“I could have sworn he didn’t have more than a bump on hish head,” muttered Legolam under the cover of his sleeve.
“Aye,” replied Arrowroot, shooting the elf a withering glance, “so it might seem to one unschooled in the art of healing. But that bump, that fatal bump, ’twas his downfall. ’Twas water on the brain. ’Tis ninety percent fatal. Forced I was to amputate. Sad, very sad.”
Arrowroot strode to his folding chair, his face lined with care. As if by some prearranged signal some disreputable-looking Brownies leapt to their feet and shouted, “The last Steward is no more! All hail Arrowroot of Arrowshirt, King of Twodor hail!”
Stomper touched his hat brim in humble acknowledgment of Twodor’s new allegiance, and Eorache, seeing which way the wind was blowing, threw her brawny arms around the new King with a creditable squeal of delight. The rest of the guests, either confused or drunk, echoed the cheers with a thousand voices.
But then, from the back of the chamber, a shrill, piping voice was heard.
“Nay! Nay!” it squeaked.
Arrowroot searched the table and the dizzy crowd grew silent. At the very end was a squat figure wearing a black nose patch, dressed all in green.
It was Magnavox, friend to the late Farahslax.
“Speak,” commanded Arrowroot, hoping he wouldn’t.
“If you be the true King of Twodor,” Magnavox fluted drunkenly, “you will fulfill the propheshy and deshtroy our enemiesh. Thish you musht do before you a King be. Thish deed you musht perform.”
“Thish I gotta see,” chuckled Gimlet.
Arrowroot blinked anxiously.
“Enemies? But we here are all comrades—”
“Psssst!” coached Goodgulf. “Sorhed? Fordor? Nozdruls? The you-know-what?”
Stomper bit his lip nervously and thought.
“Well, I guess it behooves us that we march to Sorhed and challenge him, I guess.”
Goodgulf’s jaw dropped with disbelief, but before he could strangle Stomper, Eorache jumped up on the table.
“Dot’s telling him! Ve march against der Sorhedder und mess him up gute!”
Goodgulf’s screams were lost in the roar of alcoholic approval from the hall.
• • •
It was the next morning that the armies of Twodor marched east laden with long lances, sharp swords, and death-dealing hangovers. The thousands were led by Arrowroot, who sat limply in his sidesaddle, nursing a whopper. Goodgulf, Gimlet, and the rest rode by him, praying for their fate to be quick, painless, and, if possible, someone else’s.
Many an hour the armies forged ahead, the war merinos bleating under their heavy burdens and the soldiers bleating under their melting icepacks. As they drew closer to the Black Gate of Fordor, the ravages of war were seen on every side: carts overturned, villages and towns sacked and burned, billboard cuties defaced with foul black mustaches.
Arrowroot looked with darkened face at these ruins of a once fair land. “Look at those ruins of a once fair land,” he cried, almost toppling from his sheep. “There will be much to cleanse when we return.”
“If we ever get the chance to return,” said Gimlet, “I’ll personally clean up the whole place with a toothbrush.”
The King drew himself to a more or less upright position. “Fear not, for our army is strong and courageous.”
“Just hope they don’t sober up before we get there,” Gimlet grunted.
The dwarf’s words read true, for the army began to waver in its march, and the band of Roi-Tanners Stomper charged with rounding up stragglers hadn’t reported for hours.
Finally Arrowroot decided to put a stop to the malingering by shaming his hesitant warriors. Commanding the remaining herald to sound the horn he said:
“Peoples of the West! The battle before the Black Gate of Sorhed will be one of few against many; but the few are of pure heart and the many are of the filthy. Nevertheless, those of you who wish to cringe and run from the fight may do so to quicken our pace. Those who still ride with the King of Twodor will live forever in song and legend! The rest may go.”
It is said that the dust cloud did not settle for many days after.
• • •
“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.
Frito took the Ring from round his neck and twirled it absently at the end of its chain.
“Careful, Mr. Frito,” said Spam, raining a series of hitsies on his arm.
“Indeed,” said Frito, flinging the Ring in the air and deftly catching it behind his back.
“Very risky,” Spam said, and picking up a barge stone, he threw it into the center of the tar pit, where it sank with a wet glop.
