BOTR - Prologue
Prologue - Concerning Boggies
...Boggies are an unattractive yet 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...
...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...
...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...
...When Dildo's eyes became adjusted to the pale light, he found that the grotto was almost filled by a wide, kidney-shaped 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...
...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 boat, 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...
Bored of the Rings - Chapter One
Chapter I:
It's My Party and I'll Snub Who I Want To
...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?"...
..."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, unsnagging a clot of tangled hair in his long, dirty-gray 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...
"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, gobble, 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...."
...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, Liverflaps, and Nosethingers. (Nosefingers! 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 guest's 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 thought 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...
..."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 Sorhed 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...
...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 Sorhed'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 Sorhed, yet appear so unsuited to his task that he will not soon be 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"...
Bored of the Rings - Chapter Two
Chapter II:
Three's Company, Four's a Bore
..."Are you sure he can be trusted?"
Frito smiled. "Of course. Spam's been a true friend of mine ever 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...
...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...
...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...
...Suddenly, a brightly colored figure burst through the foliage, swathed in a long mantle of hair the consistency of much-chewed 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 up-tight 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 tmeper. The boggies retrieved their garments, and Frito sighed with relief to find the Ring still firmly Bostiched to his pocket...
...Somewhat bewildred 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 yoor hans," giggled Tim.)...
...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!"...
Bored of the Rings - Chapter Three
Chapter III:
Indigestion at the Sign of the Goode Eats
...The golden brightness of late morning as 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-lang 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 out awrighgth
Peece,
Timm
P.S. Hear ar som outt of sighgt stash which I am laying onn yoo guyys. Must sine off as rush iss comcomcoming ohgodohgodohgodohgod$5#%*@+=!...
...The village of Whee had some six dozen small houses, most of them built of wax paper and discarded corks. they were arranged in a sort of 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 1004 828 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 DOE-SMITH, 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 bell hop.
"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!"...
...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!"...
..."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, senor," 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 h1 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
thrupences. 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 something 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 it's 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!"..."
...As the sun's rim broke on the far horizon it's 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 clinking 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 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...
...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 curiousity 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 it's slow change upon him, the transformation of which Dildo had warned. He was constipated...
Bored of the Rings - Chapter Four
Chapter IV:
Finders Keepers Finders Weepers
...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 wooly 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 syanon 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...
..."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 lobes 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 inconsolable...
...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 as fair as the surface of the moon. All about them zircons, garnets, and lodestones 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 hemorroids 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...
...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 hall and into a small room almost entirely filled by a huge glass-topped 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 heavy-set 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...
...Frito nodded and drew from his pocket the paperclip 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 here is the inscription:
"Grundig blaupunkt luger frug
Watusi snarf wazoo!
Nixon dirksen nasahist
Reboso 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...
..."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," 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 it's 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."...
Bored of the Rings - Chapter Five
Chapter 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 sea-clouds.
A duck flew over quacking loudly. "Wolves," cried Pepsi, straining to hear the fading sound...
..."This is an evil place, I fear," said Arrowroot, slipping on the sticky black paint which covered every inch of the land.
"It is the Black Valley," said Goodgulf solemnly.
"Are we in Fordor already?" asked Frito hopefully.
"Do not mention that black land in this black land, said the Wizard darkly. "No, it is not Fordor, but it seems that it has been touched by the Enemy of all Right-Thinking Folk."
As they stood over the dreary vale, there came the howl of wolves, the roar of bears, and the cry of vultures.
"It's quiet," said Gimlet.
"Too quiet," said Legolam.
"We cannot stay here," said Arrowroot.
"No," agreed Bromosel, looking across the gray surface of the page to the thick half of the book still in the reader's right hand. "We have a long way to go."
After trudging down the steep, rock-strewn slope for more than an hour, the party arrived, weary and blackened, at a long ledge that led between a sharp cliff and a pond whose surface was entirely covered with a thick oil slick. As they watched, a great, heavy-winged water bird landed in the foul water with a soft plop and dissolved.
"Let us press on," said Goodgulf, "The pass cannot be far."
With that he led the way around a stony ridge which jutted into the pond in front of them and obscured the rest of the mountain slope from view. The ledge grew narrower as it wound around the outcropping, and the company had to inch their way along. As they passed the bend, they saw in front of them the face of the mountain rising unbroken for hundreds of feet above them. Cut into the rocky wall was the entrance to some underground cavern, cunningly hidden by an enormous wooden door with huge wrought-iron hinges and a giant knob. The door was covered with a strange oath gracefully written in the Palmer runes of the dwarves, and so marvelously had it been constructed, that from a hundred feet away the tiny crack between wood and stone was completely invisible.
Arrowroot gasped. "The Black Pit," he cried.
"Yes," said Gimlet, "The fabled Nikon-zoom of my ancestor, Fergus Fewmet."
"Dread Andrea Doria, curse of the living nipple," said Legolam...
...They traveled a considerable distance into the mountain along the passageway, which after the long flight of stairs leading up from the gate worked it's 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 flicker 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...
...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 it's 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...
...On the far bank of the river they found a thick strand of dead trees covered with signs in Elveranto which said, "Come to the fabulous Elf Village," "Visit the Snake Farm," Don't miss Santa's Workshop," and "Help Keep Our Forest Enchanted!"
"Lalornadoon, Lalornadoon," sighed Legolam, "wonder of Lower Middle Earth!"
At that, a door in the trunk of a large tree opened, revealing a small room filled with postcard racks, loudly clicking cuckoo clocks, and boxes of maple-sugar candies. A greasy-looking elf slipped out from behind a taffy machine.
"Welcome Wagon," he said, bowing low. "I am Pentel."
"Come hither, conastoga," said Legolam.
"Well, well, well," said the elf, coughing importantly, "we are a bit out of season, aren't we?"
"We're just passing through," said Arrowroot.
"No matter," said Pentel. "Plenty to see, plenty to see. On the left, your petrified tree, to the right your Echo Rock and your Natural Bridge, and just ahead your Old Wishing Well."
"We've come from Doria," Arrowroot continued," We're on our way to Fordor."
The elf blanched. "I hope you've enjoyed your visit to Lornadoon Land of Magic," he said quickly, and handing them a sheaf of folders and pack-horse stickers, he leaped into the tree and slammed and bolted the door.
"These are troubled times," said Arrowroot...
