A NotQuiteOfficiallyTolkien Approved Parody

Written By:Pimpernel Princess
You can read the original Here:
All Credit Goes to the original author

I do not own the characters, the setting, or the one ring—all I own are a few little funnies and the industry to type them all up. Sir Percy from “The Scarlet Pimpernel” belongs to Baroness Orczy, and Frodo, Sam, Gollum, Faramir, etc. belong to Tolkien. I thought a cameo by Sir Percy Blakeny, the Scarlet Pimpernel, would be hilarious. He may be back later. If you would like more of this parody, then please review it!!! If you like what you see here then please take a peek at my other stories. And did I mention that you are free to review this???

Frodo and Sam trudged on behind Gollum. They had been trudging for the past few days through the rocks and the marshes. They hoped to be at the gate of Mordor soon, but as to how they would get inside, they had no idea. Walking was almost mechanical to them now. Instead of thinking about where they were stepping, Sam was wishing for the finest feast that the Shire could offer, while Frodo and Gollum were obsessing over the ring. Finally they arrived at the black gate.

Trying to hide behind some boulders, the three crouched on a rise overlooking the valley that contained the gate. The gate was open for the line of Haradrim soldiers who were entering Mordor. “I have to go in,” Frodo said with weary resolve.

“I’m coming with you, Mister Frodo,” Sam said stoutly.

“Thank you, Sam,” Frodo said, wondering how they were supposed to get in without getting caught. He started to creep over the boulder he was hiding behind. Sam followed.

“I say, wait a moment!” Someone called to them.

“No, hobbitses—“ Gollum said, pulling them backwards. Suddenly, someone started to pull Gollum backwards, who was pulling Sam backwards (to keep him from following Frodo), while Sam was pulling Frodo backwards. Frodo, intent on getting to the gate before it closed, hung on to the boulder.

Eventually, Frodo’s fingers slipped off of the rock. He fell onto Sam, who slammed into Gollum, who landed on top of the stranger. Gollum immediately sprang to the side, crouched ready to attack.

“Bring it, precious,” Gollum croaked.

“I said, ‘wait a moment,’” the stranger said for the second time. He was twice the height of the hobbits, with blond hair and lazy blue eyes. His tall, shiny boots, white breeches, yellow striped waistcoat, blue and gold embroidered coat, and white frilled shirt with a matching cravat were impeccably clean and particularly expensive.

“Who are you?” Frodo asked, confused. “And why are you here at the black gate of Mordor?”

“Well,” the stranger drawled very Britishly, “I could very well ask you the same questions. But, pardon me,” he bowed, “my name is Sir Percival Blakeny. And I know that you,” he pointed to Frodo, “are Frodo, you are Sam, and that you are a singular acquaintance of theirs called Gollum.”

Frodo, Sam, and Gollum looked at each other, each thoroughly confounded. Finally Sam shrugged. This ended the silent who-is-this-freak-who-knows-who-we-are? staring contest. Frodo breathed a sigh of relief when the staring contest was over. Staring at Gollum for any amount of time made him a little nervous.

“I am here to help my fellow British citizens against the dark threat of Mordor,” Sir Percy said, as if his popping up was the most natural thing in the world.

“Erm, there seems to be a slight problem with that,” Frodo said. He shuddered as he realized that he was more deadpan than usual from spending so much time with the ring. He shuddered.

“Sink me, and what would that be?”

“We are not British,” Frodo said shortly.

Sir Percy was even more amused than usual. “You have British accents,” he chuckled.

“Actually,” Sam cut in, “we’re from the Shire which is very, very, very far north of here, a land of goodness, and hobbits, and plenty.”

“Oh, well, in that case,” Sir Percy turned on his heel and walked away, muttering about French actresses, fine wine, cravats, and wondering how he had gotten in to this story in the first place. None of this made sense to the hobbits.

