached out his hand to Dildo and begged
him to pull him out, and as he did, Dildo noticed an interesting-looking ring
on his finger and pulled it off. He would have finished Goddam off then and
there, but pity stayed his hand. _It's a pity I've run out of bullets_, he
thought, as he went back up the tunnel, pursued by Goddam's cries of rage.
Now it is a curious fact that Dildo never told this story, explaining
that he had gotten the Ring from a pig's nose or a gumball machine--he
couldn't remember which. Goodgulf, who was naturally suspicious, finally
managed with the aid of one of his secret potions* [* Probably Sodium
Pentothal.] to drag the truth out of the boggie, but it disturbed him
considerably that Dildo, who was a perpetual and compulsive liar, would not
have concocted a more grandiose tale from the start. It was then, some fifty
years before our story begins, that Goodgulf first guessed at the Ring's
importance. He was, as usual, dead wrong.
BORED OF THE RINGS
I
IT'S MY PARTY AND I'LL SNUB WHO I WANT TO
When Mr. Dildo Bugger of Bug End grudgingly announced his intention of
throwing a free feed for all the boggies in his part of the Sty, the reaction
in Boggietown was immediate--all through the messy little slum could be heard
squeals of "Swell!" and "Hot puppies, _grub!_" Slavering with anticipation,
several recipients of the invitations devoured their little engraved scrolls,
temporarily deranged by transports of gluttony. After the initial hysteria,
however, the boggies returned to their daily routines and, as is their wont,
lapsed back into a coma.
Nevertheless, jabbering rumors spread through the tatty lean-tos of
recent shipments of whole, bewildered oxen, great barrels of foamy suds,
fireworks, tons of potato greens, and gigantic hogsheads of hogs' heads. Even
huge bales of freshly harvested stingwort, a popular and remarkably powerful
emetic, were carted into town. News of the fête reached even unto the
Gallowine, and the outlying residents of the Sty began to drift into town like
peripatetic leeches, each intent on an orgy of freeloading that would make a
lamprey look like a piker.
No one in the Sty had a more bottomless gullet than that drooling and
senile old gossip Haf Gangree. Haf had spent his life as the town's faithful
beadle, and had long since retired on the proceeds of his thriving blackmail
racket.
Tonight, Fatlip, as he was called, was holding forth at the Bag Eye, a
sleazy dive more than once closed down by Mayor Fastbuck for the dubious
behavior of the establishment's buxom "B-boggies," who were said to be able to
roll a troll before you could say "Rumpelstiltskin." The usual collection of
sodden oafs were there, including Fatlip's son, Spam Gangree, who was
presently celebrating his suspended sentence for the performing of an
unnatural act with an underage female dragon of the opposite sex.
"The whole thing smells pretty queer to me," said Fatlip, as he inhaled
the acrid fumes of his nose-pipe. "I'm meaning the way Mr. Bugger is throwing
this big bash when for years he's not so much as offered a piece o' moldy
cheese to his neighbors." The listeners nodded silently, for this was
certainly the case. Even before Dildo's "strange disappearance" he had kept
his burrow at Bug End guarded by fierce wolverines, and in no one's memory had
he ever contributed a farthing to the Boggietown Annual Mithril Drive for
Homeless Banshees. The fact that no one else ever had either did not excuse
Dildo's famed stinginess. He kept to himself, nurturing only his nephew and a
mania for dirty Scrabble.
"And that boy of his, Frito," added bleary-eyed Nat Clubfoot, "as crazy
as a woodpecker, _that_ one is." This was verified by Old Poop of Backwater,
among others. For who hadn't seen young Frito walking aimlessly through the
crooked streets of Boggietown, carrying little clumps of flowers and muttering
about "truth and beauty" and blurting out silly nonsense like "Cogito ergo
boggum"?
"He's an odd one, all right," said Fatlip, "and I wouldn't be at all
surprised if there weren't something in that talk of his having dwarfish
sympathies." At this point there was an embarrassed silence, particularly from
young Spam, who had never believed the unproved charges that the Buggers were
"scroll-carrying dwarves." As Spam pointed out, real dwarves were shorter and
smelled much worse than boggies.
"That's pretty stout talk," laughed Fatlip, wagging his right foreleg,
"about a body what's only _borrowed_ the name of Bugger!"
"Aye," chimed Clotty Peristalt. "If that Frito weren't the seed of a
crossbow wedding, then I don't know lunch from din-din!" The roisterers all
laughed aloud as they remembered Frito's mother, Dildo's sister, who rashly
plighted her troth to someone from the wrong side of the Gallowine (someone
known to be a hafling, i.e. part boggie, part opossum). Several of the members
took this up and there followed a series of coarse* [* Coarse to anyone except
a boggie, of course.] and rather simpleminded jests at the expense of the
Buggers.
"What's more," said Fatlip, "Dildo's always acting . . . mysterious, if
you know what I mean."
"There are those that say he acts like he's got something to hide, they
say," came a strange voice from the corner shadows. The voice belonged to a
man, a stranger to the boggies of the Bag Eye, a stranger they had
understandably overlooked because of his rather ordinary black cape, black
chain mail, black mace, black dirk, and perfectly normal red glowing fires
where his eyes should have been.
"Them what say that may be right," agreed Fatlip, winking at his cronies
to tell them a punchline was coming. "But them that say such may be wrong,
too." After the general hilarity resulting from the typical Gangree gaff died
down, few had noticed that the stranger had disappeared, leaving only a
strange, barnyard odor behind him.
"But," insisted little Spam, "it _will_ be a good party!"
To this they all agreed, for there was nothing a boggie loved more than
an opportunity to stuff himself until he was violently ill.
The season was cool, early autumn, heralding the annual change in the
boggie dessert from whole watermelons to whole pumpkins. But the younger
boggies who were not yet too obese to trundle their hulkish selves through the
thoroughfares of the town saw evidence of a future treat at the forthcoming
celebration: fireworks!
As the day of the party drew nearer, carts drawn by sturdy plow-goats
rolled through the bullrush gates of Boggietown, laden with boxes and crates,
each bearing the X-rune of Goodgulf the Wizard and various elvish brand names.
The crates were unloaded and opened at Dildo's door, and the mewling
boggies wagged their vestigial tails with wonder at the marvelous contents.
There were clusters of tubes mounted on tripods to shoot rather outsized roman
candles; fat, finned skyrockets, with odd little buttons at the front end,
weighing hundreds of pounds; a revolving cylinder of tubes with a crank to
turn them; and large "cherry bombs" that looked to the children more like
little green pineapples with a ring inserted at the top. Each crate was
labeled with an olive-drab elf-rune signifying that these toys had been made
in the elf-shops of a fairy whose name was something very much like "Amy
Surplus."
Dildo watched the unpacking with a broad grin and sent the young ones
scampering with a vicious swipe of a well-honed toenail. "G'wan, beat it,
scram!" he called merrily after them as they disappeared. He then laughed and
turned back to his boggie-hole, to talk to his guest within.
"This'll be one fireworks display they won't forget," cackled the ageing
boggie to Goodgulf, who was puffing his cigar rather uncomfortably in a chair
of tasteless elvish-modern. The floor around it was littered with four-letter
Scrabble arrangements.
"I am afraid that you must alter your plans for them," said the Wizard,
unsnaggling a clot of tangled hair in his long, dirtygray beard. "You cannot
use extermination as a method for settling your petty grudges with the
townspeople."
Dildo studied his old friend with shrewd appraisal. The old Wizard was
robed in a threadbare magician's cloak long out of fashion, with a few
spangles and sequins hanging precariously at the ragged hems. On his head was
a tall, battered conical hat sloppily covered with glow-in-the-dark cabalistic
signs, alchemical symbols, and some off-color dwarfish graffiti, and in his
gnarled, nail-bitten hands was a bent length of silvered maggotwood that
served doubly as a "magic" wand and backscratcher. At this moment Goodgulf was
using it in its second office as he studied the worn toes of what in these
days would be taken for black basketball sneakers. Hightops.
"Looking a little down-at-the-heels, Gulfie," chuckled Dildo. "Slump in
the old Wizard racket, eh?"
Goodgulf looked pained at the use of his old school nickname, but
adjusted his robes with dignity. "It is no fault of mine that unbelievers
ridicule my powers," he said. "My wonders will yet again make all gape and
quail!" Suddenly he made a pass with his scratcher and the room was plunged
into darkness. Through the blackness Dildo saw that Goodgulf's robes had
become radiant and bright. Odd letters appeared mysteriously on the front of
his robe, reading in elvish, _Will Thee Kiss Me in the Dark, Baby?_
Just as suddenly the light returned to the comfortable burrow, and the
inscription faded from the conjurer's breast. Dildo rolled his eyes upward in
his head and shrugged.
"Really now, Gulfie," said Dildo, "that kind of stuff went out with
high-button greaves. No wonder you've got to moonlight card-sharking at hick
carny shows."
Goodgulf was unperturbed by his friend's sarcasm. "Do not mock powers
beyond your knowledge, impudent hairfoot," he said, as five aces materialized
in his hand, "for you see the efficacy of my enchantments!"
"All I see is that you've finally got the hang of that silly sleeve-
spring," chuckled the boggie as he poured a bowl of ale for his old companion.
"So why don't you leave off with your white-mice-and-pixie-dust routine and
tell me why you've honored me with your presence? _And_ appetite."
The Wizard paused a moment before speaking to focus his eyes, which had
recently developed a tendency to cross, and looked gravely at Dildo.
"It is time to talk of the Ring," he said.
"Ring, ring? What ring?" said Dildo.
"Thee knows only too well what Ring," said Goodgulf. "The Ring in thy
pocket, Master Bugger."
"Oooooh, _that_ Ring," said Dildo with a show of innocence, "I thought
you meant the ring you leave in my tub after your seances with your rubber
duck."
"This is not the time for the making of jests," said Goodgulf, "for Evil
Ones are afoot in the lands, and danger is abroad."
"But--" began Dildo.
"Strange things are stirring in the East . . ."
"But--"
"Doom is walking the High Road . . ."
"But--"
"There is a dog in the manger . . ."
"But--"
". . . a fly in the ointment . . ."
Dildo clapped his paw frantically over the working mouth of the Wizard.
"You mean . . . you mean," he whispered, "_there's a Balrog in the woodpile?_"
"Mmummffleflug!" affirmed the gagged magician.
Dildo's worst fears had come to pass. After the party, he thought, there
would be much to be decided.
Although only two hundred invitations had been sent, Frito Bugger should
not have been surprised to see several times that number sitting at the huge
troughlike tables under the great pavilion in the Bugger meadows. His young
eyes widened as he moped about observing legions of ravenous muzzles tearing
and snatching at their roasts and joints, oblivious to all else. Few faces
were familiar to him in the grunting, belching press that lined the gorging-
tables, but fewer still were not already completely disguised in masks of
dried gravy and meat sauce. It was only then that the young boggie realized
the truth in Dildo's favorite adage, "It takes a heap o' vittles to gag a
boggie."
It was, nevertheless, a splendid party, decided Frito, as he dodged a
flying hamhock. Great pits had been dug simply to accommodate the mountains of
scorched flesh the guests threw down their well-muscled throats, and his Uncle
Dildo had devised an ingenious series of pipelines to gravity-flow the
hundreds of gallons of heady ale into their limitless paunches. Moodily, Frito
studied his fellow boggies as they noisily crammed their maws with potato
greens and jammed stray bits of greasy flesh into their jackets and coin-
purses "for later." Occasionally an overly zealous diner would fall
unconscious to the ground, much to the amusement of his fellows, who would
take the opportunity to pelt him with garbage. Garbage, that is, that they
weren't stowing away "for later."
All around Frito was the sight and sound of gnashing boggie teeth,
gasping boggie esophagi, and groaning, pulsating boggie bellies. The din of
the gnawing and munching almost drowned out the national anthem of the Sty,
which the hired orchestra was now more or less performing.
"We boggies are a hairy folk
Who like to eat until we choke.
Loving all like friend and brother,
And hardly ever eat each other.
Ever hungry, ever thirsting,
Never stop till belly's bursting.
Chewing chop and pork and muttons,
A merry race of boring gluttons.
Sing: Gobble, goggle, gobble, gobble,
Gobble, gobble, gobble, gobble.
Boggies gather round the table,
Eat as much as you are able.
Gorge yourselves from moon till noon
(Don't forget your plate and spoon).
Anything edible, we've got dibs on,
And hope we all die with our bibs on.
Ever gay, we'll never grow up,
Come! And sing and play and throw up!
Sing: Gobble, gobble, gobble, gobble,
Gobble, gobble, gobble, gobble!"
Frito wandered past the rows of tables, hoping to find the squat,
familiar figure of Spam. "Gobble, gobble, gobble . . . he murmured to himself,
but the words seemed strange. Why did he feel so alone amidst the merrymakers,
why had he always thought himself an intruder in his own village? Frito stared
at the phalanxes of grinding molars and foot-long forked tongues that lolled
from a hundred mouths, pink and wet in the afternoon sun.
At that moment there was a commotion at the head table, where Frito
should have been sitting as a guest of honor. Uncle Dildo was standing on his
bench and making motions for quiet, wishing to make his after-dinner speech.
After a flurry of jeers and the knocking together of a few heads, every fuzzy,
pointed ear and glass eye strained to catch what Dildo had to say.
_My fellow boggies_, he said, _my fellow Poops and Peristalts,
Barrelgutts and Hangbellies, Needlepoints, Liverfiaps, and Nosethingers_.
(Nose_fingers!_ corrected an irate drunk who, true to his family name, had it
jammed into his nostril to the fourth joint.)
_I hope you have all stuffed yourselves until you are about to be sick_.
This customary greeting was met with traditional volleys of farting and
belching, signifying the guests' approval of the fare.
_I have lived in Boggietown, as you all know, most of my life, and I
have developed opinions of you all, and before I leave you all for the last
time, I want to let you all know what you have all meant to me_. The crowd
yelled approval, thinking that now was the time for Dildo to distribute the
expected gifts among them. But what followed surprised even Frito, who looked
at his uncle with shocked admiration. He had dropped his pants.
The riot that followed had best be left to the reader's imagination,
lame though it may be. But Dildo, having prepared by prearranged signal to
touch off the fireworks, diverted the rage of the townsboggies. Suddenly there
came a deafening roar and a blinding light. Bellowing with fright, the
vengeful boggies hit the dirt as the cataclysmic tumult thundered and flashed
around them. The noise died down, and the braver members of the lynch mob
looked up in the hot wind that followed at the little hill where Dildo's table
had stood. It was not there any longer. Nor was Dildo.
"You should have seen their faces," laughed Dildo to Goodgulf and Frito.
Safely hidden back in his hole, the old boggie rocked with gleeful triumph.
"They ran like spooked bunnies!"
"Bunnies or boggies, I told you to be careful," said Goodgulf. "You may
have hurt someone sorely."
"No, no," said Dildo, "all the shrapnel blew the other way. And it was a
good way of getting a rise out of 'em before I left this burg for good." Dildo
stood up and began making a final check of his trunks, each carefully
addressed "Riv'n'dell, Estrogen." "Things are getting hot all over and it was
a good way to start getting them off their obese duffs."
"Hot all over?" asked Frito.
"Aye," said Goodgulf. "Evil Ones are afoot in--"
"Not now," interrupted Dildo impatiently. "Just tell Frito what you told
me."
"What your rude uncle means," began the Wizard, "is that there have been
many signs I have seen that bode ill for all, in the Sty and elsewhere."
"Signs?" said Frito.
"Verily and forsooth," replied Goodgulf darkly. "In the past year
strange and fearful wonders I have seen. Fields sown with barley reap
crabgrass and fungus, and even small gardens reject their artichoke hearts.
There has been a hot day in December and a blue moon. Calendars are made with
a month of Sundays and a blue-ribbon Holstein bore alive two insurance
salesmen. The earth splits and the entrails of a goat were found tied in
square knots. The face of the sun blackens and the skies have rained down
soggy potato chips."
"But what do all these things mean?" gasped Frito.
"Beats me," said Goodgulf with a shrug, "but I thought it made good
copy. But there is more. My spies tell me of black musters gathering in the
East, in the dead Lands of Fordor. Hordes of foul narcs and trolls have
multiplied and every day red-eyed wraiths skulk even unto the borders of the
Sty. Soon there will be much terror in the land from the black hand of
Sorhed."
"Sorhed!" cried Frito. "But Sorhed is no more."
"Don't believe everything you hear from the heralds," said Dildo
gravely. "It had been thought that Sorbed was forever destroyed at the Battle
of Brylopad, but it appears this was just wishful thinking. Actually he and
his Nine Nozdrul slipped out of the mopping-up cleverly disguised as a troupe
of gypsy acrobatic dancers. Escaping through the Ngaio Marsh, they pushed
their way into the suburbs of Fordor, where the property values dropped like a
paralyzed falcon. From Fordor they have been renewing their strength ever
since."
"His Dark Carbuncle of Doom has swollen and soon will come to a head,
covering the face of Lower Middle Earth with his ill humors. If we are to
survive, the boil must be soundly lanced before Sorhed begins his own
loathsome squeeze play."
"But how can this be done?" said Frito.
"We must keep him from the one thing that can mean victory," said
Goodgulf. "We must keep from him the Great Ring!"
"And what is this ring?" said Frito, eyeing the possible exits from the
hole.
"Cease thy eyeing of possible exits and I will tell thee," Goodgulf
reprimanded the frightened boggie. "Many ages ago, when boggies were yet
wrestling with the chipmunks over hazel nuts, there were made Rings of Power
in the Elven-Halls. Fashioned with a secret formula now known only to the
makers of toothpastes, these fabulous Rings gave their wearers mickle powers.
There were twenty in all: six for mastery of the lands, five for rule of the
seas, three for dominion of the air, and two for the conquering of bad breath.
With these Rings the people of past ages, both mortals and elves, lived in
peace and grandeur."
"But that only makes sixteen," observed Frito. "What were the other
four?"
"Recalled for factory defects," laughed Dildo. "They tended to short-
circuit in the rain and fry one's finger off."
"Save the Great One," intoned Goodgulf, "for the Great Ring masters all
the others, hence is now the most sought by Sorhed. Its powers and charms are
shrouded in legend, and many works are said to be given to its wearer. It is
said that, according to his powers, the wearer can perform impossible deeds,
control all creatures to his bidding, vanquish invincible armies, converse
with fish and fowl, bend steel in his bare hands, leap tall parapets at a
single bound, win friends and influence people, fix parking tickets--"
"And get himself elected Queen of the May," finished Dildo. "Anything he
pleases!"
"This Great Ring is much desired by all, then," said Frito.
"And they desire a curse!" cried Goodgulf, waving his wand with passion.
"For as surely as the Ring gives power, just as surely it becomes the master!
The wearer slowly changes, and never to the good. He grows mistrustful and
jealous of his power as his heart hardens. He loves overmuch his strengths and
develops stomach ulcers. He becomes logy and irritable, prone to neuritis,
neuralgia, nagging backache, and frequent colds. Soon no one invites him to
parties anymore."
"A most horrible treasure, this Great Ring," said Frito.
"And a horrible burden for he who bears it," said Goodgulf. "For some
unlucky one must carry it from Sorbed's grasp into danger and certain doom.
Someone must take the ring to the Zazu Pits of Fordor, under the evil nose of
the wrathful Sorbed, yet appear so unsuited to his task that he will not be
soon found out."
Frito shivered in sympathy for such an unfortunate. "Then the bearer
should be a complete and utter dunce," he laughed nervously.
Goodgulf glanced at Dildo, who nodded and casually flipped a small,
shining object into Frito's lap. It was a ring.
"Congratulations," said Dildo somberly. "You've just won the booby
prize."
II
THREE'S COMPANY, FOUR'S A BORE
"If I were thee," said Goodgulf, "I would start on thy journey soon."
Frito looked up absently from his rutabaga tea.
"For half a groat you _can_ be me, Goodgulf. I don't remember
volunteering for this Ring business."
"This is not the time for idle banter," said the Wizard, pulling a
rabbit from his battered hat. "Dildo left days ago and awaits you at
Riv'n'dell, as will I. There the fate of the Ring will be decided by all the
peoples of Lower Middle Earth."
Frito pretended to be engrossed in his cup as Spam entered from the
dining room and began tidying up the hole, packing up the last of Dildo's
belongings for storage.
"Lo, Master Frito," he rasped, pulling a greasy forelock. "Just gettin'
the rest o' the stuff together for your uncle what mysteriously disappeared
wi'out a trace. Strange business that, eh?" Seeing that no explanation was
forthcoming, the faithful servant shuffled off into Dildo's bedroom. Goodgulf,
hastily retrieving his rabbit, who was being loudly sick on the carpet,
resumed speaking.
"Are you sure he can be trusted?"
Frito smiled. "Of course. Spam's been a true friend of mine since we
were weanlings at obedience school together."
"And he knows nothing of the Ring?"
"Nothing," said Frito. "I am sure of it."
Goodgulf looked dubiously toward the closed door of the bedroom. "You
still have it, don't you?"
Frito nodded and fished out the chain of paper clips that secured it to
his tattersall bowling shirt.
"Then be careful with it," said Goodgulf, "for it has many strange
powers."
"Like turning my pocket green?" asked the young boggie, turning the
small circlet in his stubby fingers. Fearfully he stared at it, as he had so
many times in the past few days. It was made of bright metal and was encrusted
with strange devices and inscriptions. Around the inner surface was written
something in a language unknown to Frito.
"I can't make out the words," said Frito.
"No, you cannot," said Goodgulf. "They are elvish, in the tongue of
Fordor. A rough translation is:
"This Ring, no other, is made by the elves,
Who'd pawn their own mother to grab it themselves.
Ruler of creeper, mortal, and scallop,
This is a sleeper that packs quite a wallop.
The Power almighty rests in this Lone Ring.
The Power, alrighty, for doing your Own Thing.
If broken or busted, it cannot be remade
If found, send to Sorhed (the postage is prepaid)."
"Shakestoor, it isn't," said Frito, hurriedly putting the Ring back in
his shirt pocket.
"But a dire warning nonetheless," said Goodgulf. "Even now Sorhed's
tools are abroad sniffing for this ring, and the time grows short before they
smell it here. It is the time to set off for Riv'n'dell." The old magician
stood, walked to the bedroom door, and opened it with a jerk. With a heavy
crash, Spam fell forward ear first, his pockets full of Dildo's best mithril-
plate tablespoons. "And this will be your faithful companion." As Goodgulf
passed into the bedroom, Spam grinned sheepishly at Frito with a lop-eared
stupidity Frito had learned to love, futilely trying to hide the spoons in his
pockets.
Ignoring Spam, Frito called fearfully after the Wizard.
"But--but--there are still many preparations I must make! My bags-"
"Have no worry," said Goodgulf as he held out two valises. "I took the
precaution of packing them for you."
The night was as clear as an elfstone, sparkling with starpoints, as
Frito gathered his party in the pasture outside the town. In addition to Spam,
were the twin brothers Moxie and Pepsi Dingleberry, both of whom were noisome
and easily expendable. They were frisking happily in the meadow. Frito called
them to attention, wondering vaguely why Goodgulf had saddled him with two
tail-wagging idiots that no one in the town could trust with a burnt-out
match.
"Let's go, let's go!" cried Moxie.
"Yes, _let's_," added Pepsi, who promptly took one step, fell directly
on his flat head, and managed to bloody his nose.
"Icky!" laughed Moxie.
"_Double_ icky!" wailed Pepsi.
Frito rolled his eyes heavenward. It was going to be a long epic.
Gaining their wandering attention, Frito inspected his companions and
their kits. As he had feared, his orders had been forgotten and everyone had
brought the potato salad. Everyone except Spam, who had stuffed his knapsack
with sleazy novels and Dildo's tablespoons.
At last they set off, following Goodgulf's instructions, along the
yellow-brick Intershire Turnpath toward Whee, the longest leg of their journey
to Riv'n'dell. The Wizard had told them to travel at night unseen along the
side of the Path, to keep their ear to the ground, their eyes peeled and their
noses clean, the last directive weighing rather heavily on Pepsi, under the
circumstances.
For a while they walked along in silence, each lost in what passed in
boggies for thought. But Frito was especially troubled as he considered the
long travels ahead of him. Though his companions frisked gaily along,
playfully kicking and tripping each other, his heart was heavy with dread.
Remembering happier times, he hummed and then sang an ancient dwarf-song he
had learned from the knee of his Uncle Dildo, a song whose maker had lived
before the dawn of Lower Middle Earth. It began:
Heigh-ho, heigh-ho,
It's off to work we go,
Heigh-ho, heigh-ho, heigh-ho, heigh-heigh,
Heigh-ho, heigh-ho . . .
"Good! Good!" yipped Moxie.
"Yes, good! Especially the 'heigh-ho' part," added Pepsi.
"And what do you be callin' that?" asked Spam, who knew few songs. * [*
Clean ones, at least.]
"I call it 'Heigh-ho,' " said Frito.
But he was not cheered by it.
Soon it began to rain and they all caught colds.
The sky in the east was changing from black to pearl-gray as the four
boggies, weary and sneezing their heads off, stopped their march and camped
for the day's rest in a clump of dogwillows many steps from the unprotected
Turnpath. The fatigued travelers stretched out on the sheltered ground and
made a long boggie snack from Frito's store of dwarfloaf, boggie-brewed ale,
and breaded veal cutlets. Then, groaning softly under the weight of their
stomachs, all dropped quickly off to sleep, each dreaming their private boggie
dreams, most of them having to do with veal cutlets.
Frito awoke with a start. It was dusk now, and a sick feeling in his
stomach made him scan the Path from between the branches with terror. Through
the leaves he saw a dark, shadowy bulk in the distance. It moved slowly and
carefully along the rise of the Path, looking like a tall, black rider on some
huge and bloated beast. Outlined against the setting sun, Frito held his
breath as the ominous figure's red eyes searched the land. Once, Frito
thought, the fiery coals had looked right through him, but they blinked
myopically and passed on. The ponderous mount, which appeared to Frito's
startled eyes to be an immense, grossly overfed pig the size of a house,
snuffled and snorted in the wet earth to root out some scent of them. The
others awoke and froze with terror. As they watched, the evil hunter goaded
his mount, emitted one great and sour fart, and passed on. He had not seen
them.
The boggies waited until the distant grunting of the beast had long
quieted before anyone spoke. Frito turned to his companions, who were well
hidden in their foodsacks, and whispered, "It's all right. It's gone."
Doubtfully, Spam emerged. "Bless me if that didn't fright me plumb out
o' me codpiece," laughed Spam weakly. "Most queer and disturbin'!"
"Queer and disturbin'!" came a chorus of voices from the other sacks.
"And even more disturbin' if I keep on a-hearin' me echo every time I
open me chops!" Spam kicked the sacks, each of which yelped, but showed no
sign of disgorging its contents.
"Grouchy, he is," said one.
"Grouchy and mean," said the other.
"I wonder," said Frito, "what and who that terrible creature was."
Spam cast his eyes downward and scratched his chins guiltily. "I'm
guessin' it's one o' those folk the Fatlip told me to remember to be a-
warnin' ye about, Master Frito."
Frito looked at him inquiringly.
"Weeeell," said Spam, pulling his forelock and licking Frito's toes in
apology, "as I recollect now, the Old Lip was atellin' me just before we left,
_And don't be forgettin'_, he says to me, _to tell Master Frito that some
smelly stranger wi' red eyes was askin' after him_. _Stranger?_ says I. _Aye_,
says he, _and when I keeps mum, the fiend up and hisses at me and twirls 'is
black mustache. 'Curses,' the foul thing says, 'foiled again!' And then he
waves 'is billy at me and jumps on 'is pig and hightails it fr& th' Bag Eye a-
shoutin' somethin' very much like 'Hi-yo Slimey!_' _Very strange_, I says. I
guess I was a bit slow t' tell ye, Master Frito."
"Well," said Frito, "there's no time to worry now. I'm not sure, but I
wouldn't be surprised if there's some connection between that stranger and
this foul searcher." Frito knitted his brows, but as usual dropped a stitch.
"In any case," he said, "it's no longer safe to follow the Turnpath to Whee.
We'll have to take the shortcut through the Evilyn Wood."
"The Evilyn Wood! ?" chorused the grubsacks.
"But Master Frito," said Spam, "they say that place is . . . _haunted_!"
"That may be true," said Frito quietly, "but if we stay here, we're all
blue-plate specials for sure."
Frito and Spam hastily decanted the twins with hearty kicks, and the
company policed the remaining fragments of cutlets from the area, spicing the
leftovers with a number of sawbugs. When all was ready, they set out, the
twins emitting highpitched _cheep-cheeps_ in the not altogether vain hope of
passing themselves off in the dark as migrating cockroaches. Due west they
tramped, doggedly locating every possible opportunity for falling flat on
their muzzles, pressing on so that they might reach the safety of the wood
before the next sunrise. Frito had calculated that they traveled over two
leagues in as many days, not bad for a boggie but still not fast enough. They
had to take the wood in stride to be at Whee by the next day.
Silently they walked, save for a slight whimpering from Pepsi. _The
silly nit's bloodied his pug again_, thought Frito, _and Moxie's getting
cranky_. But as the long night passed and the east brightened, the flat ground
gave way to hummocks, hillocks, and buttocks of spongy, soft earth the color
of calves' brains. As the company stumbled on, the underbrush changed to
saplings and then to huge, irritable-looking trees, blasted and scored by
wind, weather, and arthritis. Soon they were swallowed up from the dawn light,
and the new night covered them like a rank locker-room towel.
Many years before it had been a happy, pleasant forest of well-pruned
puswillows, spruce spruces, and natty pines, the frolicking place of drone-
moles and slightly rabid chipmunks. But now the trees had grown old, clotted
with sneezemoss and toemold, and the Nattily Wood had become the crotchety old
Evilyn.
"We should be in Whee by morning," said Frito as they paused for a light
snack of potato salad. But the malevolent susurrus in the trees over the small
company bade them not tarry there long. They quickly moved on, careful to
avoid the occasional barrages of droppings that fell from unseen, yet annoyed
tenants in the branches above.
After several hours of mucking about, the boggies fell exhausted to the
ground. The ground was unfamiliar to Frito, and he had long since muddled his
sense of direction. "We should have been out of these woods by now," he said
wornedly. "I think we're lost."
Spam looked at his rapier-sharp toenails in dejection, but then
brightened. "That may be true, Master Frito," he said. "But don't be a-
worryin' about it. Somebody else was here only a few hours ago, by the looks
o' the camp. An' they was gobblin' tater salad just like us!"
Frito studied these telltale clues with care. It was true, someone had
been here only a few hours before, lunching on boggie grub. "Perhaps we can
follow their trail and find the way out of here." And tired as they were, they
pushed on again.
On and on they trod, vainly calling after the folk whose evidence of
passage lay after them: a scrap of breaded veal cutlet, a sleazy boggie novel,
one of Dildo's tablespoons (_What a coincidence_, Frito thought). But no
boggies. They did come across a large rabbit with a cheap pocket watch who was
pursued by some nut of a girl, another kid being viciously mugged by three
furious grizzlies ("We'd better not get involved," said Frito wisely), and a
deserted and flyspecked gingerbread bungalow with a "To Let" sign on the
marzipan door. But no clue to a way out.
Limp with fatigue, the four finally dropped in their tracks. It was
already late afternoon in the gloomy woods, and they could go no farther
without a snooze. As if lulled by a potion, the hairy little beggars curled up
in furry balls and, one by one, conked off under the protective boughs of a
huge, quivering tree.
Spam did not at first realize he was awake. He had felt something soft
and rubbery pull at his clothes, but he thought it a longing dream of those
reptilian pleasures he had so recently enjoyed back in the Sty. But now he was
certain he had heard a distinct _sucking_ sound and a tearing of cloth. His
eyes popped open to see himself stark naked and bound head and paw by the
fleshy roots of the tree. Screaming his fool head off, he woke his fellows,
likewise hogtied and stripped clean by the writhing plant, which was giving
off a distinct _cooing_ noise. The strange tree hummed to itself, ever
tightening its hold. As the boggies watched with revulsion, the crooning
tossed salad dipped down the orangy, liplike flowers at its tips. The bulbous
pods drew nearer, making revolting _smacking_ and _smooching_ noises as they
began to fasten themselves to their helpless bodies. Locked in a foul embrace,
the boggies would soon be hickeyed to death. Summoning their last strength,
they all cried for help.
"Help, help!" they cried.
But no one answered. The fat orange blossoms ranged over the helpless
boggie bodies, squirming and moaning with desire. A bloated blossom fastened
to Spam's boggie belly and began its relentless sucking motion; he felt his
flesh drawn up to the center of the flower. Then, as Sam looked on in horror,
the petals released with a resounding _pop!_, leaving a dark, malignant weal
where the horrid pucker had been. Spam, powerless to save himself or his
companions, watched terrified as the nowpanting sepals prepared to administer
their final, deadly soul kiss.
But just as the long, red stamen descended to its unspeakable task, Spam
thought he heard the snatch of a lilting song not far distant, and growing
louder! It was a muddled, drowsy voice that sang words that were not words to
Spam's ears:
"Toke-a-lid! Smoke-a-lid! Pop the mescalino!
Stash the hash! Gonna crash! Make mine methedrino!
Hop a hill! Pop a pill! For Old Tim Benzedrino!"
Though mad with fear, all strained to the rising melody sung by someone
who sounded like he had terminal mumps:
"Snorting, sporting! Speeding through the arbor,
Pushing till the folk you burn toss you in the harbor!
Screeching like a dying loon, zooming like the thrush!
Follow me and very soon, your mind will turn to mush!
Higher than the nowhere birds grooving in the air,
We'll open up a sandal shop where everyone will share!
Flower folk are springing up, wearing bead and boot,
And if you down me you can stick a flower up your snoot!
To Love and Peace and Brotherhood we all can snort a toast,
And if the heat is on again, we'll all split to the Coast!"
Suddenly a brightly colored figure burst through the foliage, swathed in
a long mantle of hair the consistency of muchchewed Turkish taffy. It was
something like a man, but not much; it stood six feet tall, but could not have
weighed more than thirty-five pounds, dirt included. Standing with his long
arms dangling almost to the ground, the singer's body was covered with a
pattern of startling hues, ranging from schizoid red to psychopathique azure.
Around his pipestem neck hung a dozen strands of beaded charms and from the
center, an amulet imprinted with the elf-rune _Kelvinator_. Through the oily
snaggles of hair stared two huge eyeballs that bulged from their sockets, so
bloodshot that they appeared more like two baseballs of very lean bacon.
"Ooooooooooh, wow!" said the creature, assaying the situation quickly.
Then, half loping, half rolling to the foot of the murderous tree, he sat on
his meatless haunches and peered at it with his colorless, saucerlike irises;
he chanted an incantation that sounded to Frito like a hacking cough:
"Oh uncool bush! Unloose this passle
Of furry cats that you hassle!
Tho' by speed my brain's destroyed,
I'm not half this paranoid!
So cease this bummer, down the freak-out,
Let caps and joints cause brains to leak-out!
These cats are groovy here among us,
So leave 'em be, you uptight fungus!"
Thus speaking, the withered apparition raised his spidery hand in a two-
fingered "V" sign and uttered an eldritch spell:
"Tim, Tim, Benzedrine!
Hash! Boo! Valvoline!
Clean! Clean! Clean for Gene!
First, second, neutral, park,
_Hie thee hence_, you leafy narc!"
The towering plant shivered and the coils fell from its victims like
yesterday's macaroni, and they sprang free with joyful yelps. As they watched
with fascination, the great green menace whimpered like a nursling and sucked
its own pistils with ill temper. The boggies retrieved their garments, and
Frito sighed with relief to find the Ring still firmly Bostiched to his
pocket.
"Oh thank you," they all squealed, wagging their tails, "thank you,
thank you!" But their savior said nothing. As if unaware of their presence, he
stiffened like the tree and gasped, "Gah gah gah" while his pupils opened and
closed like nervous umbrellas. His knees buckled and unbuckled, then buckled
again and he fell to the mossy earth in a ball of frantically thrashing hair.
He foamed at the mouth and screamed, "Oh God get 'em off me! They're all over
the place, and green! Argh! Org! _OhGodOhGodOhGodOhGodOhGodOhGod!_" He slapped
at his hair and body hysterically.
Frito blinked with astonishment and grabbed his Ring, but did not put it
on. Spam, stooping over the prostrate freak, smiled and offered his hand.