...A moment later the door to the great tree swung open and a short elf stepped out. "Cellophane and Lavalier await you abovestairs," he said, and led the company into the wide trunk. The tree was completely hollow, and the inside was covered with brick-design wallpaper. A circular staircase led through a hole in the ceiling to an upper story, and the elf motioned for them to ascend the narrow steps. As they reached the top, they found themselves in a room decorated much as the one below, but brightly lit by great wagon-wheel chandeliers which hung from the lofty roof. On a pair of tree stumps at the end of the room sat Cellophane and Lavalier, arrayed in rich muslin.
"Welcome to Lornadoon," said Lavalier, rising slowly to her feet, and it seemed to the company that she was as fair as a young sapling or scrub oak. She had magnificent chestnut hair, and when she shook her head, handfuls of magnificent chestnuts dropped to the floor like rain. Frito toyed with the Ring and wondered at her great beauty.
"I see, Frito," she said, "that as you toy with the Ring, you wonder at my great beauty."
Frito gasped.
"Do not fear," she said, solemnly tweaking his nose. "Nasties we're not."
Cellophane then rose and greeted each of the travelers in turn, and motioning for them to sit down on the rubber toadstools arranged around the room, bid them tell the tale of their adventures.
Arrowroot cleared his throat. "Once upon a time," he began.
"Call me Ishmael," said Gimlet.
"Whanne in Aprille," started Legolam.
"Hear me, oh Muse," commenced Bromosel.
After some discussion, Frito told the whole story of the Ring, of Dildo's party, the Black Schleppers, the Caucus of Orlon, Doria, and Goodgulf's untimely passing.
"Woodja, woodja, woo," said Cellophane sadly when Frito had finished.
Lavalier sighed deeply. "Your journey is long and hard," she said.
"Yes," said Cellophane, "you bear a great burden."
"Your enemies are powerful and merciless," said Lavalier.
"You have much to fear," said Cellophane.
"You leave at dawn," said Lavalier...
..."Farewell," said Lavaier, as the company crammed themselves into the boats. "A great journey begins with a single step. No man is an island."
"The early bird gets the worm," said Cellophane.
The rafts slipped out into the river, and Cellophane and Lavalier boarded a great boat-shaped swan and drifted a short distance behind them, and Lavalier sat in the prow and sang an elvish lament to the heart-breaking timbre of steel drums:
"Dago, Dago, Lassi Lima rintintin
Yanqui unicycle ramar rotoroot
Telstar aloha saarinen cloret
Stassen camaro impala desoto?
Gardol oleo telephon lumumbal
Chappaqua havatampa muriel
U canleada horsta wata, bwana,
Butyu canna makit drinque!
Comsat melba rubaiyat nirvana
Garcia y vega hiawatha aloo.
O mithra, mithra, I fain wud lie doon!
Valdaree valdera, que sera, sirrah,
Honi soit la vache qui rit.
Honi soit la vache qui rit."
("Oh the leaves are falling, the flowers are wilting, and the rivers are all going Republican. O Ramar, Ramar, ride quickly on your golden unicycle and warn the nymphs and drag queens! Ah, now who shall gather lichee nuts and make hoopla under the topiaries? Who will trim my unicorns? See, even now the cows laugh, Alas, alas." Chorus: "We are the chorus and we agree. We agree, we agree, we agree."
As the tiny boats passed round a bend in the river, Frito looked back in time to see the Lady Lavalier gracefully sticking her finger down her throat in the ancient elvish farewell.
Bromosel looked ahead to where the meandering of the river had brought them face to face with the barely risen sun. "The early bird gets hepatitis," he grunted, and fell asleep...
...At that moment there came a great crashing in the nearby woods, and a band of howling narcs and grunting beavers descended on the luckless party.
Arrowroot leaped to his feet. "Evinrude," he cried, and drawing the sword Krona, handed it hilt-first to the nearest narc.
"Joyvah Halvah," shouted Gimlet, and dropped his adze.
""Unguentine," said Legolam, putting his hands on his head.
"Ipso facto," growled Bromosel, and unbuckled his sword belt.
Spam rushed over to Frito in the heat of the surrender and grasped him by the arm. "Time to trot, bwana," he said, drawing a shawl over his head, and the two boggies slipped down to the boats and out into the river before the charging narcs and their lumbering allies missed them.
The chief narc grabbed Arrowroot by the lapels and shook him fiercely. "Where are the boggies?" he screamed.
Arrowroot turned to where Frito and Spam had been standing and then to Moxie and Pepsi, who were hiding next to where Legolam and Gimlet were playing possum.
"You lie, you die," said the narc, and Arrowroot couldn't help but notice the tone of malice which had crept into his voice.
He pointed to the boggies, and two narcs jumped forward and swept them up in the thighs they had by way of arms.
"There's been some mistake," squealed Moxie, "I haven't got it."
""You've got the wrong man," Pepsi shrieked, "It was him," he said, pointing to Moxie.
"That's the one," cried Moxie, gesturing at Pepsi, "I'd know him anywhere. Three-five, eighty-two, tattoo on left arm of rutting dragon, two counts of aiding and abetting known Ring-bearer."
The chief narc laughed cruelly. "I give the rest of you ten to run," he said, twirling a set of giant bolos with a threatening application of english. At that, Bromosel started to sprint, but catching his feet in his sword belt, he tripped and impaled himself on his pointed shoes.
"Ye doom is ycomme true," he groaned. "O tell the Lacedomecians to damn the torpedoes." Then noisily shaking a large rattle, he expired.
The narc shook his head. "Me, you don't need," he said, and led the narc band away into the surrounding forest with Moxie and Pepsi...
Bored of the Rings - Chapter Six
Chapter VI:
The Riders of Roi-Tan
...For three days Arrowroot, Gimlet, and Legolam hunted the band of narcs, pausing in their relentless chase only for food, drink, sleep, a few hands of pinochle, and a couple of sight-seeing detours. Tirelessly, the Ranger, dwarf, and elf pushed on after the captors of Moxie and Pepsi, often making a long march of up to three hundred yards before collapsing with apathy. Many times Stomper lost the scent, which was rather difficult since narcs are fond of collecting their droppings along the way into great, pungent mounds. These they carefully sculpted and molded into fearsome shapes as mute warning to any who might dare challenge their power.
But the narc mounds were growing fewer, indicating either that they had quickened their pace or had run out of roughage. In any case the trail grew fainter and the tall Ranger had to use his every skill to follow the barest traces of the company's passing, a worn ventilated shoe, a pair of loaded dice, and farther on, a pair of ventilated narcs...
