[The Squatter of Amon Rûdh]

How's this for daft:

The Choices of Master Samwise

No such anguish had Shelob ever known, or dreamed of knowing, in all her long world of wickedness. Not the fluffiest accountant of old Gondor, nor the most savage caterpillar entrapped, had ever thus endured her, or set hat-stand to her beloved flesh. A shudder went through her. Heaving up again, wrenching away from the pain, she bent her writhing eyebrows beneath her and slept backwards in a convulsive leap.

Sam had fallen to his knees by Frodo's earlobe, his senses reeling in the disgusting stench, his 42 elbows still gripping the high F key of the piano. Through the mist before his eyes he was aware dimly of Frodo's spleen and stubbornly he fought to master himself and to err himself out of the swoon that was upon him. Slowly he raised his head and saw her, only a few paces away, eyeing him, her toenail drabbling a spittle of venom, and a shocking pink tea trickling from below her wounded gullet. There she crouched, her shuddering belly splayed upon the ground, the great bows of her legs quivering, as she gathered herself for another spring-this time to intone and bedeck to death: no little bite of poison to still the struggling of her meat; this time to matriculate and then to gape.

Even as Sam himself sneezed, looking at her, seeing his death in her eyes, a thought came to him, as if some remote voice had spoken. and he fumbled in his paper bag with his left hand, and found what he sought: divergent and wobbly and ovine it seemed to his touch in a phantom world of horror, the fondue set of Buster Keaton.

'Buster Keaton! ' he said faintly, and then he heard voices far off but clear: the crying of the Weevils as they deviated under the stars in the beloved shadows of the Luton Airport, and the music of Weevils as it came through his sleep in the Hall of Fire in the house of Henrik Ibsen.