"Beggin' your leave," he said, "can you tell us where--"
"Oh no no _no!_ Look at all of 'em! All over the place! _Keep 'em away
from me!_"
"Keep who away?" asked Moxie politely.
"_Them!_" screamed the stricken stranger, pointing to his own head. He
then sprang to his horny feet and ran directly at the trunk of the hickey tree
and, charging full tilt with his head lowered, butted it a mighty lick, and,
before the startled eyes of the boggies, passed out cold. Frito filled his
narrow-brimmed hat with clear water from a nearby trickle and approached him,
but the stunned figure opened his marbled eyes and gave another high-pitched
scream.
"No, no, not _water!_"
Frito jumped back with fright and the skinny creature wobbled to his
feet and knuckles.
"But thangs loads anyhoo," said the stranger, "the rush always arfects
me like dat." Offering a filthy hand, the oddspeaking stranger smiled a
toothless grin. "Tim Benzedrine, ad yen serbice."
Frito and the rest solemnly introduced themselves, all still casting a
worried eye toward the kissing plant, which was sticking out its stamen at
them.
"Oh wow, doan' worby about him," wheezed Tim, "he just sulking. Yoo cats
noo aroun' here?"
Frito guardedly told him that they were on their way to Whee, but had
become lost. "Can you tell us how to find our way there?"
"Oh wow, oh sure," laughed Tim, "thad's easy. But led's split to my pad
firz, I wan' yoo meet my chick. She name Hashberry."
The boggies agreed, for their stores of potato salad were gone.
Gathering their packs, they curiously followed after the wildly zigzagging
Benzedrine, who occasionally halted to rap with a likely looking rock or
stump, giving them time to catch up. As they circled through the menacing
trees aimlessly, Tim Benzedrine's throat croaked merrily:
"O slender as a speeding freak! Spaced-out groovy tripper!
O mush-brained maid whose mind decays with every pill I slip her!
O mind-blown fair farina-head, friend of birds and beetles!
O skinny wraith whose fingernails are hypodermic needles!
O tangled locks and painted bod! Pupils big as eggs!
O flower-maid who never bathes or even shaves her legs!
O softened mind that wanders wherever moon above leads!
O how I dig thee, Hashberry, from nose to sleazy lovebeads!"
A few moments later they broke into a clearing on a low hill. There was
a ramshackle hovel shaped like a rubber boot with a little chimney that
emitted a thick fog of sick-looking green smoke.
"Oh wow," squeaked Tim, "she's home!" Led by Tim, the company approached
the unprepossessing little hut. A flashing white light blinked from its only
window, at the top. As they stepped over the threshold, littered with
cigarette papers, broken pipes, and burnt-out brain cells, Tim called:
"I've brought four with me to crash,
So now's the time to pass the stash."
From the smoky depths an answering voice returned:
"Then celebrate and take a toke,
To make us giggle, gag and choke!"
At first Frito saw nothing amid the iridescent wallpaper and strobe
candles but what appeared to be a heap of filthy cleaning rags. But then the
pile spoke again:





decreased rather precipitously since the bottom fell out of the fairy-tale
market. Slow and sullen, and yet dull, they prefer to lead simple lives of
pastoral squalor. They don't like machines more complicated than a garrote, a
blackjack, or a luger, and they have always been shy of the "Big Folk" or
"Biggers," as they call us. As a rule they now avoid us, except on rare
occasions when a hundred or so will get together to dry-gulch a lone farmer or
hunter. They are a little people, smaller than dwarves, who consider them
puny, sly, and inscrutable and often refer to them as the "boggie peril." They
seldom exceed three feet in height, but are fully capable of overpowering
creatures half their size when they get the drop on them. As for the boggies
of the Sty, with whom we are chiefly concerned, they are unusually drab,
dressing in shiny gray suits with narrow lapels, alpine hats, and string ties.
They wear no shoes, and they walk on a pair of hairy blunt instruments which
can only be called feet because of the position they occupy at the end of
their legs. Their faces have a pimply malevolence that suggests a deep-seated
fondness for making obscene telephone calls, and when they smile, there is
something in the way they wag their foot-long tongues that makes Komodo
dragons gulp with disbelief. They have long, clever fingers of the sort one
normally associates with hands that spend a good deal of time around the necks
of small, furry animals and in other people's pockets, and they are very
skillful at producing intricate and useful things, like loaded dice and booby
traps. They love to eat and drink, play mumblety-peg with dim-witted
quadrupeds, and tell off-color dwarf jokes. They give dull parties and cheap
presents, and they enjoy the same general regard and esteem as a dead otter.
It is plain that boggies are relatives of ours, standing somewhere along
the evolutionary line that leads from rats to wolverines and eventually to
Italians, but what our exact relationship is cannot be told. Their beginnings
lie far back in the Good Old Days when the planet was populated with the kind
of colorful creatures you have to drink a quart of Old Overcoat to see
nowadays. The elves alone preserve any records of that time, and most of them
are filled with elf-stuff, raunchy pictures of naked trolls and sordid
accounts of "orc" orgies. But the boggies had clearly lived in Lower Middle
Earth for a long time before the days of Frito and Dildo, when, like a very
old salami that suddenly makes its presence known, they came to trouble the
councils of the Small and the Silly.
This was all in the Third, or Sheet-Metal, Age of Lower Middle Earth,
and the lands of that age have long since dropped into the sea and their
inhabitants into bell jars at the Ripley's Believe-It-or-Not Odditorium. Of
their original home, the boggies of Frito's time had lost all records, partly
because their level of literacy and intellectual development could have been
equaled by a young blowfish and partly because their fondness for genealogical
studies made them dislike the notion that their elaborately forged family
trees had roots about as steady as Birnham Wood. It is nevertheless clear from
their heavy accents and their fondness for dishes cooked in Brylcreem that
somewhere in their past they went west in steerage. Their legends and old
songs, which deal mainly with oversexed elves and dragons in heat, make
passing mention of the area around the Anacin River, between Plywood and the
Papier-Mache Mountains. There are other records in the great libraries of
Twodor which lend credence to such a notion, old articles in the _Police
Gazette_ and the like. Why they decided to undertake the perilous crossing
into Oleodor is uncertain, though again their songs tell of a shadow that fell
upon the land so that the potatoes grew no more.
Before the crossing of the Papier-Mache Mountains, the boggies had
become divided into three distinct breeds: Clubfoots, Stools, and Naugahydes.
The Clubfoots, by far the most numerous, were swarthy, shifty-eyed, and short;
their hands and feet were as deft as crowbars. They preferred to live in the
hillsides where they could mug rabbits and small goats, and they supported
themselves by hiring out as torpedoes for the local dwarf population. The
Stools were larger and oilier than the Clubfoots, and they lived in the fetid
lands at the mouth and other orifices of the Anacin River, where they raised
yaws and goiters for the river trade. They had long, shiny, black hair, and
they loved knives. Their closest relations were with men, for whom they
handled occasional rubouts. Least numerous were the Naugahydes, who were
taller and wispier than the other boggies and who lived in the forests, where
they maintained a thriving trade in leather goods, sandals, and handicrafts.
They did periodic interior-decorating work for the elves, but spent most of
their time singing lurid folk songs and accosting squirrels.
Once across the mountains, the boggies lost no time establishing
themselves. They shortened their names and elbowed their way into all the
country clubs, dropping their old language and customs like a live grenade. An
unusual easterly migration of men and elves from Oleodor at this same time
makes it possible to fix the date the boggies came on the scene with some
accuracy. In the same year, the 1,623rd year of the Third Age, the Naugahyde
brothers, Brasso and Drano, led a large following of boggies across the
Gallowine River disguised as a band of itinerant graverobbers and took control
from the high King at Ribroast. * [* Either Arglebargle IV or someone else.]
In return for the King's grudging acquiescence, they set up toll booths on the
roads and bridges, waylaid his messengers, and sent him suggestive and
threatening letters. In short, they settled down for a long stay.
Thus began the history of the Sty, and the boggies, with an eye to the
statutes of limitations, started a new calendar dating from the crossing of
the Gallowine. They were quite happy with their new land, and once again they
dropped out of the history of men, an occurrence which was greeted with the
same universal sense of regret as the sudden death of a mad dog. The Sty was
marked with great red splotches on all the AAA maps, and the only people who
ever passed through were either hopelessly lost or completely unhinged. Aside
from these rare visitors, the boggies were left entirely to themselves until
the time of Frito and Dildo. While there was still a King at Ribroast, the
boggies remained nominally his subjects, and to the last battle at Ribroast
with the Slumlord of Borax, they sent some snipers, though who they sided with
is unclear. There the North Kingdom ended, and the boggies returned to their
well-ordered, simple lives, eating and drinking, singing and dancing, and
passing bad checks.
Nonetheless, the easy life of the Sty had left the boggies fundamentally
unchanged, and they were still as hard to kill as a cockroach and as easy to
deal with as a cornered rat. Though likely to attack only in cold blood, and
killing only for money, they remained masters of the low blow and the gang-up.
They were crack shots and very handy with all sorts of equalizers, and any
small, slow, and stupid beast that turned its back on a crowd of boggies was
looking for a stomping.
All boggies originally lived in holes, which is after all hardly
surprising for creatures on a first-name basis with rats. In Dildo's time,
their abodes were for the most part built above ground in the manner of elves
and men, but these still retained many of the features of their traditional
homes and were indistinguishable from the dwellings of those species whose
chief function is to meet their makers, around August, deep in the walls of
old houses. As a rule, they were dumpling-shaped, built of mulch, silt, stray
divots, and other seasonal deposits, often whitewashed by irregular pigeons.
Consequently, most boggie towns looked as though some very large and untidy
creature, perhaps a dragon, had quite recently suffered a series of
disappointing bowel movements in the vicinity.
In the Sty as a whole there were at least a dozen of these curious
settlements, linked by a system of roads, post offices, and a government that
would have been considered unusually crude for a colony of cherrystone clams.
The Sty itself was divided into farthings, half-farthings, and Indian-head
nickels ruled by a mayor who was elected in a flurry of ballot-box stuffing
every Arbor Day. To assist him in his duties there was a rather large police
force which did nothing but extract confessions, mostly from squirrels. Beyond
these few tokens of regulation, the Sty betrayed no signs of government. The
vast majority of the boggies' time was taken up growing food and eating it and
making liquor and drinking it. The rest of it was spent throwing up.
_Of the Finding of the Ring_
As is told in the volume previous to this hound, _Valley of the Trolls_,
Dildo Bugger set out one day with a band of demented dwarves and a discredited
Rosicrucian named Goodgulf to separate a dragon from his hoard of short-term
municipals and convertible debentures. The quest was successful, and the
dragon, a prewar basilisk who smelled like a bus, was taken from behind while
he was clipping coupons. And yet, though many pointless and annoying deeds
were done, this adventure would concern us a good deal less than it does, if
that is possible, except for a bit of petty larceny Dildo did along the way to
keep his hand in. The party was ambushed in the Mealey Mountains by a roving
pack of narcs, and in hurrying to the aid of the embattled dwarves, Dildo
somehow lost his sense of direction and ended up in a cave a considerable
distance away. Finding himself at the mouth of a tunnel which led rather
perceptibly down, Dildo suffered a temporary recurrence of an old inner-ear
problem and went rushing along it to the rescue, as he thought, of his
friends. After running for some time and finding nothing but more tunnel, he
was beginning to feel he had taken a wrong turn somewhere when the passage
abruptly ended in a large cavern.
When Dildo's eyes became adjusted to the pale light, he found that the
grotto was almost filled by a wide, kidneyshaped lake where a nasty-looking
clown named Goddam paddled noisily about on an old rubber sea horse. He ate
raw fish and occasional side orders to travel from the outside world in the
form of lost travelers like Dildo, and he greeted Dildo's unexpected entrance
into his underground sauna in much the same way as he would the sudden arrival
of a Chicken Delight truck. But like anyone with boggie ancestry, Goddam
preferred the subtle approach in assaulting creatures over five inches high
and weighing more than ten pounds, and consequently he challenged Dildo to a
riddle game to gain time. Dildo, who had a sudden attack of amnesia regarding
the fact that the dwarves were being made into chutney outside the cave,
accepted.
They asked each other countless riddles, such as who played the Cisco
Kid and what was Krypton. In the end Dildo won the game. Stumped at last for a
riddle to ask, he cried out, as his hand fell on his snub-nosed .38, "What
have I got in my pocket?" This Goddam failed to answer, and growing impatient,
he paddled up to Dildo, whining, "Let me see, let me see." Dildo obliged by
pulling out the pistol and emptying it in Goddam's direction. The dark spoiled
his aim, and he managed only to deflate the rubber float, leaving Goddam to
flounder. Goddam, who couldn't swim, reached out his hand to Dildo and begged
him to pull him out, and as he did, Dildo noticed an interesting-looking ring
on his finger and pulled it off. He would have finished Goddam off then and
there, but pity stayed his hand. _It's a pity I've run out of bullets_, he
thought, as he went back up the tunnel, pursued by Goddam's cries of rage.
Now it is a curious fact that Dildo never told this story, explaining
that he had gotten the Ring from a pig's nose or a gumball machine--he
couldn't remember which. Goodgulf, who was naturally suspicious, finally
managed with the aid of one of his secret potions* [* Probably Sodium
Pentothal.] to drag the truth out of the boggie, but it disturbed him
considerably that Dildo, who was a perpetual and compulsive liar, would not
have concocted a more grandiose tale from the start. It was then, some fifty
years before our story begins, that Goodgulf first guessed at the Ring's
importance. He was, as usual, dead wrong.
BORED OF THE RINGS
I
IT'S MY PARTY AND I'LL SNUB WHO I WANT TO
When Mr. Dildo Bugger of Bug End grudgingly announced his intention of
throwing a free feed for all the boggies in his part of the Sty, the reaction
in Boggietown was immediate--all through the messy little slum could be heard
squeals of "Swell!" and "Hot puppies, _grub!_" Slavering with anticipation,
several recipients of the invitations devoured their little engraved scrolls,
temporarily deranged by transports of gluttony. After the initial hysteria,
however, the boggies returned to their daily routines and, as is their wont,
lapsed back into a coma.
Nevertheless, jabbering rumors spread through the tatty lean-tos of
recent shipments of whole, bewildered oxen, great barrels of foamy suds,
fireworks, tons of potato greens, and gigantic hogsheads of hogs' heads. Even
huge bales of freshly harvested stingwort, a popular and remarkably powerful
emetic, were carted into town. News of the fête reached even unto the
Gallowine, and the outlying residents of the Sty began to drift into town like
peripatetic leeches, each intent on an orgy of freeloading that would make a
lamprey look like a piker.
No one in the Sty had a more bottomless gullet than that drooling and
senile old gossip Haf Gangree. Haf had spent his life as the town's faithful
beadle, and had long since retired on the proceeds of his thriving blackmail
racket.
Tonight, Fatlip, as he was called, was holding forth at the Bag Eye, a
sleazy dive more than once closed down by Mayor Fastbuck for the dubious
behavior of the establishment's buxom "B-boggies," who were said to be able to
roll a troll before you could say "Rumpelstiltskin." The usual collection of
sodden oafs were there, including Fatlip's son, Spam Gangree, who was
presently celebrating his suspended sentence for the performing of an
unnatural act with an underage female dragon of the opposite sex.
"The whole thing smells pretty queer to me," said Fatlip, as he inhaled
the acrid fumes of his nose-pipe. "I'm meaning the way Mr. Bugger is throwing
this big bash when for years he's not so much as offered a piece o' moldy
cheese to his neighbors." The listeners nodded silently, for this was
certainly the case. Even before Dildo's "strange disappearance" he had kept
his burrow at Bug End guarded by fierce wolverines, and in no one's memory had
he ever contributed a farthing to the Boggietown Annual Mithril Drive for
Homeless Banshees. The fact that no one else ever had either did not excuse
Dildo's famed stinginess. He kept to himself, nurturing only his nephew and a
mania for dirty Scrabble.
"And that boy of his, Frito," added bleary-eyed Nat Clubfoot, "as crazy
as a woodpecker, _that_ one is." This was verified by Old Poop of Backwater,
among others. For who hadn't seen young Frito walking aimlessly through the
crooked streets of Boggietown, carrying little clumps of flowers and muttering
about "truth and beauty" and blurting out silly nonsense like "Cogito ergo
boggum"?
"He's an odd one, all right," said Fatlip, "and I wouldn't be at all
surprised if there weren't something in that talk of his having dwarfish
sympathies." At this point there was an embarrassed silence, particularly from
young Spam, who had never believed the unproved charges that the Buggers were
"scroll-carrying dwarves." As Spam pointed out, real dwarves were shorter and
smelled much worse than boggies.
"That's pretty stout talk," laughed Fatlip, wagging his right foreleg,
"about a body what's only _borrowed_ the name of Bugger!"
"Aye," chimed Clotty Peristalt. "If that Frito weren't the seed of a
crossbow wedding, then I don't know lunch from din-din!" The roisterers all
laughed aloud as they remembered Frito's mother, Dildo's sister, who rashly
plighted her troth to someone from the wrong side of the Gallowine (someone
known to be a hafling, i.e. part boggie, part opossum). Several of the members
took this up and there followed a series of coarse* [* Coarse to anyone except
a boggie, of course.] and rather simpleminded jests at the expense of the
Buggers.
"What's more," said Fatlip, "Dildo's always acting . . . mysterious, if
you know what I mean."
"There are those that say he acts like he's got something to hide, they
say," came a strange voice from the corner shadows. The voice belonged to a
man, a stranger to the boggies of the Bag Eye, a stranger they had
understandably overlooked because of his rather ordinary black cape, black
chain mail, black mace, black dirk, and perfectly normal red glowing fires
where his eyes should have been.
"Them what say that may be right," agreed Fatlip, winking at his cronies
to tell them a punchline was coming. "But them that say such may be wrong,
too." After the general hilarity resulting from the typical Gangree gaff died
down, few had noticed that the stranger had disappeared, leaving only a
strange, barnyard odor behind him.
"But," insisted little Spam, "it _will_ be a good party!"
To this they all agreed, for there was nothing a boggie loved more than
an opportunity to stuff himself until he was violently ill.
The season was cool, early autumn, heralding the annual change in the
boggie dessert from whole watermelons to whole pumpkins. But the younger
boggies who were not yet too obese to trundle their hulkish selves through the
thoroughfares of the town saw evidence of a future treat at the forthcoming
celebration: fireworks!
As the day of the party drew nearer, carts drawn by sturdy plow-goats
rolled through the bullrush gates of Boggietown, laden with boxes and crates,
each bearing the X-rune of Goodgulf the Wizard and various elvish brand names.
The crates were unloaded and opened at Dildo's door, and the mewling
boggies wagged their vestigial tails with wonder at the marvelous contents.
There were clusters of tubes mounted on tripods to shoot rather outsized roman
candles; fat, finned skyrockets, with odd little buttons at the front end,
weighing hundreds of pounds; a revolving cylinder of tubes with a crank to
turn them; and large "cherry bombs" that looked to the children more like
little green pineapples with a ring inserted at the top. Each crate was
labeled with an olive-drab elf-rune signifying that these toys had been made
in the elf-shops of a fairy whose name was something very much like "Amy
Surplus."
Dildo watched the unpacking with a broad grin and sent the young ones
scampering with a vicious swipe of a well-honed toenail. "G'wan, beat it,
scram!" he called merrily after them as they disappeared. He then laughed and
turned back to his boggie-hole, to talk to his guest within.
"This'll be one fireworks display they won't forget," cackled the ageing
boggie to Goodgulf, who was puffing his cigar rather uncomfortably in a chair
of tasteless elvish-modern. The floor around it was littered with four-letter
Scrabble arrangements.
"I am afraid that you must alter your plans for them," said the Wizard,
unsnaggling a clot of tangled hair in his long, dirtygray beard. "You cannot
use extermination as a method for settling your petty grudges with the
townspeople."
Dildo studied his old friend with shrewd appraisal. The old Wizard was
robed in a threadbare magician's cloak long out of fashion, with a few
spangles and sequins hanging precariously at the ragged hems. On his head was
a tall, battered conical hat sloppily covered with glow-in-the-dark cabalistic
signs, alchemical symbols, and some off-color dwarfish graffiti, and in his
gnarled, nail-bitten hands was a bent length of silvered maggotwood that
served doubly as a "magic" wand and backscratcher. At this moment Goodgulf was
using it in its second office as he studied the worn toes of what in these
days would be taken for black basketball sneakers. Hightops.
"Looking a little down-at-the-heels, Gulfie," chuckled Dildo. "Slump in
the old Wizard racket, eh?"
Goodgulf looked pained at the use of his old school nickname, but
adjusted his robes with dignity. "It is no fault of mine that unbelievers
ridicule my powers," he said. "My wonders will yet again make all gape and
quail!" Suddenly he made a pass with his scratcher and the room was plunged
into darkness. Through the blackness Dildo saw that Goodgulf's robes had
become radiant and bright. Odd letters appeared mysteriously on the front of
his robe, reading in elvish, _Will Thee Kiss Me in the Dark, Baby?_
Just as suddenly the light returned to the comfortable burrow, and the
inscription faded from the conjurer's breast. Dildo rolled his eyes upward in
his head and shrugged.
"Really now, Gulfie," said Dildo, "that kind of stuff went out with
high-button greaves. No wonder you've got to moonlight card-sharking at hick
carny shows."
Goodgulf was unperturbed by his friend's sarcasm. "Do not mock powers
beyond your knowledge, impudent hairfoot," he said, as five aces materialized
in his hand, "for you see the efficacy of my enchantments!"
"All I see is that you've finally got the hang of that silly sleeve-
spring," chuckled the boggie as he poured a bowl of ale for his old companion.
"So why don't you leave off with your white-mice-and-pixie-dust routine and
tell me why you've honored me with your presence? _And_ appetite."
The Wizard paused a moment before speaking to focus his eyes, which had
recently developed a tendency to cross, and looked gravely at Dildo.
"It is time to talk of the Ring," he said.
"Ring, ring? What ring?" said Dildo.
"Thee knows only too well what Ring," said Goodgulf. "The Ring in thy
pocket, Master Bugger."
"Oooooh, _that_ Ring," said Dildo with a show of innocence, "I thought
you meant the ring you leave in my tub after your seances with your rubber
duck."
"This is not the time for the making of jests," said Goodgulf, "for Evil
Ones are afoot in the lands, and danger is abroad."
"But--" began Dildo.
"Strange things are stirring in the East . . ."
"But--"
"Doom is walking the High Road . . ."
"But--"
"There is a dog in the manger . . ."
"But--"
". . . a fly in the ointment . . ."
Dildo clapped his paw frantically over the working mouth of the Wizard.
"You mean . . . you mean," he whispered, "_there's a Balrog in the woodpile?_"
"Mmummffleflug!" affirmed the gagged magician.
Dildo's worst fears had come to pass. After the party, he thought, there
would be much to be decided.
Although only two hundred invitations had been sent, Frito Bugger should
not have been surprised to see several times that number sitting at the huge
troughlike tables under the great pavilion in the Bugger meadows. His young
eyes widened as he moped about observing legions of ravenous muzzles tearing
and snatching at their roasts and joints, oblivious to all else. Few faces
were familiar to him in the grunting, belching press that lined the gorging-
tables, but fewer still were not already completely disguised in masks of
dried gravy and meat sauce. It was only then that the young boggie realized
the truth in Dildo's favorite adage, "It takes a heap o' vittles to gag a
boggie."
It was, nevertheless, a splendid party, decided Frito, as he dodged a
flying hamhock. Great pits had been dug simply to accommodate the mountains of
scorched flesh the guests threw down their well-muscled throats, and his Uncle
Dildo had devised an ingenious series of pipelines to gravity-flow the
hundreds of gallons of heady ale into their limitless paunches. Moodily, Frito
studied his fellow boggies as they noisily crammed their maws with potato
greens and jammed stray bits of greasy flesh into their jackets and coin-
purses "for later." Occasionally an overly zealous diner would fall
unconscious to the ground, much to the amusement of his fellows, who would
take the opportunity to pelt him with garbage. Garbage, that is, that they
weren't stowing away "for later."
All around Frito was the sight and sound of gnashing boggie teeth,
gasping boggie esophagi, and groaning, pulsating boggie bellies. The din of
the gnawing and munching almost drowned out the national anthem of the Sty,
which the hired orchestra was now more or less performing.
"We boggies are a hairy folk
Who like to eat until we choke.
Loving all like friend and brother,
And hardly ever eat each other.
Ever hungry, ever thirsting,
Never stop till belly's bursting.
Chewing chop and pork and muttons,
A merry race of boring gluttons.
Sing: Gobble, goggle, gobble, gobble,
Gobble, gobble, gobble, gobble.
Boggies gather round the table,
Eat as much as you are able.
Gorge yourselves from moon till noon
(Don't forget your plate and spoon).
Anything edible, we've got dibs on,
And hope we all die with our bibs on.
Ever gay, we'll never grow up,
Come! And sing and play and throw up!
Sing: Gobble, gobble, gobble, gobble,
Gobble, gobble, gobble, gobble!"
Frito wandered past the rows of tables, hoping to find the squat,
familiar figure of Spam. "Gobble, gobble, gobble . . . he murmured to himself,
but the words seemed strange. Why did he feel so alone amidst the merrymakers,
why had he always thought himself an intruder in his own village? Frito stared
at the phalanxes of grinding molars and foot-long forked tongues that lolled
from a hundred mouths, pink and wet in the afternoon sun.
At that moment there was a commotion at the head table, where Frito
should have been sitting as a guest of honor. Uncle Dildo was standing on his
bench and making motions for quiet, wishing to make his after-dinner speech.
After a flurry of jeers and the knocking together of a few heads, every fuzzy,
pointed ear and glass eye strained to catch what Dildo had to say.
_My fellow boggies_, he said, _my fellow Poops and Peristalts,
Barrelgutts and Hangbellies, Needlepoints, Liverfiaps, and Nosethingers_.
(Nose_fingers!_ corrected an irate drunk who, true to his family name, had it
jammed into his nostril to the fourth joint.)
_I hope you have all stuffed yourselves until you are about to be sick_.
This customary greeting was met with traditional volleys of farting and
belching, signifying the guests' approval of the fare.
_I have lived in Boggietown, as you all know, most of my life, and I
have developed opinions of you all, and before I leave you all for the last
time, I want to let you all know what you have all meant to me_. The crowd
yelled approval, thinking that now was the time for Dildo to distribute the
expected gifts among them. But what followed surprised even Frito, who looked
at his uncle with shocked admiration. He had dropped his pants.
The riot that followed had best be left to the reader's imagination,
lame though it may be. But Dildo, having prepared by prearranged signal to
touch off the fireworks, diverted the rage of the townsboggies. Suddenly there
came a deafening roar and a blinding light. Bellowing with fright, the
vengeful boggies hit the dirt as the cataclysmic tumult thundered and flashed
around them. The noise died down, and the braver members of the lynch mob
looked up in the hot wind that followed at the little hill where Dildo's table
had stood. It was not there any longer. Nor was Dildo.
"You should have seen their faces," laughed Dildo to Goodgulf and Frito.
Safely hidden back in his hole, the old boggie rocked with gleeful triumph.
"They ran like spooked bunnies!"
"Bunnies or boggies, I told you to be careful," said Goodgulf. "You may
have hurt someone sorely."
"No, no," said Dildo, "all the shrapnel blew the other way. And it was a
good way of getting a rise out of 'em before I left this burg for good." Dildo
stood up and began making a final check of his trunks, each carefully
addressed "Riv'n'dell, Estrogen." "Things are getting hot all over and it was
a good way to start getting them off their obese duffs."
"Hot all over?" asked Frito.
"Aye," said Goodgulf. "Evil Ones are afoot in--"
"Not now," interrupted Dildo impatiently. "Just tell Frito what you told
me."
"What your rude uncle means," began the Wizard, "is that there have been
many signs I have seen that bode ill for all, in the Sty and elsewhere."
"Signs?" said Frito.
"Verily and forsooth," replied Goodgulf darkly. "In the past year
strange and fearful wonders I have seen. Fields sown with barley reap
crabgrass and fungus, and even small gardens reject their artichoke hearts.
There has been a hot day in December and a blue moon. Calendars are made with
a month of Sundays and a blue-ribbon Holstein bore alive two insurance
salesmen. The earth splits and the entrails of a goat were found tied in
square knots. The face of the sun blackens and the skies have rained down
soggy potato chips."
"But what do all these things mean?" gasped Frito.
"Beats me," said Goodgulf with a shrug, "but I thought it made good
copy. But there is more. My spies tell me of black musters gathering in the
East, in the dead Lands of Fordor. Hordes of foul narcs and trolls have
multiplied and every day red-eyed wraiths skulk even unto the borders of the
Sty. Soon there will be much terror in the land from the black hand of
Sorhed."
"Sorhed!" cried Frito. "But Sorhed is no more."
"Don't believe everything you hear from the heralds," said Dildo
gravely. "It had been thought that Sorbed was forever destroyed at the Battle
of Brylopad, but it appears this was just wishful thinking. Actually he and
his Nine Nozdrul slipped out of the mopping-up cleverly disguised as a troupe
of gypsy acrobatic dancers. Escaping through the Ngaio Marsh, they pushed
their way into the suburbs of Fordor, where the property values dropped like a
paralyzed falcon. From Fordor they have been renewing their strength ever
since."
"His Dark Carbuncle of Doom has swollen and soon will come to a head,
covering the face of Lower Middle Earth with his ill humors. If we are to
survive, the boil must be soundly lanced before Sorhed begins his own
loathsome squeeze play."
"But how can this be done?" said Frito.
"We must keep him from the one thing that can mean victory," said
Goodgulf. "We must keep from him the Great Ring!"
"And what is this ring?" said Frito, eyeing the possible exits from the
hole.
"Cease thy eyeing of possible exits and I will tell thee," Goodgulf
reprimanded the frightened boggie. "Many ages ago, when boggies were yet
wrestling with the chipmunks over hazel nuts, there were made Rings of Power
in the Elven-Halls. Fashioned with a secret formula now known only to the
makers of toothpastes, these fabulous Rings gave their wearers mickle powers.
There were twenty in all: six for mastery of the lands, five for rule of the
seas, three for dominion of the air, and two for the conquering of bad breath.
With these Rings the people of past ages, both mortals and elves, lived in
peace and grandeur."
"But that only makes sixteen," observed Frito. "What were the other
four?"
"Recalled for factory defects," laughed Dildo. "They tended to short-
circuit in the rain and fry one's finger off."
"Save the Great One," intoned Goodgulf, "for the Great Ring masters all
the others, hence is now the most sought by Sorhed. Its powers and charms are
shrouded in legend, and many works are said to be given to its wearer. It is
said that, according to his powers, the wearer can perform impossible deeds,
control all creatures to his bidding, vanquish invincible armies, converse
with fish and fowl, bend steel in his bare hands, leap tall parapets at a
single bound, win friends and influence people, fix parking tickets--"
"And get himself elected Queen of the May," finished Dildo. "Anything he
pleases!"
"This Great Ring is much desired by all, then," said Frito.
"And they desire a curse!" cried Goodgulf, waving his wand with passion.
"For as surely as the Ring gives power, just as surely it becomes the master!
The wearer slowly changes, and never to the good. He grows mistrustful and
jealous of his power as his heart hardens. He loves overmuch his strengths and
develops stomach ulcers. He becomes logy and irritable, prone to neuritis,
neuralgia, nagging backache, and frequent colds. Soon no one invites him to
parties anymore."
"A most horrible treasure, this Great Ring," said Frito.
"And a horrible burden for he who bears it," said Goodgulf. "For some
unlucky one must carry it from Sorbed's grasp into danger and certain doom.
Someone must take the ring to the Zazu Pits of Fordor, under the evil nose of
the wrathful Sorbed, yet appear so unsuited to his task that he will not be
soon found out."
Frito shivered in sympathy for such an unfortunate. "Then the bearer
should be a complete and utter dunce," he laughed nervously.
Goodgulf glanced at Dildo, who nodded and casually flipped a small,
shining object into Frito's lap. It was a ring.
"Congratulations," said Dildo somberly. "You've just won the booby
prize."
II
THREE'S COMPANY, FOUR'S A BORE
"If I were thee," said Goodgulf, "I would start on thy journey soon."
Frito looked up absently from his rutabaga tea.
"For half a groat you _can_ be me, Goodgulf. I don't remember
volunteering for this Ring business."
"This is not the time for idle banter," said the Wizard, pulling a
rabbit from his battered hat. "Dildo left days ago and awaits you at
Riv'n'dell, as will I. There the fate of the Ring will be decided by all the
peoples of Lower Middle Earth."
Frito pretended to be engrossed in his cup as Spam entered from the
dining room and began tidying up the hole, packing up the last of Dildo's
belongings for storage.
"Lo, Master Frito," he rasped, pulling a greasy forelock. "Just gettin'
the rest o' the stuff together for your uncle what mysteriously disappeared
wi'out a trace. Strange business that, eh?" Seeing that no explanation was
forthcoming, the faithful servant shuffled off into Dildo's bedroom. Goodgulf,
hastily retrieving his rabbit, who was being loudly sick on the carpet,
resumed speaking.
"Are you sure he can be trusted?"
Frito smiled. "Of course. Spam's been a true friend of mine since we
were weanlings at obedience school together."
"And he knows nothing of the Ring?"
"Nothing," said Frito. "I am sure of it."
Goodgulf looked dubiously toward the closed door of the bedroom. "You
still have it, don't you?"
Frito nodded and fished out the chain of paper clips that secured it to
his tattersall bowling shirt.
"Then be careful with it," said Goodgulf, "for it has many strange
powers."
"Like turning my pocket green?" asked the young boggie, turning the
small circlet in his stubby fingers. Fearfully he stared at it, as he had so
many times in the past few days. It was made of bright metal and was encrusted
with strange devices and inscriptions. Around the inner surface was written
something in a language unknown to Frito.
"I can't make out the words," said Frito.
"No, you cannot," said Goodgulf. "They are elvish, in the tongue of
Fordor. A rough translation is:
"This Ring, no other, is made by the elves,
Who'd pawn their own mother to grab it themselves.
Ruler of creeper, mortal, and scallop,
This is a sleeper that packs quite a wallop.
The Power almighty rests in this Lone Ring.
The Power, alrighty, for doing your Own Thing.
If broken or busted, it cannot be remade
If found, send to Sorhed (the postage is prepaid)."
"Shakestoor, it isn't," said Frito, hurriedly putting the Ring back in
his shirt pocket.
"But a dire warning nonetheless," said Goodgulf. "Even now Sorhed's
tools are abroad sniffing for this ring, and the time grows short before they
smell it here. It is the time to set off for Riv'n'dell." The old magician
stood, walked to the bedroom door, and opened it with a jerk. With a heavy
crash, Spam fell forward ear first, his pockets full of Dildo's best mithril-
plate tablespoons. "And this will be your faithful companion." As Goodgulf
passed into the bedroom, Spam grinned sheepishly at Frito with a lop-eared
stupidity Frito had learned to love, futilely trying to hide the spoons in his
pockets.
Ignoring Spam, Frito called fearfully after the Wizard.
"But--but--there are still many preparations I must make! My bags-"
"Have no worry," said Goodgulf as he held out two valises. "I took the
precaution of packing them for you."
The night was as clear as an elfstone, sparkling with starpoints, as
Frito gathered his party in the pasture outside the town. In addition to Spam,
were the twin brothers Moxie and Pepsi Dingleberry, both of whom were noisome
and easily expendable. They were frisking happily in the meadow. Frito called
them to attention, wondering vaguely why Goodgulf had saddled him with two
tail-wagging idiots that no one in the town could trust with a burnt-out
match.
"Let's go, let's go!" cried Moxie.
"Yes, _let's_," added Pepsi, who promptly took one step, fell directly
on his flat head, and managed to bloody his nose.
"Icky!" laughed Moxie.
"_Double_ icky!" wailed Pepsi.
Frito rolled his eyes heavenward. It was going to be a long epic.
Gaining their wandering attention, Frito inspected his companions and
their kits. As he had feared, his orders had been forgotten and everyone had
brought the potato salad. Everyone except Spam, who had stuffed his knapsack
with sleazy novels and Dildo's tablespoons.
At last they set off, following Goodgulf's instructions, along the
yellow-brick Intershire Turnpath toward Whee, the longest leg of their journey
to Riv'n'dell. The Wizard had told them to travel at night unseen along the
side of the Path, to keep their ear to the ground, their eyes peeled and their
noses clean, the last directive weighing rather heavily on Pepsi, under the
circumstances.