...The sheep-lords loomed larger and the fierce war-bleats of their mounts could now be heard. Tall and blond were the Roi-Tanners, wearers of helmets topped with cruel-looking spikes and small toothbrush mustaches. The wanderers saw too that they wore long boots and short leathern pants with suspenders and held long spikes that looked like lead-weighted dust-mops.
"They are savage of visage," said Legolam.
"Aye," said Stomper, peeking through his fingers. "Proud and willful are the men of Roi-Tan, and they value highly land and power. But these lands are often those of their neighbors, and they are hence mickle unpopular. Though ignorant of letters, they are find of song and dance and premeditated homicide. But warfare is not their only craft, for they run summer camps for their neighbors handsomely fitted out with the most modern oven and shower facilities."
"Then these rascals cannot be all bad," said Legolam hopefully. Just then they saw a hundred blades flash from a hundred sheaths.
"Bets?" said Gimlet...
...The leader, shorter than the others by a head, looked at them suspiciously through twin monocles and brandished a battlemop. It was then that the company realized that the leader was a woman, a woman whose ample breastplate hinted at a figure of some heft.
"Vere ist you going und vat are you doing here vhen you are not to being here in der first place vhere you ist?" the leader demanded in rather garbled everybody-talk.
Stomper stepped forward and bowed low, falling on one knee and pulling his forelock. Then he kissed the ground at the sheep-lord's feet. He buffed her boots for good measure.
"Hail and greeting, O Lady," lisped Stomper, the butter in his mouth freezing solid. "We are wayfarers in your land searching for friends taken by the foul narcs of Sorhed and Serutan. Perhaps you have espied them. They are three feet tall with hairy feet and little tails, probably dressed in elvin cloaks and headed for Fordor to destroy Sorhed's threat to Lower Middle Earth."
The captain of the sheepmen stared at the Ranger dumbly, then, turning to her own company, beckoned a rider.
"Medic! Hurry up, I haf vork for you. Und he ist der delirious also!"
"Nay, beautiful Lady," said Stomper, "they of whom I speak are boggies, or in the tongue of the elves, hoipolloi. I am their guide, who am called Stomper by some, though I have many names."
"I bet you do," agreed the leader, tossing her golden braids. "Medic! Vhere ist you?"
Finally Arrowroot's explanations were accepted, and introductions were made all around.
"I ist Eorache, daughter of Eorlobe, Captain of der Rubbermark und Thane of Chowder. Dot means you ist nice to me or you ist nothing to nobody no more," said the ruddy faced warrior. Suddenly her face darkened when she espied Gimlet, whom she studied suspiciously.
"Vat ist your name again?"
"Gimlet, son of Groin, Dwarf-lord of Geritol and Royal Inspector of Meats," said the stubby dwarf.
"Dot's funny," she said at last, "you don't look dwarfish!" Then she turned to Stomper, "Und you. Undershirt vas it?"
"Arrowshirt," said Stomper, "Arrowroot of Arrowshirt!"
In a flash he had drawn gleaming Krona from its holster and flailed it about over his head as he cried, "And this is Krona of he who has many names, he who is called Lumbago, the Lodestone, by the elves, Dunderhead, heir to the throne of Twodor and true son of Arrowhead of Araplane, Conqueror of Dozens and seed of Barbisol, Top of the Heap and King of the Mountain."
"Vell la-dee-dah," said Eorache, eyeing the waiting medic...
..."Now," said Karsh, turning back to the boggies, "them bleaters is gonna jump us at dawn, so's I want the lowdown on this Magic Ring right now!" Reaching into a large leather bag, the narc withdrew an armful of shiny instruments and arrayed them on the ground in front of Pepsi and Moxie. There before them were a large bullwhip, a thumbscrew, a cat-o'-nine tails, a rubber hose, two blackjacks, an assortment of surgical knives, and a portable hibachi with two red-glowing branding irons.
"I got ways t' make ya sing like canaries," he chuckled, stirring the hot coals with his long index finger. "Youse each can have one from column A and two from column B. Har har har!"
"Har har har," said Pepsi.
"Mercy!" yipped Moxie.
"Aw, come on, youse guys," said Karsh, selecting an iron with the triple-bar "S" of Sorhed, "let me have a little fun before y'talk."
"No, please!" said Moxie.
"Who wants it first?" laughed the cruel narc.
"Him!" chorused the boggies, indicating each other...
...Moxie and Pepsi looked up with a start toward the green trees. They knew that they had heard a low, rumbling voice, but they saw no one.
"Hulloo?" they said uncertainly.
"Not 'huloo,' ho ho ho!" returned the voice.
The brothers searched the woods for the source of the laugh, but not until a huge green eye winked did they see the huge giant standing against the tall forest right in front of them. Their jaws dropped at the sight of an immense figure, fully eleven feet tall, standing before them with his hands coyly at his sides. He was bright green from head to foot (size fifty-six, triple-Z). A broad, pastel-green smile broke upon its face, and the monster laughed again. As the boggies retrieved their jaws, they noticed that the giant was naked save for a parsley G-string and a few cabbage leaves in his feather-cut locks. In each great hand was a package of frozen stringbeans, and across his chest a green banner proclaimed, Today's Special, Five Cents Off All Creamed Corn.
"No, no," moaned Pepsi, "it....it couldn't be!"
"Ho ho ho, but it is," guffawed the immense figure, half-man, half broccoli. "I am called Birdseye, Lord of the Vee-Ates, oft called the jol--"
"Don't say it!" cried Moxie, holding his furry ears with horror.
"Be not afraid," grinned the affable vegetable. "I want to make peas with you."
"No, no!" moaned Pepsi, nibbling his tieclip in frenzy.
"Come come," said the giant, "lettuce go and meet my subjects who live in the forest. They cannot be beet. Ho ho ho!" The green apparition doubled over at its own bon mot.
"Please, please," pleaded Pepsi, "we can't take it. Not after all we've been through."
"I must insist, my friends," said the giant, "the people of my realm are off to war on the evil Serutan, eater of cellulose and friend of the black weeds who every day strangle us more and more. We know you to be his enemy too, and you must come with us, and help defeat the cabbage-murderer."
"Well, all right," sighed Pepsi, "if we gotta--"
"--we gotta," sighed Moxie.
"Sigh not," reassured the giant as he slung the two boggies over his Kelly green shoulder blades, "being Lord of the Vee-Ates is not easy either, particularly on my celery. Ho!"
The boggies kicked and screamed, attempting a final escape from the towering bore...
