After the rush traffic ended, they were on the road again, on the road
again, Sam and Frodo and rat named Saddam, laughing and living off the
land. They ate a little, and drank sparingly. Saddam snapped playfully at
Sam's fingers but ate nothing.

'Soon get more now,' he said. 'Where the perfect water runs I'll take you
to the River, drop me in the water, dip you in the water. Nice water.
Sbéagol will get food there too, perhaps. He's very hungry like a wolf,
yes, saddam!' He set his two large nimble hands on his belly and a pale
green light came on in his implants in his eyes.


The dusk was deep when they were finally worked up the nerve to set out,
creeping out the westward doors of the abandonned dot-com like a CEO
avoiding investors. They passed like spirits in the night (all night);
they didn't stand right up and let the Orcs shoot right through them. The
moon was perhaps three night from full, but Frodo thought it was another
night. A single red light bore on from high up in the Law Offices of the
Teeth; Sbéagol cursed it, but otherwise no sign could be seen or heard of
the sleepless programmers of the Cirith Gagates.

Along that long and windy road the red light seemed to stare at them, like
people in high places, as they fled, stumbling through the barren country
full of rolling stones. At last when the night and authour were growing
tired, they had gone down by a corner of the mountains and were out in the
street.

With wallets strangely lightenned and Saddam smiling slyly they rested
again, but not for long. Frodo, he had to carry that load a long way.


When the good, morning starshine came it revealed to them a land already
less barren and ruinous. They were on the frontier now, so they left the
dark behind and joined the day now. On the left mountains came out of the
sky and stood there, but near at hand they could see the southward road.
It was garden land filled with poppies and hemp and wild mushrooms and
tulips. They could see clearly now, the rain had gone. They could see all
obstacles in their way. Gone were the dark clouds that had them blind. It
was going to be a bright, bright sunshiny day. They slipped off the paths
and tiptoed through the tulips, to search for hiding place where they
could shelter from crystal eyes while the light lasted.

The day passed easily. The heavy scent of the poppies on the wind made
them feel fine, blowing through the jasmine in their mind. Still Sam found
it difficult to sleep, fingering the bowl of his empty pipe wistfully. At
sunset, Frodo and Saddam arose and let it roll down the highway.

After another's night march they find themselves deep in Ithilien, a rich
garden land long maintained for the benefit of the beautiful people who
lived in the same world, but would oft retreat from the pressures of
Gondor®. The beautiful, stately estates were maintained by faithful
servants descended from ancient Haradim warriors. Before darkness came to
this land, the lands were filled with the deep, stirring songs of these
servants.

But now it was quiet and the gardens overgrown. Through the feral gardens
Frodo and Sam took a walk on the wild side, remembering a time when
coloured girls went doo do doo do doo do do doo. They nestled together
for another day's fitful sleep. Sam woke suddenly shortly after, as Saddam
was crawling away to find his own hole to hide.

Sam untangled himself from the vines and arms. 'Hi! Saddam!' called Sam.
'Where you going? Hunting? Well, see here, old elvis, you don't like our
stash, and I wouldn't mind a change myself. Your new motto's ad aspera
per diem. Could find anything fit for a bored hobbit?'

'Yes, perhaps, yes.' Said Saddam. 'Sbéagol always helps, if they asks--if
asks nicely. You can't always get what you want, but if you try sometime,
you just might find you can get what you need.'

'Right!' said Sam. 'I does ask. And if that isn't nice enough. I begs.'


Saddam disappeared. He was gone some time, and Frodo sighed in his sweet
dreams of avarice. Sam looked at him. His skin was soft and white like a
woman's. Sam smiled at thought of axes and nooses. Only women bleed.

Saddam returned quietly and peered over Sam's shoulder. Looking at Frodo,
he shut his eyes and crawled away without a sound. Sam followed him. On
the ground were a sackful of mushrooms, poppy seeds, moldy rye, and best
of all primo weed, Roadapple Red, just leaf, no sticks or stems.

'Sbéagol always help,' he said. 'He has brought stash, nice stash. But
master has gone to sleep, and perhaps Sam wants to sleep. Sbéagol tries to
help, but Sbéagol doesn't know how to love him, what to say, or how to
please him.'