For a while they walked along in silence, each lost in what passed in
boggies for thought. But Frito was especially troubled as he considered the
long travels ahead of him. Though his companions frisked gaily along,
playfully kicking and tripping each other, his heart was heavy with dread.
Remembering happier times, he hummed and then sang an ancient dwarf-song he
had learned from the knee of his Uncle Dildo, a song whose maker had lived
before the dawn of Lower Middle Earth. It began:
Heigh-ho, heigh-ho,
It's off to work we go,
Heigh-ho, heigh-ho, heigh-ho, heigh-heigh,
Heigh-ho, heigh-ho . . .
"Good! Good!" yipped Moxie.
"Yes, good! Especially the 'heigh-ho' part," added Pepsi.
"And what do you be callin' that?" asked Spam, who knew few songs. * [*
Clean ones, at least.]
"I call it 'Heigh-ho,' " said Frito.
But he was not cheered by it.
Soon it began to rain and they all caught colds.
The sky in the east was changing from black to pearl-gray as the four
boggies, weary and sneezing their heads off, stopped their march and camped
for the day's rest in a clump of dogwillows many steps from the unprotected
Turnpath. The fatigued travelers stretched out on the sheltered ground and
made a long boggie snack from Frito's store of dwarfloaf, boggie-brewed ale,
and breaded veal cutlets. Then, groaning softly under the weight of their
stomachs, all dropped quickly off to sleep, each dreaming their private boggie
dreams, most of them having to do with veal cutlets.
Frito awoke with a start. It was dusk now, and a sick feeling in his
stomach made him scan the Path from between the branches with terror. Through
the leaves he saw a dark, shadowy bulk in the distance. It moved slowly and
carefully along the rise of the Path, looking like a tall, black rider on some
huge and bloated beast. Outlined against the setting sun, Frito held his
breath as the ominous figure's red eyes searched the land. Once, Frito
thought, the fiery coals had looked right through him, but they blinked
myopically and passed on. The ponderous mount, which appeared to Frito's
startled eyes to be an immense, grossly overfed pig the size of a house,
snuffled and snorted in the wet earth to root out some scent of them. The
others awoke and froze with terror. As they watched, the evil hunter goaded
his mount, emitted one great and sour fart, and passed on. He had not seen
them.
The boggies waited until the distant grunting of the beast had long
quieted before anyone spoke. Frito turned to his companions, who were well
hidden in their foodsacks, and whispered, "It's all right. It's gone."
Doubtfully, Spam emerged. "Bless me if that didn't fright me plumb out
o' me codpiece," laughed Spam weakly. "Most queer and disturbin'!"
"Queer and disturbin'!" came a chorus of voices from the other sacks.
"And even more disturbin' if I keep on a-hearin' me echo every time I
open me chops!" Spam kicked the sacks, each of which yelped, but showed no
sign of disgorging its contents.
"Grouchy, he is," said one.
"Grouchy and mean," said the other.
"I wonder," said Frito, "what and who that terrible creature was."
Spam cast his eyes downward and scratched his chins guiltily. "I'm
guessin' it's one o' those folk the Fatlip told me to remember to be a-
warnin' ye about, Master Frito."
Frito looked at him inquiringly.
"Weeeell," said Spam, pulling his forelock and licking Frito's toes in
apology, "as I recollect now, the Old Lip was atellin' me just before we left,
_And don't be forgettin'_, he says to me, _to tell Master Frito that some
smelly stranger wi' red eyes was askin' after him_. _Stranger?_ says I. _Aye_,
says he, _and when I keeps mum, the fiend up and hisses at me and twirls 'is
black mustache. 'Curses,' the foul thing says, 'foiled again!' And then he
waves 'is billy at me and jumps on 'is pig and hightails it fr& th' Bag Eye a-
shoutin' somethin' very much like 'Hi-yo Slimey!_' _Very strange_, I says. I
guess I was a bit slow t' tell ye, Master Frito."
"Well," said Frito, "there's no time to worry now. I'm not sure, but I
wouldn't be surprised if there's some connection between that stranger and
this foul searcher." Frito knitted his brows, but as usual dropped a stitch.
"In any case," he said, "it's no longer safe to follow the Turnpath to Whee.
We'll have to take the shortcut through the Evilyn Wood."
"The Evilyn Wood! ?" chorused the grubsacks.
"But Master Frito," said Spam, "they say that place is . . . _haunted_!"
"That may be true," said Frito quietly, "but if we stay here, we're all
blue-plate specials for sure."
Frito and Spam hastily decanted the twins with hearty kicks, and the
company policed the remaining fragments of cutlets from the area, spicing the
leftovers with a number of sawbugs. When all was ready, they set out, the
twins emitting highpitched _cheep-cheeps_ in the not altogether vain hope of
passing themselves off in the dark as migrating cockroaches. Due west they
tramped, doggedly locating every possible opportunity for falling flat on
their muzzles, pressing on so that they might reach the safety of the wood
before the next sunrise. Frito had calculated that they traveled over two
leagues in as many days, not bad for a boggie but still not fast enough. They
had to take the wood in stride to be at Whee by the next day.
Silently they walked, save for a slight whimpering from Pepsi. _The
silly nit's bloodied his pug again_, thought Frito, _and Moxie's getting
cranky_. But as the long night passed and the east brightened, the flat ground
gave way to hummocks, hillocks, and buttocks of spongy, soft earth the color
of calves' brains. As the company stumbled on, the underbrush changed to
saplings and then to huge, irritable-looking trees, blasted and scored by
wind, weather, and arthritis. Soon they were swallowed up from the dawn light,
and the new night covered them like a rank locker-room towel.
Many years before it had been a happy, pleasant forest of well-pruned
puswillows, spruce spruces, and natty pines, the frolicking place of drone-
moles and slightly rabid chipmunks. But now the trees had grown old, clotted
with sneezemoss and toemold, and the Nattily Wood had become the crotchety old
Evilyn.
"We should be in Whee by morning," said Frito as they paused for a light
snack of potato salad. But the malevolent susurrus in the trees over the small
company bade them not tarry there long. They quickly moved on, careful to
avoid the occasional barrages of droppings that fell from unseen, yet annoyed
tenants in the branches above.
After several hours of mucking about, the boggies fell exhausted to the
ground. The ground was unfamiliar to Frito, and he had long since muddled his
sense of direction. "We should have been out of these woods by now," he said
wornedly. "I think we're lost."
Spam looked at his rapier-sharp toenails in dejection, but then
brightened. "That may be true, Master Frito," he said. "But don't be a-
worryin' about it. Somebody else was here only a few hours ago, by the looks
o' the camp. An' they was gobblin' tater salad just like us!"
Frito studied these telltale clues with care. It was true, someone had
been here only a few hours before, lunching on boggie grub. "Perhaps we can
follow their trail and find the way out of here." And tired as they were, they
pushed on again.
On and on they trod, vainly calling after the folk whose evidence of
passage lay after them: a scrap of breaded veal cutlet, a sleazy boggie novel,
one of Dildo's tablespoons (_What a coincidence_, Frito thought). But no
boggies. They did come across a large rabbit with a cheap pocket watch who was
pursued by some nut of a girl, another kid being viciously mugged by three
furious grizzlies ("We'd better not get involved," said Frito wisely), and a
deserted and flyspecked gingerbread bungalow with a "To Let" sign on the
marzipan door. But no clue to a way out.
Limp with fatigue, the four finally dropped in their tracks. It was
already late afternoon in the gloomy woods, and they could go no farther
without a snooze. As if lulled by a potion, the hairy little beggars curled up
in furry balls and, one by one, conked off under the protective boughs of a
huge, quivering tree.
Spam did not at first realize he was awake. He had felt something soft
and rubbery pull at his clothes, but he thought it a longing dream of those
reptilian pleasures he had so recently enjoyed back in the Sty. But now he was
certain he had heard a distinct _sucking_ sound and a tearing of cloth. His
eyes popped open to see himself stark naked and bound head and paw by the
fleshy roots of the tree. Screaming his fool head off, he woke his fellows,
likewise hogtied and stripped clean by the writhing plant, which was giving
off a distinct _cooing_ noise. The strange tree hummed to itself, ever
tightening its hold. As the boggies watched with revulsion, the crooning
tossed salad dipped down the orangy, liplike flowers at its tips. The bulbous
pods drew nearer, making revolting _smacking_ and _smooching_ noises as they
began to fasten themselves to their helpless bodies. Locked in a foul embrace,
the boggies would soon be hickeyed to death. Summoning their last strength,
they all cried for help.
"Help, help!" they cried.
But no one answered. The fat orange blossoms ranged over the helpless
boggie bodies, squirming and moaning with desire. A bloated blossom fastened
to Spam's boggie belly and began its relentless sucking motion; he felt his
flesh drawn up to the center of the flower. Then, as Sam looked on in horror,
the petals released with a resounding _pop!_, leaving a dark, malignant weal
where the horrid pucker had been. Spam, powerless to save himself or his
companions, watched terrified as the nowpanting sepals prepared to administer
their final, deadly soul kiss.
But just as the long, red stamen descended to its unspeakable task, Spam
thought he heard the snatch of a lilting song not far distant, and growing
louder! It was a muddled, drowsy voice that sang words that were not words to
Spam's ears:
"Toke-a-lid! Smoke-a-lid! Pop the mescalino!
Stash the hash! Gonna crash! Make mine methedrino!
Hop a hill! Pop a pill! For Old Tim Benzedrino!"
Though mad with fear, all strained to the rising melody sung by someone
who sounded like he had terminal mumps:
"Snorting, sporting! Speeding through the arbor,
Pushing till the folk you burn toss you in the harbor!
Screeching like a dying loon, zooming like the thrush!
Follow me and very soon, your mind will turn to mush!
Higher than the nowhere birds grooving in the air,
We'll open up a sandal shop where everyone will share!
Flower folk are springing up, wearing bead and boot,
And if you down me you can stick a flower up your snoot!
To Love and Peace and Brotherhood we all can snort a toast,
And if the heat is on again, we'll all split to the Coast!"
Suddenly a brightly colored figure burst through the foliage, swathed in
a long mantle of hair the consistency of muchchewed Turkish taffy. It was
something like a man, but not much; it stood six feet tall, but could not have
weighed more than thirty-five pounds, dirt included. Standing with his long
arms dangling almost to the ground, the singer's body was covered with a
pattern of startling hues, ranging from schizoid red to psychopathique azure.
Around his pipestem neck hung a dozen strands of beaded charms and from the
center, an amulet imprinted with the elf-rune _Kelvinator_. Through the oily
snaggles of hair stared two huge eyeballs that bulged from their sockets, so
bloodshot that they appeared more like two baseballs of very lean bacon.
"Ooooooooooh, wow!" said the creature, assaying the situation quickly.
Then, half loping, half rolling to the foot of the murderous tree, he sat on
his meatless haunches and peered at it with his colorless, saucerlike irises;
he chanted an incantation that sounded to Frito like a hacking cough:
"Oh uncool bush! Unloose this passle
Of furry cats that you hassle!
Tho' by speed my brain's destroyed,
I'm not half this paranoid!
So cease this bummer, down the freak-out,
Let caps and joints cause brains to leak-out!
These cats are groovy here among us,
So leave 'em be, you uptight fungus!"
Thus speaking, the withered apparition raised his spidery hand in a two-
fingered "V" sign and uttered an eldritch spell:
"Tim, Tim, Benzedrine!
Hash! Boo! Valvoline!
Clean! Clean! Clean for Gene!
First, second, neutral, park,
_Hie thee hence_, you leafy narc!"
The towering plant shivered and the coils fell from its victims like
yesterday's macaroni, and they sprang free with joyful yelps. As they watched
with fascination, the great green menace whimpered like a nursling and sucked
its own pistils with ill temper. The boggies retrieved their garments, and
Frito sighed with relief to find the Ring still firmly Bostiched to his
pocket.
"Oh thank you," they all squealed, wagging their tails, "thank you,
thank you!" But their savior said nothing. As if unaware of their presence, he
stiffened like the tree and gasped, "Gah gah gah" while his pupils opened and
closed like nervous umbrellas. His knees buckled and unbuckled, then buckled
again and he fell to the mossy earth in a ball of frantically thrashing hair.
He foamed at the mouth and screamed, "Oh God get 'em off me! They're all over
the place, and green! Argh! Org! _OhGodOhGodOhGodOhGodOhGodOhGod!_" He slapped
at his hair and body hysterically.
Frito blinked with astonishment and grabbed his Ring, but did not put it
on. Spam, stooping over the prostrate freak, smiled and offered his hand.
"Beggin' your leave," he said, "can you tell us where--"
"Oh no no _no!_ Look at all of 'em! All over the place! _Keep 'em away
from me!_"
"Keep who away?" asked Moxie politely.
"_Them!_" screamed the stricken stranger, pointing to his own head. He
then sprang to his horny feet and ran directly at the trunk of the hickey tree
and, charging full tilt with his head lowered, butted it a mighty lick, and,
before the startled eyes of the boggies, passed out cold. Frito filled his
narrow-brimmed hat with clear water from a nearby trickle and approached him,
but the stunned figure opened his marbled eyes and gave another high-pitched
scream.
"No, no, not _water!_"
Frito jumped back with fright and the skinny creature wobbled to his
feet and knuckles.
"But thangs loads anyhoo," said the stranger, "the rush always arfects
me like dat." Offering a filthy hand, the oddspeaking stranger smiled a
toothless grin. "Tim Benzedrine, ad yen serbice."
Frito and the rest solemnly introduced themselves, all still casting a
worried eye toward the kissing plant, which was sticking out its stamen at
them.
"Oh wow, doan' worby about him," wheezed Tim, "he just sulking. Yoo cats
noo aroun' here?"
Frito guardedly told him that they were on their way to Whee, but had
become lost. "Can you tell us how to find our way there?"
"Oh wow, oh sure," laughed Tim, "thad's easy. But led's split to my pad
firz, I wan' yoo meet my chick. She name Hashberry."
The boggies agreed, for their stores of potato salad were gone.
Gathering their packs, they curiously followed after the wildly zigzagging
Benzedrine, who occasionally halted to rap with a likely looking rock or
stump, giving them time to catch up. As they circled through the menacing
trees aimlessly, Tim Benzedrine's throat croaked merrily:
"O slender as a speeding freak! Spaced-out groovy tripper!
O mush-brained maid whose mind decays with every pill I slip her!
O mind-blown fair farina-head, friend of birds and beetles!
O skinny wraith whose fingernails are hypodermic needles!
O tangled locks and painted bod! Pupils big as eggs!
O flower-maid who never bathes or even shaves her legs!
O softened mind that wanders wherever moon above leads!
O how I dig thee, Hashberry, from nose to sleazy lovebeads!"
A few moments later they broke into a clearing on a low hill. There was
a ramshackle hovel shaped like a rubber boot with a little chimney that
emitted a thick fog of sick-looking green smoke.
"Oh wow," squeaked Tim, "she's home!" Led by Tim, the company approached
the unprepossessing little hut. A flashing white light blinked from its only
window, at the top. As they stepped over the threshold, littered with
cigarette papers, broken pipes, and burnt-out brain cells, Tim called:
"I've brought four with me to crash,
So now's the time to pass the stash."
From the smoky depths an answering voice returned:
"Then celebrate and take a toke,
To make us giggle, gag and choke!"
At first Frito saw nothing amid the iridescent wallpaper and strobe
candles but what appeared to be a heap of filthy cleaning rags. But then the
pile spoke again:
"Hither come and suck a pipe,
Turn thy brains to cheese and tripe!"
And then, as the boggies squinted their smarting eyes, the heap stirred
and sat up revealing itself to be an incredibly emaciated, hollow-eyed female.
She looked at them for a second, muttered, "Like wow," and fell forward in a
catatonic stupor with a rattle of beads.
"Doan' let Hash bug yoo," said Tim. "Tuesday is her day to crash."
Somewhat bewildered by the acrid fumes and the flashing candles, the
boggies sat crosslegged on a grimy mattress and asked politely for some grub,
as they had journeyed far and were about to devour the ticking.
"Eats?" chuckled Tim, rummaging through a handmade leather pouch. "Jes'
hang loose an' I'll fimb somp'un f'yoo. Lemmesee, oh, oh wow! Dint know we had
any this left!" Clumsily he scooped out the contents and set them in a bent
hubcap before them. They were among the most dubious-looking mushrooms Spam
had ever seen, and, rather rudely, he said so.
"These are among the most dubious-lookin' mushrooms I'm ever a-seeing,"
he stated.
Nevertheless there were few things in Lower Middle Earth Spam _hadn't_
idly nibbled and lived to tell about, so he dived in, stuffing himself loudly.
They were of an odd color and odor, but they tasted okay, if a little on the
moldy side, and after that the boggies were offered round candies with little
letters cleverly printed on them. ("They melt in yoor brain, not in your
hans," giggled Tim.)
Bloated to critical mass, the contented boggies relaxed as Hashberry
played a melody on something that looked like a pregnant handloom. Mellowed by
the repast, Sam was particularly pleased when Tim offered him some of his "own
speshul mix" for his nose-pipe. An odd flavor, thought Spam, but nice.
"Yoo got about ha'f an hour," said Tim. "Wanna rap?"
"Rap?" said Spam.
"Yoo know, like . . . talk wif your mouf," replied Tim as he lit his own
pipe, a large converted milk separator laden with valves and dials. "Yoo here
'cause th' heat's on?"
"In a manner of speaking," said Frito judiciously. "We've got this here
Ring of Power and--oops!" Frito caught himself, but too late; he could not
unsay it now.
"Oh groovy!" said Tim. "Lemme see."
Reluctantly, Frito handed over the Ring.
"Pretty cheap stuff," said Tim, tossing it back. "Even th' junk I pawn
off on th' dwarbs is bedder."
"You sell rings?" asked Moxie.
"Sure," said Tim. "I gotta sandal-and-magic-charm shop for th' tourist
season. Keeps me in stash for winter months, y'know whad I mean?"
"There might not be many of us left to visit the woods," said Frito
quietly, "if Sorhed's plans are not foiled. Will you join us?"
Tim shook his hair. "Now doan' bug me, man. I'm a conscienshul
objectioner . . . doan' wan' no more war. Came here to dodge draff, see? If
some cat wants to kick th' stuffing outta me, I say, 'Groovy,' an' I give 'em
flower an' love-beads. 'Love,' I say t' him. 'No more war,' I say. Anyway, I
fourF!"
"No more guts!" growled Spam under his breath to Moxie.
"No, I _god_ guts," said Tim, pointing to his temple, "no more braims!"
Frito smiled diplomatically, but was suddenly stricken by a severe
stomachache. His eyes began to roll and he felt very light-headed. _Probably a
touch of the banshee two-step_, he thought as his ears started to ring like a
dwarf's cash-register. His tongue felt thick, and his tail began to vibrate.
Turning to Spam, he wished to ask him if he felt it too.
"Argle-bargle morble whoosh?" said Frito.
But it did not matter, for he saw that Spam had oddly taken it into his
head to change himself into a large, pink dragon wearing a three-piece suit
and a straw boater.
"What did you be sayin', Master Frito?" asked the natty lizard with
Spam's voice.
"Ffluger fribble golorful frooble," said Frito dreamily, thinking it
strange that Spam was wearing a boater in late autumn. Glancing at the twins,
Frito noted that they had changed into matching candy-striped coffeepots
perking away like mad.
"Don't feel too well," said one.
"Feel _sick_," clarified the other.
Tim, now a rather handsome six-foot carrot, laughed loudly and changed
into a coiled parking meter. Frito, dizzy as a great wave of oatmeal flowed
through his brain, grew heedless of the puddle of drool collecting in his lap.
There was a noiseless explosion between his ears and he watched with terror as
the room began stretching and pulsating like Silly Putty in heat. Frito's ears
began to grow and his arms changed into badminton rackets. The floor developed
holes out of which poured fanged peanut brittle. A score of polka-dotted
cockroaches danced a buck-and-wing on his stomach. A Swiss cheese waltzed him
twice around the room, and his nose fell off. Frito opened his mouth to speak
and a flock of flying earthworms escaped. His gall bladder sang an aria and
did a little tap dance on his appendix. He began to lose consciousness, but
before it ebbed completely, he heard a six-foot waffle iron giggle, "If yoo
dig it now, jes' wade till th' _rush_ hits you!"
III
INDIGESTION AT THE SIGN OF THE GOODE EATS
The golden brightness of late morning was already warming the grass when
Frito finally awoke, his head sore afflicted, and his mouth tasting like the
bottom of a birdcage. Looking about, every joint aching, he saw that he and
his three still-slumbering companions were at the very edge of the Wood, and
before them was the four-lane wagon rut that would lead them directly to Whee!
There was no sign of Tim Benzedrine. Frito mused that the events of the
previous night might have been the idle dream of a boggie whose tummy writhed
full of spoiled potato salad. Then his bloodshot eyes saw the small paper bag
resting next to his knapsack, with a scrawled note attached. Curiously, Frito
read:
Dere Fritoad,
Two badd yoo copped outt sso sooon lazt nighgt.
Missed somm grooovy ttrps. Hoap the rring thinng
wurcs outt awrighgth
Peece,
Timm
P.S. Hear ar som outt of sighgt stash which I am
laying onn yoo guyys. Mmust sine off as rush iss
comcomcoming ohgodohgodohgodohgod$5~%*
@ + =!
Frito peeked inside the dirty paper sack and saw a number of colored
candy beans, much like the ones they had eaten the night before. _Odd_,
thought Frito, _but they may prove useful. Who knows?_ Thus, after an hour or
so of cajoling his fellows to their senses, Frito and the party tramped off
toward Whee rapping much of their adventure the previous evening.
Whee was the chief village of Wheeland, a small and swampy region
populated mostly by star-nosed moles and folk who wished that they were
somewhere else. The village enjoyed a brief popularity when, through a
surveyor's fortuitous hiccup, the four-lane Intershire Turnpath was mistakenly
built right through the center of the pathetic little twarf. Then, for a time,
the populace lived high on the hog off the proceeds from illegal speed traps,
parking violations, and occasional bald-faced hijackings. A small tourist
influx from the Sty led to the construction of cheap diners, flimsy souvenir
stands, and prefabricated historical landmarks. But the growing cloud of
"troubles" from the east abruptly ended such trade as there was. Instead, a
trickle of refugees came from the eastern lands bearing few belongings and
fewer smarts. Not ones to miss an opportunity, the men and boggies of Whee
labored together in harmony selling the heavily accented immigrants shorter
names and interests in perpetual-motion machines. They also supplemented their
purses by hawking black-market visas to the Sty to the few unfortunates who
were not familiar with the place.
The men of Whee were stooped, squat, splay-toed, and stupid. Heavily
ridged over the eyes and prone to rather poor posture, they were often
mistaken for Neanderthals, a common confusion that the latter deeply resented.
Slow to anger or pretty much anything else, they lived peacefully with their
boggie neighbors, who were themselves tickled pink to find somebody farther
down the evolutionary scale.
Together, the two peoples now lived on the few farthings they made off
the wetbacks and the dole, a common fruit shaped like your pancreas and about
as appetizing.
The village of Whee had some six dozen small houses, most of them built
of wax paper and discarded corks. They were arranged in sort of a circle
inside the protecting moat, whose stench alone could drop a dragon at a
hundred paces.
Pinching their nostrils, the company crossed the creaky drawbridge and
read the sign at the gate:
WELCOME TO QUAINT, HISTORICAL WHEE
POPULATION 10X04 3X88 96 AND STILL GROWING!
Two sleepy-eyed guards bestirred themselves just long enough to relieve
the protesting Spam of his remaining tablespoons. Frito surrendered half of
his magic beans, which the guards munched with speculation.
The boggies beat it before they took effect and, per Goodgulf's
instructions, headed for the orange-and-green flashing sign at the center of
town. There they found a gaudy plexiglas and chrome inn, whose blinking sign
portrayed a boar, rampant, devoured by a mouth, drooling. Beneath it was the
name of the inn, the Goode Eats & Lodging. Passing through the revolving door,
the party signaled the bell clerk, whose nametag read _Hi! I'm HoJo
Hominigritts!_ Like the rest of the staff, he was costumed as a suckling pig
with false sow's ears, tail, and papier-mache snout.
"Howdy!" drawled the fat boggie. "Ya'll want a room?"
"Yes," said Frito, stealing a glance at his companions. "We're just in
town _for a little vacation_, aren't we, boys?"
"Vacation," said Moxie, winking at Frito broadly.
"Just a little vacation," added Pepsi, nodding his head like an idiot.
"Ya'll sign here please?" said the clerk through his fake snout. Frito
took the quill chained to the desk and wrote the names ALIAS UNDERCOVER, IVAN
GOTTASECRET, JOHN DOESMITH, and IMA PSEUDONYM.
"Any bags, Mr., uh, Undercover?"
"Only under my eyes," mumbled Frito, turning toward the dining room.
"Wal," chuckled the clerk, "just leave these here sacks an' I'll _ring_
a bellhop."
"Fine," said Frito, hurrying away.
"Now y'all have a good time now," the clerk called after them, "an' if
y'all want anything, just _ring!_"
Out of earshot, Frito turned worriedly to Spam. "You don't think he
_knows_ anything," he whispered, "do you?"
"Naw, Master Frito," said Spam, massaging his stomach. "Let's grab some
grub!"
The four entered the dining room and sat at a booth near the roaring
propane fireplace that eternally roasted a large cement boar on a motorized
spit. The soft notes of a badly played Muzak eddied through the crowded room
as the ravenous boggies studied the menu, which was ingeniously shaped like a
sow giving birth. As Frito considered an "Uncle Piggy's OinkOink Burger-on-a-
Bun" flambéed in purest linseed oil, Spam hungrily ogled the scantily clad
"piglets" who served as waitresses, each buxom wench also outfitted in fake
tail, ears, and snout.
One of the piglets sidled up to the table for their order as Spam
greedily took stock of her big red eyes, crooked blond wig, and hairy legs.
"Youse slobs wanna order yet?" asked the piglet as she teetered
uncomfortably on her spiked heels.
"Two Oink-Oink Burgers and two Bow-Wow Specials, please," answered Frito
respectfully.
"Somethun' t' _ring_, uh, I mean, _drink_, sir?"
"Just four Orca-Colas, thank you."
"Gotcha."
As the waitress lurched off, wobbling on her heels and tripping over her
long, black scabbard, Frito surveyed the crowd for anyone suspicious. A few
boggies, some swarthy-looking men, a drunken troll passed out at the counter.
The usual.
Relieved, Frito allowed his three companions to mix with the others,
warning them to keep their lips buttoned about the "you-know-what." The
waitress returned with Frito's burger as Spam traded some pointless anecdotes
with a pair of leprechauns in the corner and the twins entertained some
seedylooking gremlins with their cunning pantomime, _The Old Cripple and His
Daughters_, a sure-fire hit in the Sty. As growing numbers roared with mirth
at their obscene posturings, Frito munched his tasteless burger thoughtfully,
wondering what the Great Ring's fate would be when they reached Riv'n'dell,
and Goodgulf.
Suddenly, Frito's grinders jammed against a small hard object in the
burger. Cursing under his breath, Frito reached into his throbbing mouth and
extracted a tiny metal cylinder. Unscrewing the top, he removed a tinier strip
of microvellum, on which he made out the words: _Beware! You are in great
danger. You are embarked on a long journey. You will soon meet a tall, dark
Ranger. You weigh exactly fifty-nine pounds_.
Frito drew in his breath with fright and his eyes sought the sender of
this message. At last they came to rest on a tall, dark Ranger seated at the
counter, a double root beer untouched before him. The lean figure was dressed
entirely in gray, and his eyes were hidden by a black mask. Across his chest
were crossed bandoleers of silver bullets, and a pearl-handled broadsword
dangled ominously from one lean hip. As if feeling Frito's eyes upon him, he
turned slowly on his stool and met them, putting a gloved finger to his lips
for secrecy. He then pointed toward the door of the men's room and held out
five fingers. FIVE MINUTES. He pointed toward Frito and then to himself. By
this time half the patrons had turned to watch, and thinking it was a game of
charades, were encouraging him with shouts of "Famous saying?" and "Sounds
like!"
The young boggie pretended to take no heed of the stranger and reread
the note. _Danger_, it said. Frito stared thoughtfully into the sediment of
fish hooks and the frothy head of ground glass on his Orca-Cola. Making sure
no one was watching, he cautiously took the glass over to the large potted
palm nearby, which accepted it and placed it carefully on the floor.
His suspicions now fully aroused, Frito edged from the booth, careful
not to disturb the decorative listening tube placed in the center of the
plastic floral arrangement. Without being seen, he went into the little
boggies' room, there to await the dark stranger.
After he had been waiting a few minutes, several patrons using the
facilities began to eye Frito curiously as he leaned against a tiled wall
whistling, his hands in his pockets. To allay their further inquiry, Frito
turned to the vending machine that hung on the wall. "Well, well, _well_," he
said in a stage whisper, "just what I've been looking for!" He then proceeded,
with elaborate carelessness, to work the machine with the change in his
farthing purse.
Fifteen bird whistles, eight compasses, six miniature lighters, and four
packs of nasty little rubber novelties later, a mysterious knocking was heard
at the door. Finally one of the patrons hidden by a stall yelled, 'F'cryin'
out loud, somebody let the s.o.b. in!" The door swung open and the masked
visage of the dark stranger appeared and beckoned Frito around the corner.
"I have a message for you, Mr. _Bugger_," said the stranger.
Frito's burger rose at the sound of his true name.
"But--but I theenk you are meestaken, señor," began Frito lamely, "I
velly solly but my honorable name not--"
"This message is from Goodgulf the Wizard," said the stranger, "if the
name by which thee calls thyself answers to the title of _Frito Bugger!_"
"I are," said Frito, confused and frightened.
"And thee hast the Ring?"
"Maybe I do, and maybe I don't," countered Frito, stalling for time. The
stranger lifted Frito by his narrow lapels.
"_And thee hast the Ring?_"
"Yes, already," squealed Frito. "So I've got it! So sue me."
"Be not afraid, allay thy fears, quail not, and hold thy horses,"
laughed the man. "I am a friend of thine."
"And you have a message for me from Goodgulf?" gulped Frito, feeling his
burger settling a bit. The tall one unzipped a secret compartment in a
saddlebag on his shoulder and handed Frito a slip which read:
"Three shorts, four pairs socks, two shirts, chain mail, heavy starch?"
Impatiently, the stranger snatched the ancient gag from the boggie's paw and
replaced it with a folded parchment. Frito's glance at the Michaelmas Seals
and Goodgulf's X-rune imprinted in hardened bubble gum verified the sender.
Hurriedly he tore it open, saving the gum for Spam. For later. With
difficulty he deciphered the familiar Palmer Method characters. They read:
Frito-lad,
The halberd has fallen! The fewmets have hit the windmill!
Sorhed's Nozdrul have gotten wind of our little dodge and
are beating the bush for "four boggies, one with a pink
tail." Doesn't take any abacus to figure out somebody's
spilled the gruel. Get out of wherever you are fast, and
don't lose the you-know-what. I'll try to meet you at
Wingtip, if not, look me up in Riv'n'dell. In any case,
don't take any oaken tuppences. And don't mind Stomper,
he's a good egg, ut-bay ot-nay oo-tay ight-bray, if you
know what I mean.
Must close, left some
thing on the Bunsen,
Goodgulf
P.S. How do you like the new stationery? Picked it up for





yelled approval, thinking that now was the time for Dildo to distribute the
expected gifts among them. But what followed surprised even Frito, who looked
at his uncle with shocked admiration. He had dropped his pants.
The riot that followed had best be left to the reader's imagination,
lame though it may be. But Dildo, having prepared by prearranged signal to
touch off the fireworks, diverted the rage of the townsboggies. Suddenly there
came a deafening roar and a blinding light. Bellowing with fright, the
vengeful boggies hit the dirt as the cataclysmic tumult thundered and flashed
around them. The noise died down, and the braver members of the lynch mob
looked up in the hot wind that followed at the little hill where Dildo's table
had stood. It was not there any longer. Nor was Dildo.
"You should have seen their faces," laughed Dildo to Goodgulf and Frito.
Safely hidden back in his hole, the old boggie rocked with gleeful triumph.
"They ran like spooked bunnies!"
"Bunnies or boggies, I told you to be careful," said Goodgulf. "You may
have hurt someone sorely."
"No, no," said Dildo, "all the shrapnel blew the other way. And it was a
good way of getting a rise out of 'em before I left this burg for good." Dildo
stood up and began making a final check of his trunks, each carefully
addressed "Riv'n'dell, Estrogen." "Things are getting hot all over and it was
a good way to start getting them off their obese duffs."
"Hot all over?" asked Frito.
"Aye," said Goodgulf. "Evil Ones are afoot in--"
"Not now," interrupted Dildo impatiently. "Just tell Frito what you told
me."
"What your rude uncle means," began the Wizard, "is that there have been
many signs I have seen that bode ill for all, in the Sty and elsewhere."
"Signs?" said Frito.
"Verily and forsooth," replied Goodgulf darkly. "In the past year
strange and fearful wonders I have seen. Fields sown with barley reap
crabgrass and fungus, and even small gardens reject their artichoke hearts.
There has been a hot day in December and a blue moon. Calendars are made with
a month of Sundays and a blue-ribbon Holstein bore alive two insurance
salesmen. The earth splits and the entrails of a goat were found tied in
square knots. The face of the sun blackens and the skies have rained down
soggy potato chips."
"But what do all these things mean?" gasped Frito.
"Beats me," said Goodgulf with a shrug, "but I thought it made good
copy. But there is more. My spies tell me of black musters gathering in the
East, in the dead Lands of Fordor. Hordes of foul narcs and trolls have
multiplied and every day red-eyed wraiths skulk even unto the borders of the
Sty. Soon there will be much terror in the land from the black hand of
Sorhed."
"Sorhed!" cried Frito. "But Sorhed is no more."
"Don't believe everything you hear from the heralds," said Dildo
gravely. "It had been thought that Sorbed was forever destroyed at the Battle
of Brylopad, but it appears this was just wishful thinking. Actually he and
his Nine Nozdrul slipped out of the mopping-up cleverly disguised as a troupe
of gypsy acrobatic dancers. Escaping through the Ngaio Marsh, they pushed
their way into the suburbs of Fordor, where the property values dropped like a
paralyzed falcon. From Fordor they have been renewing their strength ever
since."
"His Dark Carbuncle of Doom has swollen and soon will come to a head,
covering the face of Lower Middle Earth with his ill humors. If we are to
survive, the boil must be soundly lanced before Sorhed begins his own
loathsome squeeze play."
"But how can this be done?" said Frito.
"We must keep him from the one thing that can mean victory," said
Goodgulf. "We must keep from him the Great Ring!"
"And what is this ring?" said Frito, eyeing the possible exits from the
hole.
"Cease thy eyeing of possible exits and I will tell thee," Goodgulf
reprimanded the frightened boggie. "Many ages ago, when boggies were yet
wrestling with the chipmunks over hazel nuts, there were made Rings of Power
in the Elven-Halls. Fashioned with a secret formula now known only to the
makers of toothpastes, these fabulous Rings gave their wearers mickle powers.
There were twenty in all: six for mastery of the lands, five for rule of the
seas, three for dominion of the air, and two for the conquering of bad breath.
With these Rings the people of past ages, both mortals and elves, lived in
peace and grandeur."
"But that only makes sixteen," observed Frito. "What were the other
four?"
"Recalled for factory defects," laughed Dildo. "They tended to short-
circuit in the rain and fry one's finger off."
"Save the Great One," intoned Goodgulf, "for the Great Ring masters all
the others, hence is now the most sought by Sorhed. Its powers and charms are
shrouded in legend, and many works are said to be given to its wearer. It is
said that, according to his powers, the wearer can perform impossible deeds,
control all creatures to his bidding, vanquish invincible armies, converse
with fish and fowl, bend steel in his bare hands, leap tall parapets at a
single bound, win friends and influence people, fix parking tickets--"
"And get himself elected Queen of the May," finished Dildo. "Anything he
pleases!"
"This Great Ring is much desired by all, then," said Frito.
"And they desire a curse!" cried Goodgulf, waving his wand with passion.
"For as surely as the Ring gives power, just as surely it becomes the master!
The wearer slowly changes, and never to the good. He grows mistrustful and
jealous of his power as his heart hardens. He loves overmuch his strengths and
develops stomach ulcers. He becomes logy and irritable, prone to neuritis,
neuralgia, nagging backache, and frequent colds. Soon no one invites him to
parties anymore."