...Darkness was falling and the campfires of the Roi-Tanners began flickering. Over the next hill lay the valley of Isinglass, now renamed Serutanland by the scheming Wizard. Dejected, the Ranger shuffled along the resting warriors, hardly hearing their proud song, roared above the clinking of foamy steins:
"Ve is der merry, gay Roi-Tanners,
Who like der boots, salutes und banners,
Ve ride der scheeps in vind und vheather
Mit vhips und spurs und drawers of leather
Ve dance und sing und valse und two-step
Und never ever mach der goose-step.
Peace iss vhat ve vant und do have.
Und a piece of anything you have."
Men frolicked about the fires, laughing and joking. Two blood-slathered contestants hacked at each other with sabers to the gloating cheers of flaxen-haired spectators, and farther on a gathering of warriors bellowed with mirth as they did something unattractive to a dog.
But the scene cheered him not. Heartsick, he walked on into the darkness, saying "Eorache, my Eorache" softly over and over to himself. Tomorrow he would display such acts of valor that she would have to pay attention to him. He leaned against the tree and sighed...
..."Isn't it about time for a deus ex machina?" said Legolam wearily.
Suddenly there was a loud pop and a bright burst of light that momentarily blinded the shocked three. The acrid odor of cheap flash-powder filled the air, and the companions heard a distinct thump followed by a louder oof! Then, through the swirling confetti, they saw a shining figure dressed all in white, brushing the twigs and dirt from his spotless bell-bottoms and gleaming a-go-go boots. Above the white Nehru jacked and cheesy medallion was a neatly trimmed gray beard set off by oversized wrap-around shades. The whole ensemble was topped off by a large white panama with a matching ostrich plume.
"Serutan!" gasped Arrowroot.
"Close, but no cigar," cackled the brilliant figure as he flicked a bit of invisible dust from his tailored shoulder. "Pray try again. It is a sad thing indeed when old pals are recognized not!"
"Goodgulf?!" cried the three.
"None other," said the aged fop. "You seemed astonished that I have reappeared."
"But how did--did you...?" began Legolam.
"We thought the ballhog..." said Gimlet.
The old wizard winked and straightened his vulgar medallion.
"My story is a long one indeed, and I am not the same Goodgulf Grayteeth that you once knew. I have undergone many changes, no thanks to you, I might add."
"Yah, a little Clairol on the temples and a trim," whispered the observant dwarf.
"I heard that!" said Goodgulf, scrathcing a razor-cut sideburn. "Take not too lightly my present form, for my powers are even mightier."
"But how did you--"
"Much have I journeyed since we last met, and much have I seen, and there is much I would tell thee," said Goodgulf.
"Anything but the name of your tailor," said Gimlet. "Where'd you get those duds anyway? I thought Halloween was months off yet."
"A most delightful little boutique in Lornadoon. It's me, don't you think?"
"More than you know," agreed the dwarf...
Bored of the Rings - Chapter Seven
Chapter VII:
Serutan Spelled Backwards is Mud
..."Zo, you ist up, finally," growled a voice. All heads turned to Eorache, tricked out in her best boots, spurs, and armor. Through her nose was thrust a fierce-looking chicken bone.
"Ah, dressed to kill," chuckled Goodgulf as he rose to greet the surprised captain.
"You!" gasped Eorache.
"You were expecting maybe Beowulf?"
"But--but ve thought dot you vere kaput mit der ballhog," said the Roi-Tanner.
"It is a long tale," said Goodgulf, taking a deep breath.
"Then save it," interrupteed Eorache. "Ve have der fighting to do mit der Serutanner. Coming wit me, please."
The company followed Eorache to the rest of the warriors, all mnounted on their fiery, champing steeds, eager as their riders were for battle. Cheerfully they greeted their leader with a clenched fist of salute and whispered amused comments about the odd Ranger that followed her around like a demented basset.
The party mounted. Eorache grudgingly gave Thermofax, the fastest of all the Roi-Tanner's sheep, to Goodgulf. Then, as the Riders burst into song, they rode west toward Isinglass.
They had not ridden but two hours before they reached a crested hill and Eorache bellowed the order to halt. Down in the low valley lay the pastel pink-and-blue walls of Serutan's mighty fortress. the entire city was ringed with walls, and around the walls was a pale-lavender moat crossed by a bright-green draw-bridge. Pennants flapped in the breeze bravely and the tall towers seemed verily to goose the clouds.
Beyond the walls the expedition saw the many wonders that had lured countless tourists through its portals in the past. Amusements of all descriptions lay within; carnivals and sideshows under permanent tents, fairies' wheels and gollum-coasters, tunnels of troth, griffin-go-rounds and gaming houses where a yokel could lose an idle hour, and if he wasn't careful, his jerkin. Years before, when Serutan still showed a fair face to the world, Goodgulf had worked in such a house as a croupier for "Ye Wheel of Ye Fortune" But only for a short time. Why he left and why he had been forever barred from Serutanland, as the evil Wizard renamed it, no one knew. And Goodgulf wasn't telling...
..."There is no time for courtly pastimes," said Goodgulf. "our diversion has failed and the enemy is now forewarned of our intentions. the hour to strike has passed and we are lost."
"Does that mean we can go home now?" asked Legolam.
"No!" said the Wizard, his medallion flashing in the sun, "for I see in the distance a vast army marching."
"Nuts," said Gimlet, "I thought we could call it a day."
With fearful eyes they all watched as a dark mass spread over a distant hill and moved toward them with alarming speed. Whether friend or foe, no one could discern. For many minutes they watched until coronets sounded from the battlements of Serutanland.
"They must be narc reinforcements come to destroy us all!" quailed the elf. "Sorhed has sent a great army against us!"
"No!" cried the Ranger. "They are not narcs, they are not like anything that I have seen."
The others saw that this was true. Rank upon rank of huge, warlike vegetables were massing toward Serutanland, led by a monumental creature. An eldritch song thundered:
"All hail Vee-Ates, gather round!
With greens held high and roots in ground!
Cabbage, Eggplant, Cuke and Carrot
Puree narcs with club and garrot!
Squash their pulp up into bits
Slash their rinds and spit out the pits!
Make their juice spout like a geyser
And grind them all to fertilizer!"
"Ho,ho,ho!" rang through the land and the frightened sheep milled in confusion like sheep. Dumbstruck, the party saw squads of squash, platoons of potatoes, companies of kumquats, battalions of beets, and regiments of radishes, all tramping to a martial air played by a fifty-piece rutabega marching band. Beyond the endless rows were even more formations; determined-looking avocados, stalwart scallions and brawny eggplants.
The very ground shook at the rhythmic rootsteps of the hoard, the air crackled with their thousand chattering, piping warcries...
