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
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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
"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!
Just before Gwahno began banking a turn, Frito thought he caught a
glimpse of a great, dark form the color and shape of a bread pudding
retreating over the mountains with a steamer trunk of odd socks.
The glorious army that drew up before the Black Gate numbered somewhat
less than the original thousands. It numbered seven, to be exact, and might
have been less had not seven merinos finally bolted for freedom out from under
their riders. Cautiously, Arrowroot looked upon the Black Gate to Fordor. It
was many times a man in height and painted a flashy red. Both halves were
labeled OUT.
"They will issue from here," Arrowroot explained. "Let us unfurl our
battle standard."
Dutifully Goodgulf fitted together his cue and attached the white cloth.
"But that is not our standard," said Arrowroot.
"Bets?" said Gimlet.
"Better Sorhed than no head," said Goodgulf as he bent his sword into a
plowshare.
Suddenly Arrowroot's eyes bugged.
"Lo!" he cried.
Black flags were raised in the black towers and the gate opened like an
angry maw to upchuck its evil spew. Out poured an army the bikes of which was
never seen. Forth from the gate burst a hundred thousand rabid narcs swinging
bicycle chains and tire irons, followed by drooling divisions of pop-eyed
changelings, deranged zombies, and distempered werewolves. At their shoulders
marched eight score heavily armored griffins, three thousand goose-stepping
mummies, and a column of abominable snowmen on motorized bobsleds; at their
flanks tramped six companies of slavering ghouls, eighty parched vampires in
white tie, and the Phantom of the Opera. Above them the sky was blackened by
the dark shapes of vicious pelicans, houseflies the size of two-car garages,
and Rodan the Flying Monster. Through the portals streamed more foes of
various forms and descriptions, including a six-begged diplodocus, the Loch
Ness Monster, King Kong, Godzilla, the Creature from the Black Lagoon, the
Beast with 1,000,000 Eyes, the Brain from Planet Arous, three different
subphyla of giant insects, the Thing, It, She, Them, and the Blob. The great
tumult of their charge could have waked the dead, were they not already
bringing up the rear.
"Lo," warned Stomper, "the enemy approaches."
Goodgulf gripped his cue with an iron hand as the others huddled around
him in a last, shivering tableau before the fiendish onslaught.
"Vell, ve going bye-bye," Eorache said as she crushed Arrowroot in a
sweet, final embrace.
"Farewell," squeaked Arrowroot. "We will die heroes."
"Perhaps," sobbed Moxie, "we shall meet in better lands than this."
"Wouldn't be difficult," agreed Pepsi as he made out his will.
"So long, shrimp," Legolam said to Gimlet.
"Be seein' ya, creep," replied the dwarf.
"_Lo!_" exclaimed Arrowroot, rising from his knees.
"If he says that once more," said Gimlet, "I'll croak him myself."
But all eyes followed the Ranger-King's shaking pinkie. The sky was
filling with a bright puce smog, and there came in a great wind a _blatting_
noise similar to that made by certain Rings when they give up the ghost. The
black ranks wavered in their march, stopped, and began to fidget. Suddenly,
cries of anguish were heard from above and black pelicans fell from the sky,
their Black Riders desperately struggling with ripcords. The narc hordes
shrieked, threw down their tire irons, and hotfooted it toward the open gate.
But as the narcs and their scaly allies turned back to safety, they were
changed as if by magic into pillars of garlic. The terrible army had vanished
and all that remained were a few white mice and a soggy pumpkin.
"Sorhed's army is no more!" cried Arrowroot, catching the drift.
Then a dark shadow raced along the plain. Looking up, they saw a barge