Once Sir Percy was gone, Frodo and Sam glanced at each other, and burst into fits of laughter. They then kept laughing because Gollum was staring at them, comically confused, and because they had not laughed for a long time. They worried that they had forgotten how to laugh here, at the black gate of Mordor.

Once Frodo and Sam had recovered their composure, Gollum hissed, “There is another way inside, hobbitses.”

“Another way?” Frodo said, eyes lighting up with hope. Sam refrained from commenting. Frodo was the brains of this outfit, not him.

“Yessss, yesss, another way,” Gollum said, rolling his eyes. “Drive south on interstate 78 then make a detour around Cincinnati. Then up, up, up the stairs we go, hobbitses.”

“Very well, Gollum,” Frodo sighed, taking one more long look at the black gate. He wished he was in Mordor, but driving there would be faster than walking.

“What are we driving?” Sam asked, also excited not to be walking.

“That was sarcasm, hobbitses,” Gollum said, as if he was explaining the concept to a pair of small children.

“Oh,” Frodo and Sam said together, neither really understanding.

“Follow me, hobbitses,” Gollum said, setting off again.

They trudged many miles toward the South. That was before the interstate was put in, and even before the city of Cincinnati was built. During that time, Frodo, Sam, or Gollum would notice green-cloaked people following them. By the time they would turn their heads for a better look, the stealthy green men were gone.

One day, the three decided to rest for a little while and have a proper lunch. They stopped in an adorable little clearing and Gollum mysteriously melted into the weeds. Frodo took a nap by the fire while Sam did all of the work, trying to make some soup. Frodo was woken abruptly from his nap; Gollum had put something on his lap: two dead rabbits.

“OH MY GOSH!” Frodo screamed, leaping to his feet. “You killed the bunnies. They were so little and cute AND YOU KILLED THEM. Waaaaaaa!” Frodo sobbed hysterically over the bunnies’ furry, dead bodies.

Sam hugged Frodo protectively. “The bunnies aren’t dead, Mister Frodo,” Sam said comfortingly. “They are just….asleep. That’s right, just asleep.”

“Really?” Frodo said, tears glistening in his huge blue eyes.

“Yes, would I ever lie to you?” Sam said. An uncomfortable silence followed. “Anyway,” Sam cleared his throat, “wipe your nose, Mister Frodo.” Frodo obediently wiped his nose on the hem of Sam’s cloak and tried to stop sniveling. “Now,” Sam began, with a pointed look at Gollum, “Old Golly-wolly is going to take the bunnies out into the bushes, wake them up, and set them free.”

Gollum glared at Sam, muttering something about being called “Golly-wolly.” He carried the rabbits into the brush.

“Go on, blow your nose,” Sam prompted.

“Okay,” Frodo sniffed. He blew his nose again, very, very loudly. It could be heard echoing back to them from the far-off mountains. An avalanche began in the distance.

Instantly, the clearing was surrounded by the green men that had been trailing them. “Do not put up a fight, but allow yourself to come quietly,” their commander said. He was the spitting image of Boromir, but younger, and his face showed less conceit than his brother’s had.

“Why should we?” Sam said, bravely trying to put himself between their capturers and Frodo. Because they were surrounded, this was rather difficult to do.

“Because we are bigger, stronger, and have arrows pointed at your heads,” the commander said matter-of-factly.

“Fine,” Frodo said wearily, “on one condition.”

“Yes?” the commander said, raising one eyebrow.

“Tell us who you are…” Frodo demanded.

“Oh yes, that,” the commander said, “I am Faramir, brother of Boromir, and son of the steward of Gondor, Denethor.”

“Thank you, Faramir,” Frodo said, stepping forward. “We surrender.”

“What are you thinking, Mister Frodo?” Sam whispered.