...At last the fighting was over and the long-parted friends ran to each other with joyful greetings.
"Joyful greetings!" cried Moxie and Pepsi.
"The same and more to you, I'm sure," said Goodgulf, stifling a yawn of recognition.
"Hail fellow well met," bowed Legolam, "May your dandruff worries be over forever."
Gimlet limped over to the two boggies and forced a smile.
"Pox vobiscum. May you eat three balanced meals a day and have healthful, regular bowel movements."
"How comes it," said Arrowroot, "that we meet in this strange land?"
"It is a tale long in the telling," said Pepsi, pulling out a sheaf of notes.
"Then save it," said Goodgulf...
...High above them they saw the round, turning restaurant with its flashing sign that read Serutan's Top O' the Mark. Under it a glass door swung open. A figure appeared at the railing edge.
"Dot's him!" cried Eorache.
In face he looked much like Goodgulf, but his rainment was strange to see. the Wizard was dressed in a full-length leotard of fire-engine red and a long cape of black sateen. On his head were pasted black horns and at his buttocks was attached a barbed tail. He held an aluminum pitchfork and wore cloven patent-leather loafers. He laughed at the company below.
"Ha ha ha ha ha."
"Come thee then down," called Arrowroot, "and what to thee is coming, taketh. Open thy door and let us in."
"Nay," cackled Serutan, "not by the hair of my chinny-chin-chin. Let us instead work this out like sane, reasonable people."
"Vork-schmork," screamed Eorache. "Ve vant your miserable schkin!"
The evil wizard drew back in mock fear, then returned to the edge and smiled. His voice was soothing and melodious, dripping with sweet intonations like a melting fudgsicle. The company stood in awe of his sucaryled words.
"Let's backtrack," continued Serutan. "Here I am with my little concern making an honest farthing by the sweat of my brow. Suddenly a merger of competitors crash right through my corporate holdings trying to drive me out of the market. You have taken my liquid assets and nullified my small merchandising staff. It's a clear-cut case of unfair business practices."
"Hey," said the giant to Goodgulf, "that guy's got a good head on his shoulders. No wonder he reaps so much cabbage."
"Shut up," Goodgulf agreed...
...Just then a small black object whizzed past Goodgulf's head.
"This is getting monotonous," Gimlet opined.
The round sphere bounced along the pavement and came to rest at Pepsi's toes. He looked at it curiously and picked it up.
"We will leave you under guard in your foul tower," said Goodgulf, "and the Vee-Ates will deal with you when your larder is empty of frozen cube steaks."
Goodgulf turned and pointed to Papsi.
"Okay, drop it."
"Aw, I wasn't doing nothing," said Pepsi.
"Yeah, nothing," defended Moxie.
"Let me have it," said the Wizard impatiently, "you can't eat it, so you have no use for it."
The young boggie handed the black ball over glumly.
"Now," said Goodgulf, "we must move quickly. Though the lands of Isinglass and Roi-Tan are safe from Serutan's power, they will not long be thus unless Twodor itself is saved from Sorhed's malevolence."
"What must we do?" said Moxie.
"Yes, do?" asked Pepsi.
"If you'll belt up for a second I will tell thee," Goodgulf snapped. "The fair city of Minas Troney is threatened by Sorhed's eastern armies. The foul city of Chikken Noodul lies near, and any day the black cloud will fall upon her fairer sister. We must gather all our forces and defend her." He beckoned Arrowroot. "You, Stomper, must take it upon yourself to gather your subjects in Twodor and anyone else who will come to shore up the ramparts of Minas Troney. Eorache, you must bring all the riders you can spare and Birdseye too must lead his valiant Vee-Ates to Twodor. The rest will proceed with me there directly."
"A hundred words without a punchline," said Gimlet. "The old crock must be sick."...
...Goodgulf snatched the ball away from Pepsi and glowered. "This," he said harshly, "is no plaything. this ball is the wondrous mallomar, the magic whatchamacallit of the elves, long thought lost in the Sheet-Metal Age."
"Why didn't you say so?" said Pepsi pointlessly.
"With mallomar the old ones probed the secrets of the future and looked deep into the hearts of men."
"Sort of like a Ouija board?" said Moxie sleepily.
"Watch closely!" Goodgulf commanded.
The two boggies watched with interest as the wizard made mysterious passes over the sphere and muttered a weird incantation.
"Hocus pocus
Loco Parentis!
Jackie Onassis
Dino de Laurentis!"
Before their frightened eyes the boggies saw the sphere glow. Goodgulf continued to mutter over it.
"Queequeg qhohog!
Quodnam quixote!
Pequod peapod!
Pnin Peyote!
Presto change-o
Toil and trouble
Rollo chunky
Double-Bubble!"
Suddenly the globe seemed to burst from within with a sparkling radiance, and a quavering sound hummed through the air. Pepsi heard Goodgulf's voice through the shimmering glow.
"Tell me, O magic mallomar, shall Sorhed be defeated or shall he conquer? Shall the black cloud of Doom fall on all of Lower Middle Earth, or shall there be sunshine and happiness with his fall?"
Pepsi and Moxie were astonished to see fiery letters begin to form in the air, fiery letters that would foretell the fate of the coming struggle with the Dark Lord. It was with wonder that they read the answer: Reply Hazy, Ask Again Later.
Bored of the Rings - Chapter Eight
Chapter Eight:
Schlob's Lair and Other Mountain Resorts
...Frito and Spam clambered out of breath to the top of a small riser and gazed out at the landscape that stretched before them, unbroken save for sudden depressions and swiftly rising gorges, to the slag mines, dress factories, and lint mills of Fordor. Frito sat down heavily on a cow's skull, and Spam produced a box lunch of cheese and crackers from their bags.
At that moment, there came the sound of falling pebbles, stepped on twigs, and a nose being violently blown. The two boggies leapt to their feet, and a gray scaly creature crept slowly up to them on all fours, sniffing the ground noisily.
"Mother of pearl," cried Frito, recoiling from the sinister figure. Spam drew his elvish pinking knife and stepped back, his heart in his mouth with the gooey glob of crackers.
The creature looked at them with ominously crossed eyes, and with a little smile, rose tiredly to its feet, and clasping its hands behind its back, began to whistle mournfully.
Suddenly Frito remembered Dildo's tale of the finding of the Ring.
"You must be Goddam!" he squeaked. "What are you doing here?"