"A most horrible treasure, this Great Ring," said Frito.
"And a horrible burden for he who bears it," said Goodgulf. "For some
unlucky one must carry it from Sorbed's grasp into danger and certain doom.
Someone must take the ring to the Zazu Pits of Fordor, under the evil nose of
the wrathful Sorbed, yet appear so unsuited to his task that he will not be
soon found out."
Frito shivered in sympathy for such an unfortunate. "Then the bearer
should be a complete and utter dunce," he laughed nervously.
Goodgulf glanced at Dildo, who nodded and casually flipped a small,
shining object into Frito's lap. It was a ring.
"Congratulations," said Dildo somberly. "You've just won the booby
prize."
II
THREE'S COMPANY, FOUR'S A BORE
"If I were thee," said Goodgulf, "I would start on thy journey soon."
Frito looked up absently from his rutabaga tea.
"For half a groat you _can_ be me, Goodgulf. I don't remember
volunteering for this Ring business."
"This is not the time for idle banter," said the Wizard, pulling a
rabbit from his battered hat. "Dildo left days ago and awaits you at
Riv'n'dell, as will I. There the fate of the Ring will be decided by all the
peoples of Lower Middle Earth."
Frito pretended to be engrossed in his cup as Spam entered from the
dining room and began tidying up the hole, packing up the last of Dildo's
belongings for storage.
"Lo, Master Frito," he rasped, pulling a greasy forelock. "Just gettin'
the rest o' the stuff together for your uncle what mysteriously disappeared
wi'out a trace. Strange business that, eh?" Seeing that no explanation was
forthcoming, the faithful servant shuffled off into Dildo's bedroom. Goodgulf,
hastily retrieving his rabbit, who was being loudly sick on the carpet,
resumed speaking.
"Are you sure he can be trusted?"
Frito smiled. "Of course. Spam's been a true friend of mine since we
were weanlings at obedience school together."
"And he knows nothing of the Ring?"
"Nothing," said Frito. "I am sure of it."
Goodgulf looked dubiously toward the closed door of the bedroom. "You
still have it, don't you?"
Frito nodded and fished out the chain of paper clips that secured it to
his tattersall bowling shirt.
"Then be careful with it," said Goodgulf, "for it has many strange
powers."
"Like turning my pocket green?" asked the young boggie, turning the
small circlet in his stubby fingers. Fearfully he stared at it, as he had so
many times in the past few days. It was made of bright metal and was encrusted
with strange devices and inscriptions. Around the inner surface was written
something in a language unknown to Frito.
"I can't make out the words," said Frito.
"No, you cannot," said Goodgulf. "They are elvish, in the tongue of
Fordor. A rough translation is:
"This Ring, no other, is made by the elves,
Who'd pawn their own mother to grab it themselves.
Ruler of creeper, mortal, and scallop,
This is a sleeper that packs quite a wallop.
The Power almighty rests in this Lone Ring.
The Power, alrighty, for doing your Own Thing.
If broken or busted, it cannot be remade
If found, send to Sorhed (the postage is prepaid)."
"Shakestoor, it isn't," said Frito, hurriedly putting the Ring back in
his shirt pocket.
"But a dire warning nonetheless," said Goodgulf. "Even now Sorhed's
tools are abroad sniffing for this ring, and the time grows short before they
smell it here. It is the time to set off for Riv'n'dell." The old magician
stood, walked to the bedroom door, and opened it with a jerk. With a heavy
crash, Spam fell forward ear first, his pockets full of Dildo's best mithril-
plate tablespoons. "And this will be your faithful companion." As Goodgulf
passed into the bedroom, Spam grinned sheepishly at Frito with a lop-eared
stupidity Frito had learned to love, futilely trying to hide the spoons in his
pockets.
Ignoring Spam, Frito called fearfully after the Wizard.
"But--but--there are still many preparations I must make! My bags-"
"Have no worry," said Goodgulf as he held out two valises. "I took the
precaution of packing them for you."
The night was as clear as an elfstone, sparkling with starpoints, as
Frito gathered his party in the pasture outside the town. In addition to Spam,
were the twin brothers Moxie and Pepsi Dingleberry, both of whom were noisome
and easily expendable. They were frisking happily in the meadow. Frito called
them to attention, wondering vaguely why Goodgulf had saddled him with two
tail-wagging idiots that no one in the town could trust with a burnt-out
match.
"Let's go, let's go!" cried Moxie.
"Yes, _let's_," added Pepsi, who promptly took one step, fell directly
on his flat head, and managed to bloody his nose.
"Icky!" laughed Moxie.
"_Double_ icky!" wailed Pepsi.
Frito rolled his eyes heavenward. It was going to be a long epic.
Gaining their wandering attention, Frito inspected his companions and
their kits. As he had feared, his orders had been forgotten and everyone had
brought the potato salad. Everyone except Spam, who had stuffed his knapsack
with sleazy novels and Dildo's tablespoons.
At last they set off, following Goodgulf's instructions, along the
yellow-brick Intershire Turnpath toward Whee, the longest leg of their journey
to Riv'n'dell. The Wizard had told them to travel at night unseen along the
side of the Path, to keep their ear to the ground, their eyes peeled and their
noses clean, the last directive weighing rather heavily on Pepsi, under the
circumstances.
For a while they walked along in silence, each lost in what passed in
boggies for thought. But Frito was especially troubled as he considered the
long travels ahead of him. Though his companions frisked gaily along,
playfully kicking and tripping each other, his heart was heavy with dread.
Remembering happier times, he hummed and then sang an ancient dwarf-song he
had learned from the knee of his Uncle Dildo, a song whose maker had lived
before the dawn of Lower Middle Earth. It began:
Heigh-ho, heigh-ho,
It's off to work we go,
Heigh-ho, heigh-ho, heigh-ho, heigh-heigh,
Heigh-ho, heigh-ho . . .
"Good! Good!" yipped Moxie.
"Yes, good! Especially the 'heigh-ho' part," added Pepsi.
"And what do you be callin' that?" asked Spam, who knew few songs. * [*
Clean ones, at least.]
"I call it 'Heigh-ho,' " said Frito.
But he was not cheered by it.
Soon it began to rain and they all caught colds.
The sky in the east was changing from black to pearl-gray as the four
boggies, weary and sneezing their heads off, stopped their march and camped
for the day's rest in a clump of dogwillows many steps from the unprotected
Turnpath. The fatigued travelers stretched out on the sheltered ground and
made a long boggie snack from Frito's store of dwarfloaf, boggie-brewed ale,
and breaded veal cutlets. Then, groaning softly under the weight of their
stomachs, all dropped quickly off to sleep, each dreaming their private boggie
dreams, most of them having to do with veal cutlets.
Frito awoke with a start. It was dusk now, and a sick feeling in his
stomach made him scan the Path from between the branches with terror. Through
the leaves he saw a dark, shadowy bulk in the distance. It moved slowly and
carefully along the rise of the Path, looking like a tall, black rider on some
huge and bloated beast. Outlined against the setting sun, Frito held his
breath as the ominous figure's red eyes searched the land. Once, Frito
thought, the fiery coals had looked right through him, but they blinked
myopically and passed on. The ponderous mount, which appeared to Frito's
startled eyes to be an immense, grossly overfed pig the size of a house,
snuffled and snorted in the wet earth to root out some scent of them. The
others awoke and froze with terror. As they watched, the evil hunter goaded
his mount, emitted one great and sour fart, and passed on. He had not seen
them.
The boggies waited until the distant grunting of the beast had long
quieted before anyone spoke. Frito turned to his companions, who were well
hidden in their foodsacks, and whispered, "It's all right. It's gone."
Doubtfully, Spam emerged. "Bless me if that didn't fright me plumb out
o' me codpiece," laughed Spam weakly. "Most queer and disturbin'!"
"Queer and disturbin'!" came a chorus of voices from the other sacks.
"And even more disturbin' if I keep on a-hearin' me echo every time I
open me chops!" Spam kicked the sacks, each of which yelped, but showed no
sign of disgorging its contents.
"Grouchy, he is," said one.
"Grouchy and mean," said the other.
"I wonder," said Frito, "what and who that terrible creature was."
Spam cast his eyes downward and scratched his chins guiltily. "I'm
guessin' it's one o' those folk the Fatlip told me to remember to be a-
warnin' ye about, Master Frito."
Frito looked at him inquiringly.
"Weeeell," said Spam, pulling his forelock and licking Frito's toes in
apology, "as I recollect now, the Old Lip was atellin' me just before we left,
_And don't be forgettin'_, he says to me, _to tell Master Frito that some
smelly stranger wi' red eyes was askin' after him_. _Stranger?_ says I. _Aye_,
says he, _and when I keeps mum, the fiend up and hisses at me and twirls 'is
black mustache. 'Curses,' the foul thing says, 'foiled again!' And then he
waves 'is billy at me and jumps on 'is pig and hightails it fr& th' Bag Eye a-
shoutin' somethin' very much like 'Hi-yo Slimey!_' _Very strange_, I says. I
guess I was a bit slow t' tell ye, Master Frito."
"Well," said Frito, "there's no time to worry now. I'm not sure, but I
wouldn't be surprised if there's some connection between that stranger and
this foul searcher." Frito knitted his brows, but as usual dropped a stitch.
"In any case," he said, "it's no longer safe to follow the Turnpath to Whee.
We'll have to take the shortcut through the Evilyn Wood."
"The Evilyn Wood! ?" chorused the grubsacks.
"But Master Frito," said Spam, "they say that place is . . . _haunted_!"
"That may be true," said Frito quietly, "but if we stay here, we're all
blue-plate specials for sure."
Frito and Spam hastily decanted the twins with hearty kicks, and the
company policed the remaining fragments of cutlets from the area, spicing the
leftovers with a number of sawbugs. When all was ready, they set out, the
twins emitting highpitched _cheep-cheeps_ in the not altogether vain hope of
passing themselves off in the dark as migrating cockroaches. Due west they
tramped, doggedly locating every possible opportunity for falling flat on
their muzzles, pressing on so that they might reach the safety of the wood
before the next sunrise. Frito had calculated that they traveled over two
leagues in as many days, not bad for a boggie but still not fast enough. They
had to take the wood in stride to be at Whee by the next day.
Silently they walked, save for a slight whimpering from Pepsi. _The
silly nit's bloodied his pug again_, thought Frito, _and Moxie's getting
cranky_. But as the long night passed and the east brightened, the flat ground
gave way to hummocks, hillocks, and buttocks of spongy, soft earth the color
of calves' brains. As the company stumbled on, the underbrush changed to
saplings and then to huge, irritable-looking trees, blasted and scored by
wind, weather, and arthritis. Soon they were swallowed up from the dawn light,
and the new night covered them like a rank locker-room towel.
Many years before it had been a happy, pleasant forest of well-pruned
puswillows, spruce spruces, and natty pines, the frolicking place of drone-
moles and slightly rabid chipmunks. But now the trees had grown old, clotted
with sneezemoss and toemold, and the Nattily Wood had become the crotchety old
Evilyn.
"We should be in Whee by morning," said Frito as they paused for a light
snack of potato salad. But the malevolent susurrus in the trees over the small
company bade them not tarry there long. They quickly moved on, careful to
avoid the occasional barrages of droppings that fell from unseen, yet annoyed
tenants in the branches above.
After several hours of mucking about, the boggies fell exhausted to the
ground. The ground was unfamiliar to Frito, and he had long since muddled his
sense of direction. "We should have been out of these woods by now," he said
wornedly. "I think we're lost."
Spam looked at his rapier-sharp toenails in dejection, but then
brightened. "That may be true, Master Frito," he said. "But don't be a-
worryin' about it. Somebody else was here only a few hours ago, by the looks
o' the camp. An' they was gobblin' tater salad just like us!"
Frito studied these telltale clues with care. It was true, someone had
been here only a few hours before, lunching on boggie grub. "Perhaps we can
follow their trail and find the way out of here." And tired as they were, they
pushed on again.
On and on they trod, vainly calling after the folk whose evidence of
passage lay after them: a scrap of breaded veal cutlet, a sleazy boggie novel,
one of Dildo's tablespoons (_What a coincidence_, Frito thought). But no
boggies. They did come across a large rabbit with a cheap pocket watch who was
pursued by some nut of a girl, another kid being viciously mugged by three
furious grizzlies ("We'd better not get involved," said Frito wisely), and a
deserted and flyspecked gingerbread bungalow with a "To Let" sign on the
marzipan door. But no clue to a way out.
Limp with fatigue, the four finally dropped in their tracks. It was
already late afternoon in the gloomy woods, and they could go no farther
without a snooze. As if lulled by a potion, the hairy little beggars curled up
in furry balls and, one by one, conked off under the protective boughs of a
huge, quivering tree.
Spam did not at first realize he was awake. He had felt something soft
and rubbery pull at his clothes, but he thought it a longing dream of those
reptilian pleasures he had so recently enjoyed back in the Sty. But now he was
certain he had heard a distinct _sucking_ sound and a tearing of cloth. His
eyes popped open to see himself stark naked and bound head and paw by the
fleshy roots of the tree. Screaming his fool head off, he woke his fellows,
likewise hogtied and stripped clean by the writhing plant, which was giving
off a distinct _cooing_ noise. The strange tree hummed to itself, ever
tightening its hold. As the boggies watched with revulsion, the crooning
tossed salad dipped down the orangy, liplike flowers at its tips. The bulbous
pods drew nearer, making revolting _smacking_ and _smooching_ noises as they
began to fasten themselves to their helpless bodies. Locked in a foul embrace,
the boggies would soon be hickeyed to death. Summoning their last strength,
they all cried for help.
"Help, help!" they cried.
But no one answered. The fat orange blossoms ranged over the helpless
boggie bodies, squirming and moaning with desire. A bloated blossom fastened
to Spam's boggie belly and began its relentless sucking motion; he felt his
flesh drawn up to the center of the flower. Then, as Sam looked on in horror,
the petals released with a resounding _pop!_, leaving a dark, malignant weal
where the horrid pucker had been. Spam, powerless to save himself or his
companions, watched terrified as the nowpanting sepals prepared to administer
their final, deadly soul kiss.
But just as the long, red stamen descended to its unspeakable task, Spam
thought he heard the snatch of a lilting song not far distant, and growing
louder! It was a muddled, drowsy voice that sang words that were not words to
Spam's ears:
"Toke-a-lid! Smoke-a-lid! Pop the mescalino!
Stash the hash! Gonna crash! Make mine methedrino!
Hop a hill! Pop a pill! For Old Tim Benzedrino!"
Though mad with fear, all strained to the rising melody sung by someone
who sounded like he had terminal mumps:
"Snorting, sporting! Speeding through the arbor,
Pushing till the folk you burn toss you in the harbor!
Screeching like a dying loon, zooming like the thrush!
Follow me and very soon, your mind will turn to mush!
Higher than the nowhere birds grooving in the air,
We'll open up a sandal shop where everyone will share!
Flower folk are springing up, wearing bead and boot,
And if you down me you can stick a flower up your snoot!
To Love and Peace and Brotherhood we all can snort a toast,
And if the heat is on again, we'll all split to the Coast!"
Suddenly a brightly colored figure burst through the foliage, swathed in
a long mantle of hair the consistency of muchchewed Turkish taffy. It was
something like a man, but not much; it stood six feet tall, but could not have
weighed more than thirty-five pounds, dirt included. Standing with his long
arms dangling almost to the ground, the singer's body was covered with a
pattern of startling hues, ranging from schizoid red to psychopathique azure.
Around his pipestem neck hung a dozen strands of beaded charms and from the
center, an amulet imprinted with the elf-rune _Kelvinator_. Through the oily
snaggles of hair stared two huge eyeballs that bulged from their sockets, so
bloodshot that they appeared more like two baseballs of very lean bacon.
"Ooooooooooh, wow!" said the creature, assaying the situation quickly.
Then, half loping, half rolling to the foot of the murderous tree, he sat on
his meatless haunches and peered at it with his colorless, saucerlike irises;
he chanted an incantation that sounded to Frito like a hacking cough:
"Oh uncool bush! Unloose this passle
Of furry cats that you hassle!
Tho' by speed my brain's destroyed,
I'm not half this paranoid!
So cease this bummer, down the freak-out,
Let caps and joints cause brains to leak-out!
These cats are groovy here among us,
So leave 'em be, you uptight fungus!"
Thus speaking, the withered apparition raised his spidery hand in a two-
fingered "V" sign and uttered an eldritch spell:
"Tim, Tim, Benzedrine!
Hash! Boo! Valvoline!
Clean! Clean! Clean for Gene!
First, second, neutral, park,
_Hie thee hence_, you leafy narc!"
The towering plant shivered and the coils fell from its victims like
yesterday's macaroni, and they sprang free with joyful yelps. As they watched
with fascination, the great green menace whimpered like a nursling and sucked
its own pistils with ill temper. The boggies retrieved their garments, and
Frito sighed with relief to find the Ring still firmly Bostiched to his
pocket.
"Oh thank you," they all squealed, wagging their tails, "thank you,
thank you!" But their savior said nothing. As if unaware of their presence, he
stiffened like the tree and gasped, "Gah gah gah" while his pupils opened and
closed like nervous umbrellas. His knees buckled and unbuckled, then buckled
again and he fell to the mossy earth in a ball of frantically thrashing hair.
He foamed at the mouth and screamed, "Oh God get 'em off me! They're all over
the place, and green! Argh! Org! _OhGodOhGodOhGodOhGodOhGodOhGod!_" He slapped
at his hair and body hysterically.
Frito blinked with astonishment and grabbed his Ring, but did not put it
on. Spam, stooping over the prostrate freak, smiled and offered his hand.
"Beggin' your leave," he said, "can you tell us where--"
"Oh no no _no!_ Look at all of 'em! All over the place! _Keep 'em away
from me!_"
"Keep who away?" asked Moxie politely.
"_Them!_" screamed the stricken stranger, pointing to his own head. He
then sprang to his horny feet and ran directly at the trunk of the hickey tree
and, charging full tilt with his head lowered, butted it a mighty lick, and,
before the startled eyes of the boggies, passed out cold. Frito filled his
narrow-brimmed hat with clear water from a nearby trickle and approached him,
but the stunned figure opened his marbled eyes and gave another high-pitched
scream.
"No, no, not _water!_"
Frito jumped back with fright and the skinny creature wobbled to his
feet and knuckles.
"But thangs loads anyhoo," said the stranger, "the rush always arfects
me like dat." Offering a filthy hand, the oddspeaking stranger smiled a
toothless grin. "Tim Benzedrine, ad yen serbice."
Frito and the rest solemnly introduced themselves, all still casting a
worried eye toward the kissing plant, which was sticking out its stamen at
them.
"Oh wow, doan' worby about him," wheezed Tim, "he just sulking. Yoo cats
noo aroun' here?"
Frito guardedly told him that they were on their way to Whee, but had
become lost. "Can you tell us how to find our way there?"
"Oh wow, oh sure," laughed Tim, "thad's easy. But led's split to my pad
firz, I wan' yoo meet my chick. She name Hashberry."
The boggies agreed, for their stores of potato salad were gone.
Gathering their packs, they curiously followed after the wildly zigzagging
Benzedrine, who occasionally halted to rap with a likely looking rock or
stump, giving them time to catch up. As they circled through the menacing
trees aimlessly, Tim Benzedrine's throat croaked merrily:
"O slender as a speeding freak! Spaced-out groovy tripper!
O mush-brained maid whose mind decays with every pill I slip her!
O mind-blown fair farina-head, friend of birds and beetles!
O skinny wraith whose fingernails are hypodermic needles!
O tangled locks and painted bod! Pupils big as eggs!
O flower-maid who never bathes or even shaves her legs!
O softened mind that wanders wherever moon above leads!
O how I dig thee, Hashberry, from nose to sleazy lovebeads!"
A few moments later they broke into a clearing on a low hill. There was
a ramshackle hovel shaped like a rubber boot with a little chimney that
emitted a thick fog of sick-looking green smoke.
"Oh wow," squeaked Tim, "she's home!" Led by Tim, the company approached
the unprepossessing little hut. A flashing white light blinked from its only
window, at the top. As they stepped over the threshold, littered with
cigarette papers, broken pipes, and burnt-out brain cells, Tim called:
"I've brought four with me to crash,
So now's the time to pass the stash."
From the smoky depths an answering voice returned:
"Then celebrate and take a toke,
To make us giggle, gag and choke!"
At first Frito saw nothing amid the iridescent wallpaper and strobe
candles but what appeared to be a heap of filthy cleaning rags. But then the
pile spoke again:
"Hither come and suck a pipe,
Turn thy brains to cheese and tripe!"
And then, as the boggies squinted their smarting eyes, the heap stirred
and sat up revealing itself to be an incredibly emaciated, hollow-eyed female.
She looked at them for a second, muttered, "Like wow," and fell forward in a
catatonic stupor with a rattle of beads.
"Doan' let Hash bug yoo," said Tim. "Tuesday is her day to crash."
Somewhat bewildered by the acrid fumes and the flashing candles, the
boggies sat crosslegged on a grimy mattress and asked politely for some grub,
as they had journeyed far and were about to devour the ticking.
"Eats?" chuckled Tim, rummaging through a handmade leather pouch. "Jes'
hang loose an' I'll fimb somp'un f'yoo. Lemmesee, oh, oh wow! Dint know we had
any this left!" Clumsily he scooped out the contents and set them in a bent
hubcap before them. They were among the most dubious-looking mushrooms Spam
had ever seen, and, rather rudely, he said so.
"These are among the most dubious-lookin' mushrooms I'm ever a-seeing,"
he stated.
Nevertheless there were few things in Lower Middle Earth Spam _hadn't_
idly nibbled and lived to tell about, so he dived in, stuffing himself loudly.
They were of an odd color and odor, but they tasted okay, if a little on the
moldy side, and after that the boggies were offered round candies with little
letters cleverly printed on them. ("They melt in yoor brain, not in your
hans," giggled Tim.)
Bloated to critical mass, the contented boggies relaxed as Hashberry
played a melody on something that looked like a pregnant handloom. Mellowed by
the repast, Sam was particularly pleased when Tim offered him some of his "own
speshul mix" for his nose-pipe. An odd flavor, thought Spam, but nice.
"Yoo got about ha'f an hour," said Tim. "Wanna rap?"
"Rap?" said Spam.
"Yoo know, like . . . talk wif your mouf," replied Tim as he lit his own
pipe, a large converted milk separator laden with valves and dials. "Yoo here
'cause th' heat's on?"
"In a manner of speaking," said Frito judiciously. "We've got this here
Ring of Power and--oops!" Frito caught himself, but too late; he could not
unsay it now.
"Oh groovy!" said Tim. "Lemme see."
Reluctantly, Frito handed over the Ring.
"Pretty cheap stuff," said Tim, tossing it back. "Even th' junk I pawn
off on th' dwarbs is bedder."
"You sell rings?" asked Moxie.
"Sure," said Tim. "I gotta sandal-and-magic-charm shop for th' tourist
season. Keeps me in stash for winter months, y'know whad I mean?"
"There might not be many of us left to visit the woods," said Frito
quietly, "if Sorhed's plans are not foiled. Will you join us?"
Tim shook his hair. "Now doan' bug me, man. I'm a conscienshul
objectioner . . . doan' wan' no more war. Came here to dodge draff, see? If
some cat wants to kick th' stuffing outta me, I say, 'Groovy,' an' I give 'em
flower an' love-beads. 'Love,' I say t' him. 'No more war,' I say. Anyway, I
fourF!"
"No more guts!" growled Spam under his breath to Moxie.
"No, I _god_ guts," said Tim, pointing to his temple, "no more braims!"
Frito smiled diplomatically, but was suddenly stricken by a severe
stomachache. His eyes began to roll and he felt very light-headed. _Probably a
touch of the banshee two-step_, he thought as his ears started to ring like a
dwarf's cash-register. His tongue felt thick, and his tail began to vibrate.
Turning to Spam, he wished to ask him if he felt it too.
"Argle-bargle morble whoosh?" said Frito.
But it did not matter, for he saw that Spam had oddly taken it into his
head to change himself into a large, pink dragon wearing a three-piece suit
and a straw boater.
"What did you be sayin', Master Frito?" asked the natty lizard with
Spam's voice.
"Ffluger fribble golorful frooble," said Frito dreamily, thinking it
strange that Spam was wearing a boater in late autumn. Glancing at the twins,
Frito noted that they had changed into matching candy-striped coffeepots
perking away like mad.
"Don't feel too well," said one.
"Feel _sick_," clarified the other.
Tim, now a rather handsome six-foot carrot, laughed loudly and changed
into a coiled parking meter. Frito, dizzy as a great wave of oatmeal flowed
through his brain, grew heedless of the puddle of drool collecting in his lap.
There was a noiseless explosion between his ears and he watched with terror as
the room began stretching and pulsating like Silly Putty in heat. Frito's ears
began to grow and his arms changed into badminton rackets. The floor developed
holes out of which poured fanged peanut brittle. A score of polka-dotted
cockroaches danced a buck-and-wing on his stomach. A Swiss cheese waltzed him
twice around the room, and his nose fell off. Frito opened his mouth to speak
and a flock of flying earthworms escaped. His gall bladder sang an aria and
did a little tap dance on his appendix. He began to lose consciousness, but
before it ebbed completely, he heard a six-foot waffle iron giggle, "If yoo
dig it now, jes' wade till th' _rush_ hits you!"
III
INDIGESTION AT THE SIGN OF THE GOODE EATS
The golden brightness of late morning was already warming the grass when
Frito finally awoke, his head sore afflicted, and his mouth tasting like the
bottom of a birdcage. Looking about, every joint aching, he saw that he and
his three still-slumbering companions were at the very edge of the Wood, and
before them was the four-lane wagon rut that would lead them directly to Whee!
There was no sign of Tim Benzedrine. Frito mused that the events of the
previous night might have been the idle dream of a boggie whose tummy writhed
full of spoiled potato salad. Then his bloodshot eyes saw the small paper bag
resting next to his knapsack, with a scrawled note attached. Curiously, Frito
read:
Dere Fritoad,
Two badd yoo copped outt sso sooon lazt nighgt.
Missed somm grooovy ttrps. Hoap the rring thinng
wurcs outt awrighgth
Peece,
Timm
P.S. Hear ar som outt of sighgt stash which I am
laying onn yoo guyys. Mmust sine off as rush iss
comcomcoming ohgodohgodohgodohgod$5~%*
@ + =!
Frito peeked inside the dirty paper sack and saw a number of colored
candy beans, much like the ones they had eaten the night before. _Odd_,
thought Frito, _but they may prove useful. Who knows?_ Thus, after an hour or
so of cajoling his fellows to their senses, Frito and the party tramped off
toward Whee rapping much of their adventure the previous evening.
Whee was the chief village of Wheeland, a small and swampy region
populated mostly by star-nosed moles and folk who wished that they were
somewhere else. The village enjoyed a brief popularity when, through a
surveyor's fortuitous hiccup, the four-lane Intershire Turnpath was mistakenly
built right through the center of the pathetic little twarf. Then, for a time,
the populace lived high on the hog off the proceeds from illegal speed traps,
parking violations, and occasional bald-faced hijackings. A small tourist
influx from the Sty led to the construction of cheap diners, flimsy souvenir
stands, and prefabricated historical landmarks. But the growing cloud of
"troubles" from the east abruptly ended such trade as there was. Instead, a
trickle of refugees came from the eastern lands bearing few belongings and
fewer smarts. Not ones to miss an opportunity, the men and boggies of Whee
labored together in harmony selling the heavily accented immigrants shorter
names and interests in perpetual-motion machines. They also supplemented their
purses by hawking black-market visas to the Sty to the few unfortunates who
were not familiar with the place.
The men of Whee were stooped, squat, splay-toed, and stupid. Heavily
ridged over the eyes and prone to rather poor posture, they were often
mistaken for Neanderthals, a common confusion that the latter deeply resented.
Slow to anger or pretty much anything else, they lived peacefully with their
boggie neighbors, who were themselves tickled pink to find somebody farther
down the evolutionary scale.
Together, the two peoples now lived on the few farthings they made off
the wetbacks and the dole, a common fruit shaped like your pancreas and about
as appetizing.
The village of Whee had some six dozen small houses, most of them built
of wax paper and discarded corks. They were arranged in sort of a circle
inside the protecting moat, whose stench alone could drop a dragon at a
hundred paces.
Pinching their nostrils, the company crossed the creaky drawbridge and
read the sign at the gate:
WELCOME TO QUAINT, HISTORICAL WHEE
POPULATION 10X04 3X88 96 AND STILL GROWING!
Two sleepy-eyed guards bestirred themselves just long enough to relieve
the protesting Spam of his remaining tablespoons. Frito surrendered half of
his magic beans, which the guards munched with speculation.
The boggies beat it before they took effect and, per Goodgulf's
instructions, headed for the orange-and-green flashing sign at the center of
town. There they found a gaudy plexiglas and chrome inn, whose blinking sign
portrayed a boar, rampant, devoured by a mouth, drooling. Beneath it was the
name of the inn, the Goode Eats & Lodging. Passing through the revolving door,
the party signaled the bell clerk, whose nametag read _Hi! I'm HoJo
Hominigritts!_ Like the rest of the staff, he was costumed as a suckling pig
with false sow's ears, tail, and papier-mache snout.
"Howdy!" drawled the fat boggie. "Ya'll want a room?"
"Yes," said Frito, stealing a glance at his companions. "We're just in
town _for a little vacation_, aren't we, boys?"
"Vacation," said Moxie, winking at Frito broadly.
"Just a little vacation," added Pepsi, nodding his head like an idiot.
"Ya'll sign here please?" said the clerk through his fake snout. Frito
took the quill chained to the desk and wrote the names ALIAS UNDERCOVER, IVAN
GOTTASECRET, JOHN DOESMITH, and IMA PSEUDONYM.
"Any bags, Mr., uh, Undercover?"
"Only under my eyes," mumbled Frito, turning toward the dining room.
"Wal," chuckled the clerk, "just leave these here sacks an' I'll _ring_
a bellhop."
"Fine," said Frito, hurrying away.
"Now y'all have a good time now," the clerk called after them, "an' if
y'all want anything, just _ring!_"
Out of earshot, Frito turned worriedly to Spam. "You don't think he
_knows_ anything," he whispered, "do you?"
"Naw, Master Frito," said Spam, massaging his stomach. "Let's grab some
grub!"
The four entered the dining room and sat at a booth near the roaring
propane fireplace that eternally roasted a large cement boar on a motorized
spit. The soft notes of a badly played Muzak eddied through the crowded room
as the ravenous boggies studied the menu, which was ingeniously shaped like a
sow giving birth. As Frito considered an "Uncle Piggy's OinkOink Burger-on-a-
Bun" flambéed in purest linseed oil, Spam hungrily ogled the scantily clad
"piglets" who served as waitresses, each buxom wench also outfitted in fake
tail, ears, and snout.
One of the piglets sidled up to the table for their order as Spam
greedily took stock of her big red eyes, crooked blond wig, and hairy legs.
"Youse slobs wanna order yet?" asked the piglet as she teetered
uncomfortably on her spiked heels.
"Two Oink-Oink Burgers and two Bow-Wow Specials, please," answered Frito
respectfully.
"Somethun' t' _ring_, uh, I mean, _drink_, sir?"
"Just four Orca-Colas, thank you."
"Gotcha."
As the waitress lurched off, wobbling on her heels and tripping over her
long, black scabbard, Frito surveyed the crowd for anyone suspicious. A few
boggies, some swarthy-looking men, a drunken troll passed out at the counter.
The usual.
Relieved, Frito allowed his three companions to mix with the others,
warning them to keep their lips buttoned about the "you-know-what." The
waitress returned with Frito's burger as Spam traded some pointless anecdotes
with a pair of leprechauns in the corner and the twins entertained some
seedylooking gremlins with their cunning pantomime, _The Old Cripple and His
Daughters_, a sure-fire hit in the Sty. As growing numbers roared with mirth
at their obscene posturings, Frito munched his tasteless burger thoughtfully,
wondering what the Great Ring's fate would be when they reached Riv'n'dell,
and Goodgulf.
Suddenly, Frito's grinders jammed against a small hard object in the
burger. Cursing under his breath, Frito reached into his throbbing mouth and
extracted a tiny metal cylinder. Unscrewing the top, he removed a tinier strip
of microvellum, on which he made out the words: _Beware! You are in great
danger. You are embarked on a long journey. You will soon meet a tall, dark
Ranger. You weigh exactly fifty-nine pounds_.
Frito drew in his breath with fright and his eyes sought the sender of
this message. At last they came to rest on a tall, dark Ranger seated at the
counter, a double root beer untouched before him. The lean figure was dressed
entirely in gray, and his eyes were hidden by a black mask. Across his chest
were crossed bandoleers of silver bullets, and a pearl-handled broadsword
dangled ominously from one lean hip. As if feeling Frito's eyes upon him, he
turned slowly on his stool and met them, putting a gloved finger to his lips
for secrecy. He then pointed toward the door of the men's room and held out
five fingers. FIVE MINUTES. He pointed toward Frito and then to himself. By
this time half the patrons had turned to watch, and thinking it was a game of
charades, were encouraging him with shouts of "Famous saying?" and "Sounds
like!"
The young boggie pretended to take no heed of the stranger and reread
the note. _Danger_, it said. Frito stared thoughtfully into the sediment of
fish hooks and the frothy head of ground glass on his Orca-Cola. Making sure
no one was watching, he cautiously took the glass over to the large potted
palm nearby, which accepted it and placed it carefully on the floor.
His suspicions now fully aroused, Frito edged from the booth, careful
not to disturb the decorative listening tube placed in the center of the
plastic floral arrangement. Without being seen, he went into the little
boggies' room, there to await the dark stranger.
After he had been waiting a few minutes, several patrons using the
facilities began to eye Frito curiously as he leaned against a tiled wall
whistling, his hands in his pockets. To allay their further inquiry, Frito
turned to the vending machine that hung on the wall. "Well, well, _well_," he
said in a stage whisper, "just what I've been looking for!" He then proceeded,
with elaborate carelessness, to work the machine with the change in his
farthing purse.
Fifteen bird whistles, eight compasses, six miniature lighters, and four
packs of nasty little rubber novelties later, a mysterious knocking was heard
at the door. Finally one of the patrons hidden by a stall yelled, 'F'cryin'
out loud, somebody let the s.o.b. in!" The door swung open and the masked
visage of the dark stranger appeared and beckoned Frito around the corner.
"I have a message for you, Mr. _Bugger_," said the stranger.
Frito's burger rose at the sound of his true name.
"But--but I theenk you are meestaken, señor," began Frito lamely, "I
velly solly but my honorable name not--"
"This message is from Goodgulf the Wizard," said the stranger, "if the
name by which thee calls thyself answers to the title of _Frito Bugger!_"
"I are," said Frito, confused and frightened.
"And thee hast the Ring?"
"Maybe I do, and maybe I don't," countered Frito, stalling for time. The
stranger lifted Frito by his narrow lapels.
"_And thee hast the Ring?_"
"Yes, already," squealed Frito. "So I've got it! So sue me."
"Be not afraid, allay thy fears, quail not, and hold thy horses,"
laughed the man. "I am a friend of thine."
"And you have a message for me from Goodgulf?" gulped Frito, feeling his
burger settling a bit. The tall one unzipped a secret compartment in a
saddlebag on his shoulder and handed Frito a slip which read:
"Three shorts, four pairs socks, two shirts, chain mail, heavy starch?"
Impatiently, the stranger snatched the ancient gag from the boggie's paw and
replaced it with a folded parchment. Frito's glance at the Michaelmas Seals
and Goodgulf's X-rune imprinted in hardened bubble gum verified the sender.
Hurriedly he tore it open, saving the gum for Spam. For later. With
difficulty he deciphered the familiar Palmer Method characters. They read:
Frito-lad,
The halberd has fallen! The fewmets have hit the windmill!
Sorhed's Nozdrul have gotten wind of our little dodge and
are beating the bush for "four boggies, one with a pink
tail." Doesn't take any abacus to figure out somebody's
spilled the gruel. Get out of wherever you are fast, and
don't lose the you-know-what. I'll try to meet you at
Wingtip, if not, look me up in Riv'n'dell. In any case,
don't take any oaken tuppences. And don't mind Stomper,
he's a good egg, ut-bay ot-nay oo-tay ight-bray, if you
know what I mean.
Must close, left some
thing on the Bunsen,
Goodgulf
P.S. How do you like the new stationery? Picked it up for
a plainchant at Hambone's Dept.!