“Unless you can pull a Chuck Norris, we would never escape these men alive,” Frodo said out of the side of his mouth. “Follow my lead…Plus,” Frodo added, “they’ll feed us—I’m sick and tired of lembas. And maybe they’ll have beds where ever they are taking us. I’d like to sleep somewhere other than the ground for a little while. It will be like a stay at an inn. Assuming that these men do not violate the by-laws of the Geneva Convention…”

“Brilliant, Mister Frodo,” Sam muttered under his breath as he was blindfolded by Faramir’s men. Maybe these men had some rabbit stew…Hmm. Maybe being captured wasn’t that bad after all.

~*~

January 8, 2009: There was a minor earthquake in Great Britain today. I, unlike the scientists, have determined its true cause: Professor Tolkien was rolling over in his grave. His ghost appeared to me at about 4:29 am—twenty-one minutes ago. Alas, there seems to be no rest for the wicked, after all.

Tolkien popped into my living room, all silvery and transparent. I was attempting to sleep in a recliner in the living room, due to having an operation on my teeth about 19 hours previously. I thought that I was having a hallucination from my prescribed painkiller/antibiotic/happy medicine. I immediately slipped on my glasses and proceeded to stare at him for several minutes.

“What are you doing?” Tolkien cried, taking his ghost-pipe out of his mouth just long enough to spit the words at me. Glimmering smoke surrounded his transparent head.

I proceeded to cock my head to one side, wrinkle my nose and stare at him in utter confusion, and mentally regroup for several minutes. “I’m trying to get some sleep,” I muttered, trying not to rip the stitches in my gums.

He gave me a pointed stare. “I meant to say,” Tolkien said slowly and clearly, as if explaining to his son, Christopher, when he was very small, “what have you done to my story? Of Herbs and Dead Rabbits. Don’t think that I don’t know what you’re doing with it. Writing in Sir Percy, a character that most people have never heard of, making Frodo out to be a blundering idiot, giving Gollum sarcastic one-liners, having Samwise call Gollum ‘Old Golly-wolly.’”

“You came here just to talk to me?” I said in awe, trying to not injure my gums more than necessary.

“Yes, I did,” Tolkien continued coldly. “You have made my story into a complete farce, not to mention sticking other author’s characters in where they don’t belong. Sir Percy is ridiculous!”

“Well, he’s that way in the books too,” I said sheepishly. I hate getting dressing-downs from professors, especially when they are undead and British.

“Books, what books?”

“You have never heard of The Scarlet Pimpernel?” I asked him, aghast.

“Perhaps once or twice, but what difference does that make? You make my characters out to be complete idiots!” Tolkien was definitely becoming more agitated. The whole stiff-upper-lip British mentality was slipping away from him, fast.

Fortunately, I had my means of escape right beside me. I had brought a stack of my ‘very favorite stories’ and had set them by my recliner to keep me company. Gone with the Wind happened to be on top, with my 3-in-1 edition of Lord of the Rings that I’ve owned since I was 12, and the entire Scarlet Pimpernel series by Baroness Orczy. I handed him about 17 paperback books and said “Come back when you finish these. I’ll be here.”

Tolkien floated over and snatched the stack of novels. He then disappeared, leaving a faint smell like tobacco smoke. I was now free to write the next part of the parody. After my teeth felt a little better, that is…

~*~

Faramir’s men blindfolded the hobbits and carried them for several hours. They finally set the hobbits down in a cave-like lobby, complete with a waterfall running over the windows. Another man, dressed in all black with a black hood and half-mask was sitting behind a large desk wearing a nametag that read “Hello, my name is Wesley; you kidnapped my Buttercup—prepare to die (or to fight to the pain.)”

Frodo and Samwise gaped around at the posh velvet furniture, down the hallways with blandly patterned carpeting, and read the sign marked “The Forbidden Pool.” Everything was up-market and in midnight blue and silver. There were beautiful paintings on the walls of Osgiliath and Minas Tirith at the height of their glory days. Beautiful little sculptures littered the side tables and corners of the room.

“Please open up the Minas Morgal room, for my private use, Wesley,” Faramir said to the man behind the desk. Wesley touched a button and a set of double doors with tinted glass windows popped open.