"Oh well," said the creature, speaking very slowly. "Not much. I was just looking for a few old pop bottles to help pay for my sister-in-law's iron lung. Of course, ever since my operation I don't get around like I used to. Guess I'm just unlucky. Funny how life is, up and down, never can tell. Gosh, it sure is cold. I had to pawn my coat to buy plasma for my pet geese."
Spam tried desperately to keep his leaden eyeballs open, but with a great yawn, he slumped heavily to the ground. "You fiend," he muttered, and fell asleep.
There I go again," said Goddam, shaking his head. "Well, I know when I'm not wanted," he said, and sat down and helped himself to the boggies' elvish melba toast...
...The boggies were awakened in the late afternoon by the clash of cymbals and the harsh sound of trumpets playing "Busman's Holiday." Frito and Spam sprang to their feet and saw, frighteningly close, the great gate of Fordor set into the high mountain wall. The gate itself, flanked by two tall towers topped with search lights and a vast marquee, lay open, and an enormous line of men was pouring in. Frito shrank back in fear against the rock.
It was night before the last of the hordes had passed into Fordor, and the gate had closed with a deep clang. Spam peeped out from behind a stone outcropping and slipped over to Frito with a frugal meal of loaves and fishes. Goddam immediately appeared from a narrow crevice and smiled obscenely.
"The way to a man's heart is through his stomach," he said.
"That's just what I've been thinking," said Spam, fingering the hilt of his sword.
Goddam looked mournful. "I know how it is," he said. "I was in the war. pinned down in a deadly hail of Jap fire..."
Spam gagged, and his arm went limp. "Die," he suggested.
Frito took a large loaf of raisin bread and crammed it into Goddam's mouth.
"Mmmmf, mfffl, mmblgl," said the beast darkly...
Frito awoke with a start to find the little grove completely surrounded by tall, grim-looking men clad from head to toe in British racing green. They held huge green bows, and they wore shaggy wigs of bright green hair. Frito rose unsteadily to his feet and kicked Spam.
At that point, the tallest of the bowmen stepped forward and approached him. He wore a propeller-beanie with a long green feather and a large silver badge with the word Chief and some recumbent pigeons, and Frito guessed that he must be their leader.
"You're completely surrounded; you haven't got a chance; come out with your hands up," said the captain sternly.
Frito bowed low. "Come in and get me," he said, making the correct reply.
"I am Farahslax, of the Green Toupees," said the captain.
"I am Frito, of nothing in particular," said Frito shakily.
"Can I kill them a little?" squealed a short squat man with a black nose-patch, rushing to Faraslax with a garrote.
"Nay, Magnavox," said Farahslax. "Who are you?" he said, turning to Frito, "and what is your evil purpose?"
"My companions and I are going to Fordor to cast the Great Ring into the Zazu Pits," said Frito.
At that, Farahslax's face darkened, and looking first at Goddam and Spam, then back at Frito, he tiptoed out of the grove with a little smile and disappeared with his men into the surrounding forest, singing merrily:
"We are the stealthy Green Toupees
Skulking nights and snoozing days,
A team of silent, nasty men,
Who all think Sorhed's numbah ten.
Draw their fire
Flank on right
Narcs retire
Fight-team-fight!
Using every grungy trick
From booby trap to pungee stick
We hardly need the strength of thirty
When we can win by playing dirty.
Two-four-six-eight
Tiptoe, sneak
And infiltrate
Cha-cha-cha."...
...Goddam led Frito and Spam through the brown gloom to a fin-worn salmon ladder that led sharply up into the heavy mass of the Sol Hurok, the great cliffs of Fordor. They climbed for what seemed like an hour. An hour later they reached the top, exhausted and gagging on the heavy air, and flung themselves down on a narrow ledge at the mouth of a great cavern overlooking the black vale.
Above them wheeled huge flocks of black pelicans, and all about them lightning flashed and graves yawned and fell asleep.
"Things look black and no mistake," said Spam.
A pungent smell of old pastrami and rancid gherkins floated out of the cave, and from deep within some hidden chamber came the sinister click of knitting needles.
Frito and Spam walked warily into the tunnel, and Goddam shuffled after them, a rare smile playing across his face...
...Ages ago when the world was young and Sorhed's heart had not yet hardened like stale cheesecake, he had taken a young troll-maiden as his wife. her name was Mazola, called by the elves Blanche, and she married the handsome young witch-king over the objections of her parents, who pointed out that Sorhed "simply wasn't trollish" and could never provide for her special needs. But the two were young and starry-eyed. The first hundred thousand years found the newlyweds still quite happy; they then lived in a converted three-room dungeon with a view, and while the ambitious hubby studied demonology and business administration at night school, Mazola bore him nine strapping wraiths.
Then came the day when Sorhed learned of the Great Ring and the many powers it would bring him in his climb to the top. Forgetting all else, he yanked his sons from medical school over his wife's strident objections and dubbed them Nozdruls. But the First Ring War went badly. Sorhed and his Ringers barely escaped with their lives. From then on their marital relations went from bad to worse. Sorhed spent all his time at the witch-works and Mazola sat home casting evil spells and watching the daytime mallomar serials. She began to put on weight. Then, one day, Sorhed found Mazola and a mallomar repairman in a compromising position and immediately filed divorce proceedings, eventually winning custody of the Nine Nozdrul.
Mazola, now banished to her drab surroundings in the bowels of Sol Hurok, let her hatred grow and fester. Schlob, was she now called. For eons she nurtured her pique, obsessively stuffing herself with bon-bons, movie magazines, and an occasional spelunker. At first, Sorhed dutifully sent her monthly alimony payments of a dozen or so narc volunteers, but these gifts soon stopped when word got around what a dinner invitation with Sorhed's ex actually entailed. Her gnawing fury knew no bounds. She prowled her lair with murderous intent, eternally cursing the memory of her husband and his derisive trolack jokes. For ages her only interest had been revenge as she brooded in her dark, dark lair. Cutting off her lights had been the last straw...
"Look out," whispered Frito, "it's a patrol of narcs."
Spam soon knew that this was so, for their foul tongues and clanking armor were unmistakable. They were, as usual, disputing and cracking filthy jokes as they approached. Frito and Spam flattened themselves against the wall, hoping to escape unseen.
"Cripes," hissed a voice in the dark, "this place always gives me the creeps!"
"Nuts to you," lashed back another, "the lookout says that the boggie with the Ring is in here."
"Yeah," opined a third, "and if we don't get it Sorhed'll break us back down to nightmares."
"Third class," agreed a fourth.
The narcs grew closer and the boggies held their breath as they passed. Just as Frito thought they had passed, a cold, slimy hand clutched his chest.