“Pity we have no weight to anchor it safely to the bottom,” said Frito, swinging the chain over his head. “Accidents can happen.”
“Just in case,” said Spam, searching vainly in his pack for some heavy object. “A dead weight, a sinker,” he muttered.
“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.
Great rents appeared around the boggies and they found themselves cut off from escape. The whole land seemed to writhe and moan from its very bowels, which after eons of lethargy, had finally begun to move. The earth tipped at a crazy angle and the boggies slid toward a crevass filled with used razor blades and broken wine bottles.
“Ciao!” waved Spam to Frito.
“At a time like this?” sobbed Frito.
Then just over their heads they saw a passing flash of color. There in the sky they saw a giant eagle, full-feathered and painted shocking pink. On its side were the words DEUS EX MACHINA AIRLINES in metallic gold.
Frito yelped as the great bird swooped low and snatched them both from death with it
s rubberized talons.
“Name’s Gwahno,” said the eagle as they climbed sharply away from the disintegrating land. “Find a seat.”
“But how—” began Frito.
“Not now, mac,” the bird snapped. “Gotta figure a flight plan outta this dump.”
The powerful wings bore them to a dizzying height and Frito looked with awe upon the convulsed land below. Fordor’s black rivers were twisting like ring worms, huge glaciers figure skated across barren plains, and the mountains were playing leapfrog.
Just before Gwahno began banking a turn, Frito thought he caught a glimpse of a great, dark form the color and shape of a bread pudding retreating over the mountains with a steamer trunk of odd socks.
• • •
The glorious army that drew up before the Black Gate numbered somewhat less than the original thousands. It numbered seven, to be exact, and might have been less had not seven merinos finally bolted for freedom out from under their riders. Cautiously, Arrowroot looked upon the Black Gate to Fordor. It was many times a man in height and painted a flashy red. Both halves were labeled.
“They will issue from here,” Arrowroot explained. “Let us unfurl our battle standard.”
Dutifully Goodgulf fitted together his cue and attached the white cloth. “But that is not our standard,” said Arrowroot.
“Bets?” said Gimlet.
“Better Sorhed than no head,” said Goodgulf as he bent his sword into a plowshare.
Suddenly Arrowroot’s eyes bugged.
“Lo!” he cried.
Black flags were raised in the black towers and the gate opened like an angry maw to upchuck its evil spew. Out poured an army the likes of which was never seen. Forth from the gate burst a hundred thousand rabid narcs swinging bicycle chains and tire irons, followed by drooling divisions of pop-eyed changelings, deranged zombies, and distempered werewolves. At their shoulders marched eight score heavily armored griffins, three thousand goose-stepping mummies, and a column of abominable snowmen on motorized bobsleds; at their flanks tramped six companies of slavering ghouls, eighty parched vampires in white tie, and the Phantom of the Opera. Above them the sky was blackened by the dark shapes of vicious pelicans, houseflies the size of two-car garages, and Rodan the flying monster. Through the portals streamed more foes of various forms and descriptions, including a six-legged diplodocus, the Loch Ness monster, King Kong, Godzilla, the Creature from the Black Lagoon, the Beast with 1,000,000 Eyes, the Brain from Planet Arous, three different subphyla of giant insects, the Thing, It, She, Them, and the Blob. The great tumult of their charge could have waked the dead, were they not already bringing up the rear.
“Lo,” warned Stomper, “the enemy approaches.”
Goodgulf gripped his cue with an iron hand as the others huddled around him in a last, shivering tableau before the fiendish onslaught.
“Vell, ve going bye-bye,” Eorache said as she crushed Arrowroot in a sweet, final embrace.
“Farewell,” squeaked Arrowroot. “We will die heroes.”
“Perhaps,” sobbed Moxie, “we shall meet in better lands than this.”
“Wouldn’t be difficult,” agreed Pepsi as he made out his will.
“So long, shrimp,” Legolam said to Gimlet.
“Be seein’ ya, creep,” replied the dwarf.
“Lo!” exclaimed Arrowroot, rising from his knees.
“If he says that once more,” said Gimlet, “I’ll croak him myself.”