The hobbits followed Faramir into the room and sat down at one end of a conference table. The same waterfall ran outside the window here, and this room was decorated in black and a sickly green color. A mural of Minas Morgul covered the wall opposite Frodo and Samwise.

“Where is this place?” Frodo asked in a small voice. The whole atmosphere was a little creepy—black and sickly green are not the homiest of colors.

“Ah, forgive me,” Faramir said, bowing. “What a terrible host I am. We had just remodeled the lobby and have not had the time to put up the new sign. You are in the greatest chain of hotels in Middle Earth: the Gondor Inn and Suites.”

“You run a hotel chain?” Sam said skeptically.

“Yes,” Faramir said matter-of-factly. “What do you think that the Steward of Gondor does? When the kings left the country of Gondor to my family, they also left them the hotel chain to run. We’ve actually expanded.” Faramir sighed.

“What’s wrong? Sam asked.

“It’s just that, my father is a hotel tycoon—a genius at marketing—and so is my bother, Boromir. I’m not. My heart’s just not in it. I’d rather solve the problems in our government today: balance taxation with representation and enumerate the rights of out people with a constitution, just like they do at Dol Amroth. Alas, heavy sigh.”

“Why not talk to your father?” Sam suggested.

“I have,” Faramir sighed again, “it is no use. He wants me to take over the hotel chain, and for Boromir to run the government. I miss my brother dearly. I hope he will come back soon…”

There was an awkward silence between Frodo and Samwise.

“We met up with your brother, Boromir, on our travels,” Frodo said simply.

“Really? Please tell me all that you know of his whereabouts,” Faramir begged.

“All right,” Frodo said. “We met up with Boromir in—“

“Not until you’ve untied our hands and given us something to eat,” Sam interrupted.

“Fine,” Faramir nodded wearily. He pushed a little button on the intercom near the door and spoke into it. “Wesley, tell catering to bring us up a meal. No, I don’t care what’s in it. Impress us.” Faramir shook his head, then walked back over to the hobbits. He pulled his large, shiny knife out of his belt, brandishing in front of the hobbit's faces.

Frodo instinctively cowered in the corner. Sam cowered protectively in front of Frodo.

“You will only hurt Mister Frodo over my dead body,” Sam said, voice trembling the tiniest bit with fear.

“I give my word as a gentleman, a Gondorian, and a hotel steward that I will not hurt you,” Faramir said grimly. “Now hold out your hands.”

“I will take your word, based on the third option,” Samwise said, doing as he was told. Faramir’s knife sliced easily through the bonds that had tied Sam’s hands together.

“Go on, Frodo,” Sam said, trying to get Frodo to quit cowering. Frodo kept cowering; perhaps Faramir looked too much akin to his brother for the black-haired hobbit’s comfort. Or maybe Frodo had an irrational phobia of knives after seeing the play about men and knives, “Macreth,” performed in the Shire when he was a small, impressionable child.

Sam held Frodo’s wrists while Faramir cut through the ropes. Frodo stared at them both with his saucer-sized blue eyes. Once they were finished, Faramir stuck his knife back into his belt.

“Oh, was that all?” Frodo said, blinking normally. “You,” he pointed to Faramir,” weren’t trying to decapitate me? And you,” he pointed to Sam, “weren’t trying to be an accomplice to that gory task?”

Both Faramir and Sam shook their heads.

Frodo pumped his fist in the air. “Phobia defeated! Only 319 more to go…Orcs with sharp knives, orcs with swords, orcs with maces…Yes, I think I’m coming along quite nicely. Thank you. I see now that I don’t have to be afraid any more.”

Cocking an eyebrow, Faramir glanced at Sam.

“Play along,” Sam whispered out of the corner of his mouth.

Faramir nodded. There was a knock on the door. “Oh yes,” Faramir announced, “here is our supper. Bring it in.”

A man in a white coat and chef’s hat wheeled in a metal cart piled with food and drink. On closer examination, the hobbits realized that he wore a black half-mask much like the man who ran the front desk. He quickly bowed and then left.