Sam, however, had no objection to herbs at all, and said so. At least not
to smoked herbs. All hobbits, of course, can cut meth with lactose, for
they begin to learn before their letters (they donīt know much about the
Quenya they took, but they do know that they love the drugs they took);
but Sam was a good connection, even by hobbit reckoning, and he had done a
good deal of toking on their travels, when there was any leaf or herb to
be found. He still carried some of his gear in pack.

'Now, Saddam,' he said, 'I have another job for you. Go fill this bottle
with water, and bring it back.'

'Sbéagol fetch water, yes. But what does the hobbit want with the
water? He has drunk, he has washed.'

'Never you mind.'

While Saddam was away, Sam gathered a pile of the driest fern, and then
gathered a bundle of twigs, broken wood, and long forgotten duraflame logs.
He brought Frodo: fire, he'd take the wood to burn. Being handy with flint
and tinder, but even handier with Bic butane lighter in his pocket, he
soon had a small blaze going. It made little smoke, yet, but gave off a
sweet, perfumed smell. He was stooping over the fire when Saddam returned,
carrying the bottle of water carefully and grumbling to himself.

He set the bottle down, and then suddenly saw what Sam was doing. He gave
a thin hissing shriek, 'Ach! Sss-no! No! Silly hobbits, foolish, yes. It's
a smoke on the water, a fire in the sky!'

Sam laughed heartily and booted Saddam. 'Bugger off, ya little rat.'
Saddam backed off from the stash in desire, despair, and fear.


Sam nudged Frodo with a few gentle kicks to the ribs. 'Hullo, Sam!' he
said. 'Ah, Sam, if you could read my mind, what a tale my thoughts would
tell you. Do you know what time it is? My watch has stopped cold dead.'

'About a couple of hours after daybreak,' Sam said, 'and nigh on half past
eight by Shire clocks, ignoring the time zone change. But nothing's wrong.
I got together, all by self, hard at work for your pleasure, a few
'shrooms and herbs. I thought it might help pass the day.' Sam finished
putting together his water pipe and added the smoldering hashish. 'Some
wildwood flower, master, just like Southfarthing Green.'

Frodo yawned and stretched. 'You should have been resting, Sam. And
lighting a fire was dangerous in these parts. But I do feel a little edgy.
Hmmm. I can smell it from here.'


Sam and his oppressor sat just within the fern-brake and ate their
mushrooms and poppies. They finished off with long slow tokes on water
pipe. It was all too beautiful. They felt inclined to blow their minds.

When they had finished Sam went off to the stream to rinse out his bong.
As he stood up to return, he looked back up the slope. He saw a thin
grey smoke from his little fire which he had been too stoned to remember.
Sam was on the run again. He stamped out the fire and then huddled with
Frodo. He heard a whistle. There was something happening there. What it
was wasn't exactly clear. There's a man with a arrow over there telling
them they got to beware. Sam thought it's time they stop, children, what's
that sound? Everybody looked what was going down.

At once four men came goose stepping through fern from different
directions. Since flight and hiding were no longer possible, Frodo
collapsed into a whining, shivering lump, and offered Sam's life if they
would let him go free.

Four tall men stood there. There were clad in green and brown on field
gray background, as if to walk unseen in the glades of Ithilien, which
indeed they had done better than Frodo and Sam. At once Sam thought of
Boromir® and wished he were very far away.

'We have not found what we sought,' said one. 'But what have we found?'

'Not Orcs. Nor Elves. Parolees, I think. Or stoolies.'

And Frodo said, 'Yes sir, Officer Obie, I cannot tell a lie, I put that
fire under all that fern. We are but travelers in this land. But who are
you?'

'I am Faramir, Doctor of Gondor®. There are no travellers here. Only
paying customers with properly validated tickets, or gate crashers.'

'But we are neither. And flying we are, whatever Dr Faramir may say. We
are 2000 leagues from home.'

'Likely story. Where is the third of your company?'

'The third?' Frodo asked, desperately hoping they weren't referring to Saddam.

'Yes, that skulking fellow we saw with his nose in mound of white powder
yonder.'

'Oh, him. We refuse to take any responsibility for him. But if you do find
him, please spare his life as we are totally dependent on him. As for us,
we are Hobbits of Bree, far to the North and East, near the Lonely
Mountain. Mr Underhill is my name, and with me is Meat son of Loaf. We
have come a long ways--out of Knottsberry® with Aragon and Boromir®.
Ah-ha! Out of our way, peasants!'

'Boromir®!' all four men exclaimed.