"Hoo boy!" exulted the narc. "I got 'em, I got 'em!"
In a trice the narcs were upon them with billyclubs and handcuffs.
"Sorhed will be pleased to see you two!" cackled a narc, pressing his face (and breath) close to Frito's.
All at once a great guttural moan shivered the dark tunnel and the narcs fell back in terror.
"Crud!" a narc screamed, "It's her nibs!"
"Schlob! Schlob!" wailed another, lost in the darkness.
Frito drew Tweezer from its scabbard, but could see nothing to strike. Thinking quickly, he remembered the magic snow-globe given to him by Lavalier. Holding the glass at arm's length, he hopefully pressed the little button on the bottom. Immediately a blinding carbon arc-light flooded the dank surroundings, revealing a vast chamber of formica paneling and cheap chintz. And there, before them, was the terrible bulk of Schlob.
Spam cried out at the sight most horrible to behold. She was a huge, shapeless mass of quivering flesh. Her flame-red eyes glowered as she slogged forward to the narcs, her tatty print shift dragged on the stone floor. Falling upon her fear-frozen victims with her fat body, she ripped them apart with taloned house slippers and sharp fangs dripping great yellow droplets of chicken soup...
Bored of the Rings - Chapters Nine and Ten
Chapter Nine:
Minas Troney in the Soup
...The city itself dated back to the Olden Days when
Beltelephon the Senile decreed rather inexplicably that
there be built in this flat land a royal ski lodge of
wondrous beauty. Unfortunately the old King cashed in before
he saw ground broken and his hydrocephalic son, Nabisco the
Incompetent, typically misread the late codger's vague
blueprints and ordered somewhat more prestressed concrete
than necessary for the original design. The result was Minas
Troney or "Nabisco's Folly."
For no good reason, the city was made in seven
concentric circles topped with a commemorative double statue
of Beltelephon and his favorite concubine, whose name was
either Nephritis the Obese or Phyllis. In any case, the
final architectural effect was that of an Italian wedding
cake.*
*The historian Bocaraton notes that this may have been
intentionally "emblematic of the crumbs inside."...
...As the three slowly wound their way toward the Palace of
Benelux the Steward, the citizens of Twodor gaped at them
briefly and walked immediately to their nearest optometrist.
Curiously the boggies stared back at the dwellers: men,
elves, dwarves, banshees, and not a few Republicans were
among them.
"Any convention burg gets a pretty mixed bag," Goodgulf
explained.
Slowly they ascended the last, creaking set of moving steps
and alighted at the first level. Pepsi rubbed his eyes at
the edifice before him. It was of lavish design with broad
lawns and sumptuous gardens. Rich marble paved the path
beneath their feet, and the tinkling of many fountains sang
like silver coins. At the door they were rather rudely
informed that the dentist was not at home and they-must-be-looking-for-the-old-coot-round-back.
There they found a run-down palace wrought of stoutest
Masonite, its walls aglow with fiery inlays of rock candy
and old bicycle reflectors. Over the reinforced plywood door
was a sign reading The Steward Is Out. Beneath that
was another announcing Out to Lunch, and beneath
that, Gone Fishing.
"Benelux must not be here, if I read these signs aright,"
said Moxie...
...Just then a peephole in the door opened and a beady eye
inspected them.
"W-w-what you want?" the voice demanded.
"We are wayfarers here to aid the fortunes of Minas Troney.
I am Goodgulf Grayteeth." The Wizard took a crumpled slip of
paper from his wallet and handed it through the
hole.
"W-what's this?"
"My card," replied Goodgulf. It returned immediately in a
dozen pieces.
"Steward not home. On vacation. N-n-no peddlers!" The
peephole closed with a small slam.
But Goodgulf was not easily duped and the boggies could tell
from his eyes that he was angered by this impudence. His
pupils were crossing and uncrossing like a juggler's
oranges. He rang again, long and loud. The eye blinked at
them and a smell of garlic floated from the hole.
"Y-you again? Told you, he's t-t-taking a shower." Again the
hole shut.
Goodgulf said nothing. He reached into his mao jacket and
extracted a black ball that Pepsi at first thought was the
mallomar with a string attached. Goodgulf lit it with
the end of his cigar and tossed the ball unto the mail slot.
He then ran around the corner with the boggies in tow. There
was a large boom and when the boggies peeked around
to look, the door had magically disappeared.
Pridefully the three walked through the smoking portals.
They were confronted by a seedy old palace guard who was
wiping the soot from his smarting eyes.
"You may tell Benelux that Goodgulf the Wizard awaits an
audience."
The doddering warrior bowed resentfully and led them through
the airless passageways.
"T-the S-steward isn't going t-to like t-this," croaked the
guard. "H-hasn't been out of the p-p-palace for
years."
"Do not the people grow restive?" asked Pepsi.
"T-their idea," drooled the old guide...
..."I fear I am the bearer of dark tidings and sad. Sorhed's
foul narcs have slain thy own beloved son Bromosel and now
the Dark Lord wishes thy own life and thy realm for his own
unspeakable designs."
"Bromosel?" said the Steward, rousing himself on one
elbow.
"Thy own beloved son," prompted Goodgulf.
A flicker of recognition passed through tired old
eyes.
"Oh, him. Never w-w-writes except for m-money. Just l-like
the other one. T-t-too bad about t-t-that."
"Thus we have come with an army a few days ride behind to
revenge your grief upon Fordor," Goodgulf explained.
The Steward waved his feeble hands with annoyance.
"Fordor? N-n-never heard of it. No two-bit w-w-wizard n-
neither. Audience over," said the Steward.
"Insult not the White Wizard," warned Goodgulf as he drew
something from his pocket, "for I have many powers. here,
pick a card. Any card."
Benelux selected one of the fifty-two sevens of hearts and
tore it into confetti. "Audience over," he repeated with
finality...
...Hundreds of narcs, their minds aflame with cheap muscatel, threw themselves at the gates. Behind them tramped companies of renegade trolls and rogue pandas, slavering with hate. Whole brigades of psychotic banshees and goblins raised their shrill voices in a loathsome warcry. At their rear marched niblicks and vicious mashies who could lay low many a brave Twodorian with a single stroke of their deadly meat tenderizers. From over the rise appeared a bloodthirsty mass of clerk-typists and the entire June Taylor Dancers. A sight most horrible to behold.
This, Goodgulf, Moxie and Pepsi watched from the walls. The boggies were much afraid.
"They are so many and we are so few!" Pepsi cried, much afraid.