“Wasn’t that Wesley?” Frodo asked suspiciously.

“Erm, yes,” Faramir said, abashedly. “Since this is one of our…smaller establishments, we tend to wear many hats at once out here.

“Understaffed,” Sam whispered to Frodo.

As a result of that comment, Faramir ate the rest of his meal in a huff. Frodo and Sam heaped food onto their plates, each having at least four helpings of everything. It was good to be eating something other than lembas again.

“Now, I have kept my part of the agreement,” Faramir said solemnly. “Let us see you keep yours.”

“All right,” Sam burped. “My complements to Wes—to the chef, by the way.”

“Yes,” Frodo agreed eagerly, “The best food I’ve had since Lothl—for a while, anyways.” Frodo decided not to mention any rival hotel chains, such as the Homely House Hostels, or the Lothlorien Lodging House. He hated it when people got all huffy, especially when they were twice his size and carried big knives.

“Thank you. I shall see that they are passed on,” Faramir said, less huffily. “Now, for the story.”

“I was born,” Frodo said, “to two kind, loving hobbits in the year—“

“I don’t want your whole life stories,” Faramir growled. “Just how you journeyed here.”

“Fine,” Frodo snapped. “Miss out on all of the back-story about how my character was shaped when my parents drowned while boating one evening, and how my uncle, well, cousin a few times removed, took me in as his heir.”

“Interesting, but no,” Faramir shook his head. “I just want a condensed journey narrative.”

“We left home, we walked, we were brought here,” Frodo said. After an awkward pause he added, “The end?”

“I give up,” Faramir said, throwing up his hands in exasperation. “Sam, you tell the story.”

At this, Frodo’s eyes filled up with tears and his lower lip began to stick out. He began to sniffle.

“All right,” Faramir sighed, “If you’re good, I’ll let you help Sam tell the story.”

Frodo immediately perked up.

Sam began with how they had left Rivendell in the company of the fellowship, had lost Gandalf in Moria, and how the fellowship had split up after Boromir tried to seize the ring right before an orc attack. Frodo and Sam had then found Gollum, trekked across the dead marshes, had a brief encounter with Sir Percival Blakeney, Baronet at the black gate, came down through Ithilien, and had gotten captured. Somehow, Sam had managed to leave the ring out of the story.

Frodo leaned forward, about to rest his sleepy head on the table. Clink! The ring, still on its chain around Frodo’s neck hit the table. Frodo sat back up with a start.

Faramir was immediately transfixed by it as it gleamed in the soft torch-light. “So this is the ring about which everyone has been talking,” Faramir mused.

“Are you going to take it from me?” Frodo asked, child-like.

After a long pause Faramir replied. “No. I will not.”

Both Frodo and Sam breathed sighs of relief. Faramir had never given them reason to mistrust him, and besides, he had sworn on his status as hotel steward.

“No, the rings belongs with you, Frodo,” Faramir said heavily. “My brother, a greater man than I was corrupted by this ring, it killed him in the end, you know, and he was a better man than I. Plus,” Faramir scoffed, “gold really isn’t my color. I’m more of a platinum kind of guy.”

Frodo yawned. Sam also yawned. Faramir almost found himself giving them sympathy yawns.

“I’m sure that our wait staff has a room ready for you two,” Faramir said. He led them into a suite that was decorated in light blue and white. Frodo and Sam each dove onto their own humungous featherbed. “We haven’t quite gotten the TV’s installed yet, sorry,” Faramir apologized. By the end of his sentence, Faramir realized that the hobbits were already asleep. He paternally tucked each of them in, and then tiptoed out of the room.

~*~

In the middle of the night, Frodo and Sam were awakened by an awful din. They each slipped out of their beds, and down the hall. The noises were coming from the room marked “The Forbidden Pool.” Frodo and Sam entered the pool room through the wide glass doors and gasped. The waterfall that flowed in front of all of the windows in the hotel actually poured into the pool itself. The Olympic-sized pool was empty, except for a long figure, which was surrounded by archers. Arrows were fitted to bowstrings, ready to be fired if the figure splashed so much as a toe into the water.