Once again Frito's Oink-Oink Burger rose to the occasion. Fighting down
its untimely reappearance, Frito gasped, "Then we are not safe here."
"Have no fear, lowly boggie," said Stomper, "for I, Arrowroot of
Arrowshirt, am with thee. Goodgulf must have spoken of me in the letter. I
have many names-"
"I'm sure you do, Mr. Arrowshirt," Frito broke in, panicking. "But it's
mud and then some if we don't get out of here. I think somebody in this cheap
joint wants my scalp, and not for a lanolin massage, either!"
Returning to the booth, Frito found the three boggies still feeding
their faces. Ignoring the masked stranger, Spam grinned greasily at Frito.
"Been a-wonderin' where ye ha' gone," he said. "Want a bite o' my Bow-Wow?"
Frito's Oink-Oink sought repatriation with Spam's BowWow, but he fought
it back and made room for Stomper's long knock-knees under the table. The
boggies looked at Stomper with torpid disinterest.
"I didn't be thinkin' it was time for trickin' an' treatin' so soon,"
said Spam.
Frito stayed Stomper's wrathful hand. "Listen," he said quickly, "this
is Stomper, a friend of Goodgulf's and a friend of ours-"
"And I have many names-" began Stomper.
"And he's got many names, but what we have to do now is-" Frito felt a
great hulk looming behind him.
"Youse jerks want t' pay now?" rasped a voice hidden beneath a mass of
blond hair and a paper snout.
"Uh, sure," said Frito, "now your tip would be, aaah . . ." Suddenly
Frito felt a strong, clawed hand reach into his pocket.
"Don't bother, bub," snarled the voice, "I'll just _ring this up!_ Haw
haw haw haw haw!" With a shrill scream, Frito saw the wig fall from the head
of the false piglet, revealing the burning red eyes and foul grin of a
Nozdrul! As if hypnotized, Frito stared at the huge wraith's slavering leer,
noticing that each tooth had been sharpened to a razor point. _Hate to have
his dental bills_, he thought. Frito looked around for help as the giant fiend
lifted him and rifled his pockets, searching for the Great Ring.
"C'mon, c'mon," the monster growled, growing impatient, "Let's have
it!" Eight other huge waitresses closed in, each flashing a menacing set of
well-honed choppers. Cruelly they held down the three boggies, white with
fear. Of Stomper there was nothing to be seen, save a pair of spurred heels
shivering under the table.
"Okay, chipmunk, give!" hissed the evil one, drawing his huge black
mace. "_I said--yeeeeowtch!_" cried the Nozdrul in pain, simultaneously
letting go of Frito and jumping straight up in the air. From below the table
rose a sharp, barbed blade. Stomper leaped up.
"_Oh Dragonbreth! Gilthorpial!_" he yodeled, waving his cleaver around
like a madman. He lunged at the nearest wraith with his unwieldy sword.
"_Banzai!_" he screamed. "_No quarter asked or given! Damn the torpedoes!_"
Taking a vicious swipe, Stomper missed his mark by a good yard and tripped on
his scabbard.
The nine stared at the writhing, foaming maniac with round, red eyes.
The sight of Stomper filled them with awe. They stood speechless. Suddenly one
of the stunned creatures began to titter, then chuckle. Another guffawed. Two
more joined in, chortling loudly, and finally all nine were in the throes of
hysterical, side-aching laughter. Stomper, puffing and enraged, stood up and
tripped on his cape, spilling his silver bullets all over the floor. The whole
dining room roared with unbelieving hilarity. Two Nozdrul collapsed to the
ground, helplessly giggling. Others staggered about, great red tears rolling
down their scaly cheeks, gasping for air and incapable of holding their maces.
_Haw haw haw!_ Stomper got to his feet, his face beetred with anger. He lifted
his sword, and the blade fell off the handle. _Haw haw haw haw haw!_ The
Nozdrul rolled and writhed on the ground, clutching their ribs. Stomper
replaced the blade, took a mighty wind-up, and firmly embedded the point in
the cement pig. HAWHAWHAWHAWHAWHAW HAW HAW HAW HAW HAW HAW HAW HAW HAW HAW HAW
HAW HAW!
At this point, seeing that no one was paying any attention to him, Frito
picked up one of the heavy, discarded maces and calmly proceeded to beat some
heads in. Moxie, Spam, and Pepsi followed his example and went among the
gibbering wraiths administering random kicks to groins and breadbaskets.
Finally, the deranged Arrowroot accidentally cut the pulley ropes to the
room's main chandelier, simultaneously fixing the wagons of the semiconscious
wraiths directly below and plunging the room into total darkness. The boggies
dashed blindly for the door, dragging Stomper after them through the temporary
blackout. Bobbing and weaving past the glowing eyes, they escaped and ran
breathlessly down back alleys and past the snoring guards until they crossed
the drawbridge and hit open ground. As Frito ran on he felt the curious eyes
of the villagers upon him and his frantic companions. Frito hoped that they
would not inform the tools of Sorhed. Thankfully he saw that they took little
notice of them and went about their evening chores, lighting signal fires and
releasing carrier pigeons.
Once outside the town, Stomper led them into a thick sedge and bade them
to be small and quiet lest they be seen by Sorhed's agents, who would soon
revive and mount the hunt.
The party was still panting when sharp-eared Arrowroot adjusted the
volume on his hearing aid and laid his head to the ground.
"Hark and lo!" he whispered, "I do hear the sound of Nine Riders
galloping nigh the road in full battle array." A few minutes later a
dispirited brace of steers ambled awkwardly past, but to give Stomper his due,
they did carry some rather lethal-looking antlerettes.
"The foul Nozdrul have bewitched my ears," mumbled Stomper as he
apologetically replaced his batteries, "but it is safe to proceed, for the
nonce." It was at that moment that the thundering hooves of the dreaded pig
riders echoed along the road. Just in time the company dove back to cover and
the vengeful searchers sped past. When the clanking of armor dwindled in the
distance, five heads reappeared above the bushes, their teeth chattering like
cheap maracas.
" 'Twas a near thing!" said Spam. "Came nigh to a-spoilin' me
pantaloons."
The party chose to push on toward Wingtip before the sun rose. The moon
was swathed in a shawl of heavy cloud as they traveled to the lofty peak, a
lone finger of granite near the southern base of the legendary Hartz
Mountains, scaled by few save an occasional winded guttersnipe.
Stomper walked along in the cool night breeze without speaking, silent
except for the faint jingling of his zinc-plated spurs. The twins were
fascinated with the pearl-handled sword which he called Krona, Conqueror of
Dozens. Moxie sidled up to the lean masked man.
"That's a neat toadsticker you got there, Mr. Arrowshirt," said the
inquisitive boggie.
"Aye," said Stomper, quickening his pace a bit.
"Doesn't look like the regular issue. Must be a special model, huh,
mister?"
"Aye," replied the tall man, dilating his nostrils slightly with
annoyance.
Quick as a packrat, Moxie snatched the weapon from its holster. "Okay if
I take a look?" Stomper, without batting an eye, let fly with a hand-tooled
boot that sent the young boggie bouncing like a jai-alai ball.
"Nay," snapped Stomper, retrieving his blade.
"I don't think he meant to be rude, Mr. Arrowshirt," said Frito, helping
Moxie to his archless feet. There followed an embarrassed silence. Spam, whose
knowledge of warfare was limited to childhood torturing of the family pullets,
nevertheless began to sing a snatch of song he had once learned:
"Barbisol was Twodor's king
Whose foes his mighty blade did sting,
Till one day it got all rusted
And Sorhed's parry left it busted."
Then, to the boggie's surprise, a fat tear fell from Stomper's eye and
his voice sobbed in the darkness:
"Thus gloried Twodor came to nothing,
Out of the king was beat the stuffing.
And thus we live in fear of Fordor
Till Krona's back in working order!"
The boggies gasped and looked at their companion as if for the first
time. With recognition they recognized the legendary weak chin and buck teeth
of Barbisol's descendant.
"Then you must be the rightful King of Twodor!" cried Frito.
The tall Ranger looked at them impassively.
"These things you say may be affirmed," he said, "but I do not wish to
make a statement at this time, for there is another, oft-forgotten verse to
this sad and doleful song:
"Against the True King Sorhed's workin'
So play your cards close to your jerkin,
For fortune strums a mournful tune
For those whose campaigns peak too soon."
Watching the newly revealed ruler trudge on in his lowly garb, the young
Frito grew again thoughtful and pondered long on the many ironies of life.
As the sun's rim broke on the far horizon its first tentative rays
illuminated Wingtip. After an hour of strenuous climbing they reached the top
and rested gratefully on the flat granite apex, while Stomper scrounged around
for some sign of Goodgulf. Nosing about a large gray rock, Stomper stopped and
called to Frito. Frito looked at the stone and discerned the crude skull-and-
bones etched into its surface, and with it the X-rune of the Old Wizard.
"Goodgulf has passed this way recently," said Stomper, "and unless I
read these runes awrong, he means this place as a secure camp for us."
Nevertheless Frito bedded down with nagging misgivings. _But_, he
reminded himself, _he is a king, and all_. The bridge across the Gallowine and
the way to Riv'n'dell were only a short distance; there they would be safe
from the marauding Swine Riders. Sleep was now long overdue, and he sighed
with pleasure as he curled up under a low shelf of stone. Soon he was falling
fast asleep, lulled by the soft _snuffling_ noises and the clanking of armor
below.
"Awake! Awake! Fiends! Foes! _Flee!_" someone was whispering, waking
Frito from his dreams. Stomper's hand jostled him roughly. Obeying him, Frito
peered down the slope and made out nine black forms inching stealthily up the
mountain toward their hiding place.
"It seemeth that I read the signs awrong," muttered the perplexed guide.
"Soon they will be upon us unless we divert their wrath."
"How?" asked Pepsi.
"Yes, how?" joined in Guess Who.
Stomper looked at the boggies. "One of the party must stay behind to
delay them while we dash for the bridge."
"But who--?"
"Never fear," said Stomper quickly. "I have here in my gauntlet four
lots, three long and a short for him we throw to the--er--for he who will have
his name emblazoned in the pantheon of heroes."
"Four?" said Spam. "What about _you?_"
The Ranger straightened with great dignity. "Surely," he said, "you
would not wish me an unfair advantage seeing that it was I who made up the
lots?"
Mollified, the boggies drew the pipe cleaners. Spam drew the short.
"Two out of three?" he whined. But his fellows had already disappeared
over the lip of the peak and were racing down as fast as they could. Panting
and puffing, a fat tear rolled from Frito's eye. He would miss him.
Spam looked down the opposite slope and saw the dismounted Nozdrul
picking their way toward him quickly. Crouching behind a rock, he screamed
courageously at them. "If I were ye," he called, "I'd not come any closer!
Ye'll be sorry if ye do!" Unheeding, the fierce knights drew even nearer.
"You're really a-goin' t' get it!" yelled Spam rather unconvincingly. Still
the Riders grew nearer, and Spam lost his nerve. Taking out his white
handkerchief, he waved it about and pointed toward his retreating friends.
"Don't be wastin' your time with me," he cried. "The one with the Ring is
hightailin' it thataway!"
Hearing this from below, Frito winced and pumped his fat legs harder.
Stomper's long and gimpy shanks had already brought him across the bridge and
onto the safety of the other bank, the neutral territory of the elves. Frito
looked behind him. He wouldn't make it in time!
Stomper watched the deadly race from the cover of some briars on the
bank of the stream.
"Hie thee faster," he called helpfully, "for the evil ones are right
behind thee!" Then he hid his eyes.
The rumble of pigs' feet grew louder and louder in Frito's ears, and he
could hear the lethal _swish_ of their horrible Nozdrulville Sluggers. He made
a last, desperate burst of speed, but tripped and skidded to a stop only a few
feet from the border. Cackling with evil amusement, the nine surrounded Frito,
their squint-eyed steeds grunting for Frito's blood.
"Blood! Blood!" they grunted.
Frito looked up, terrified, and saw them as they slowly closed the ring,
only an arm's length from death. The leader of the pack, a tall beefy wraith
with chrome-plated greaves, laughed savagely and raised his mace.
"Hee hee hee, filthy rodent! Now is the time for fun!"
Frito cowered. "Maybe it is, and maybe it isn't," he said, pulling his
favorite bluff.
"Arrrgh!" screamed an impatient Nozdrul, who, by coincidence, happened
to be named Argh. "C'mon, let's cream this little creep! The boss said take
his Ring and croak him then 'n' there!"
Frito's mind raced. He decided to play his last card.
"Well dat's sho' nuff fine wit me, 'cause ah sho' doan wan' you t' do
the bad thing to' po' li'l me!" said Frito, bugging out his eyes and rolling
them like ball bearings.
"Har har har!" chortled another Rider. "What can you think of that's
worse than what we're _gonna_ do with ya?" The fiends drew closer to hear the
terrible fear Frito harbored in his breast.
The boggie whistled and pretended to play the banjo. He then sang a
verse of "Ole Man Ribber" as he ambled back and forth on shuffling feet,
scratched his woolly head, and danced a cakewalk while picking watermelon
seeds from his ears, all with natural rhythm.
"Sure can dance," muttered one of the Riders.
"Sure gonna _die!_" screamed another, thirsting for Frito's throat.
"_Sho' I gwine t' die_," drawled Frito. "Yo' kin do mos' anythin' t'
po' li'l me, Br'er Nozdrul, so long as yo' _please doan throw me in dat briar
patch ober dere!_"
At this all the sadistic Riders sniggered.
"If that's what you're scared of most," bellowed a voice full of malice,
"then _that's what we'll do to you_, ya little jerk!"
Frito felt himself lifted by a horny black hand and flung far over the
Gallowine and into the scrubby bush on the other side. Gleefully, he stood up
and fished out the Ring, making sure it still hung on his chain.
But the crafty Riders were not long deceived by Frito's ruse. They
spurred their drooling swine to the bridge, intent on recapturing the boggie
and his precious Ring. But, as Frito saw with surprise, the Black Nine were
halted at the foot of the crossing by a figure robed in shining raiment.
"Toll, please," commanded the figure of the startled Riders. The
pursuers were again dumfounded when they were directed to a hastily lettered
sign tacked to a support:
Elfboro Municipal Toll Bridge
Single Wayfarers . . . . . . 1 farthing
Double-axled Haywains. . . . . . 2 farthings
Black Riders. . . . . . . . . . . . 45 gold pieces
"Let us cross!" snapped an angry Nozdrul.
"Certainly," replied the attendant pleasantly. "Now let's see, there's
one, two . . . ah, _nine_ of you at forty-five apiece, that makes . . .
uuuuhh, four hundred and five beans, exactly, please. In cash."
Hurriedly, the Nozdrul searched their saddlebags as their leader cursed
angrily and shook his slugger with frustration.
"Listen," he stormed, "what kind of dough do you think we make, anyhow?
Ain't there some sorta discount for civil servants?"
"I'm sorry--" smiled the attendant.
"How 'bout a Wayfarer's Letter of Credit? They're as good as bullion
anywhere."
"Sorry, this is a bridge, not a countinghouse," replied the figure
impassively.
"My personal check? It's backed up by the treasure rooms of Fordor."
"No money, no crossee, friend."
The Nozdruls quivered with rage, but turned their mounts around,
preparing to ride off. Before they left, however, the leader shook a gnarled
fist.
"This ain't the end of this, punk! You'll hear from us again!"
Saying this, the nine spurred their farting porkers and sped away in a
great cloud of dust and dung.
Observing this near impossible escape from certain death, Frito wondered
how much longer the authors were going to get away with such tripe. He wasn't
the only one.
Stomper and the other boggies ran to Frito, extending their
congratulations on his escape. They then drew close to the mysterious figure,
who approached and, espying Stomper among them, raised his hands in greeting
and sang:
"O NASA O UCLA! O Etaion Shrdlu!
O Escrow Beryllium! Pandit J. Nehru!"
Stomper raised his hands and answered, "_Shantih Billerica!_" They met
and embraced, exchanging words of friendship and giving the secret handshake.
The boggies studied the stranger with interest. He introduced himself as
Garfinkel of the elves. When he had shed himself of his robes, the boggies
regarded with curiosity his ring-encrusted hands, his open-collared Ban-Lon
tunic, and his silver beach clogs.
"Thought you would have been here days ago," said the balding elf. "Any
trouble along the way?"
"I could write a book," said Frito prophetically.
"Well," said Garfinkel, "we'd better make tracks before those B-movie
heavies return. They may be stupid, but they sure can be persistent."
"So new?" muttered Frito, who found himself muttering more and more
lately.
The elf looked doubtfully at the boggies. "You guys know how to ride?"
Without waiting for an answer he whistled loudly through his gold teeth. A
clump of high sedge rustled and several overweight merino sheep bounded into
view, bleating irritably.
"Mount up," said Garfinkel.
Frito, more or less athwart an unpromising ungulant, rode last in the
procession away from the Gallowine toward Riv'n'dell. He slipped his hand into
his pocket, found the Ring, and took it out in the fading light. Already it
was beginning to work its slow change upon him, the transformation of which
Dildo had warned. He was constipated.
IV
FINDERS KEEPERS, FINDERS WEEPERS
After three days of hard riding that had put many a furlong between them
and the Black Riders, the weary boggies came at last to the low kneehills
which surrounded the valley of Riv'n'dell with a natural wall that protected
it from occasional marauders too stupid or small to scale the sheer knolls and
mounds. But their sure-footed mounts easily overcame these obstacles with
short, heart-stopping hops, and in no time Frito and his companions had
reached the summit of the last hillock and looked down on the orange roofs and
cupolas of the elfish ranchellas. Urging on their panting ruminants, they
galloped down the winding corduroy road that led to the dwellings of Orlon.
It was late in the gray fall afternoon when the procession of sheepback
riders rode into Riv'n'dell, led by Garfinkel astride his magnificent woolly
stallion, Anthrax. An ill wind was blowing, and granite hailstones were
falling from brooding clouds. As the party drew rein in front of the main
lodge, a tall elf robed in finest percale and wearing bucks of blinding
whiteness stepped onto the porch and greeted them.
"Welcome to the Last Homely House East of the Sea and Gift Shoppe," he
said. "Barca-Loungers in every room."
Garfinkel and the tall elf thumbed their noses in the ancient salute of
their race and exchanged greetings in elvish. "A sya non esso decca hi
hawaya," said Garfinkel, lightly springing from his animal.
"O movado silvathin nytol niceta-seeya," replied the tall elf; then
turning to Stomper he said: "I am Orlon."
"Arrowroot son of Arrowshirt, at your service," said Stomper,
dismounting clumsily.
"And these?" said Orlon, pointing to the four boggies asleep on their
dormant mounts.
"Frito and his companions, boggies from the Sty," said Stomper. At the
mention of his name, Frito gurgled loudly and fell off his sheep, and the Ring
dropped out of his clothes, and rolled to Orlon's feet. One of the sheep
trotted up, licked it, and turned into a fire hydrant.
"Oog," mumbled Orlon, and staggered inside. Garfinkel followed him into
the little building, and a stream of low elvish followed. Arrowroot stood
listening for a moment, then went around to Spam, Moxie, and Pepsi and woke
them up with a series of finger jabs and pivot-kicks. Frito retrieved the Ring
and slipped it into his pocket. "So this is Riv'n'dell," he said, rubbing his
eyes with wonder as he looked at the strange elvish houses of prestressed
gingerbread and ferrocandy.
"Look, Master Frito," said Spam, pointing up the road. "Elfs, lots of
'em. Ooooo, I must be dreaming. I wish the old Fatlip could see me now."
"I wish I were dead," whined Pepsi.
"So do I," said Moxie.
"May the good fairy what sits in the sky grant yer ev'ry wish," said
Spam.
"Where is Goodgulf, I wonder," wondered Frito.
Garfinkel strode back out onto the porch and produced a small tin
whistle on which he blew a single, ear-splitting, flat note, whereupon the
sheep wandered aimlessly away.
"Magical," sighed Spam.
"Follow me," said Garfinkel, and he led Stomper and the boggies along a
narrow muddy path which wound through clumps of flowering rhodogravure bushes
and towering shoe trees. As he walked along, Frito smelled an evanescent
fragrance of new-mown hay mingled with bleach and mustard, and from afar off
he heard the delicate, heart-breaking twangs of a mouth-harp and a few shreds
of an elvish song:
"Row, row, row your elebethiel saliva githiel
Mann a fubar lothario syzygy snafu
O bring back my sucaryl Penna Ariz Fla mass."
At the end of the path stood a small bungalow made of polished Joyvah
Halvah and surrounded by a bed of glass flowers. Garfinkel turned the door's
all-day sucker and motioned the party inside. They found themselves in a large
room which entirely filled the little house. There were a great many beds
arranged around the walls, all of which looked as though they had been
recently slept in by perverted kangaroos, and in the corners were a few odd
chairs and tables which showed quite clearly the hand, and foot, of the elvish
craftsmen. In the center of the room was a large table littered with the
remnants of a violent game of three-pack canasta and several bowls of
artificial fruit which couldn't have been mistaken for the real thing at fifty
meters. These Moxie and Pepsi immediately ate.
"Make yourself at home," said Garfinkel, as he left. "Checkout time is
three o'clock."
Stomper slumped heavily into a chair, which folded up under him with a
muffled crack.
Garfinkel was not gone more than five minutes when there came a knock at
the door, and Spam went, rather irritably, to answer it. "It had better be
food," he mumbled, "cause I'm gonna eat it."
He opened the door with a jerk, revealing a mysterious stranger in a
long gray cape and hood, wearing thick, black eyeglasses with a false rubber
nose quite unconvincingly dangling from the bridge. The dark figure had a
cardboard mustache, a dustmop wig, and a huge, handpainted tie with a picture
of an elf-maiden. In his left hand was a mashie-niblick, and on his feet he
wore shower clogs. He was puffing a fat cigar.
Spam reeled back in astonishment, and Stomper, Moxie, Pepsi, and Frito
cried in unison, "Goodgulf!"
The old man shuffled in, discarding his disguises to reveal the familiar
faith healer and bunco artist. "Lo, it is I," admitted the Wizard,
dispiritedly plucking a few strings out of his hair. With that he went around
and shook all their hands very hard, shocking them with the little electric
buzzer he invariably carried concealed in his palm.
"Well, well," said Goodgulf, "here we all are again."
"I'd sooner be in a dragon's colon," said Frito.
"I trust you still have _it_," said Goodgulf, eyeing Frito.
"Do you mean the Ring?"
"Silence," commanded Goodgulf in a loud voice. "Speak not of the Great
Ring here or anywhere. If Sorhed's spies discovered that you, Frito Bugger,
hailing from the Sty, had the One Ring, all would be lost. And his spies are
everywhere. The Nine Black Riders are abroad again, and there are those who
claim to have seen the Seven Santinis, the Six Danger Signs, and the entire
Trapp family, including the dog. Even the walls have ears," he said, pointing
to two huge iqbes which were protruding from behind the mantelpiece.
"Is there no hope?" gasped Frito. "Is nowhere safe?"




Pushing till the folk you burn toss you in the harbor!
Screeching like a dying loon, zooming like the thrush!
Follow me and very soon, your mind will turn to mush!
Higher than the nowhere birds grooving in the air,
We'll open up a sandal shop where everyone will share!
Flower folk are springing up, wearing bead and boot,
And if you down me you can stick a flower up your snoot!
To Love and Peace and Brotherhood we all can snort a toast,
And if the heat is on again, we'll all split to the Coast!"
Suddenly a brightly colored figure burst through the foliage, swathed in
a long mantle of hair the consistency of muchchewed Turkish taffy. It was
something like a man, but not much; it stood six feet tall, but could not have
weighed more than thirty-five pounds, dirt included. Standing with his long
arms dangling almost to the ground, the singer's body was covered with a
pattern of startling hues, ranging from schizoid red to psychopathique azure.
Around his pipestem neck hung a dozen strands of beaded charms and from the
center, an amulet imprinted with the elf-rune _Kelvinator_. Through the oily
snaggles of hair stared two huge eyeballs that bulged from their sockets, so
bloodshot that they appeared more like two baseballs of very lean bacon.
"Ooooooooooh, wow!" said the creature, assaying the situation quickly.
Then, half loping, half rolling to the foot of the murderous tree, he sat on
his meatless haunches and peered at it with his colorless, saucerlike irises;
he chanted an incantation that sounded to Frito like a hacking cough:
"Oh uncool bush! Unloose this passle
Of furry cats that you hassle!
Tho' by speed my brain's destroyed,
I'm not half this paranoid!
So cease this bummer, down the freak-out,
Let caps and joints cause brains to leak-out!
These cats are groovy here among us,
So leave 'em be, you uptight fungus!"
Thus speaking, the withered apparition raised his spidery hand in a two-
fingered "V" sign and uttered an eldritch spell:
"Tim, Tim, Benzedrine!
Hash! Boo! Valvoline!
Clean! Clean! Clean for Gene!
First, second, neutral, park,
_Hie thee hence_, you leafy narc!"
The towering plant shivered and the coils fell from its victims like
yesterday's macaroni, and they sprang free with joyful yelps. As they watched
with fascination, the great green menace whimpered like a nursling and sucked
its own pistils with ill temper. The boggies retrieved their garments, and
Frito sighed with relief to find the Ring still firmly Bostiched to his
pocket.
"Oh thank you," they all squealed, wagging their tails, "thank you,
thank you!" But their savior said nothing. As if unaware of their presence, he
stiffened like the tree and gasped, "Gah gah gah" while his pupils opened and
closed like nervous umbrellas. His knees buckled and unbuckled, then buckled
again and he fell to the mossy earth in a ball of frantically thrashing hair.
He foamed at the mouth and screamed, "Oh God get 'em off me! They're all over
the place, and green! Argh! Org! _OhGodOhGodOhGodOhGodOhGodOhGod!_" He slapped
at his hair and body hysterically.
Frito blinked with astonishment and grabbed his Ring, but did not put it
on. Spam, stooping over the prostrate freak, smiled and offered his hand.
"Beggin' your leave," he said, "can you tell us where--"
"Oh no no _no!_ Look at all of 'em! All over the place! _Keep 'em away
from me!_"
"Keep who away?" asked Moxie politely.
"_Them!_" screamed the stricken stranger, pointing to his own head. He
then sprang to his horny feet and ran directly at the trunk of the hickey tree
and, charging full tilt with his head lowered, butted it a mighty lick, and,
before the startled eyes of the boggies, passed out cold. Frito filled his
narrow-brimmed hat with clear water from a nearby trickle and approached him,
but the stunned figure opened his marbled eyes and gave another high-pitched
scream.
"No, no, not _water!_"
Frito jumped back with fright and the skinny creature wobbled to his
feet and knuckles.
"But thangs loads anyhoo," said the stranger, "the rush always arfects
me like dat." Offering a filthy hand, the oddspeaking stranger smiled a
toothless grin. "Tim Benzedrine, ad yen serbice."
Frito and the rest solemnly introduced themselves, all still casting a
worried eye toward the kissing plant, which was sticking out its stamen at
them.
"Oh wow, doan' worby about him," wheezed Tim, "he just sulking. Yoo cats
noo aroun' here?"
Frito guardedly told him that they were on their way to Whee, but had
become lost. "Can you tell us how to find our way there?"
"Oh wow, oh sure," laughed Tim, "thad's easy. But led's split to my pad
firz, I wan' yoo meet my chick. She name Hashberry."
The boggies agreed, for their stores of potato salad were gone.
Gathering their packs, they curiously followed after the wildly zigzagging
Benzedrine, who occasionally halted to rap with a likely looking rock or
stump, giving them time to catch up. As they circled through the menacing
trees aimlessly, Tim Benzedrine's throat croaked merrily:
"O slender as a speeding freak! Spaced-out groovy tripper!
O mush-brained maid whose mind decays with every pill I slip her!
O mind-blown fair farina-head, friend of birds and beetles!
O skinny wraith whose fingernails are hypodermic needles!
O tangled locks and painted bod! Pupils big as eggs!
O flower-maid who never bathes or even shaves her legs!
O softened mind that wanders wherever moon above leads!
O how I dig thee, Hashberry, from nose to sleazy lovebeads!"
A few moments later they broke into a clearing on a low hill. There was
a ramshackle hovel shaped like a rubber boot with a little chimney that
emitted a thick fog of sick-looking green smoke.
"Oh wow," squeaked Tim, "she's home!" Led by Tim, the company approached
the unprepossessing little hut. A flashing white light blinked from its only
window, at the top. As they stepped over the threshold, littered with
cigarette papers, broken pipes, and burnt-out brain cells, Tim called:
"I've brought four with me to crash,
So now's the time to pass the stash."
From the smoky depths an answering voice returned:
"Then celebrate and take a toke,
To make us giggle, gag and choke!"
At first Frito saw nothing amid the iridescent wallpaper and strobe
candles but what appeared to be a heap of filthy cleaning rags. But then the
pile spoke again:
"Hither come and suck a pipe,
Turn thy brains to cheese and tripe!"
And then, as the boggies squinted their smarting eyes, the heap stirred
and sat up revealing itself to be an incredibly emaciated, hollow-eyed female.
She looked at them for a second, muttered, "Like wow," and fell forward in a
catatonic stupor with a rattle of beads.
"Doan' let Hash bug yoo," said Tim. "Tuesday is her day to crash."
Somewhat bewildered by the acrid fumes and the flashing candles, the
boggies sat crosslegged on a grimy mattress and asked politely for some grub,
as they had journeyed far and were about to devour the ticking.
"Eats?" chuckled Tim, rummaging through a handmade leather pouch. "Jes'
hang loose an' I'll fimb somp'un f'yoo. Lemmesee, oh, oh wow! Dint know we had
any this left!" Clumsily he scooped out the contents and set them in a bent
hubcap before them. They were among the most dubious-looking mushrooms Spam
had ever seen, and, rather rudely, he said so.
"These are among the most dubious-lookin' mushrooms I'm ever a-seeing,"
he stated.
Nevertheless there were few things in Lower Middle Earth Spam _hadn't_
idly nibbled and lived to tell about, so he dived in, stuffing himself loudly.
They were of an odd color and odor, but they tasted okay, if a little on the
moldy side, and after that the boggies were offered round candies with little
letters cleverly printed on them. ("They melt in yoor brain, not in your
hans," giggled Tim.)
Bloated to critical mass, the contented boggies relaxed as Hashberry
played a melody on something that looked like a pregnant handloom. Mellowed by
the repast, Sam was particularly pleased when Tim offered him some of his "own
speshul mix" for his nose-pipe. An odd flavor, thought Spam, but nice.
"Yoo got about ha'f an hour," said Tim. "Wanna rap?"
"Rap?" said Spam.
"Yoo know, like . . . talk wif your mouf," replied Tim as he lit his own
pipe, a large converted milk separator laden with valves and dials. "Yoo here
'cause th' heat's on?"
"In a manner of speaking," said Frito judiciously. "We've got this here
Ring of Power and--oops!" Frito caught himself, but too late; he could not
unsay it now.
"Oh groovy!" said Tim. "Lemme see."
Reluctantly, Frito handed over the Ring.
"Pretty cheap stuff," said Tim, tossing it back. "Even th' junk I pawn
off on th' dwarbs is bedder."
"You sell rings?" asked Moxie.
"Sure," said Tim. "I gotta sandal-and-magic-charm shop for th' tourist
season. Keeps me in stash for winter months, y'know whad I mean?"
"There might not be many of us left to visit the woods," said Frito
quietly, "if Sorhed's plans are not foiled. Will you join us?"
Tim shook his hair. "Now doan' bug me, man. I'm a conscienshul
objectioner . . . doan' wan' no more war. Came here to dodge draff, see? If
some cat wants to kick th' stuffing outta me, I say, 'Groovy,' an' I give 'em
flower an' love-beads. 'Love,' I say t' him. 'No more war,' I say. Anyway, I
fourF!"
"No more guts!" growled Spam under his breath to Moxie.
"No, I _god_ guts," said Tim, pointing to his temple, "no more braims!"
Frito smiled diplomatically, but was suddenly stricken by a severe
stomachache. His eyes began to roll and he felt very light-headed. _Probably a
touch of the banshee two-step_, he thought as his ears started to ring like a
dwarf's cash-register. His tongue felt thick, and his tail began to vibrate.
Turning to Spam, he wished to ask him if he felt it too.
"Argle-bargle morble whoosh?" said Frito.
But it did not matter, for he saw that Spam had oddly taken it into his
head to change himself into a large, pink dragon wearing a three-piece suit
and a straw boater.
"What did you be sayin', Master Frito?" asked the natty lizard with
Spam's voice.
"Ffluger fribble golorful frooble," said Frito dreamily, thinking it
strange that Spam was wearing a boater in late autumn. Glancing at the twins,
Frito noted that they had changed into matching candy-striped coffeepots
perking away like mad.
"Don't feel too well," said one.
"Feel _sick_," clarified the other.
Tim, now a rather handsome six-foot carrot, laughed loudly and changed
into a coiled parking meter. Frito, dizzy as a great wave of oatmeal flowed
through his brain, grew heedless of the puddle of drool collecting in his lap.
There was a noiseless explosion between his ears and he watched with terror as
the room began stretching and pulsating like Silly Putty in heat. Frito's ears
began to grow and his arms changed into badminton rackets. The floor developed
holes out of which poured fanged peanut brittle. A score of polka-dotted
cockroaches danced a buck-and-wing on his stomach. A Swiss cheese waltzed him
twice around the room, and his nose fell off. Frito opened his mouth to speak
and a flock of flying earthworms escaped. His gall bladder sang an aria and
did a little tap dance on his appendix. He began to lose consciousness, but
before it ebbed completely, he heard a six-foot waffle iron giggle, "If yoo
dig it now, jes' wade till th' _rush_ hits you!"
III
INDIGESTION AT THE SIGN OF THE GOODE EATS
The golden brightness of late morning was already warming the grass when
Frito finally awoke, his head sore afflicted, and his mouth tasting like the
bottom of a birdcage. Looking about, every joint aching, he saw that he and
his three still-slumbering companions were at the very edge of the Wood, and
before them was the four-lane wagon rut that would lead them directly to Whee!
There was no sign of Tim Benzedrine. Frito mused that the events of the
previous night might have been the idle dream of a boggie whose tummy writhed
full of spoiled potato salad. Then his bloodshot eyes saw the small paper bag
resting next to his knapsack, with a scrawled note attached. Curiously, Frito
read:
Dere Fritoad,
Two badd yoo copped outt sso sooon lazt nighgt.
Missed somm grooovy ttrps. Hoap the rring thinng
wurcs outt awrighgth
Peece,
Timm
P.S. Hear ar som outt of sighgt stash which I am
laying onn yoo guyys. Mmust sine off as rush iss
comcomcoming ohgodohgodohgodohgod$5~%*
@ + =!
Frito peeked inside the dirty paper sack and saw a number of colored
candy beans, much like the ones they had eaten the night before. _Odd_,
thought Frito, _but they may prove useful. Who knows?_ Thus, after an hour or
so of cajoling his fellows to their senses, Frito and the party tramped off
toward Whee rapping much of their adventure the previous evening.
Whee was the chief village of Wheeland, a small and swampy region
populated mostly by star-nosed moles and folk who wished that they were
somewhere else. The village enjoyed a brief popularity when, through a
surveyor's fortuitous hiccup, the four-lane Intershire Turnpath was mistakenly
built right through the center of the pathetic little twarf. Then, for a time,
the populace lived high on the hog off the proceeds from illegal speed traps,
parking violations, and occasional bald-faced hijackings. A small tourist
influx from the Sty led to the construction of cheap diners, flimsy souvenir
stands, and prefabricated historical landmarks. But the growing cloud of
"troubles" from the east abruptly ended such trade as there was. Instead, a
trickle of refugees came from the eastern lands bearing few belongings and
fewer smarts. Not ones to miss an opportunity, the men and boggies of Whee
labored together in harmony selling the heavily accented immigrants shorter
names and interests in perpetual-motion machines. They also supplemented their
purses by hawking black-market visas to the Sty to the few unfortunates who
were not familiar with the place.
The men of Whee were stooped, squat, splay-toed, and stupid. Heavily
ridged over the eyes and prone to rather poor posture, they were often
mistaken for Neanderthals, a common confusion that the latter deeply resented.
Slow to anger or pretty much anything else, they lived peacefully with their
boggie neighbors, who were themselves tickled pink to find somebody farther
down the evolutionary scale.
Together, the two peoples now lived on the few farthings they made off
the wetbacks and the dole, a common fruit shaped like your pancreas and about
as appetizing.