"True heart is the strength of ten," said Goodgulf.
"We are so few and they are so many!" cried Moxie, afraid much.
"A watched pot never boils; whistle a happy tune," observed Goodgulf. "Too many cooks spoil the brouhaha."
Reassured, the boggies donned their greaves, corslets, gauntlets, and shoulder padding and slathered themselves with Bactine. Each was armed with a double-edged putty knife, it's blade both keen and true. Goodgulf wore an old deep-sea diver's suit of stoutest latex. Only the well-trimmed beard was recognizable through the helmet's little round window. In his hand he carried an ancient and trusty weapon, called by the elves a Browning semi-automatic...
...From all points of the compass the joyful Twodorians saw great armies approaching with marching bands, fireworks, and showers of colored streamers. To the north was Gimlet leading a band of a thousand dwarves, to the south the familiar pronged bulk of Eorache in command of three thousand berserk Sheepers; from the east appeared two great armies, one of Faraslax's seasoned Green Toupees and one of Legolam's manned by four-thousand sharp-nailed interior decorators. Lastly, from the west, rode gray-clad Arrowroot leading a party of four warbadgers and a cranky Cub Scout.
In a trice the armies converged on the embattled city and set upon the panicking enemy. The battle raged as the trapped attackers were mowed down with sword and club. Terrified trolls fled the murderous Roi-Tanner hooves only to be hewn to pieces by the dwarves' picks and shovels. The bodies of narcs and banshees littered the ground and the Lord of the Nozdrul was encircled by piqued elves who scratched out his eyes and pulled his hair until he ran on his own sword with embarrassment. The black pelicans and their Nozdrul pilots were pecked from the air by anti-aircraft gulls and the dragon was cornered by the Cub Scout and peppered with rubber-tipped arrows until it suffered a complete nervous breakdown and collapsed with a heavy thud.
Meanwhile, the heartened Twodorians rushed from the walls and flew at the fiends yet inside the city. Moxie and Pepsi drew their putty knives and wielded them deftly. Soon, not a fallen corpse had a nose to call his own. Goodgulf busied himself throttling narcs from behind with his rubber air hose and Arrowroot was very probably doing something or other that was pretty much brave. When later questioned about the battle, however, he usually went rather vague...
..."That was close indeed," said Spam, still shaking from their narrow escape from Schlob a few days before. Frito nodded feebly but still could not really piece together what had happened.
Before them the great salt flats of Fordor stretched to the feet of a giant molehill which held Bardahl, the high-rise headquarters of Sorhed. The wide plain was dotted with barracks, parade grounds and motor pools. Thousands of narcs were swarming frantically, digging holes and filling them up again and polishing the dusty ground with enormous buffers. Far in the distance the Zazu Pits, the Black Hole, spewed the sooty remains of hundreds of years of National Geographics into the air over Fordor. Right before them, at the foot of the cliff, a thick, black pool of tar bubbled noisily, from time to time emitting a heavy belch.
Frito stood for a long time, peering out from under his fingers at the distant, smoking volcano.
"It's many a hard kilo to the Black Hole," he said, fingering the Ring.
"No lie, bwana," said Spam.
"This nearer tar pit has a certain holelike flavor," said Frito...
"Round," agreed Spam. "Open. Deep."
"Dark," added Frito.
"Black," said Spam...
..."Hello," said a gray lump behind them. "Long time no see."
"Goddam, old shoe," crooned Spam, and dropped a coin at Goddam's feet.
"Small world," said Frito as he palmed the Ring and clapped the surprised creature on the back.
"Look!" cried Frito, pointing to an empty sky. "The Winged Victory of Samothrace." And as Goddam turned to see, Frito looped the chain over his neck.
"Holla," cried Spam, "a 1927 indian-head nickel!" and dropped on his hands and knees in front of Goddam.
"Whoops!" said Frito.
"Aiyeee," added Goddam.
"Floop," suggested the tar pit.
Frito let out a deep sigh and both boggies bade a final farewell to the Ring and its ballast. As they raced from the pit, a loud bubbling noise grew from the black depths and the earth began to tremble. Rocks split and the ground opened beneath their very feet, causing the boggies much concern. In the distance, the dark towers began to crumble and Frito saw Sorhed's offices at Bardahl seam and shatter into a smoking heap of plaster and steel.
"Sure don't build 'em like they used to," observed Spam as he dodged a falling water cooler...
...So it was that the Great Ring was unmade and Sorhed's power destroyed forever. Arrowroot of Arrowshirt and Eorache soon were wedded, and the old Wizard prophesied that eight monocled and helmeted offspring would soon be smashing the palace furniture. Pleased by this, the King made Goodgulf Wizard Without Portfolio to the newly conquered Fordorian lands and gave him a fat expense account, to be voided only if he ever decided to set foot back in Twodor. To Gimlet the dwarf, Arrowroot granted a scrap-metal franchise on Sorhed's surplus war engines; to Legolam, he granted the right to rename Chikken Noodul "Ringland" and run the souvenir concession at the Zazu Pits. Lastly, to the four boggies he gave the Royal Handshake and one-way tickets aboard Gwahno back to the Sty. Of Sorhed, little was heard again, though if he returned, Arrowroot promised him full amnesty and an executive position in Twodor's defense labs. Of the ballhog and Schlob, little was heard either, but local gossips reported that wedding bells were only centuries away...
Chapter Ten:
Be it Ever So Horrid
...It was but a short time after Stomper's coronation that Frito, still in his tattered elvin-cloak, wearily trod the familiar cattle run to Bug End. The flight had been swift, and, save some air pockets and a mid-air collision with a gaggle of migrating flamingos, quite uneventful.
Boggietown was a filthy mess. Piles of unclaimed garbage littered the soupy streets and bloated boggie-brats somehow managed to track their goo up the tree trunks; no one had even bothered to clean up the litter from Dildo's party. Frito found himself oddly pleased that so little had changed during his absence...
"Been away?" croaked a familiar voice.
"Yes," said Frito, spitting at the old Fatlip with traditional boggie formality. "I am home from the Great War. I have unmade the Ring of power and vanquished Sorhed, evil ruler of far Fordor."
"Do tell," sniggered Fatlip as he made a thorough search of a nostril. "Wondered where you got the queer duds."
Frito passed on to his own hole and waded through a mound of papers and milk bottles to his door. Inside, he made a fruitless inspection of his icebox and returned to his den to make a small fire. Then he tossed his elvin-cloak into a corner and collapsed with a sigh into his easy chair. He had seen much, and now he was home...