“What’s going on here?” Frodo cried.

“Is this person a friend of yours?” Faramir asked. The archers drew back, to reveal Gollum standing by the pool, dripping wet.

Frodo stared at him in shock. Instead of the dirty loincloth, Gollum was actually wearing a brand new, presentable pair of red swimming trunks. Gollum glared at the archers, but otherwise didn’t move.

“Yes, he is my friend,” Frodo finally said. “What seems to be the problem?”

“He was swimming in,” Faramir lowered his voice in awe “the Forbidden Pool.” The entire room hushed at Faramir’s words.

“It’s a pool,” Sam said innocently. “What is so forbidden about it?”

“There was no lifeguard,” Faramir shuddered. “This friend of yours could have been injured and then sued the Gondor Inn and Suites for everything that we’re worth.”

“Why not lock us up and execute us, precious,” Gollum said, rolling his eyes. The archers inched closer, as menacing as possible.

“Listen,” Frodo said, “I will take full responsibility for Gollum until we leave the hotel. He’s had a long day.”

“Sounds good then,” Faramir shrugged. “All right, everyone—back to sleep.”

The archers withdrew as Gollum followed Sam and Frodo back to the suite. After a brief argument about sleeping arrangements, Sam and Frodo decided that Gollum could have the pull-out couch. The two Shire-hobbits were out as soon as they climbed into their beds.

“Pull-out couch, precious,” Gollum muttered darkly as he tried to get comfortable. No matter where he laid, there was always a spring sticking into his bony back. “They takes the nice bedses for themselves, while I gets the pull-out couch. I feels rejected, precious.” Gollum would get his revenge on the hobbits for this disgrace. Soon.

~*~

After a nice continental breakfast in the morning, (served by Wesley in disguise) the hobbits said goodbye to Faramir went on their way. Frodo had arranged for the hotel bill to be sent to Bag End, so there were no worries there. The trio tromped on toward the towering mountains of Mordor once more as Gollum contemplated his revenge for making him sleep on a pull-out couch…

I hadn’t heard from Professor Tolkien’s ghost for nearly two weeks; I was about ready to believe that I had imagined his appearing to me (except for the fact that all of my Scarlet Pimpernel books had mysteriously disapeared. Funny how that works.) My teeth had healed up pretty well by this time—thank God for Jell-O®—and I was trying to get some sleep, when out of the blue (or black, since it was dark), Professor Tolkien popped up.

“Good morning,” Professor Tolkien said politely.

“What do you mean?” I groaned. I untangled myself from my blankets and sat up groggily-I don't function well at 4:30 AM. “Do you wish me a good morning, or mean that it is a good morning whether I want it or not; or that you feel good this morning; or that it is a morning to be good on?”

“All of them at once. Now stop quoting me,” he said sternly. “It is very difficult to have a conversation when someone is always quoting you.”

Thinking of all of the times I had quoted Tolkien in general conversation, I felt a little twinge of discomfort. After all, nobody likes a stern professor. “I see what you mean,” I said, feeling like a common criminal.

Tolkien looked at me even more sternly. “No, you don’t. You are not the one who has to appear to people who have read every word that you ever wrote and quote them to your face.”

“Well that’s not my fault,” I shrugged, still feeling incriminated. I now noticed the tower of Scarlet Pimpernel books that the professor was holding. “Oh, did you bring my books back?” I asked brightly.

“Yes,” Tolkien harrumphed. With mystical precision, he placed the books back in the gaping bookshelf. There had been a rather large hole between my copies of The King of Attolia and Austenland on the shelf. (Author’s note: Those two books are both great reads, by the way. They should be, since I interrupted my story to tell you that they were.) Now that the Scarlet Pimpernel books had been put away, my shelf was whole again.