'Boromir® son of Lord Dentist®?' said Faramir, and stern look came to his
face. Which was remarkable for Frodo to notice since all four still wore
their masks. 'Who are you really, and what did you have to do with him?'

'Are these words known to you that Boromir® brought to Knottsberry®?'
Frodo replied:

    Go ask Frodo,
    when he's ten feet tall.

'Those words are known indeed,' said Dr Faramir in astonishment. 'This is
not the time or place for a proper interrogation. Nor do I have my
instruments. Take them into custody.'


There was little for the Frodo and Sam to do except sit and wait. Two of
the Men stayed behind to watch them. They removed their masks to reveal
their pale, fair faces, flaxen hair, and ice blue eyes. After awhile they
spoke to the Hobbits. They named themselves Maybelline and Dimrod,
soldiers of Gondor®, and they were members of Dr Faramir's Einsatzgruppe;
for they were descended from folk who once lived there, before it was
overrun with Orcs and the property values dropped deeper than the Moria
chasm. From the such people the Lord Dentist® would select forayers to
harass Orcs and racially impure Easterlings.

'We seldom come so far afield, but we have a special mission. We come to
ambush the Men of Hard. Curse them.'

'Aye, curse the Southrons!' said Dimrod. ''Tis said they had a simple and
happy life while working the estates of Ithilien. Then Sauron filled their
simple wooly heads with notions of equality and freedom. They have become
an uppity lot since that time.'


Their talk died down into a listening silence. All seemed still and
listless. Sam grew bored and fell asleep. A sudden noise awoke him. There
was the sound of cries and crashing steel nearby. The sounds came closer.

'They are coming closer!' cried Dimrod. 'See! Some of the Southrons have
broken from the trap and flying from the road. There they go! Our men are
after them, and the Doctor leading.'

Sam, eager to see more, went now and joined the guards. He caught a
glimpse of swarthy men running pell-mell down the slope. Some threw down
their weapons to beg mercy, and they were slain where they stood. Nearby
one southron had been caught and was being forced to dig a pit. He was
then knocked unconscious, thrown into the pit, and buried alive.

It was Sam's first view of a massacre of Men against Men, and he did not
like it much. He was glad he could not see the face of the buried man nor
the cause of the strange gurgled and strangled cries from the hidden
roadway. And then there was a new sound, a great bellowing.

'Hare! Hare!' cried Maybelline to his companion. 'May Les Invisibles turn
it aside! Mommy! Mommy!'

To his astonishment and terror, and lasting delight, Sam saw a white shape
crash out of the trees and come careening down the slope. Fear and wonder,
maybe, enlarged him in the hobbit's eyes, but the Warrabbit of Harad was
indeed a beast of vast front teeth, and the like of him does not hop now
in Middle-Earth; his kin that live still in latter days are but memories
of his mighty canines. The Warrabbit was completely drunk, stewed to the
gills, and charged straight to the observers, and then swerved away to
watch Nick at Nite, passing only a few hectares away, rocking the ground
with its mighty leaps, enormous dhow sail-like ears spread out, his small
red eyes raging.

On the white rabbit thundered, blundering in blind wrath through pool and
thicket. Soon he was lost to view. What became of it Sam never heard:
whether it escaped to roam in the wild, or whether it was slain by a Holy
Hand-Grenade of Antioch.


Sam drew a deep breath. 'A Warrabbit it was!' he said. 'So there are
warrabbits, and I have seen one. What a life! But no one at home will ever
believe. Not about that or that catepillar dude or the Cheshire cats of
Queen Beruthiel. Well, it's been a quite day, folks. Now if you'll just go
your way, we'll go ours, and it's been nice meeting you.'

But Maybelline and Dimrod merely smiled in anticipation of the Doctor's
sport with the hobbits in the following chapter.

This exciting piece of draft material is presented through the courtesy of China Blue O'Brien 2 <mlindanne-aaaaaaat-hotmail-dawt-com>. Copyright © 2000 by the author. All rights reserved. Some variance between this e-text and the original printed material by Professor Tolkien is inevitable. Using this as an electronic resource for scholarly or research purposes may lead to a certain degree of academic embarassment. All agree that the printed version of the text, available from respectable publishers such as Houghton Mifflin and Ballantine Books, is to be preferred. Boromir™ and Gondor™ are trademarks of Saul Zaentz and Tolkien Enterprises, who hold all merchandising rights to Gondor™ and its subsidiaries. Soundtrack albums for this chapter are available in the gift shop.