The village of Whee had some six dozen small houses, most of them built
of wax paper and discarded corks. They were arranged in sort of a circle
inside the protecting moat, whose stench alone could drop a dragon at a
hundred paces.
Pinching their nostrils, the company crossed the creaky drawbridge and
read the sign at the gate:
WELCOME TO QUAINT, HISTORICAL WHEE
POPULATION 10X04 3X88 96 AND STILL GROWING!
Two sleepy-eyed guards bestirred themselves just long enough to relieve
the protesting Spam of his remaining tablespoons. Frito surrendered half of
his magic beans, which the guards munched with speculation.
The boggies beat it before they took effect and, per Goodgulf's
instructions, headed for the orange-and-green flashing sign at the center of
town. There they found a gaudy plexiglas and chrome inn, whose blinking sign
portrayed a boar, rampant, devoured by a mouth, drooling. Beneath it was the
name of the inn, the Goode Eats & Lodging. Passing through the revolving door,
the party signaled the bell clerk, whose nametag read _Hi! I'm HoJo
Hominigritts!_ Like the rest of the staff, he was costumed as a suckling pig
with false sow's ears, tail, and papier-mache snout.
"Howdy!" drawled the fat boggie. "Ya'll want a room?"
"Yes," said Frito, stealing a glance at his companions. "We're just in
town _for a little vacation_, aren't we, boys?"
"Vacation," said Moxie, winking at Frito broadly.
"Just a little vacation," added Pepsi, nodding his head like an idiot.
"Ya'll sign here please?" said the clerk through his fake snout. Frito
took the quill chained to the desk and wrote the names ALIAS UNDERCOVER, IVAN
GOTTASECRET, JOHN DOESMITH, and IMA PSEUDONYM.
"Any bags, Mr., uh, Undercover?"
"Only under my eyes," mumbled Frito, turning toward the dining room.
"Wal," chuckled the clerk, "just leave these here sacks an' I'll _ring_
a bellhop."
"Fine," said Frito, hurrying away.
"Now y'all have a good time now," the clerk called after them, "an' if
y'all want anything, just _ring!_"
Out of earshot, Frito turned worriedly to Spam. "You don't think he
_knows_ anything," he whispered, "do you?"
"Naw, Master Frito," said Spam, massaging his stomach. "Let's grab some
grub!"
The four entered the dining room and sat at a booth near the roaring
propane fireplace that eternally roasted a large cement boar on a motorized
spit. The soft notes of a badly played Muzak eddied through the crowded room
as the ravenous boggies studied the menu, which was ingeniously shaped like a
sow giving birth. As Frito considered an "Uncle Piggy's OinkOink Burger-on-a-
Bun" flambéed in purest linseed oil, Spam hungrily ogled the scantily clad
"piglets" who served as waitresses, each buxom wench also outfitted in fake
tail, ears, and snout.
One of the piglets sidled up to the table for their order as Spam
greedily took stock of her big red eyes, crooked blond wig, and hairy legs.
"Youse slobs wanna order yet?" asked the piglet as she teetered
uncomfortably on her spiked heels.
"Two Oink-Oink Burgers and two Bow-Wow Specials, please," answered Frito
respectfully.
"Somethun' t' _ring_, uh, I mean, _drink_, sir?"
"Just four Orca-Colas, thank you."
"Gotcha."
As the waitress lurched off, wobbling on her heels and tripping over her
long, black scabbard, Frito surveyed the crowd for anyone suspicious. A few
boggies, some swarthy-looking men, a drunken troll passed out at the counter.
The usual.
Relieved, Frito allowed his three companions to mix with the others,
warning them to keep their lips buttoned about the "you-know-what." The
waitress returned with Frito's burger as Spam traded some pointless anecdotes
with a pair of leprechauns in the corner and the twins entertained some
seedylooking gremlins with their cunning pantomime, _The Old Cripple and His
Daughters_, a sure-fire hit in the Sty. As growing numbers roared with mirth
at their obscene posturings, Frito munched his tasteless burger thoughtfully,
wondering what the Great Ring's fate would be when they reached Riv'n'dell,
and Goodgulf.
Suddenly, Frito's grinders jammed against a small hard object in the
burger. Cursing under his breath, Frito reached into his throbbing mouth and
extracted a tiny metal cylinder. Unscrewing the top, he removed a tinier strip
of microvellum, on which he made out the words: _Beware! You are in great
danger. You are embarked on a long journey. You will soon meet a tall, dark
Ranger. You weigh exactly fifty-nine pounds_.
Frito drew in his breath with fright and his eyes sought the sender of
this message. At last they came to rest on a tall, dark Ranger seated at the
counter, a double root beer untouched before him. The lean figure was dressed
entirely in gray, and his eyes were hidden by a black mask. Across his chest
were crossed bandoleers of silver bullets, and a pearl-handled broadsword
dangled ominously from one lean hip. As if feeling Frito's eyes upon him, he
turned slowly on his stool and met them, putting a gloved finger to his lips
for secrecy. He then pointed toward the door of the men's room and held out
five fingers. FIVE MINUTES. He pointed toward Frito and then to himself. By
this time half the patrons had turned to watch, and thinking it was a game of
charades, were encouraging him with shouts of "Famous saying?" and "Sounds
like!"
The young boggie pretended to take no heed of the stranger and reread
the note. _Danger_, it said. Frito stared thoughtfully into the sediment of
fish hooks and the frothy head of ground glass on his Orca-Cola. Making sure
no one was watching, he cautiously took the glass over to the large potted
palm nearby, which accepted it and placed it carefully on the floor.
His suspicions now fully aroused, Frito edged from the booth, careful
not to disturb the decorative listening tube placed in the center of the
plastic floral arrangement. Without being seen, he went into the little
boggies' room, there to await the dark stranger.
After he had been waiting a few minutes, several patrons using the
facilities began to eye Frito curiously as he leaned against a tiled wall
whistling, his hands in his pockets. To allay their further inquiry, Frito
turned to the vending machine that hung on the wall. "Well, well, _well_," he
said in a stage whisper, "just what I've been looking for!" He then proceeded,
with elaborate carelessness, to work the machine with the change in his
farthing purse.
Fifteen bird whistles, eight compasses, six miniature lighters, and four
packs of nasty little rubber novelties later, a mysterious knocking was heard
at the door. Finally one of the patrons hidden by a stall yelled, 'F'cryin'
out loud, somebody let the s.o.b. in!" The door swung open and the masked
visage of the dark stranger appeared and beckoned Frito around the corner.
"I have a message for you, Mr. _Bugger_," said the stranger.
Frito's burger rose at the sound of his true name.
"But--but I theenk you are meestaken, señor," began Frito lamely, "I
velly solly but my honorable name not--"
"This message is from Goodgulf the Wizard," said the stranger, "if the
name by which thee calls thyself answers to the title of _Frito Bugger!_"
"I are," said Frito, confused and frightened.
"And thee hast the Ring?"
"Maybe I do, and maybe I don't," countered Frito, stalling for time. The
stranger lifted Frito by his narrow lapels.
"_And thee hast the Ring?_"
"Yes, already," squealed Frito. "So I've got it! So sue me."
"Be not afraid, allay thy fears, quail not, and hold thy horses,"
laughed the man. "I am a friend of thine."
"And you have a message for me from Goodgulf?" gulped Frito, feeling his
burger settling a bit. The tall one unzipped a secret compartment in a
saddlebag on his shoulder and handed Frito a slip which read:
"Three shorts, four pairs socks, two shirts, chain mail, heavy starch?"
Impatiently, the stranger snatched the ancient gag from the boggie's paw and
replaced it with a folded parchment. Frito's glance at the Michaelmas Seals
and Goodgulf's X-rune imprinted in hardened bubble gum verified the sender.
Hurriedly he tore it open, saving the gum for Spam. For later. With
difficulty he deciphered the familiar Palmer Method characters. They read:
Frito-lad,
The halberd has fallen! The fewmets have hit the windmill!
Sorhed's Nozdrul have gotten wind of our little dodge and
are beating the bush for "four boggies, one with a pink
tail." Doesn't take any abacus to figure out somebody's
spilled the gruel. Get out of wherever you are fast, and
don't lose the you-know-what. I'll try to meet you at
Wingtip, if not, look me up in Riv'n'dell. In any case,
don't take any oaken tuppences. And don't mind Stomper,
he's a good egg, ut-bay ot-nay oo-tay ight-bray, if you
know what I mean.
Must close, left some
thing on the Bunsen,
Goodgulf
P.S. How do you like the new stationery? Picked it up for
a plainchant at Hambone's Dept.!
Once again Frito's Oink-Oink Burger rose to the occasion. Fighting down
its untimely reappearance, Frito gasped, "Then we are not safe here."
"Have no fear, lowly boggie," said Stomper, "for I, Arrowroot of
Arrowshirt, am with thee. Goodgulf must have spoken of me in the letter. I
have many names-"
"I'm sure you do, Mr. Arrowshirt," Frito broke in, panicking. "But it's
mud and then some if we don't get out of here. I think somebody in this cheap
joint wants my scalp, and not for a lanolin massage, either!"
Returning to the booth, Frito found the three boggies still feeding
their faces. Ignoring the masked stranger, Spam grinned greasily at Frito.
"Been a-wonderin' where ye ha' gone," he said. "Want a bite o' my Bow-Wow?"
Frito's Oink-Oink sought repatriation with Spam's BowWow, but he fought
it back and made room for Stomper's long knock-knees under the table. The
boggies looked at Stomper with torpid disinterest.
"I didn't be thinkin' it was time for trickin' an' treatin' so soon,"
said Spam.
Frito stayed Stomper's wrathful hand. "Listen," he said quickly, "this
is Stomper, a friend of Goodgulf's and a friend of ours-"
"And I have many names-" began Stomper.
"And he's got many names, but what we have to do now is-" Frito felt a
great hulk looming behind him.
"Youse jerks want t' pay now?" rasped a voice hidden beneath a mass of
blond hair and a paper snout.
"Uh, sure," said Frito, "now your tip would be, aaah . . ." Suddenly
Frito felt a strong, clawed hand reach into his pocket.
"Don't bother, bub," snarled the voice, "I'll just _ring this up!_ Haw
haw haw haw haw!" With a shrill scream, Frito saw the wig fall from the head
of the false piglet, revealing the burning red eyes and foul grin of a
Nozdrul! As if hypnotized, Frito stared at the huge wraith's slavering leer,
noticing that each tooth had been sharpened to a razor point. _Hate to have
his dental bills_, he thought. Frito looked around for help as the giant fiend
lifted him and rifled his pockets, searching for the Great Ring.
"C'mon, c'mon," the monster growled, growing impatient, "Let's have
it!" Eight other huge waitresses closed in, each flashing a menacing set of
well-honed choppers. Cruelly they held down the three boggies, white with
fear. Of Stomper there was nothing to be seen, save a pair of spurred heels
shivering under the table.
"Okay, chipmunk, give!" hissed the evil one, drawing his huge black
mace. "_I said--yeeeeowtch!_" cried the Nozdrul in pain, simultaneously
letting go of Frito and jumping straight up in the air. From below the table
rose a sharp, barbed blade. Stomper leaped up.
"_Oh Dragonbreth! Gilthorpial!_" he yodeled, waving his cleaver around
like a madman. He lunged at the nearest wraith with his unwieldy sword.
"_Banzai!_" he screamed. "_No quarter asked or given! Damn the torpedoes!_"
Taking a vicious swipe, Stomper missed his mark by a good yard and tripped on
his scabbard.
The nine stared at the writhing, foaming maniac with round, red eyes.
The sight of Stomper filled them with awe. They stood speechless. Suddenly one
of the stunned creatures began to titter, then chuckle. Another guffawed. Two
more joined in, chortling loudly, and finally all nine were in the throes of
hysterical, side-aching laughter. Stomper, puffing and enraged, stood up and
tripped on his cape, spilling his silver bullets all over the floor. The whole
dining room roared with unbelieving hilarity. Two Nozdrul collapsed to the
ground, helplessly giggling. Others staggered about, great red tears rolling
down their scaly cheeks, gasping for air and incapable of holding their maces.
_Haw haw haw!_ Stomper got to his feet, his face beetred with anger. He lifted
his sword, and the blade fell off the handle. _Haw haw haw haw haw!_ The
Nozdrul rolled and writhed on the ground, clutching their ribs. Stomper
replaced the blade, took a mighty wind-up, and firmly embedded the point in
the cement pig. HAWHAWHAWHAWHAWHAW HAW HAW HAW HAW HAW HAW HAW HAW HAW HAW HAW
HAW HAW!
At this point, seeing that no one was paying any attention to him, Frito
picked up one of the heavy, discarded maces and calmly proceeded to beat some
heads in. Moxie, Spam, and Pepsi followed his example and went among the
gibbering wraiths administering random kicks to groins and breadbaskets.
Finally, the deranged Arrowroot accidentally cut the pulley ropes to the
room's main chandelier, simultaneously fixing the wagons of the semiconscious
wraiths directly below and plunging the room into total darkness. The boggies
dashed blindly for the door, dragging Stomper after them through the temporary
blackout. Bobbing and weaving past the glowing eyes, they escaped and ran
breathlessly down back alleys and past the snoring guards until they crossed
the drawbridge and hit open ground. As Frito ran on he felt the curious eyes
of the villagers upon him and his frantic companions. Frito hoped that they
would not inform the tools of Sorhed. Thankfully he saw that they took little
notice of them and went about their evening chores, lighting signal fires and
releasing carrier pigeons.
Once outside the town, Stomper led them into a thick sedge and bade them
to be small and quiet lest they be seen by Sorhed's agents, who would soon
revive and mount the hunt.
The party was still panting when sharp-eared Arrowroot adjusted the
volume on his hearing aid and laid his head to the ground.
"Hark and lo!" he whispered, "I do hear the sound of Nine Riders
galloping nigh the road in full battle array." A few minutes later a
dispirited brace of steers ambled awkwardly past, but to give Stomper his due,
they did carry some rather lethal-looking antlerettes.
"The foul Nozdrul have bewitched my ears," mumbled Stomper as he
apologetically replaced his batteries, "but it is safe to proceed, for the
nonce." It was at that moment that the thundering hooves of the dreaded pig
riders echoed along the road. Just in time the company dove back to cover and
the vengeful searchers sped past. When the clanking of armor dwindled in the
distance, five heads reappeared above the bushes, their teeth chattering like
cheap maracas.
" 'Twas a near thing!" said Spam. "Came nigh to a-spoilin' me
pantaloons."
The party chose to push on toward Wingtip before the sun rose. The moon
was swathed in a shawl of heavy cloud as they traveled to the lofty peak, a
lone finger of granite near the southern base of the legendary Hartz
Mountains, scaled by few save an occasional winded guttersnipe.
Stomper walked along in the cool night breeze without speaking, silent
except for the faint jingling of his zinc-plated spurs. The twins were
fascinated with the pearl-handled sword which he called Krona, Conqueror of
Dozens. Moxie sidled up to the lean masked man.
"That's a neat toadsticker you got there, Mr. Arrowshirt," said the
inquisitive boggie.
"Aye," said Stomper, quickening his pace a bit.
"Doesn't look like the regular issue. Must be a special model, huh,
mister?"
"Aye," replied the tall man, dilating his nostrils slightly with
annoyance.
Quick as a packrat, Moxie snatched the weapon from its holster. "Okay if
I take a look?" Stomper, without batting an eye, let fly with a hand-tooled
boot that sent the young boggie bouncing like a jai-alai ball.
"Nay," snapped Stomper, retrieving his blade.
"I don't think he meant to be rude, Mr. Arrowshirt," said Frito, helping
Moxie to his archless feet. There followed an embarrassed silence. Spam, whose
knowledge of warfare was limited to childhood torturing of the family pullets,
nevertheless began to sing a snatch of song he had once learned:
"Barbisol was Twodor's king
Whose foes his mighty blade did sting,
Till one day it got all rusted
And Sorhed's parry left it busted."
Then, to the boggie's surprise, a fat tear fell from Stomper's eye and
his voice sobbed in the darkness:
"Thus gloried Twodor came to nothing,
Out of the king was beat the stuffing.
And thus we live in fear of Fordor
Till Krona's back in working order!"
The boggies gasped and looked at their companion as if for the first
time. With recognition they recognized the legendary weak chin and buck teeth
of Barbisol's descendant.
"Then you must be the rightful King of Twodor!" cried Frito.
The tall Ranger looked at them impassively.
"These things you say may be affirmed," he said, "but I do not wish to
make a statement at this time, for there is another, oft-forgotten verse to
this sad and doleful song:
"Against the True King Sorhed's workin'
So play your cards close to your jerkin,
For fortune strums a mournful tune
For those whose campaigns peak too soon."
Watching the newly revealed ruler trudge on in his lowly garb, the young
Frito grew again thoughtful and pondered long on the many ironies of life.
As the sun's rim broke on the far horizon its first tentative rays
illuminated Wingtip. After an hour of strenuous climbing they reached the top
and rested gratefully on the flat granite apex, while Stomper scrounged around
for some sign of Goodgulf. Nosing about a large gray rock, Stomper stopped and
called to Frito. Frito looked at the stone and discerned the crude skull-and-
bones etched into its surface, and with it the X-rune of the Old Wizard.
"Goodgulf has passed this way recently," said Stomper, "and unless I
read these runes awrong, he means this place as a secure camp for us."
Nevertheless Frito bedded down with nagging misgivings. _But_, he
reminded himself, _he is a king, and all_. The bridge across the Gallowine and
the way to Riv'n'dell were only a short distance; there they would be safe
from the marauding Swine Riders. Sleep was now long overdue, and he sighed
with pleasure as he curled up under a low shelf of stone. Soon he was falling
fast asleep, lulled by the soft _snuffling_ noises and the clanking of armor
below.
"Awake! Awake! Fiends! Foes! _Flee!_" someone was whispering, waking
Frito from his dreams. Stomper's hand jostled him roughly. Obeying him, Frito
peered down the slope and made out nine black forms inching stealthily up the
mountain toward their hiding place.
"It seemeth that I read the signs awrong," muttered the perplexed guide.
"Soon they will be upon us unless we divert their wrath."
"How?" asked Pepsi.
"Yes, how?" joined in Guess Who.
Stomper looked at the boggies. "One of the party must stay behind to
delay them while we dash for the bridge."
"But who--?"
"Never fear," said Stomper quickly. "I have here in my gauntlet four
lots, three long and a short for him we throw to the--er--for he who will have
his name emblazoned in the pantheon of heroes."
"Four?" said Spam. "What about _you?_"
The Ranger straightened with great dignity. "Surely," he said, "you
would not wish me an unfair advantage seeing that it was I who made up the
lots?"
Mollified, the boggies drew the pipe cleaners. Spam drew the short.
"Two out of three?" he whined. But his fellows had already disappeared
over the lip of the peak and were racing down as fast as they could. Panting
and puffing, a fat tear rolled from Frito's eye. He would miss him.
Spam looked down the opposite slope and saw the dismounted Nozdrul
picking their way toward him quickly. Crouching behind a rock, he screamed
courageously at them. "If I were ye," he called, "I'd not come any closer!
Ye'll be sorry if ye do!" Unheeding, the fierce knights drew even nearer.
"You're really a-goin' t' get it!" yelled Spam rather unconvincingly. Still
the Riders grew nearer, and Spam lost his nerve. Taking out his white
handkerchief, he waved it about and pointed toward his retreating friends.
"Don't be wastin' your time with me," he cried. "The one with the Ring is
hightailin' it thataway!"
Hearing this from below, Frito winced and pumped his fat legs harder.
Stomper's long and gimpy shanks had already brought him across the bridge and
onto the safety of the other bank, the neutral territory of the elves. Frito
looked behind him. He wouldn't make it in time!
Stomper watched the deadly race from the cover of some briars on the
bank of the stream.
"Hie thee faster," he called helpfully, "for the evil ones are right
behind thee!" Then he hid his eyes.
The rumble of pigs' feet grew louder and louder in Frito's ears, and he
could hear the lethal _swish_ of their horrible Nozdrulville Sluggers. He made
a last, desperate burst of speed, but tripped and skidded to a stop only a few
feet from the border. Cackling with evil amusement, the nine surrounded Frito,
their squint-eyed steeds grunting for Frito's blood.
"Blood! Blood!" they grunted.
Frito looked up, terrified, and saw them as they slowly closed the ring,
only an arm's length from death. The leader of the pack, a tall beefy wraith
with chrome-plated greaves, laughed savagely and raised his mace.
"Hee hee hee, filthy rodent! Now is the time for fun!"
Frito cowered. "Maybe it is, and maybe it isn't," he said, pulling his
favorite bluff.
"Arrrgh!" screamed an impatient Nozdrul, who, by coincidence, happened
to be named Argh. "C'mon, let's cream this little creep! The boss said take
his Ring and croak him then 'n' there!"
Frito's mind raced. He decided to play his last card.
"Well dat's sho' nuff fine wit me, 'cause ah sho' doan wan' you t' do
the bad thing to' po' li'l me!" said Frito, bugging out his eyes and rolling
them like ball bearings.
"Har har har!" chortled another Rider. "What can you think of that's
worse than what we're _gonna_ do with ya?" The fiends drew closer to hear the
terrible fear Frito harbored in his breast.
The boggie whistled and pretended to play the banjo. He then sang a
verse of "Ole Man Ribber" as he ambled back and forth on shuffling feet,
scratched his woolly head, and danced a cakewalk while picking watermelon
seeds from his ears, all with natural rhythm.
"Sure can dance," muttered one of the Riders.
"Sure gonna _die!_" screamed another, thirsting for Frito's throat.
"_Sho' I gwine t' die_," drawled Frito. "Yo' kin do mos' anythin' t'
po' li'l me, Br'er Nozdrul, so long as yo' _please doan throw me in dat briar
patch ober dere!_"
At this all the sadistic Riders sniggered.
"If that's what you're scared of most," bellowed a voice full of malice,
"then _that's what we'll do to you_, ya little jerk!"
Frito felt himself lifted by a horny black hand and flung far over the
Gallowine and into the scrubby bush on the other side. Gleefully, he stood up
and fished out the Ring, making sure it still hung on his chain.
But the crafty Riders were not long deceived by Frito's ruse. They
spurred their drooling swine to the bridge, intent on recapturing the boggie
and his precious Ring. But, as Frito saw with surprise, the Black Nine were
halted at the foot of the crossing by a figure robed in shining raiment.
"Toll, please," commanded the figure of the startled Riders. The
pursuers were again dumfounded when they were directed to a hastily lettered
sign tacked to a support:
Elfboro Municipal Toll Bridge
Single Wayfarers . . . . . . 1 farthing
Double-axled Haywains. . . . . . 2 farthings
Black Riders. . . . . . . . . . . . 45 gold pieces
"Let us cross!" snapped an angry Nozdrul.
"Certainly," replied the attendant pleasantly. "Now let's see, there's
one, two . . . ah, _nine_ of you at forty-five apiece, that makes . . .
uuuuhh, four hundred and five beans, exactly, please. In cash."
Hurriedly, the Nozdrul searched their saddlebags as their leader cursed
angrily and shook his slugger with frustration.
"Listen," he stormed, "what kind of dough do you think we make, anyhow?
Ain't there some sorta discount for civil servants?"
"I'm sorry--" smiled the attendant.
"How 'bout a Wayfarer's Letter of Credit? They're as good as bullion
anywhere."
"Sorry, this is a bridge, not a countinghouse," replied the figure
impassively.
"My personal check? It's backed up by the treasure rooms of Fordor."
"No money, no crossee, friend."
The Nozdruls quivered with rage, but turned their mounts around,
preparing to ride off. Before they left, however, the leader shook a gnarled
fist.
"This ain't the end of this, punk! You'll hear from us again!"
Saying this, the nine spurred their farting porkers and sped away in a
great cloud of dust and dung.
Observing this near impossible escape from certain death, Frito wondered
how much longer the authors were going to get away with such tripe. He wasn't
the only one.
Stomper and the other boggies ran to Frito, extending their
congratulations on his escape. They then drew close to the mysterious figure,
who approached and, espying Stomper among them, raised his hands in greeting
and sang:
"O NASA O UCLA! O Etaion Shrdlu!
O Escrow Beryllium! Pandit J. Nehru!"
Stomper raised his hands and answered, "_Shantih Billerica!_" They met
and embraced, exchanging words of friendship and giving the secret handshake.
The boggies studied the stranger with interest. He introduced himself as
Garfinkel of the elves. When he had shed himself of his robes, the boggies
regarded with curiosity his ring-encrusted hands, his open-collared Ban-Lon
tunic, and his silver beach clogs.
"Thought you would have been here days ago," said the balding elf. "Any
trouble along the way?"
"I could write a book," said Frito prophetically.
"Well," said Garfinkel, "we'd better make tracks before those B-movie
heavies return. They may be stupid, but they sure can be persistent."
"So new?" muttered Frito, who found himself muttering more and more
lately.
The elf looked doubtfully at the boggies. "You guys know how to ride?"
Without waiting for an answer he whistled loudly through his gold teeth. A
clump of high sedge rustled and several overweight merino sheep bounded into
view, bleating irritably.
"Mount up," said Garfinkel.
Frito, more or less athwart an unpromising ungulant, rode last in the
procession away from the Gallowine toward Riv'n'dell. He slipped his hand into
his pocket, found the Ring, and took it out in the fading light. Already it
was beginning to work its slow change upon him, the transformation of which
Dildo had warned. He was constipated.
IV
FINDERS KEEPERS, FINDERS WEEPERS
After three days of hard riding that had put many a furlong between them
and the Black Riders, the weary boggies came at last to the low kneehills
which surrounded the valley of Riv'n'dell with a natural wall that protected
it from occasional marauders too stupid or small to scale the sheer knolls and
mounds. But their sure-footed mounts easily overcame these obstacles with
short, heart-stopping hops, and in no time Frito and his companions had
reached the summit of the last hillock and looked down on the orange roofs and
cupolas of the elfish ranchellas. Urging on their panting ruminants, they
galloped down the winding corduroy road that led to the dwellings of Orlon.
It was late in the gray fall afternoon when the procession of sheepback
riders rode into Riv'n'dell, led by Garfinkel astride his magnificent woolly
stallion, Anthrax. An ill wind was blowing, and granite hailstones were
falling from brooding clouds. As the party drew rein in front of the main
lodge, a tall elf robed in finest percale and wearing bucks of blinding
whiteness stepped onto the porch and greeted them.
"Welcome to the Last Homely House East of the Sea and Gift Shoppe," he
said. "Barca-Loungers in every room."
Garfinkel and the tall elf thumbed their noses in the ancient salute of
their race and exchanged greetings in elvish. "A sya non esso decca hi
hawaya," said Garfinkel, lightly springing from his animal.
"O movado silvathin nytol niceta-seeya," replied the tall elf; then
turning to Stomper he said: "I am Orlon."
"Arrowroot son of Arrowshirt, at your service," said Stomper,
dismounting clumsily.
"And these?" said Orlon, pointing to the four boggies asleep on their
dormant mounts.
"Frito and his companions, boggies from the Sty," said Stomper. At the
mention of his name, Frito gurgled loudly and fell off his sheep, and the Ring
dropped out of his clothes, and rolled to Orlon's feet. One of the sheep
trotted up, licked it, and turned into a fire hydrant.
"Oog," mumbled Orlon, and staggered inside. Garfinkel followed him into
the little building, and a stream of low elvish followed. Arrowroot stood
listening for a moment, then went around to Spam, Moxie, and Pepsi and woke
them up with a series of finger jabs and pivot-kicks. Frito retrieved the Ring
and slipped it into his pocket. "So this is Riv'n'dell," he said, rubbing his
eyes with wonder as he looked at the strange elvish houses of prestressed
gingerbread and ferrocandy.
"Look, Master Frito," said Spam, pointing up the road. "Elfs, lots of
'em. Ooooo, I must be dreaming. I wish the old Fatlip could see me now."
"I wish I were dead," whined Pepsi.
"So do I," said Moxie.
"May the good fairy what sits in the sky grant yer ev'ry wish," said
Spam.
"Where is Goodgulf, I wonder," wondered Frito.
Garfinkel strode back out onto the porch and produced a small tin
whistle on which he blew a single, ear-splitting, flat note, whereupon the
sheep wandered aimlessly away.
"Magical," sighed Spam.
"Follow me," said Garfinkel, and he led Stomper and the boggies along a
narrow muddy path which wound through clumps of flowering rhodogravure bushes
and towering shoe trees. As he walked along, Frito smelled an evanescent
fragrance of new-mown hay mingled with bleach and mustard, and from afar off
he heard the delicate, heart-breaking twangs of a mouth-harp and a few shreds
of an elvish song:
"Row, row, row your elebethiel saliva githiel
Mann a fubar lothario syzygy snafu
O bring back my sucaryl Penna Ariz Fla mass."
At the end of the path stood a small bungalow made of polished Joyvah
Halvah and surrounded by a bed of glass flowers. Garfinkel turned the door's
all-day sucker and motioned the party inside. They found themselves in a large
room which entirely filled the little house. There were a great many beds
arranged around the walls, all of which looked as though they had been
recently slept in by perverted kangaroos, and in the corners were a few odd
chairs and tables which showed quite clearly the hand, and foot, of the elvish
craftsmen. In the center of the room was a large table littered with the
remnants of a violent game of three-pack canasta and several bowls of
artificial fruit which couldn't have been mistaken for the real thing at fifty
meters. These Moxie and Pepsi immediately ate.
"Make yourself at home," said Garfinkel, as he left. "Checkout time is
three o'clock."
Stomper slumped heavily into a chair, which folded up under him with a
muffled crack.
Garfinkel was not gone more than five minutes when there came a knock at
the door, and Spam went, rather irritably, to answer it. "It had better be
food," he mumbled, "cause I'm gonna eat it."
He opened the door with a jerk, revealing a mysterious stranger in a
long gray cape and hood, wearing thick, black eyeglasses with a false rubber
nose quite unconvincingly dangling from the bridge. The dark figure had a
cardboard mustache, a dustmop wig, and a huge, handpainted tie with a picture
of an elf-maiden. In his left hand was a mashie-niblick, and on his feet he
wore shower clogs. He was puffing a fat cigar.
Spam reeled back in astonishment, and Stomper, Moxie, Pepsi, and Frito
cried in unison, "Goodgulf!"
The old man shuffled in, discarding his disguises to reveal the familiar
faith healer and bunco artist. "Lo, it is I," admitted the Wizard,
dispiritedly plucking a few strings out of his hair. With that he went around
and shook all their hands very hard, shocking them with the little electric
buzzer he invariably carried concealed in his palm.
"Well, well," said Goodgulf, "here we all are again."
"I'd sooner be in a dragon's colon," said Frito.
"I trust you still have _it_," said Goodgulf, eyeing Frito.
"Do you mean the Ring?"
"Silence," commanded Goodgulf in a loud voice. "Speak not of the Great
Ring here or anywhere. If Sorhed's spies discovered that you, Frito Bugger,
hailing from the Sty, had the One Ring, all would be lost. And his spies are
everywhere. The Nine Black Riders are abroad again, and there are those who
claim to have seen the Seven Santinis, the Six Danger Signs, and the entire
Trapp family, including the dog. Even the walls have ears," he said, pointing
to two huge iqbes which were protruding from behind the mantelpiece.
"Is there no hope?" gasped Frito. "Is nowhere safe?"
"Who can know?" said Goodgulf, and a shadow seemed to pass over his
face. "I would say more," he said, "but a shadow seems to have passed over my
face," and with that he fell strangely silent.
Frito began to weep, and Stomper leaned forward, and putting his hand
reassuringly on Frito's shoulder, said, "Fear not, dear boggie, I will be with
you all the way, no matter what may befall."
"Same here," said Spam, and fell asleep.
"Us too," said Moxie and Pepsi, yawning.
Frito remained inconsoiable.
When the boggies awoke from their nap, Goodgulf and Stomper were gone,
and the moon was shining fuzzily through the taffy windows. They had finished
eating the curtains and were starting in on the iampshades when Garfinkel
returned, clad in finest cheesecloth, and led them down to the lodge building
they had seen when they first arrived. It was large and brightly lit, and the
night was filled with the brouhaha from within. As they approached, there came
a silence, and then the plaintive, blackboard-scraping shriek of a nose-flute
pierced the air.
"They're giving a pig a rough time of it in there," said Spam, blocking
his ears.
"Hush," said Frito, and a voice rose in song, filling the boggies with a
vague sense of nausea.
"A Unicef clearasil
Gibberish 'n' drivel
O Mennen mylar muriel
With a hey derry turn gardol
O Yuban necco glamorene?
Enden nytol, vaseline!
Sing hey nonny nembutal."
With a last twittering wail, the music died away, and half a dozen
stunned birds plopped heavily to the ground in front of Frito.
"What was that?" asked Frito.
"It is an ancient lament in the tongue of the Auld Elves," sighed
Garfinkel. "It tells of Unicef and his long and bitter search for a clean rest
room. 'Are there no facilities here?' he cries. 'Is there no washroom?' No one
seems to know."
So said Garfinkel and led the boggies into the House of Orlon. They
found themselves in a long, high-raftered hall down the center of which ran an
endless table. At one end was a huge oak mantelpiece and from high above hung
brass chandeliers in which fine earwax candles spluttered brightly. Along the
table sat the usual flotsam and jetsam of Lower Middle Earth; elves, fairies,
Martians, several frogs, dwarves, gnomes, a few token men, a handful of
bugbears, several trolls wearing sunglasses, a couple of goblins the Christian
Scientists had worked over, and a dragon who had gotten fed up.
At the head of the table sat Orlon and the Lady Lycra robed in cloth of
dazzling whiteness and brightness. Dead they looked, and yet it was not so,
for Frito could see their eyes shining like wet mushrooms. Bleached was their
hair so that it shone like goldenrod, and their faces were as bright and fair
as the surface of the moon. All about them zircons, garnets, and iodestones
flashed like stars. On their heads were silken lampshades and on their brows
were written many things, both fair and foul, such as "Unleash Chiang Kai-
shek" and "I love my wife but oh you kid." Asleep they were.
To the left of Orlon sat Goodgulf in a red fez, revealed as a 32nd
Degree Mason and Honorary Shriner, and to his right sat Stomper, clad in the
white Gene Autry suit of a Ranger. Frito was shown to a seat about halfway
down the table between an unusually deformed dwarf and an elf who smelled like
a birdnest, and Moxie and Pepsi were sent to a small table in a corner with
the Easter Bunny and a couple of tooth fairies.
As with most mythical creatures who live in enchanted forests with no
visible means of support, the elves ate rather frugally, and Frito was a
little disappointed to find heaped on his plate a small mound of ground nuts,
bark, and dirt. Nevertheless, like all boggies, he was capable of eating
anything he could Indian-wrestle down his throat and rather preferred dishes
that didn't struggle too much, since even a half-cooked mouse can usually beat
a boggie two falls out of three. No sooner had he finished eating than the
dwarf sitting to his right turned to him and proffered an extremely scaly hand
in greeting. _It's at the end of his arm_, thought Frito, nervously shaking
it, _it's got to be a hand_.
"Gimlet, son of Groin, your obedient servant," said the dwarf, bowing to
reveal a hunchback. "May you always buy cheap and sell dear."
"Frito, son of Dildo, yours," said Frito in some confusion, racking his
brains for the correct reply. "May your hemorrhoids shrink without surgery."
The dwarf looked puzzled but not displeased. "Then you are the boggie of
whom Goodgulf spoke, the Ringer?"
Frito nodded.
"Do you have _it_ with you?"
"Would you like to see it?" asked Frito politely.
"Oh, no thanks," said Gimlet, "I had an uncle who had a magic tieclip
and one time he sneezed and his nose fell off."
Frito nervously touched a nostril.
"Excuse the interruption," said the elf on his left, spitting accurately
into the dwarfs left eye, "but I couldn't help overhearing your conversation
with Gabby Hayes. Are you in fact the boggie with the bijou?"
"I am," said Frito and sneezed violently.
"Allow me," said the elf, proffering Gimlet's beard to Frito, who was by
now sneezing uncontrollably. "I am Legolam, of the Elves of Northern
Weidwood."
"Elf-dog," hissed Gimlet, retrieving his beard.
"Pig of a dwarf," suggested Legolam.
"Toymaker."
"Gold digger."
"Flit.''
"Wart."
"Wouldn't you like to hear a joke or a song or something?" said Frito,
becoming alarmed. "It seems there was this wandering dragon, and he comes to
this farmhouse and the farmer--"
"A song," agreed Gimlet and Legolam.