But all eyes followed the Ranger-King’s shaking pinkie. The sky was filling with a bright puce smog, and there came in a great wind a blatting noise similar to that made by certain Rings when they give up the ghost. The black ranks wavered in their march, stopped, and began to fidget. Suddenly, cries of anguish were heard from above and black pelicans fell from the sky, their Black Riders desperately struggling with rip cords. The narc hordes shrieked, threw down their tire irons, and hotfooted it toward the open gate. But as the narcs and their scaly allies turned back to safety, they were changed as if by magic into pillars of garlic. The terrible army had vanished and all that remained were a few white mice and a soggy pumpkin.
“Sorhed’s army is no more!” cried Arrowroot, catching the drift.
Then a dark shadow raced along the plain. Looking up, they saw a large pink eagle circle the battleground, correct for windage, and skid to a creditable three-point landing in front of them, bearing the two haggard, yet familiar, passengers.
“Frito! Spam!” cried the seven.
“Goodgulf! Arrowroot! Moxie! Pepsi! Legolam! Gimlet! Eorache!” cried the boggies.
“Stow it,” growled Gwahno the Windlord. “I’m already behind schedule.”
Gleefully, the rest of the company and Eorache clambered aboard the eagle’s broad back, eager for the sight of Minas Troney. The great bird taxied along the plain, and, shaking some ice from his tail feathers, bounded gracelessly into the air.
“Fasten your seat belts,” cautioned Gwahno, looking over his wing at Arrowroot, “and use those paper bags. That’s what they’re there for, mac.”
The reunited wayfarers soared high into the sky and caught a convenient westbound jet stream that brought them over the fair city of Minas Troney in a few short words.
“Nice tailwind today,” grunted Gwahno.
The overloaded eagle dipped its wings and crash-landed before the very gates of the seven-ringed city.
Wearily, yet happily, the company debirded and accepted the cheering adulation of the huge throngs, who tearfully pelted them with cigar bands and Rice Krispies. Arrowroot gave no thought to their praise, however; he was still using his bag. Nevertheless, a bevy of comely elf-maidens drew nigh the preoccupied Ranger bearing a rich crown of all aluminum and set with many a sparkling aggie.
“It’s the crown!” cried Frito, “the Crown of Lafresser!”
Then the elfin honeys placed the Royal Porkpie over Stomper’s eyes and robed him in the shimmering tinsel of Twodor’s True King. Arrowroot opened his mouth, but the Crown slipped down around his neck and gagged his acceptance speech. The gay throngs took this as a good omen and went home. Arrowroot turned to Frito and beamed mutely. Frito bowed low at this silent thanks, but his brows were knitted with another matter.
“You have destroyed the Great Ring, and the gratitude of all Lower Middle Earth is yours,” spoke Goodgulf, clapping an approving hand on Frito’s wallet. “I now grant you one wish in payment for your heroism. All you have to do is ask.”
Frito stood on tiptoe and whispered in the kindly old Wizard’s ear.
“Down the street to the left,” nodded Goodgulf. “You can’t miss it.”
• • •
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.
* * *
1 The historian Bocaraton notes that this may have been intentionally “emblematic of the crumbs inside.”
2 It is not known upon whom the refuse of the lowest ring was thrown, but it is conjectured that it was not thrown at all, but eaten.
3 An American songwriter and poet, most well respected for not having written the song
“Ice, Ice, Baby.”
X
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 midair 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.
Just then a soft knocking came at the door.
“Dammit,” muttered Frito, roused from his reveries. “Who’s there?”
There was no reply save another, more insistent knock.
“Okay, okay, I’m coming.” Frito went to the door and opened it.
There on the stoop were twenty-three lyre-strumming nymphs in gauzy pantsuits couched in a golden canoe borne on the cool mists of a hundred fire extinguishers and crewed by a dozen tipsy leprechauns uniformed in shimmering middy blouses and fringed toreador pants. Facing Frito was a twelve-foot specter shrouded in red sateen, shod in bejeweled riding boots, and mounted on an obese, pale-blue unicorn. Around him fluttered winged frogs, miniature Valkyries, and an airborne caduceus. The tall figure offered Frito a six-fingered hand which held a curiously inscribed identification bracelet simply crawling with mysterious portents.
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