The Lord of the... whatever, Book IV, Chapter 9:
A Night In Disgiliath
Sam looked at Frodo's dejected back. He saw that the situation called for
extreme remedies. Nimbly, he removed a little bottle from the lab kit given
him by Dr Faramir. With the ease of an experienced cook and master poisoner,
he made a ham sandwich and let some drops from the bottle fall on it.
"Oh, Master Frodo!" he called. "Here's a little morsel to put you in a
Frodo stared suspiciously at the sandwich. Then, as the magic of the
sandwich worked upon him, his face changed and he wolfed it down as if he
had not seen any food for days.
"What are you doing?" murmured Spiegel in Sam's ear. He gave a her a
"That cordial on the sandwich will give our little weakling some
well-needed energy," he said. "He'll just fly the rest of the way, and
that's a fact!"
Spiegel opened her eyes very wide and stared at Frodo. "I believe you,"
she choked. Sam followed her gaze and cried out. Frodo seemed to be swaying
with the wind where he stood. His feet left the ground, and he began to move
in little circles, like a stray balloon. At the very moment when Sam, with a
hoarse cry, leapt to pin him to the ground, he left it for good and sailed
skywards with a hissing, very balloon-like sound. He gazed down at Sam and
Spiegel with eyes the size of beef tomatoes before a cold wind came from the
east and blew him in the wrong direction - towards the Great River.
As Frodo scudded westwards, Sam and Spiegel sprinted after him so as not
to lose sight of him. The grotesque spectacle went on for hours: Frodo
jerking and bobbing in the wind and the other two running after him,
stumbling and cursing. Sam's language reached positively Trotskyite levels
of vituperation. The sun was already nearing the horizon when Frodo floated
into the ancient ruined city of Disgiliath, followed by his wheezing,
panting attendants. There the magical potion, satisfied with its work, let
go of him with a loud bang and he dropped to the ground, rolled over and lay
still. Sam and Spiegel ran up to him, panting, and lay down on top of him.
Frodo never knew how long it was before he woke up from an evil dream and
found that reality was worse. Sam lay straight across his chest, making it
hard for him to breathe, and on top of that, one of his hairy feet was
pressed against Frodo's mouth. This was not the kind of kinky sex he
liked! (Besides, his ichtyoerotic personality change was still progressing;
even in his half-stifled condition, his loins ached with lust for big, slimy
fish to straddle.)
"Sam, you addle-pated fool, get off me!" he cried.
"Oho, THAT's a new tune from you!" growled Sam, but obliged. He and
Spiegel got to their feet and studied the surroundings.
They were in the centre of the old commercial district of Disgiliath. Shop
windows and malls were all around them. In the centre of the square where
Frodo had fallen down, there was a statue of a strange being with huge round
ears, an insane grin, fourfingered hands in white gloves and red shorts with
big yellow buttons. But the vulgarity of the men from Westernesse had been
augmented by the vulgarity of the Men from the East. Everywhere around them
there was evidence of their dread presence: the stench of filthy tennis
shoes from an uncovered pit, the inscription MARMADÚKH IS A WANKER scrawled
on a wall, an old school tie twisted like a rope around the throat of the
statue with the big round ears and a whole row of punting-boats tied to the
jetty on the nearby River.
Frodo sat up. Staggering, he got to his feet. He took a few steps, picked
up a loose paving stone and sent it crashing through the window of a shop
"Master Frodo, art thee mazed?" cried Sam, shocked out of his class-
conscious diction straight back to the forelock-tugging language of his
"No, you idiot," grunted Frodo and reeled into the shop. Sam looked closer
at it and realized that it was a drink shop. They heard a clinking sound
from inside, and then Frodo returned, carrying eight bottles of Westfarthing
"They are still well-stocked after all these years," he puffed as he sank
to the ground. With a greedy gleam in his eyes, he stowed seven of the
bottles into his knapsack before opening the last and taking a deep swig.
"Is this really the right moment to get drunk?" inquired Spiegel icily.
"Yes," replied Frodo simply. Since there was not really much one could say
to that Sam and Spiegel fell silent, watching how Frodo knocked them back
until the booze made him talkative.
"Do you see that other shop?" he asked, nodding to indicate the object of
his conversation. They looked at a little shop with a bow window and a sign
above which announced, in faded gold letters: "Aruman's Tattoo Parlour".
"Aruman was not always evil," hiccoughed Frodo. "My fa... Bilbo told me
that he began his career as an honest shopkeeper. He did piercing as well as
tattooing, and the cowboys from the Pelennor Fields used to go there to get
their hats surgically removed."
"Interesting," remarked Spiegel. "I have thought of getting my nose
pierced, but I'm so fat it would simply make me look even more like a cow."
"It's bulls that have rings in their noses, you twit," sneered Frodo
haughtily. Sam bristled.
"Who are you to speak to her like that, Stinky?" he demanded. Frodo gaped
stupidly at him and emitted a loud burp. Menacingly, Sam took a step
forward. However, at that very moment there was the sound of someone
strumming a guitar behind them, and then a well-known voice burst into
I'm an Elven bard and I'm OK,
I sing all night and I sleep all day.
They all looked at Maglor's detested figure. Frodo, who seemed to sober up
considerably at the sight, muttered in the high-elven speech: "A galaxy went
out on the hour of our meeting."
Undeterred, Maglor threw back his head and sang:
I sang of beer, of lots of beer, and lots of beer there flowed:
Of peanuts and of pretzel bags, and boy, the goodies showed.
We drank a toast, a second toast, the foam was on our ale,
and some took bitter, others stout, and one or two chose pale.
And there beyond the counter stood a barmaid plump and fair;
The glow from our reefers shone like torches in her hair.
Oh, Ivy Bush! Beloved pub! When will we meet again,
When will I gaze with love again at every beery stain?
Oh, Ivy Bush! Too long I dwelt upon this Hither Shore
And drank inferior brands of ale and stared upon the floor.
But even travelling steerage I could not escape my curse:
Where are the tickets cheap enough to suit my meagre purse?
There was silence. No one wanted to applaud for fear of encouraging Maglor.
With feigned absent-mindedness, Frodo stared at the River. Suddenly, he
arose with a cry.
"Beloved! Precious!" he shouted. He started to run towards the River. With
a curse Sam tried to grab his arm and stop him, but was too late.
In the River, a beautiful mermaid yoohooed at Frodo, stroking her hair and
merrily slapping her fishtail against the water. Frodo was filled with
erotic madness. THIS was what he always had desired! He took a flying leap
into the water and began to swim towards her with great strokes of his arms.
"Come back, Master Frodo!" screamed Sam. In an attempt to turn him back to
his old fixations, he whined: "Oh Frodo, me dear, me dear! Come back!" but
to no avail.
"STOP him!" howled Spiegel.
"OK," sad Maglor. He stooped, grabbed a cobble-stone and threw it at
Frodo's head, scoring a bull's eye. With a last, despairing precious he sank
beneath the waves.
The mermaid stared at them with big, frightened eyes. Sam looked at Maglor
"Brilliant!" he commented. "Any other great ideas?"
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