"Of course," said Frito, and desperately trying to recall some of
Dildo's doggerel, he began to sing in a squeaky voice:
"A King of Elves there was of old,
Saranrap by name,
Who slew the Narcs at Mellowmarsh
And Sorhed's host did tame.
And with him marched the stubby dwarves
Drafted from their mines,
But when the fearsome Battle raged
They hid behind the lines.
Sing: Clearasil, metrecal, lavoris in chorus
They hid behind the lines!
Angered was the mighty King
About to raise the dickens,
'Just let me get my hands,' quoth he,
'On those half-pint chickens!'
Fearful were the chicken-Dwarves,
But mickle crafty too.
King Yellowbac, their skins to save,
The elves did try to woo.
Sing: Twist-a-cap, reynoldswrap, gardol and duz
The elves he tried to woo!
'If you doubt our loyalty,'
Yello told the King,
'Take this gift, a dwarfish sword
That packs a mighty sting.
'Clearasil, it's called by name,'
The clever Dwarf spoke on,
'Take this bribe, and let us let
Bygones be bygone.'
Sing: Cadillac, pickapack, Edsel and coke
Bygones be bygone.
'I accept this wondrous gift
And think you Dwarves are tops,'
Said he, as he took the sword
And smote him in the chops.
And since that day it's said by all
In ballad, lay and poem,
'Only trust an elf or dwarf
As far as you can throw 'em!'
Sing: Oxydol, geritol, wheaties and Trix.
As far as you can throw 'em!"
Just as Frito finished, Orlon suddenly roused himself and signaled for
silence. "Bingo in the Elf Lounge," he said, and the feast ended.
Frito was making his way to the table where Moxie and Pepsi were sitting
when a bony hand reached out of a potted palm and grasped his shoulder. "Come
with me," said Goodgulf, brushing a frond aside, and led the surprised boggie
down the hail and into a small room almost entirely filled by a huge
glasstopped table. Orlon and Stomper had already taken seats and as he and
Goodgulf sat down Frito was amazed to see his dinner companions, Gimlet and
Legolam, enter and seat themselves on opposite sides of the table. They were
quickly followed by a heavyset man in iridescent pegged trousers and sharply
pointed shoes. Last of all came a small figure in a loud shirt smoking a foul
elvish cigar and carrying a Scrabble board.
"Dildo!" cried Frito.
"Ah, Frito my lad," said Dildo, slapping Frito heavily on the back, "so
you made it after all. Well, well, well." Orlon held out a moist palm, and
Dildo rummaged in his pockets and pulled out a wad of crumpled bills.
"Two, wasn't it?" he said.
"Ten," said Orlon.
"So it was, so it was," said Dildo, and dropped the bills in the elf's
hand.
"It's been so long since the party," said Frito. "What have you been
doing?"
"Not much," said the old boggie. "A little Scrabble, a little pederasty.
I'm retired, you see."
"But what is this all about? Who are the Black Riders, and what do they
want with me? And what has the Ring got to do with it?"
"Much and little, more or less, dear boggie," explained Orlon. "But all
in good time. This Great Caucus has been called to answer such questions and
others, but for now I will say only that there are a-many things amiss afoot,
alas."
"No lie," said Goodgulf gravely. "The Nameless No-No is spreading again,
and the time has come to act. Frito, the Ring."
Frito nodded and drew from his pocket the paper-clip chain, link by
link. With a short toss, he threw the fatal trinket onto the table, where it
landed with a tinny jing.
Orlon gasped. "The Magic Dingus," he cried.
"What proof is there that this is the Ring?" asked the man with the
pointed shoes.
"There are many signs which can be read by the wise, Bromosel,"
announced the Wizard. "The compass, the whistle, the magic decoder--they're
all here. And there is the inscription:
"Grundig blaupunkt luger frug
Watusi snarf wazoo!
Nixon dirksen nasahist
Rebozo boogaloo."
Goodgulf's voice had become harsh and distant. An ominous black cloud
filled the room. Frito gagged on the thick oily smoke.
"Was that necessary?" asked Legolam, kicking the Wizard's still-belching
smoke grenade out the door.
"Rings go better with hocus-pocus," replied Goodgulf imperiously.
"But what does that mean?" asked Bromosel, rather annoyed that he was
being referred to in the dialogue as "the man with the pointed shoes."
"There are many interpretations," explained Goodgulf. "My guess is that
it's either 'The quick brown fox jumped over the lazy dog' or 'Don't tread on
me.'
No one spoke, and the room fell strangely silent.
Finally Bromosel rose and addressed the Caucus. "Much is now clear," he
said. "I had a dream one night in Minas Troney in which seven cows ate seven
bushels of wheat, and when they were finished they climbed a red tower and
threw up three times, chanting, 'Say it now and say it loud, I'm a cow and I'm
proud.' And then a figure robed in white and bearing a pair of scales came
forward and read from a little slip of paper:
"Five-eleven's your height, one-ninety your weight
You cash in your chips around page eighty-eight."
"This is grave," said Orlon.
"Well," said Stomper, "I guess it's time we all laid our cards on the
table," and with that he noisily emptied the contents of a faded duffel into a
heap in front of him. When he was finished, there was a large pile of odd
objects, including a broken sword, a golden arm, a snowflake paperweight, the
Holy Grail, the Golden Fleece, the Robe, a piece of the True Cross, and a
glass slipper.
"Arrowroot, son of Arrowshirt, heir of Barbisol and King of Minas
Troney, at your service," he said, rather loudly.
Bromosel looked up to the top of the page and winced. "At least another
chapter to go," he groaned.
"Then the Ring is yours," cried Frito, and eagerly tossed it into
Arrowroot's hat.
"Well, not exactly," said Arrowroot, dangling the band at the end of its
long chain. "Since it's got magic powers, it belongs to someone more in the
mumbo-jumbo, presto-changeo line. To wit, a wizard, for example," and he
neatly slipped the Ring over the end of Goodgulfs wand.
"Ah, yes, verily, in truth," said Goodgulf quickly. "That is to say, yes
and no. Or perhaps just plain no. As any fool can see, it's a clear case of
habeas corpus or tibia fibia, since although this particular gizmo was the
work of a wizard--Sorhed, to be exact--this sort of thing was invented by
elves, and he was only working under a license, you might say."
Orlon held the Ring in his hand as if it were an annoyed tarantula.
"Nay," he said, gravely, "I cannot claim this great prize, for it is said,
'Finders keepers, losers weepers,' " and brushing away an invisible tear, he
looped the chain around Dildo's neck.
"And 'Let dogs lie if they are sleepers,' " said Dildo, and slipped it
into Frito's pocket.
"Then it is settled," intoned Orlon. "Frito Bugger shall keep the Ring."
"Bugger?" said Legolam. "Bugger? That's curious. There was a nasty
little clown named Goddam sniffing around Weldwood on hands and knees looking
for a Mr. Bugger. It was a little queer."
"Odd," said Gimlet. "A pack of black giants riding huge pigs came
through the mountains last month hunting for a boggie named Bugger. Never gave
it a second thought."
"This, too, is grave," declared Orlon. "It is only a matter of time
before they come here," he said, pulling a shawl over his head and making a
gesture of throwing something of a conciliatory nature to a shark, "and as
neutrals, we would have no choice . . ."
Frito shuddered.
"The Ring and its bearer must go hence," agreed Goodgulf, "but where?
Who shall guard it?"
"The elves," said Gimlet.
"The dwarves," said Legolam.
"The wizards," said Arrowroot.
"The Men of Twodor," said Goodgulf.
"That leaves only Fordor," said Orlon. "But even a retarded troll would
not go there."
"Even a dwarf," admitted Legolam.
Frito suddenly felt that all eyes were on him. "Couldn't we just drop it
down a storm drain, or pawn it and swallow the ticket?" he said.
"Alas," said Goodgulf solemnly, "it is not that easy."
"But why?"
"Alas," explained Goodgulf.
"Alackaday," Orlon agreed.
"But fear not, dear boggie," continued Orlon, "you shall not go alone."
"Good old Gimlet will go with you," said Legolam.
"And fearless Legolam," said Gimlet.
"And noble King Arrowroot," said Bromosel.
"And faithful Bromosel," said Arrowroot.
"And Moxie, Pepsi, and Spam," said Dildo.
"And Goodgulf Grayteeth," added Orlon.
"Indeed," said Goodgulf, glaring at Orlon, and if looks could maim, the
old elf would have left in a basket.
"So be it. You shall leave when the omens are right," said Orlon,
consulting a pocket horoscope, "and unless I'm very much mistaken, they will
be unmatched in half an hour."
Frito groaned. "I wish I had never been born," he said.
"Do not say that, dear Frito," cried Orlon. "It was a happy minute for
us all when you were born."
"Well, I guess it's goodbye," said Dildo, taking Frito aside as they
left the caucus room. "Or should I say 'until we meet again'? No, I think
goodbye sums it up quite nicely."
"Goodbye, Dildo," Frito said, stuffing a sob. "I wish you were coming
with us."
"Ah, yes. But I'm too old for that sort of thing now," said the old
boggie, feigning a state of total paraplegia. "Anyway, I have a few small
gifts for you," and he produced a lumpy parcel, which Frito opened somewhat
unenthusiastically in view of Dildo's previous going-away present. But the
package contained only a short, Revereware sword, a bulletproof vest full of
moth holes, and several well-thumbed novellas with titles like _Elf Lust_ and
_Goblin Girl_.
"Farewell, Frito," said Dildo, managing a very convincing epileptic fit.
"It's in your hands now, gasp, rattle, o lie me under the greenwood tree,
ooooo. Ooog."
"Farewell, Dildo," said Frito, and with a last wave went out to join the
company. As soon as he had disappeared, Dildo sprang lightly to his feet, and
skipped into the hall humming a little song:
"I sit on the floor and pick my nose
and think of dirty things
Of deviant dwarfs who suck their toes
and elves who drub their dings.
I sit on the floor and pick my nose
and dream exotic dreams
Of dragons who dress in rubber clothes
and trolls who do it in teams.
I sit on the floor and pick my nose
and wish for a thrill or two
For a goblin who goes in for a few no-nos
Or an orc with a thing about glue.
And all of the while I sit and pick
I think of such jolly things
Of whips and screws and leather slacks
Of frottages and stings."
"I grieve to see you leave so soon," said Orlon quickly, as the company
stood assembled around their pack sheep some twenty minutes later. "But the
Shadow is growing and your journey is long. It is best to begin at once, in
the night. The Enemy has eyes everywhere." As he spoke, a large, haircovered
eyeball rolled ominously from its perch in a tree and fell to the ground with
a heavy squelch.
Arrowroot drew Krona, the Sword that was broken, now hastily reglued,
and waved it over his head. "Onward," he cried, "on to Fordor!"
"Farewell, farewell," said Orlon impatiently.
"Excelsior," cried Bromosel, blowing a fierce blast on his duck whistle.
"Sayonara," said Orlon. "Aloha. Avaunt. Arroint."
"Kodak khaki no-doz," Gimlet cried.
"A dristan nasograph," shouted Legolam.
"Habeas corpus," said Goodgulf, waving his wand.
"I have to go poo-poo," said Pepsi.
"So do I," said Moxie.
"I'd like ta poo-poo the both o' ye," said Spam, reaching for a rock.
"Let's go," said Frito, and the party set off down the road from
Riv'n'deil at a walk. In a few short hours they had put several hundred feet
between them and the lodge where Orlon still stood, wreathed in smiles. As the
party passed over the first slight rise, Frito turned around and looked back
over Riv'n'deli. Somewhere in the black distance lay the Sty, and he felt a
great longing to return, as a dog might on recalling a longforgotten spew.
As he watched, the moon rose, there was a meteor shower and a display of
the aurora borealis, a cock crowed thrice, it thundered, a flock of geese flew



so of cajoling his fellows to their senses, Frito and the party tramped off
toward Whee rapping much of their adventure the previous evening.
Whee was the chief village of Wheeland, a small and swampy region
populated mostly by star-nosed moles and folk who wished that they were
somewhere else. The village enjoyed a brief popularity when, through a
surveyor's fortuitous hiccup, the four-lane Intershire Turnpath was mistakenly
built right through the center of the pathetic little twarf. Then, for a time,
the populace lived high on the hog off the proceeds from illegal speed traps,
parking violations, and occasional bald-faced hijackings. A small tourist
influx from the Sty led to the construction of cheap diners, flimsy souvenir
stands, and prefabricated historical landmarks. But the growing cloud of
"troubles" from the east abruptly ended such trade as there was. Instead, a
trickle of refugees came from the eastern lands bearing few belongings and
fewer smarts. Not ones to miss an opportunity, the men and boggies of Whee
labored together in harmony selling the heavily accented immigrants shorter
names and interests in perpetual-motion machines. They also supplemented their
purses by hawking black-market visas to the Sty to the few unfortunates who
were not familiar with the place.
The men of Whee were stooped, squat, splay-toed, and stupid. Heavily
ridged over the eyes and prone to rather poor posture, they were often
mistaken for Neanderthals, a common confusion that the latter deeply resented.
Slow to anger or pretty much anything else, they lived peacefully with their
boggie neighbors, who were themselves tickled pink to find somebody farther
down the evolutionary scale.
Together, the two peoples now lived on the few farthings they made off
the wetbacks and the dole, a common fruit shaped like your pancreas and about
as appetizing.
The village of Whee had some six dozen small houses, most of them built
of wax paper and discarded corks. They were arranged in sort of a circle
inside the protecting moat, whose stench alone could drop a dragon at a
hundred paces.
Pinching their nostrils, the company crossed the creaky drawbridge and
read the sign at the gate:
WELCOME TO QUAINT, HISTORICAL WHEE
POPULATION 10X04 3X88 96 AND STILL GROWING!
Two sleepy-eyed guards bestirred themselves just long enough to relieve
the protesting Spam of his remaining tablespoons. Frito surrendered half of
his magic beans, which the guards munched with speculation.
The boggies beat it before they took effect and, per Goodgulf's
instructions, headed for the orange-and-green flashing sign at the center of
town. There they found a gaudy plexiglas and chrome inn, whose blinking sign
portrayed a boar, rampant, devoured by a mouth, drooling. Beneath it was the
name of the inn, the Goode Eats & Lodging. Passing through the revolving door,
the party signaled the bell clerk, whose nametag read _Hi! I'm HoJo
Hominigritts!_ Like the rest of the staff, he was costumed as a suckling pig
with false sow's ears, tail, and papier-mache snout.
"Howdy!" drawled the fat boggie. "Ya'll want a room?"
"Yes," said Frito, stealing a glance at his companions. "We're just in
town _for a little vacation_, aren't we, boys?"
"Vacation," said Moxie, winking at Frito broadly.
"Just a little vacation," added Pepsi, nodding his head like an idiot.
"Ya'll sign here please?" said the clerk through his fake snout. Frito
took the quill chained to the desk and wrote the names ALIAS UNDERCOVER, IVAN
GOTTASECRET, JOHN DOESMITH, and IMA PSEUDONYM.
"Any bags, Mr., uh, Undercover?"
"Only under my eyes," mumbled Frito, turning toward the dining room.
"Wal," chuckled the clerk, "just leave these here sacks an' I'll _ring_
palm nearby, which accepted it and placed it carefully on the floor.
His suspicions now fully aroused, Frito edged from the booth, careful
not to disturb the decorative listening tube placed in the center of the
plastic floral arrangement. Without being seen, he went into the little
boggies' room, there to await the dark stranger.
After he had been waiting a few minutes, several patrons using the
facilities began to eye Frito curiously as he leaned against a tiled wall
whistling, his hands in his pockets. To allay their further inquiry, Frito
turned to the vending machine that hung on the wall. "Well, well, _well_," he
said in a stage whisper, "just what I've been looking for!" He then proceeded,
with elaborate carelessness, to work the machine with the change in his
farthing purse.
Fifteen bird whistles, eight compasses, six miniature lighters, and four
packs of nasty little rubber novelties later, a mysterious knocking was heard
at the door. Finally one of the patrons hidden by a stall yelled, 'F'cryin'
out loud, somebody let the s.o.b. in!" The door swung open and the masked
visage of the dark stranger appeared and beckoned Frito around the corner.
"I have a message for you, Mr. _Bugger_," said the stranger.
Frito's burger rose at the sound of his true name.
"But--but I theenk you are meestaken, señor," began Frito lamely, "I
velly solly but my honorable name not--"
"This message is from Goodgulf the Wizard," said the stranger, "if the
name by which thee calls thyself answers to the title of _Frito Bugger!_"
"I are," said Frito, confused and frightened.
"And thee hast the Ring?"
"Maybe I do, and maybe I don't," countered Frito, stalling for time. The
stranger lifted Frito by his narrow lapels.
"_And thee hast the Ring?_"
"Yes, already," squealed Frito. "So I've got it! So sue me."
"Be not afraid, allay thy fears, quail not, and hold thy horses,"
laughed the man. "I am a friend of thine."
"And you have a message for me from Goodgulf?" gulped Frito, feeling his
burger settling a bit. The tall one unzipped a secret compartment in a
saddlebag on his shoulder and handed Frito a slip which read:
"Three shorts, four pairs socks, two shirts, chain mail, heavy starch?"
Impatiently, the stranger snatched the ancient gag from the boggie's paw and
replaced it with a folded parchment. Frito's glance at the Michaelmas Seals
and Goodgulf's X-rune imprinted in hardened bubble gum verified the sender.
Hurriedly he tore it open, saving the gum for Spam. For later. With
difficulty he deciphered the familiar Palmer Method characters. They read:
Frito-lad,
The halberd has fallen! The fewmets have hit the windmill!
Sorhed's Nozdrul have gotten wind of our little dodge and
are beating the bush for "four boggies, one with a pink
tail." Doesn't take any abacus to figure out somebody's
spilled the gruel. Get out of wherever you are fast, and
don't lose the you-know-what. I'll try to meet you at
Wingtip, if not, look me up in Riv'n'dell. In any case,
don't take any oaken tuppences. And don't mind Stomper,
he's a good egg, ut-bay ot-nay oo-tay ight-bray, if you
know what I mean.
Must close, left some
thing on the Bunsen,
Goodgulf
P.S. How do you like the new stationery? Picked it up for
a plainchant at Hambone's Dept.!
Once again Frito's Oink-Oink Burger rose to the occasion. Fighting down
its untimely reappearance, Frito gasped, "Then we are not safe here."
"Have no fear, lowly boggie," said Stomper, "for I, Arrowroot of
Arrowshirt, am with thee. Goodgulf must have spoken of me in the letter. I
have many names-"
"I'm sure you do, Mr. Arrowshirt," Frito broke in, panicking. "But it's
mud and then some if we don't get out of here. I think somebody in this cheap
joint wants my scalp, and not for a lanolin massage, either!"
Returning to the booth, Frito found the three boggies still feeding
their faces. Ignoring the masked stranger, Spam grinned greasily at Frito.
"Been a-wonderin' where ye ha' gone," he said. "Want a bite o' my Bow-Wow?"
Frito's Oink-Oink sought repatriation with Spam's BowWow, but he fought
it back and made room for Stomper's long knock-knees under the table. The
boggies looked at Stomper with torpid disinterest.
"I didn't be thinkin' it was time for trickin' an' treatin' so soon,"
said Spam.
Frito stayed Stomper's wrathful hand. "Listen," he said quickly, "this
is Stomper, a friend of Goodgulf's and a friend of ours-"
"And I have many names-" began Stomper.
"And he's got many names, but what we have to do now is-" Frito felt a
great hulk looming behind him.
"Youse jerks want t' pay now?" rasped a voice hidden beneath a mass of
blond hair and a paper snout.
"Uh, sure," said Frito, "now your tip would be, aaah . . ." Suddenly
Frito felt a strong, clawed hand reach into his pocket.
"Don't bother, bub," snarled the voice, "I'll just _ring this up!_ Haw
haw haw haw haw!" With a shrill scream, Frito saw the wig fall from the head
of the false piglet, revealing the burning red eyes and foul grin of a
Nozdrul! As if hypnotized, Frito stared at the huge wraith's slavering leer,
noticing that each tooth had been sharpened to a razor point. _Hate to have
his dental bills_, he thought. Frito looked around for help as the giant fiend
lifted him and rifled his pockets, searching for the Great Ring.
"C'mon, c'mon," the monster growled, growing impatient, "Let's have
it!" Eight other huge waitresses closed in, each flashing a menacing set of
well-honed choppers. Cruelly they held down the three boggies, white with
fear. Of Stomper there was nothing to be seen, save a pair of spurred heels
shivering under the table.
"Okay, chipmunk, give!" hissed the evil one, drawing his huge black
mace. "_I said--yeeeeowtch!_" cried the Nozdrul in pain, simultaneously
letting go of Frito and jumping straight up in the air. From below the table
rose a sharp, barbed blade. Stomper leaped up.
"_Oh Dragonbreth! Gilthorpial!_" he yodeled, waving his cleaver around
like a madman. He lunged at the nearest wraith with his unwieldy sword.
"_Banzai!_" he screamed. "_No quarter asked or given! Damn the torpedoes!_"
Taking a vicious swipe, Stomper missed his mark by a good yard and tripped on
his scabbard.
The nine stared at the writhing, foaming maniac with round, red eyes.
The sight of Stomper filled them with awe. They stood speechless. Suddenly one
of the stunned creatures began to titter, then chuckle. Another guffawed. Two
more joined in, chortling loudly, and finally all nine were in the throes of
hysterical, side-aching laughter. Stomper, puffing and enraged, stood up and
tripped on his cape, spilling his silver bullets all over the floor. The whole
dining room roared with unbelieving hilarity. Two Nozdrul collapsed to the
ground, helplessly giggling. Others staggered about, great red tears rolling
down their scaly cheeks, gasping for air and incapable of holding their maces.
_Haw haw haw!_ Stomper got to his feet, his face beetred with anger. He lifted
his sword, and the blade fell off the handle. _Haw haw haw haw haw!_ The
Nozdrul rolled and writhed on the ground, clutching their ribs. Stomper
replaced the blade, took a mighty wind-up, and firmly embedded the point in
the cement pig. HAWHAWHAWHAWHAWHAW HAW HAW HAW HAW HAW HAW HAW HAW HAW HAW HAW
HAW HAW!
At this point, seeing that no one was paying any attention to him, Frito
picked up one of the heavy, discarded maces and calmly proceeded to beat some
heads in. Moxie, Spam, and Pepsi followed his example and went among the
gibbering wraiths administering random kicks to groins and breadbaskets.
Finally, the deranged Arrowroot accidentally cut the pulley ropes to the
room's main chandelier, simultaneously fixing the wagons of the semiconscious
wraiths directly below and plunging the room into total darkness. The boggies
dashed blindly for the door, dragging Stomper after them through the temporary
blackout. Bobbing and weaving past the glowing eyes, they escaped and ran
breathlessly down back alleys and past the snoring guards until they crossed
the drawbridge and hit open ground. As Frito ran on he felt the curious eyes
of the villagers upon him and his frantic companions. Frito hoped that they
would not inform the tools of Sorhed. Thankfully he saw that they took little
notice of them and went about their evening chores, lighting signal fires and
releasing carrier pigeons.
Once outside the town, Stomper led them into a thick sedge and bade them
to be small and quiet lest they be seen by Sorhed's agents, who would soon
revive and mount the hunt.
The party was still panting when sharp-eared Arrowroot adjusted the
volume on his hearing aid and laid his head to the ground.
"Hark and lo!" he whispered, "I do hear the sound of Nine Riders
galloping nigh the road in full battle array." A few minutes later a
dispirited brace of steers ambled awkwardly past, but to give Stomper his due,
they did carry some rather lethal-looking antlerettes.
"The foul Nozdrul have bewitched my ears," mumbled Stomper as he
apologetically replaced his batteries, "but it is safe to proceed, for the
nonce." It was at that moment that the thundering hooves of the dreaded pig
riders echoed along the road. Just in time the company dove back to cover and
the vengeful searchers sped past. When the clanking of armor dwindled in the
distance, five heads reappeared above the bushes, their teeth chattering like
cheap maracas.
" 'Twas a near thing!" said Spam. "Came nigh to a-spoilin' me
pantaloons."
The party chose to push on toward Wingtip before the sun rose. The moon
was swathed in a shawl of heavy cloud as they traveled to the lofty peak, a
lone finger of granite near the southern base of the legendary Hartz
Mountains, scaled by few save an occasional winded guttersnipe.
Stomper walked along in the cool night breeze without speaking, silent
except for the faint jingling of his zinc-plated spurs. The twins were
fascinated with the pearl-handled sword which he called Krona, Conqueror of
Dozens. Moxie sidled up to the lean masked man.
"That's a neat toadsticker you got there, Mr. Arrowshirt," said the
inquisitive boggie.
"Aye," said Stomper, quickening his pace a bit.
"Doesn't look like the regular issue. Must be a special model, huh,
mister?"
"Aye," replied the tall man, dilating his nostrils slightly with
annoyance.
Quick as a packrat, Moxie snatched the weapon from its holster. "Okay if
I take a look?" Stomper, without batting an eye, let fly with a hand-tooled
boot that sent the young boggie bouncing like a jai-alai ball.
"Nay," snapped Stomper, retrieving his blade.
"I don't think he meant to be rude, Mr. Arrowshirt," said Frito, helping
Moxie to his archless feet. There followed an embarrassed silence. Spam, whose
knowledge of warfare was limited to childhood torturing of the family pullets,
nevertheless began to sing a snatch of song he had once learned:
"Barbisol was Twodor's king
Whose foes his mighty blade did sting,
Till one day it got all rusted
And Sorhed's parry left it busted."
Then, to the boggie's surprise, a fat tear fell from Stomper's eye and
his voice sobbed in the darkness:
"Thus gloried Twodor came to nothing,
Out of the king was beat the stuffing.
And thus we live in fear of Fordor
Till Krona's back in working order!"
The boggies gasped and looked at their companion as if for the first
time. With recognition they recognized the legendary weak chin and buck teeth
of Barbisol's descendant.
"Then you must be the rightful King of Twodor!" cried Frito.
The tall Ranger looked at them impassively.
"These things you say may be affirmed," he said, "but I do not wish to
make a statement at this time, for there is another, oft-forgotten verse to
this sad and doleful song:
"Against the True King Sorhed's workin'
So play your cards close to your jerkin,
For fortune strums a mournful tune
For those whose campaigns peak too soon."
Watching the newly revealed ruler trudge on in his lowly garb, the young
Frito grew again thoughtful and pondered long on the many ironies of life.
As the sun's rim broke on the far horizon its first tentative rays
illuminated Wingtip. After an hour of strenuous climbing they reached the top
and rested gratefully on the flat granite apex, while Stomper scrounged around
for some sign of Goodgulf. Nosing about a large gray rock, Stomper stopped and
called to Frito. Frito looked at the stone and discerned the crude skull-and-
bones etched into its surface, and with it the X-rune of the Old Wizard.
"Goodgulf has passed this way recently," said Stomper, "and unless I
read these runes awrong, he means this place as a secure camp for us."
Nevertheless Frito bedded down with nagging misgivings. _But_, he
reminded himself, _he is a king, and all_. The bridge across the Gallowine and
the way to Riv'n'dell were only a short distance; there they would be safe
from the marauding Swine Riders. Sleep was now long overdue, and he sighed
with pleasure as he curled up under a low shelf of stone. Soon he was falling
fast asleep, lulled by the soft _snuffling_ noises and the clanking of armor
below.
"Awake! Awake! Fiends! Foes! _Flee!_" someone was whispering, waking
Frito from his dreams. Stomper's hand jostled him roughly. Obeying him, Frito
peered down the slope and made out nine black forms inching stealthily up the
mountain toward their hiding place.
"It seemeth that I read the signs awrong," muttered the perplexed guide.
"Soon they will be upon us unless we divert their wrath."
"How?" asked Pepsi.
"Yes, how?" joined in Guess Who.
Stomper looked at the boggies. "One of the party must stay behind to
delay them while we dash for the bridge."
"But who--?"
"Never fear," said Stomper quickly. "I have here in my gauntlet four
lots, three long and a short for him we throw to the--er--for he who will have
his name emblazoned in the pantheon of heroes."
"Four?" said Spam. "What about _you?_"
The Ranger straightened with great dignity. "Surely," he said, "you
would not wish me an unfair advantage seeing that it was I who made up the
lots?"
Mollified, the boggies drew the pipe cleaners. Spam drew the short.
"Two out of three?" he whined. But his fellows had already disappeared
over the lip of the peak and were racing down as fast as they could. Panting
and puffing, a fat tear rolled from Frito's eye. He would miss him.
Spam looked down the opposite slope and saw the dismounted Nozdrul
picking their way toward him quickly. Crouching behind a rock, he screamed
courageously at them. "If I were ye," he called, "I'd not come any closer!
Ye'll be sorry if ye do!" Unheeding, the fierce knights drew even nearer.
"You're really a-goin' t' get it!" yelled Spam rather unconvincingly. Still
the Riders grew nearer, and Spam lost his nerve. Taking out his white
handkerchief, he waved it about and pointed toward his retreating friends.
"Don't be wastin' your time with me," he cried. "The one with the Ring is
hightailin' it thataway!"
Hearing this from below, Frito winced and pumped his fat legs harder.
Stomper's long and gimpy shanks had already brought him across the bridge and
onto the safety of the other bank, the neutral territory of the elves. Frito
looked behind him. He wouldn't make it in time!
Stomper watched the deadly race from the cover of some briars on the
bank of the stream.
"Hie thee faster," he called helpfully, "for the evil ones are right
behind thee!" Then he hid his eyes.
The rumble of pigs' feet grew louder and louder in Frito's ears, and he
could hear the lethal _swish_ of their horrible Nozdrulville Sluggers. He made
a last, desperate burst of speed, but tripped and skidded to a stop only a few
feet from the border. Cackling with evil amusement, the nine surrounded Frito,
their squint-eyed steeds grunting for Frito's blood.
"Blood! Blood!" they grunted.
Frito looked up, terrified, and saw them as they slowly closed the ring,
only an arm's length from death. The leader of the pack, a tall beefy wraith
with chrome-plated greaves, laughed savagely and raised his mace.
"Hee hee hee, filthy rodent! Now is the time for fun!"
Frito cowered. "Maybe it is, and maybe it isn't," he said, pulling his
favorite bluff.
"Arrrgh!" screamed an impatient Nozdrul, who, by coincidence, happened
to be named Argh. "C'mon, let's cream this little creep! The boss said take
his Ring and croak him then 'n' there!"
Frito's mind raced. He decided to play his last card.
"Well dat's sho' nuff fine wit me, 'cause ah sho' doan wan' you t' do
the bad thing to' po' li'l me!" said Frito, bugging out his eyes and rolling
them like ball bearings.
"Har har har!" chortled another Rider. "What can you think of that's
worse than what we're _gonna_ do with ya?" The fiends drew closer to hear the
terrible fear Frito harbored in his breast.
The boggie whistled and pretended to play the banjo. He then sang a
verse of "Ole Man Ribber" as he ambled back and forth on shuffling feet,
scratched his woolly head, and danced a cakewalk while picking watermelon
seeds from his ears, all with natural rhythm.
"Sure can dance," muttered one of the Riders.
"Sure gonna _die!_" screamed another, thirsting for Frito's throat.
"_Sho' I gwine t' die_," drawled Frito. "Yo' kin do mos' anythin' t'
po' li'l me, Br'er Nozdrul, so long as yo' _please doan throw me in dat briar
patch ober dere!_"
At this all the sadistic Riders sniggered.
"If that's what you're scared of most," bellowed a voice full of malice,
"then _that's what we'll do to you_, ya little jerk!"
Frito felt himself lifted by a horny black hand and flung far over the
Gallowine and into the scrubby bush on the other side. Gleefully, he stood up
and fished out the Ring, making sure it still hung on his chain.
But the crafty Riders were not long deceived by Frito's ruse. They
spurred their drooling swine to the bridge, intent on recapturing the boggie
and his precious Ring. But, as Frito saw with surprise, the Black Nine were
halted at the foot of the crossing by a figure robed in shining raiment.
"Toll, please," commanded the figure of the startled Riders. The
pursuers were again dumfounded when they were directed to a hastily lettered
sign tacked to a support:
Elfboro Municipal Toll Bridge
Single Wayfarers . . . . . . 1 farthing
Double-axled Haywains. . . . . . 2 farthings
Black Riders. . . . . . . . . . . . 45 gold pieces
"Let us cross!" snapped an angry Nozdrul.
"Certainly," replied the attendant pleasantly. "Now let's see, there's
one, two . . . ah, _nine_ of you at forty-five apiece, that makes . . .
uuuuhh, four hundred and five beans, exactly, please. In cash."
Hurriedly, the Nozdrul searched their saddlebags as their leader cursed
angrily and shook his slugger with frustration.
"Listen," he stormed, "what kind of dough do you think we make, anyhow?
Ain't there some sorta discount for civil servants?"
"I'm sorry--" smiled the attendant.
"How 'bout a Wayfarer's Letter of Credit? They're as good as bullion
anywhere."
"Sorry, this is a bridge, not a countinghouse," replied the figure
impassively.
"My personal check? It's backed up by the treasure rooms of Fordor."
"No money, no crossee, friend."
The Nozdruls quivered with rage, but turned their mounts around,
preparing to ride off. Before they left, however, the leader shook a gnarled
fist.
"This ain't the end of this, punk! You'll hear from us again!"
Saying this, the nine spurred their farting porkers and sped away in a
great cloud of dust and dung.
Observing this near impossible escape from certain death, Frito wondered
how much longer the authors were going to get away with such tripe. He wasn't
the only one.
Stomper and the other boggies ran to Frito, extending their
congratulations on his escape. They then drew close to the mysterious figure,
who approached and, espying Stomper among them, raised his hands in greeting
and sang:
"O NASA O UCLA! O Etaion Shrdlu!
O Escrow Beryllium! Pandit J. Nehru!"
Stomper raised his hands and answered, "_Shantih Billerica!_" They met
and embraced, exchanging words of friendship and giving the secret handshake.
The boggies studied the stranger with interest. He introduced himself as
Garfinkel of the elves. When he had shed himself of his robes, the boggies
regarded with curiosity his ring-encrusted hands, his open-collared Ban-Lon
tunic, and his silver beach clogs.
"Thought you would have been here days ago," said the balding elf. "Any
trouble along the way?"
"I could write a book," said Frito prophetically.
"Well," said Garfinkel, "we'd better make tracks before those B-movie
heavies return. They may be stupid, but they sure can be persistent."
"So new?" muttered Frito, who found himself muttering more and more
lately.
The elf looked doubtfully at the boggies. "You guys know how to ride?"
Without waiting for an answer he whistled loudly through his gold teeth. A
clump of high sedge rustled and several overweight merino sheep bounded into
view, bleating irritably.
"Mount up," said Garfinkel.
Frito, more or less athwart an unpromising ungulant, rode last in the
procession away from the Gallowine toward Riv'n'dell. He slipped his hand into
his pocket, found the Ring, and took it out in the fading light. Already it
was beginning to work its slow change upon him, the transformation of which
Dildo had warned. He was constipated.
IV
FINDERS KEEPERS, FINDERS WEEPERS
After three days of hard riding that had put many a furlong between them
and the Black Riders, the weary boggies came at last to the low kneehills
which surrounded the valley of Riv'n'dell with a natural wall that protected
it from occasional marauders too stupid or small to scale the sheer knolls and
mounds. But their sure-footed mounts easily overcame these obstacles with
short, heart-stopping hops, and in no time Frito and his companions had
reached the summit of the last hillock and looked down on the orange roofs and
cupolas of the elfish ranchellas. Urging on their panting ruminants, they
galloped down the winding corduroy road that led to the dwellings of Orlon.
It was late in the gray fall afternoon when the procession of sheepback
riders rode into Riv'n'dell, led by Garfinkel astride his magnificent woolly
stallion, Anthrax. An ill wind was blowing, and granite hailstones were
falling from brooding clouds. As the party drew rein in front of the main
lodge, a tall elf robed in finest percale and wearing bucks of blinding
whiteness stepped onto the porch and greeted them.
"Welcome to the Last Homely House East of the Sea and Gift Shoppe," he
said. "Barca-Loungers in every room."
Garfinkel and the tall elf thumbed their noses in the ancient salute of
their race and exchanged greetings in elvish. "A sya non esso decca hi
hawaya," said Garfinkel, lightly springing from his animal.
"O movado silvathin nytol niceta-seeya," replied the tall elf; then
turning to Stomper he said: "I am Orlon."