“Did you enjoy them?” I asked anxiously. “Goodness knows,” I added, “it took you long enough to read them all.”

“Oh, well, it didn’t take me two weeks to read them all,” Professor Tolkien said, slightly abashed. “I found this internet site called ‘Blakeney Manor.’ It has this rather curious personality quiz about which person from the Pimpernel books you happen to be.”

“Oooh, I love that quiz,” I quipped. “I’m Marguerite, just waiting for a tall, blonde British gent to sweep me off of my feet. Oooh la la!”

Professor Tolkien gave me a half-amused, half-skeptical glance. “Yes,” he muttered, “you would be… Anyway, I kept taking the quiz, trying to get a result other than Robespierre.”

I confess that I almost busted a gut (and woke at least half of my sleeping family members) with my hysterical fit of laughter.

Three minutes of hysterics later, Professor Tolkien finally yelled at me. “That’s enough now! I enjoyed these Pimpernel books. Go ahead, put Percy in as much as you like. I’m done here.” Professor Tolkien disappeared with a loud pop.

I shut up immediately—I had just wasted three minutes in the presence of the ghost of one of the most brilliant authors of all time. I had laughed at Professor Tolkien when I should have been asking him questions about his philosophies, or his characters, or even about death; he was a ghost after all. I facepalmed, then turned over and went back to sleep. It was still dark outside, after all, but not as good of a morning as it had been a few minutes before.

~*~

Sam, Frodo, and Gollum walked. They walked through the next two chapters, stopping only to rest and eat. And then they kept walking until they came to a place of pure evil: Minas Morgul.

The castle was very big and very green. It had rainbow gates and a bridge lined with pretty pink flowers. Every part of the castle was brightly colored and made of plastic; a fantasy of little girls everywhere.

“What is this place?” Frodo whispered in awe.

“The castle of the witch king, hobbitses,” Gollum hissed. “Hurry on, hobbitses, yes, yes, hurry.”

“Let’s go, Mister Frodo,” Sam urged. “I don’t like the look of this place.”

Frodo was drawn to the pink flowers that lined the bridge. “Wait a moment.” Frodo said, mesmerized. “I promised my daughter that I would bring her back a flower from my travels.”

“Mister Frodo,” Sam said, flabbergasted. “You don’t have a daughter (at least not in my knowledge...) You’ve been reading too many elf tales again.”

“And what if I have been?” Frodo said defensively.

Just then, the colorful gate to the castle opened and a cloaked figure came skipping down the bridge toward the travelers. His cloak was bright lilac and he had a gaudy plastic tiara.

“Hello! Isn’t it a lovely day?” He called to them.

Frodo shuddered. “Sam,” he whispered, “It’s the witch-king. I can still feel his blade in my shoulder.”

The witch-king skipped up to them, screaming greetings and waving until it looked like his arms would fall off. As the witch-king drew nearer, Frodo began to twitch violently.

[This story has been interrupted by the ghost of Professor Tolkien: “You did what with the witch-king?!?”

“Who’s writing this story anyways? Wait…That was a rhetorical question.”

Tolkien glared.]

The witch-king launched into his greeting without even catching a breath.

“HelloIthoughtthatIwouldcomeoutheretosayhellobecausetheweatherisquitelovely.”

“Hello,” Gollum spat. He pushed Frodo and Sam toward the path. “We must be going, yes.”

“Oh no! You can’t leave now—we’ve only just begun to have a fun time,” the witch-king whined. “I just got the newest ‘My Little Pony” playset. Come on, have a go at it with me.”

Sam and Frodo exchanged a look. Frodo could not stand much more of this before he would collapse—he was beginning to convulse. Sam took action.

“Oh look,” Sam shouted. He pointed across the bridge. “A unicorn!”

“Jolly, a unicorn!” The witch king ran to the edge of the bridge to look for it. Frodo, Sam, and Gollum made a hasty exit.

“Wait?” The witch-king said, once he realized that there was no unicorn. “Where did you go?”