...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.
...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...
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...