"Arrowroot son of Arrowshirt, at your service," said Stomper,
dismounting clumsily.
"And these?" said Orlon, pointing to the four boggies asleep on their
dormant mounts.
"Frito and his companions, boggies from the Sty," said Stomper. At the
mention of his name, Frito gurgled loudly and fell off his sheep, and the Ring
dropped out of his clothes, and rolled to Orlon's feet. One of the sheep
trotted up, licked it, and turned into a fire hydrant.
"Oog," mumbled Orlon, and staggered inside. Garfinkel followed him into
the little building, and a stream of low elvish followed. Arrowroot stood
listening for a moment, then went around to Spam, Moxie, and Pepsi and woke
them up with a series of finger jabs and pivot-kicks. Frito retrieved the Ring
and slipped it into his pocket. "So this is Riv'n'dell," he said, rubbing his
eyes with wonder as he looked at the strange elvish houses of prestressed
gingerbread and ferrocandy.
"Look, Master Frito," said Spam, pointing up the road. "Elfs, lots of
'em. Ooooo, I must be dreaming. I wish the old Fatlip could see me now."
"I wish I were dead," whined Pepsi.
"So do I," said Moxie.
"May the good fairy what sits in the sky grant yer ev'ry wish," said
Spam.
"Where is Goodgulf, I wonder," wondered Frito.
Garfinkel strode back out onto the porch and produced a small tin
whistle on which he blew a single, ear-splitting, flat note, whereupon the
sheep wandered aimlessly away.
"Magical," sighed Spam.
"Follow me," said Garfinkel, and he led Stomper and the boggies along a
narrow muddy path which wound through clumps of flowering rhodogravure bushes
and towering shoe trees. As he walked along, Frito smelled an evanescent
fragrance of new-mown hay mingled with bleach and mustard, and from afar off
he heard the delicate, heart-breaking twangs of a mouth-harp and a few shreds
of an elvish song:
"Row, row, row your elebethiel saliva githiel
Mann a fubar lothario syzygy snafu
O bring back my sucaryl Penna Ariz Fla mass."
At the end of the path stood a small bungalow made of polished Joyvah
Halvah and surrounded by a bed of glass flowers. Garfinkel turned the door's
all-day sucker and motioned the party inside. They found themselves in a large
room which entirely filled the little house. There were a great many beds
arranged around the walls, all of which looked as though they had been
recently slept in by perverted kangaroos, and in the corners were a few odd
chairs and tables which showed quite clearly the hand, and foot, of the elvish
craftsmen. In the center of the room was a large table littered with the
remnants of a violent game of three-pack canasta and several bowls of
artificial fruit which couldn't have been mistaken for the real thing at fifty
meters. These Moxie and Pepsi immediately ate.
"Make yourself at home," said Garfinkel, as he left. "Checkout time is
three o'clock."
Stomper slumped heavily into a chair, which folded up under him with a
muffled crack.
Garfinkel was not gone more than five minutes when there came a knock at
the door, and Spam went, rather irritably, to answer it. "It had better be
food," he mumbled, "cause I'm gonna eat it."
He opened the door with a jerk, revealing a mysterious stranger in a
long gray cape and hood, wearing thick, black eyeglasses with a false rubber
nose quite unconvincingly dangling from the bridge. The dark figure had a
cardboard mustache, a dustmop wig, and a huge, handpainted tie with a picture
of an elf-maiden. In his left hand was a mashie-niblick, and on his feet he
wore shower clogs. He was puffing a fat cigar.
Spam reeled back in astonishment, and Stomper, Moxie, Pepsi, and Frito
cried in unison, "Goodgulf!"
The old man shuffled in, discarding his disguises to reveal the familiar
faith healer and bunco artist. "Lo, it is I," admitted the Wizard,
dispiritedly plucking a few strings out of his hair. With that he went around
and shook all their hands very hard, shocking them with the little electric
buzzer he invariably carried concealed in his palm.
"Well, well," said Goodgulf, "here we all are again."
"I'd sooner be in a dragon's colon," said Frito.
"I trust you still have _it_," said Goodgulf, eyeing Frito.
"Do you mean the Ring?"
"Silence," commanded Goodgulf in a loud voice. "Speak not of the Great
Ring here or anywhere. If Sorhed's spies discovered that you, Frito Bugger,
hailing from the Sty, had the One Ring, all would be lost. And his spies are
everywhere. The Nine Black Riders are abroad again, and there are those who
claim to have seen the Seven Santinis, the Six Danger Signs, and the entire
Trapp family, including the dog. Even the walls have ears," he said, pointing
to two huge iqbes which were protruding from behind the mantelpiece.
"Is there no hope?" gasped Frito. "Is nowhere safe?"
"Who can know?" said Goodgulf, and a shadow seemed to pass over his
face. "I would say more," he said, "but a shadow seems to have passed over my
face," and with that he fell strangely silent.
Frito began to weep, and Stomper leaned forward, and putting his hand
reassuringly on Frito's shoulder, said, "Fear not, dear boggie, I will be with
you all the way, no matter what may befall."
"Same here," said Spam, and fell asleep.
"Us too," said Moxie and Pepsi, yawning.
Frito remained inconsoiable.
When the boggies awoke from their nap, Goodgulf and Stomper were gone,
and the moon was shining fuzzily through the taffy windows. They had finished
eating the curtains and were starting in on the iampshades when Garfinkel
returned, clad in finest cheesecloth, and led them down to the lodge building
they had seen when they first arrived. It was large and brightly lit, and the
night was filled with the brouhaha from within. As they approached, there came
a silence, and then the plaintive, blackboard-scraping shriek of a nose-flute
pierced the air.
"They're giving a pig a rough time of it in there," said Spam, blocking
his ears.
"Hush," said Frito, and a voice rose in song, filling the boggies with a
vague sense of nausea.
"A Unicef clearasil
Gibberish 'n' drivel
O Mennen mylar muriel
With a hey derry turn gardol
O Yuban necco glamorene?
Enden nytol, vaseline!
Sing hey nonny nembutal."
With a last twittering wail, the music died away, and half a dozen
stunned birds plopped heavily to the ground in front of Frito.
"What was that?" asked Frito.
"It is an ancient lament in the tongue of the Auld Elves," sighed
Garfinkel. "It tells of Unicef and his long and bitter search for a clean rest
room. 'Are there no facilities here?' he cries. 'Is there no washroom?' No one
seems to know."
So said Garfinkel and led the boggies into the House of Orlon. They
found themselves in a long, high-raftered hall down the center of which ran an
endless table. At one end was a huge oak mantelpiece and from high above hung
brass chandeliers in which fine earwax candles spluttered brightly. Along the
table sat the usual flotsam and jetsam of Lower Middle Earth; elves, fairies,
Martians, several frogs, dwarves, gnomes, a few token men, a handful of
bugbears, several trolls wearing sunglasses, a couple of goblins the Christian
Scientists had worked over, and a dragon who had gotten fed up.
At the head of the table sat Orlon and the Lady Lycra robed in cloth of
dazzling whiteness and brightness. Dead they looked, and yet it was not so,
for Frito could see their eyes shining like wet mushrooms. Bleached was their
hair so that it shone like goldenrod, and their faces were as bright and fair
as the surface of the moon. All about them zircons, garnets, and iodestones
flashed like stars. On their heads were silken lampshades and on their brows
were written many things, both fair and foul, such as "Unleash Chiang Kai-
shek" and "I love my wife but oh you kid." Asleep they were.
To the left of Orlon sat Goodgulf in a red fez, revealed as a 32nd
Degree Mason and Honorary Shriner, and to his right sat Stomper, clad in the
white Gene Autry suit of a Ranger. Frito was shown to a seat about halfway
down the table between an unusually deformed dwarf and an elf who smelled like
a birdnest, and Moxie and Pepsi were sent to a small table in a corner with
the Easter Bunny and a couple of tooth fairies.
As with most mythical creatures who live in enchanted forests with no
visible means of support, the elves ate rather frugally, and Frito was a
little disappointed to find heaped on his plate a small mound of ground nuts,
bark, and dirt. Nevertheless, like all boggies, he was capable of eating
anything he could Indian-wrestle down his throat and rather preferred dishes
that didn't struggle too much, since even a half-cooked mouse can usually beat
a boggie two falls out of three. No sooner had he finished eating than the
dwarf sitting to his right turned to him and proffered an extremely scaly hand
in greeting. _It's at the end of his arm_, thought Frito, nervously shaking
it, _it's got to be a hand_.
"Gimlet, son of Groin, your obedient servant," said the dwarf, bowing to
reveal a hunchback. "May you always buy cheap and sell dear."
"Frito, son of Dildo, yours," said Frito in some confusion, racking his
brains for the correct reply. "May your hemorrhoids shrink without surgery."
The dwarf looked puzzled but not displeased. "Then you are the boggie of
whom Goodgulf spoke, the Ringer?"
Frito nodded.
"Do you have _it_ with you?"
"Would you like to see it?" asked Frito politely.
"Oh, no thanks," said Gimlet, "I had an uncle who had a magic tieclip
and one time he sneezed and his nose fell off."
Frito nervously touched a nostril.
"Excuse the interruption," said the elf on his left, spitting accurately
into the dwarfs left eye, "but I couldn't help overhearing your conversation
with Gabby Hayes. Are you in fact the boggie with the bijou?"
"I am," said Frito and sneezed violently.
"Allow me," said the elf, proffering Gimlet's beard to Frito, who was by
now sneezing uncontrollably. "I am Legolam, of the Elves of Northern
Weidwood."
"Elf-dog," hissed Gimlet, retrieving his beard.
"Pig of a dwarf," suggested Legolam.
"Toymaker."
"Gold digger."
"Flit.''
"Wart."
"Wouldn't you like to hear a joke or a song or something?" said Frito,
becoming alarmed. "It seems there was this wandering dragon, and he comes to
this farmhouse and the farmer--"
"A song," agreed Gimlet and Legolam.
"Of course," said Frito, and desperately trying to recall some of
Dildo's doggerel, he began to sing in a squeaky voice:
"A King of Elves there was of old,
Saranrap by name,
Who slew the Narcs at Mellowmarsh
And Sorhed's host did tame.
And with him marched the stubby dwarves
Drafted from their mines,
But when the fearsome Battle raged
They hid behind the lines.
Sing: Clearasil, metrecal, lavoris in chorus
They hid behind the lines!
Angered was the mighty King
About to raise the dickens,
'Just let me get my hands,' quoth he,
'On those half-pint chickens!'
Fearful were the chicken-Dwarves,
But mickle crafty too.
King Yellowbac, their skins to save,
The elves did try to woo.
Sing: Twist-a-cap, reynoldswrap, gardol and duz
The elves he tried to woo!
'If you doubt our loyalty,'
Yello told the King,
'Take this gift, a dwarfish sword
That packs a mighty sting.
'Clearasil, it's called by name,'
The clever Dwarf spoke on,
'Take this bribe, and let us let
Bygones be bygone.'
Sing: Cadillac, pickapack, Edsel and coke
Bygones be bygone.
'I accept this wondrous gift
And think you Dwarves are tops,'
Said he, as he took the sword
And smote him in the chops.
And since that day it's said by all
In ballad, lay and poem,
'Only trust an elf or dwarf
As far as you can throw 'em!'
Sing: Oxydol, geritol, wheaties and Trix.
As far as you can throw 'em!"
Just as Frito finished, Orlon suddenly roused himself and signaled for
silence. "Bingo in the Elf Lounge," he said, and the feast ended.
Frito was making his way to the table where Moxie and Pepsi were sitting
when a bony hand reached out of a potted palm and grasped his shoulder. "Come
with me," said Goodgulf, brushing a frond aside, and led the surprised boggie
down the hail and into a small room almost entirely filled by a huge
glasstopped table. Orlon and Stomper had already taken seats and as he and
Goodgulf sat down Frito was amazed to see his dinner companions, Gimlet and
Legolam, enter and seat themselves on opposite sides of the table. They were
quickly followed by a heavyset man in iridescent pegged trousers and sharply
pointed shoes. Last of all came a small figure in a loud shirt smoking a foul
elvish cigar and carrying a Scrabble board.
"Dildo!" cried Frito.
"Ah, Frito my lad," said Dildo, slapping Frito heavily on the back, "so
you made it after all. Well, well, well." Orlon held out a moist palm, and
Dildo rummaged in his pockets and pulled out a wad of crumpled bills.
"Two, wasn't it?" he said.
"Ten," said Orlon.
"So it was, so it was," said Dildo, and dropped the bills in the elf's
hand.
"It's been so long since the party," said Frito. "What have you been
doing?"
"Not much," said the old boggie. "A little Scrabble, a little pederasty.
I'm retired, you see."
"But what is this all about? Who are the Black Riders, and what do they
want with me? And what has the Ring got to do with it?"
"Much and little, more or less, dear boggie," explained Orlon. "But all
in good time. This Great Caucus has been called to answer such questions and
others, but for now I will say only that there are a-many things amiss afoot,
alas."
"No lie," said Goodgulf gravely. "The Nameless No-No is spreading again,
and the time has come to act. Frito, the Ring."
Frito nodded and drew from his pocket the paper-clip chain, link by
link. With a short toss, he threw the fatal trinket onto the table, where it
landed with a tinny jing.
Orlon gasped. "The Magic Dingus," he cried.
"What proof is there that this is the Ring?" asked the man with the
pointed shoes.
"There are many signs which can be read by the wise, Bromosel,"
announced the Wizard. "The compass, the whistle, the magic decoder--they're
all here. And there is the inscription:
"Grundig blaupunkt luger frug
Watusi snarf wazoo!
Nixon dirksen nasahist
Rebozo boogaloo."
Goodgulf's voice had become harsh and distant. An ominous black cloud
filled the room. Frito gagged on the thick oily smoke.
"Was that necessary?" asked Legolam, kicking the Wizard's still-belching
smoke grenade out the door.
"Rings go better with hocus-pocus," replied Goodgulf imperiously.
"But what does that mean?" asked Bromosel, rather annoyed that he was
being referred to in the dialogue as "the man with the pointed shoes."
"There are many interpretations," explained Goodgulf. "My guess is that
it's either 'The quick brown fox jumped over the lazy dog' or 'Don't tread on
me.'
No one spoke, and the room fell strangely silent.
Finally Bromosel rose and addressed the Caucus. "Much is now clear," he
said. "I had a dream one night in Minas Troney in which seven cows ate seven
bushels of wheat, and when they were finished they climbed a red tower and
threw up three times, chanting, 'Say it now and say it loud, I'm a cow and I'm
proud.' And then a figure robed in white and bearing a pair of scales came
forward and read from a little slip of paper:
"Five-eleven's your height, one-ninety your weight
You cash in your chips around page eighty-eight."
"This is grave," said Orlon.
"Well," said Stomper, "I guess it's time we all laid our cards on the
table," and with that he noisily emptied the contents of a faded duffel into a
heap in front of him. When he was finished, there was a large pile of odd
objects, including a broken sword, a golden arm, a snowflake paperweight, the
Holy Grail, the Golden Fleece, the Robe, a piece of the True Cross, and a
glass slipper.
"Arrowroot, son of Arrowshirt, heir of Barbisol and King of Minas
Troney, at your service," he said, rather loudly.
Bromosel looked up to the top of the page and winced. "At least another
chapter to go," he groaned.
"Then the Ring is yours," cried Frito, and eagerly tossed it into
Arrowroot's hat.
"Well, not exactly," said Arrowroot, dangling the band at the end of its
long chain. "Since it's got magic powers, it belongs to someone more in the
mumbo-jumbo, presto-changeo line. To wit, a wizard, for example," and he
neatly slipped the Ring over the end of Goodgulfs wand.
"Ah, yes, verily, in truth," said Goodgulf quickly. "That is to say, yes
and no. Or perhaps just plain no. As any fool can see, it's a clear case of
habeas corpus or tibia fibia, since although this particular gizmo was the
work of a wizard--Sorhed, to be exact--this sort of thing was invented by
elves, and he was only working under a license, you might say."
Orlon held the Ring in his hand as if it were an annoyed tarantula.
"Nay," he said, gravely, "I cannot claim this great prize, for it is said,
'Finders keepers, losers weepers,' " and brushing away an invisible tear, he
looped the chain around Dildo's neck.
"And 'Let dogs lie if they are sleepers,' " said Dildo, and slipped it
into Frito's pocket.
"Then it is settled," intoned Orlon. "Frito Bugger shall keep the Ring."
"Bugger?" said Legolam. "Bugger? That's curious. There was a nasty
little clown named Goddam sniffing around Weldwood on hands and knees looking
for a Mr. Bugger. It was a little queer."
"Odd," said Gimlet. "A pack of black giants riding huge pigs came
through the mountains last month hunting for a boggie named Bugger. Never gave
it a second thought."
"This, too, is grave," declared Orlon. "It is only a matter of time
before they come here," he said, pulling a shawl over his head and making a
gesture of throwing something of a conciliatory nature to a shark, "and as
neutrals, we would have no choice . . ."
Frito shuddered.
"The Ring and its bearer must go hence," agreed Goodgulf, "but where?
Who shall guard it?"
"The elves," said Gimlet.
"The dwarves," said Legolam.
"The wizards," said Arrowroot.
"The Men of Twodor," said Goodgulf.
"That leaves only Fordor," said Orlon. "But even a retarded troll would
not go there."
"Even a dwarf," admitted Legolam.
Frito suddenly felt that all eyes were on him. "Couldn't we just drop it
down a storm drain, or pawn it and swallow the ticket?" he said.
"Alas," said Goodgulf solemnly, "it is not that easy."
"But why?"
"Alas," explained Goodgulf.
"Alackaday," Orlon agreed.
"But fear not, dear boggie," continued Orlon, "you shall not go alone."
"Good old Gimlet will go with you," said Legolam.
"And fearless Legolam," said Gimlet.
"And noble King Arrowroot," said Bromosel.
"And faithful Bromosel," said Arrowroot.
"And Moxie, Pepsi, and Spam," said Dildo.
"And Goodgulf Grayteeth," added Orlon.
"Indeed," said Goodgulf, glaring at Orlon, and if looks could maim, the
old elf would have left in a basket.
"So be it. You shall leave when the omens are right," said Orlon,
consulting a pocket horoscope, "and unless I'm very much mistaken, they will
be unmatched in half an hour."
Frito groaned. "I wish I had never been born," he said.
"Do not say that, dear Frito," cried Orlon. "It was a happy minute for
us all when you were born."
"Well, I guess it's goodbye," said Dildo, taking Frito aside as they
left the caucus room. "Or should I say 'until we meet again'? No, I think
goodbye sums it up quite nicely."
"Goodbye, Dildo," Frito said, stuffing a sob. "I wish you were coming
with us."
"Ah, yes. But I'm too old for that sort of thing now," said the old
boggie, feigning a state of total paraplegia. "Anyway, I have a few small
gifts for you," and he produced a lumpy parcel, which Frito opened somewhat
unenthusiastically in view of Dildo's previous going-away present. But the
package contained only a short, Revereware sword, a bulletproof vest full of
moth holes, and several well-thumbed novellas with titles like _Elf Lust_ and
_Goblin Girl_.
"Farewell, Frito," said Dildo, managing a very convincing epileptic fit.
"It's in your hands now, gasp, rattle, o lie me under the greenwood tree,
ooooo. Ooog."
"Farewell, Dildo," said Frito, and with a last wave went out to join the
company. As soon as he had disappeared, Dildo sprang lightly to his feet, and
skipped into the hall humming a little song:
"I sit on the floor and pick my nose
and think of dirty things
Of deviant dwarfs who suck their toes
and elves who drub their dings.
I sit on the floor and pick my nose
and dream exotic dreams
Of dragons who dress in rubber clothes
and trolls who do it in teams.
I sit on the floor and pick my nose
and wish for a thrill or two
For a goblin who goes in for a few no-nos
Or an orc with a thing about glue.
And all of the while I sit and pick
I think of such jolly things
Of whips and screws and leather slacks
Of frottages and stings."
"I grieve to see you leave so soon," said Orlon quickly, as the company
stood assembled around their pack sheep some twenty minutes later. "But the
Shadow is growing and your journey is long. It is best to begin at once, in
the night. The Enemy has eyes everywhere." As he spoke, a large, haircovered
eyeball rolled ominously from its perch in a tree and fell to the ground with
a heavy squelch.
Arrowroot drew Krona, the Sword that was broken, now hastily reglued,
and waved it over his head. "Onward," he cried, "on to Fordor!"
"Farewell, farewell," said Orlon impatiently.
"Excelsior," cried Bromosel, blowing a fierce blast on his duck whistle.
"Sayonara," said Orlon. "Aloha. Avaunt. Arroint."
"Kodak khaki no-doz," Gimlet cried.
"A dristan nasograph," shouted Legolam.
"Habeas corpus," said Goodgulf, waving his wand.
"I have to go poo-poo," said Pepsi.
"So do I," said Moxie.
"I'd like ta poo-poo the both o' ye," said Spam, reaching for a rock.
"Let's go," said Frito, and the party set off down the road from
Riv'n'deil at a walk. In a few short hours they had put several hundred feet
between them and the lodge where Orlon still stood, wreathed in smiles. As the
party passed over the first slight rise, Frito turned around and looked back
over Riv'n'deli. Somewhere in the black distance lay the Sty, and he felt a
great longing to return, as a dog might on recalling a longforgotten spew.
As he watched, the moon rose, there was a meteor shower and a display of
the aurora borealis, a cock crowed thrice, it thundered, a flock of geese flew
by in the shape of a swastika, and a giant hand wrote _Mene, mene, what's it
to you?_ across the sky in giant silver letters. Suddenly Frito had the
overpowering feeling that he had come to a turning point, that an old chapter
in his life was ending and a new one beginning. "Mush, you brute," he said,
kicking the pack animal in the kidneys, and as the great quadruped staggered
forward, tailfirst into the black East, there came from deep in the
surrounding forest the sound of some great bird being briefly, but noisily,
ill.
V
SOME MONSTERS
For many days the company traveled south, trusting to the eyes of the
Ranger, Arrowroot, the keen ears of the boggies, and the wisdom of Goodgulf to
lead them. A fortnight after their departure they arrived at a great
crossroads and halted to determine the best way to cross the towering Mealey
Mountains.
Arrowroot squinted into the distance. "Behold the grim Mount Badass,''
he said, pointing to a large milestone a hundred yards down the road.
"Then we must head east," said Goodgulf, gesturing with his wand to
where the sun was setting redly in a mass of seaclouds.
A duck flew over quacking loudly. "Wolves," cried Pepsi, straining to
hear the fading sound.
"It is best that we make camp here tonight," said Arrowroot, dropping
his pack heavily to the ground, where it crushed a hooded cobra. "Tomorrow we
must seek the high pass across the mountains."
A few minutes later the company sat in the middle of the crossroads
around a bright fire over which one of Goodgulf's stage rabbits was merrily
roasting. "A proper fire at last, and no mistake," said Spam, tossing a
rattlesnake on the cheery blaze. "I reckon none o' Master Pepsi's wolves is
likeable to bother us tonight."
Pepsi snorted. "A wolf would have to be pretty hard up to eat a road
apple like you," he said, flicking a rock at Spam, which missed him by feet
and stunned a puma. Circling far overhead, unseen by the company, the leader
of a band of black spy-crows peered through a pair of binoculars, cursed in
the harsh tongue of his kind, and swore off grapes for the rest of his life.
"Where are we, and where are we going?" asked Frito.
"We are at a great crossroads," answered the Wizard, and producing a
battered sextant from within his robes, he took sightings on the moon,
Arrowroot's cowboy hat, and Gimlet's upper lip. "Soon we will cross a mountain
or a river and pass into another land," he said.
Arrowroot strode over to Frito. "Do not fear," he said, sitting on a
wolf, "we will guide you safely through."
The next day dawned clear and bright, as is so often the case when it
does not rain, and the spirits of the company were considerably raised. After
a frugal breakfast of milk and honey, they set out in single file behind
Arrowroot and Goodgulf, with Spam bringing up the rear behind the pack sheep,
toward whom he expressed a boggie's usual fondness for fuzzy animals.
"Oh, for some mint sauce," he lamented.
The party traveled many leagues* [* A league is approximately 3 furlongs
or only a knot short of a hectare.] along the broad, wellpaved highway that
led east to the odorous feet of the Mealey Mountains, and later in the
afternoon they came to the first of the low kneehills. There the road quickly
disappeared in a mass of rubble and the ruins of an ancient toll booth.
Beyond, a short, steep valley as black as coal stretched ominously to the
rocky slope of the mountains. Arrowroot signaled for a halt, and the company
"It would be wiser to seek again the pass, I judge," said Arrowroot. "It
cannot be far."
"Three hundred kilometers give or take a shilling," said Goodgulf, a
little sheepishly, and as he spoke, the narrow ledge which led back to the
valley slid into the dark pond with a low grunt.
"That settles that," said Bromosel testily. "Yoo-hoo," he cried, "come
and eat us," and from far away a deep voice echoed, "Me beastie, me do that
thing."
"It is a grim fate indeed that would lead us here," said Arrowroot, "or
a gonzo Wizard."
Goodgulf remained unperturbed. "We must find the spell that opens this
door, and soon. Already it grows dark." With that he lifted his wand and
cried:
"Yuma palo alto napa erin go brae
Tegrin correga cremora ole."
The door remained in place, and Frito glanced nervously at the mass of
oily bubbles that had begun to rise in the pond.
"If only I'd listened to my Uncle Poo-poo and gone into dentistry,"
whined Pepsi.
"If I'd stayed home, I'd be big in encyclopedias by now," sniffled
Moxie.
"And if I had ten pounds o' ciment and a couple o' sacks, you'd a' both
gone for a stroll on that pond an hour ago," said Spam.
Goodgulf sat dejectedly before the obstinate portal, mumbling spells.
"Pismo," he intoned, striking the door with his wand. "Bitumen. Lazlo.
Clayton-Bulwer." Save for a hollow thud, the door made no sign of opening.
"It looks grim," said Arrowroot.
Suddenly the Wizard sprang to his feet. "The knob," he cried, and
leading the pack sheep over to the base of the gate, stood on its back on
tiptoe and turned the great knob with both hands. It turned easily, and with a
loud squeaking the door swung open a crack.
Goodgulf quickly scrambled down, and Arrowroot and Bromosel tugged the
door open a few more inches. At that moment, a great gurgling and belching
arose from the center of the pond, and a large corduroy monster slowly lifted
itself above the surface with a loud hiccup.
The company stood rooted to the ground in terror. The creature was about
fifty feet tall, with wide lapels, long dangling participles, and a pronounced
gazetteer.
"Aiyee!" shouted Legolam. "A Thesaurus!"
"Maim!" roared the monster. "Mutilate, mangle, crush. See HARM."
"Quick," cried Goodgulf. "Into the cavern," and the company hurriedly
slipped one by one through the narrow crack. Last of all came Spam, who tried
to squeeze the protesting sheep through the' opening. After two frenzied but
unsuccessful attempts, he picked up the annoyed herbivore and threw him bodily
into the beast's gaping mouth.
"Eatable," said the giant creature between munches, "edible, esculent,
comestible. See FOOD."
"I hope ye choke on it," said Spam bitterly, as a clear image of a
winged loin of lamb fluttered across his mind. He wiggled through the doorway
and joined the rest of the company in the cavern. With a loud belch that shook
the ground and filled the air with an aroma such as one meets concurrent with
the rediscovery of a cheese that has long since gone to its reward, the beast
slammed shut the door. The heavy boom reverberated into the depths of the
mountain, and the little party found themselves in total darkness.
Goodgulf hastily withdrew a tinder box from his robes, and frantically
striking sparks off the walls and floor, he managed to light the end of his
wand, producing a ifickering glow about half as bright as a dead firefly.
"Such magic," said Bromosel.
The wizard peered ahead into the darkness, and perceiving that there was
only one possible route, up a flight of stairs, he led the way into the deep
gloom.
They traveled a considerable distance into the mountain along the
passageway, which after the long flight of stairs leading up from the gate
worked its way for the most part down, with countless changes of direction,
until the air became quite hot and stuffy and the company very confused. There
was still no source of light save for the ificker from Goodgulf's sputtering
wand, and the only sound came from the sinister patter of following footsteps,
the heavy breathing of North Koreans, the rattle of gumball machines, and the
other hurly-burly of deep, dark places.
At length they came to a place where the passage divided into two, with
both leading down, and Goodgulf signaled for a halt. Immediately there came a
series of ominous gurgles and otherworldly tweets that suggested that the Four
Horsemen of the Apocalypse were having a friendly rubber of bridge not a yard
away.
"Let's split up," said Bromosel.
"I've twisted my ankle," said Pepsi.
"Whatever you do, don't make a sound," said Arrowroot.
"Wa-zoo," screamed Moxie, sneezing violently.
"Now here's my plan," said Goodgulf.
"Bullets won't stop them," said Bromosel.
"Whatever happens," said Arrowroot, "we must keep a close watch."
The company, as a man, fell asleep.
When they awoke, all was quiet once more, and after a hasty meal of
cakes and ale, they addressed themselves to the problem of which passage to
take. As they stood debating, there came from deep in the earth a steady
drumbeat. _Dribble, dribble, dribble, shoot, swish_.
At the same time the air began to get hotter and thicker, and the ground
started to tremble beneath their feet.
"There's no time to lose," said Goodgulf, jumping to his feet. "We must
decide and quickly."
"I say to the right," said Arrowroot.
"Left," said Bromosel.
Upon closer examination, the left way proved to be lacking a floor for
some forty feet, and Goodgulf quickly set off down the other, with the rest of
the company following close behind. The passage led precipitously down, and
there were omens of an unappetizing nature along the way, including the
whitening skeleton of a minotaur, the body of the Putdown man, and a rabbit's
battered pocket watch with the inscription "To Whitey from the whole
Wonderland crowd."
Before long the passageway sloped more gently down until with a final
plunge it led into a great chamber lined with huge metal lockers and dimly lit
by a fiery glow. As they entered, the rumblings grew louder: _Dribble.
Dribble. Fake. Dribble. Fake. Shoot_.
All at once a large body of narcs burst into the hail from the passage
the company had followed and charged at them, waving hammers and sickles.
"Yalu, Yalu," shouted their leader, brandishing a huge faggot.
"You dieth, G.I.," cried the faggot.
"Stay here," said Arrowroot. "I'll scout ahead."
"Keep me covered," said Legolam, "I'll head them off."
"Guard the rear," said Gimlet, "I'll take the passage."
"Hold the fort," said Goodgulf, "I'll circle around."
"Stand fast," said Bromosel, "I'll draw them off."
"Pyongyang panmunjom," shouted the narc chieftain.
The company stampeded across the hall and out a side passage with the
narcs at their heels. As they rushed out, Goodgulf slammed shut the door in
the narcs' faces and hastily put a spell on it.
"Hawley Smoot," he said, striking the door with his wand, and with a
smoky "foof" the door disappeared, leaving the Wizard face-to-face with the
puzzled narcs. Goodgulf quickly produced a lengthy confession, signed it, and
thrusting it into the chieftain's hands, raced away up the passage to where
the rest of the company stood at the far end of a narrow rope bridge which
spanned a sharp chasm.
As Goodgulf stepped onto the bridge the passage echoed with an ominous
_dribble, dribble_, and a great crowd of narcs burst forth. In their midst was
a towering dark shadow too terrible to describe. In its hand it held a huge
black globe and on its chest was written in cruel runes, "Villanova."
"Aiyee," shouted Legolam. "A ballhog!"
Goodgulf turned to face the dread shadow, and as he did, it slowly
circled toward the bridge, bouncing the grim sphere as it came. The Wizard
reeled back and, clutching at the ropes, raised his wand. "Back, vile
hoopster," he cried.
At this the ballhog strode forward onto the bridge, and stepping back,
the wizard drew himself up to his full height and said, "Avaunt, thin-clad
one!"
Arrowroot waved Krona. "He cannot hold the bridge," he shouted and
rushed forward.
"E pluribus unum," cried Bromosel and leaped after him.
"Esso extra," said Legolam, jumping behind him.
"Kaiser Frazer," shouted Gimlet, running up to join them.
The ballhog sprang forward, and raising the dread globe over his head,
uttered a triumphant cry.
"Dulce et decorum," said Bromosel, hacking at the bridge.
"Above and beyond," said Arrowroot, chopping a support.
"A far, far better thing," said Legolam, slicing through the walkway.
"Nearer my God to thee," hummed Gimlet, cutting the last stay with a
quick ax stroke.
With a loud snap, the bridge collapsed, spilling Goodgulf and the
ballhog into the abyss. Arrowroot turned away and, stifling a sob, ran along
the passage with the rest of the company close behind. As they rounded a
corner, they were dazzled by a sudden shaft of sunlight, and after dispatching
a sleeping narc guard in a few short minutes, they scrambled out the gates and
down the eastern stairs.
The stairs ran along a syrupy stream in which large gobs of multicolored
goo were ominously bobbing. Legolam stopped and spat in it wistfully.
"It is the Spumoni," he explained, "beloved of the Elves. Do not drink
of it--it causes cavities."
The company hastened on into the shallow valley and in less than an hour
stood on the west bank of the river Nesseirode, which the dwarves call
Nazalspray. Arrowroot signaled for a halt. The steps that had led down the
mountain came to an abrupt end at the river's edge, and on either side of the
narrow way the hills sloped off into wide, barren plains filled with wind
gods, dolphins in sailor hats, and street directories.
"I fear that we have come to an uncharted region," said Arrowroot,
peering under his hand into the distance. "Alas, that Goodgulf is not here to
guide us."
"These are indeed tough bananas," agreed Bromosel.
"Yonder lies Lornadoon, land of the Gone Elves," said Legolam, pointing
across the river to a scruffy-looking forest of dutch elms and knotty pines.
"Goodgulf would have surely led us there."
Bromosel dipped a foot into the oozing river, and a fish stick and a
side order of fried clams leaped into the air.
"Sorcery!" cried Gimlet as a tunaburger flew past his ear. "Witchcraft!
Deviltry! Isolationism! Free silver!"
"Aye," said Legolam, "the river is under a spell, for it is named after
the fair elf-maid Nesselrode who had the hots for Menthol, God of After-Dinner
Drinks. But the evil Oxydol, Goddess of Quick Tricks and Small Slams, appeared
to her in the shape of a five-iron and told her that Menthol was twotiming
with the Princess Phisohex, daughter of King Sano. At this Nesselrode became
wroth and swore a great oath to kick Phisohex in the gut and get her mother,
Cinerama, Goddess of Short-Term Loans, to turn Menthol into an erector set.
But Menthol got wind of the plot and came to Nesselrode in the guise of a
refrigerator, turned her into a river, and went west to sell encyclopedias.
Even now, in the spring, the river softly cries, 'Menthol, Menthol, you are
one wazoo. One day I'm the elf next door and then _poof_ I'm a river. You
stink.' And the wind answers, 'Phooey.'
"A sad story," said Frito. "Is it true?"
"No," said Legolam. "There's a song, too," and he began to sing:
"An elvin-maid there was of old,
A stenographer by day;
Her hair was fake, her teeth were gold,
Her scent was that of cheap sachet.
She thought that art was really 'keen,'
The top ten she could hum;
Her eyes were full of Maybelline,
Her mouth, of chewing gum.
Her head was full of men and clothes,
Her hair, of ratted curls;
Her legs she wrapped in fine Sup-Hose,
For nights out with the girls.
She met one morn an elvin-lad,
Who took her to the fights,
And said he owned a spacious pad,
And went to law school nights.
And so that night she gave her all
In back of his sedan;
So rich, she thought, so sharp and tall,
A perfect family man.
But then he told her with a smirk,
That he loved another,
And was a part-time postal clerk
And lived home with his mother.
A silver tear rolled down her cheek
As she bussed home by herself;
The same thing happened twice last week,
(Oh, Heaven help the Working-elf!)
"It is best that we cross before nightfall," said Arrowroot finally.
"There are tales of fungo bats and bloodsucking umpires in these parts."
Picking up his toilet kit, he waded into the soupy water, and the company
followed behind. The water was nowhere more than a few feet deep, and the
boggies had little difficulty making their way across.
"This is indeed a queer river," said Bromosel, as the water lapped at
his thighs.
On the far bank of the river they found a thick strand of dead trees
covered with signs in Elveranto which said, COME TO FABULOUS ELF VILLAGE,
VISIT THE SNAKE FARM, DON'T MISS SANTA'S WORKSHOP, and HELP KEEP OUR FOREST
ENCHANTED!