Squatter was weak from excessive laughter and his palms were red from much clapping. He had done his best to encourage Vogonwë and Pimpiowyn in their hideous caterwauling by shouting encouragement and calling 'encore!' at the top of his voice at the end of their act, and he had applauded Mithadan's near-fatal collapse as a masterful touch of gallows humour so very apt at this
fête macabre. The later re-appearance of Number Four merely confirmed his erroneous conclusion and convinced him that the grey figure was half cut, which elicited yet more applause.
As the lupine chaos in the hall drew to its crescendo, Squatter's laughter had become more of an obstruction to his breathing, to the extent that only a timely swig of Captain Strangereek’s 'Harvest Haemorrhage' and Lush’s rather stylish exit had saved him from asphyxiation. At that moment, as he tried desperately to say his farewells between uncontrollable spasms of mirth, he heard a respectful cough by his shoulder.
Squatter was used to that sort of cough. It was usually followed by phrases like “Don’t you think it’s time you were going home, Sir?” and short, unceremonious trips to the door; but this time it was far, far worse.
'Could you step this way, Sir?' said the official. 'It’s almost time for you to make your presentation.'
'There must be some mistake: I'm not making a presentation' replied Squatter with a feeling of unholy dread.
'I'm afraid we have you down to make one, Sir,' said the attendant inexorably. 'Unless you'd care to take it up with Mr. Mithadan.'
The cold feeling of utter panic that swept over Squatter was better than a pint of black coffee and three cold showers. He rose and followed this harbinger of doom backstage, where he was given, predictably, a pint of black coffee and a bucket of cold water. Once he had made use of these he was given a clean shirt, a gold envelope and a razor and told to be ready in ten minutes. What had happened to his evening?
*****
In the auditorium the applause for Bêthberry's award, some of it no doubt increased by the X-Phial's Homeric achievement in carrying it from the stage at all, was just dying away as the master of ceremonies made his way to the front of the stage. 'And now, Ladies and Gentlemen,' he intoned. 'To present the
William McGonagall Memorial Award for the Fit-est Poetic Achievement in an RPG, The Squatter of Amon Rûdh!'
A lone figure entered from the wings (some might almost think he had been pushed). He strode to the podium in a businesslike manner, adjusted the microphone and spake thusly:
'In any Roleplay game based on the works of J.R.R. Tolkien, the standard of its poetry often can make the difference between a profound tribute to a great author and a steaming trough of pigswill.'
There were a number of groans from the audience, but he soldiered on.
'This year, one person has on several occasions awed us all with verse that can only be described as 'unique'. The award for the Fit-est Poetic Achievement in an RPG, in recognition of her performances as Vogonwë Brownbark in
The Revenge of the Entish Bow, goes to Diamond 18!'
At that moment the orchestra struck up the theme tune of
Murder, She Wrote and all eyes turned to look for its recipient, on whom three spotlights had now converged.