[Diamond18]

The company was rather dejected as they sat around the campfire, toasting marshmallows. They were not used to defeat or dehands, and were appalled by how terrible the sound of a bad pun could be, echoing throughout their heads.

After a little while, Vogonwë broke the silence. “These marshmallows taste delicious soaked in Hair Off the Cat That Bit You,” he remarked as he watched his sugary treat burst into purplish blue flames.

“My flames are larger,” Etceteron said, dosing his confection in the manly liquid from his manly flask.

“My flames are of a lovelier hue,” Vogonwë insisted.

“Mmrfffs,” quoth Etceteron manfully around a mushy mouthful of mallowy marsh.

The others sighed, too dejected to make a contribution to the discussion. Or perhaps they were simply bored out of their minds. It was hard to tell. After about a dozen more spiked marshmallows had been consumed, Vogonwë again smashed the silence with the sledgehammer of his voice. “The way the marshmallows erupt reminds me of a sonnet I once wrote...”

There was a groan, but the others unfortunately could not speak due to the marshmallows in their mouths, so Vogonwë began:

“I saw a dead centipede one fine day.
The centipede lay in the dirt on the road,
The centipede rotted and smelt like a toad.
I sniffed at the dead centipede anyway,
To see if the smell’s as bad as they say.
The skin on the bug began to erode,
In the sunny heat its guts did explode.
The centipede smelt and stank where it lay.”

He paused.

“I can’t remember the other half,” he said with a puzzled expression. “There were six more lines…”

Pimpi could remember them, but she remained silent. But then suddenly, without warning, in the blink of an eye, like, really quickly, the silence was broken again (Eru only knows why it kept putting itself back together) by a most unpleasant noise. No, it was not the other half of Vogonwë’s sonnet (for he had stuffed another marshmallow into his mouth). It was the eerie howl of a deranged creature, like unto the screeches of a dying pig, or the ululation of a rabid myna bird. It sent chills down the spines of the Company (even the dragon) and made them feel as if their bones had been turned into gelatin.

Halfullion jumped up. “Ye gawds!” he cried, wobbling unsteadily. “It is the Hound of the Baskerwargs!”

A dozen or so equally hideous howling voices joined in with the first, and it was like unto a chorus of demon possessed howler monkeys murdering a chorus of demon possessed Tasmanian devils.

“Would that be other Baskerwargs, then?” Merisuwyniel asked timidly.

Pettygast stood forward and peered into the darkness beyond the firelight. “Get ye gone, Hound of the Baskerwargs!” he cried, but his voice cracked with fear, in a manner not likely to instill any fear into the crazed beasts circling the Company.

Orogarn Two decided to try his hand at the matter, and bellowed majestically, “I am Orogarn Two, son of Orogarn One, third cousin of Isildur, 84 times removed!”

They could not be sure, but they thought that something akin to a wave of laughter interrupted the unearthly baying of the Hounds.

“Why aren’t they attacking?” Pimpi wondered out loud, feeling as if she could barely stand the suspense any longer.

“They don’t like fire,” Chrysophylax said placidly. “If there is one thing Baskerwargs don’t like, it’s fire. That is why an occasion such as this merits a good, belly busting ball of fire, which I could provide…”

“For a fee,” Kuruharan added hastily.

“That is preposterous!” Merisuwyniel cried. “Our lives are at stake!”

“No, not really,” Kuruharan said. “Baskerwargs rarely attack if there is even the slightest bit of fire present. They will simply howl on and on for hours, hoping that eventually one or all of us go completely mad and run screaming ‘Take me and be done with it!’ into the night. Now, I’m sure only the most weak-minded and lily-livered of landlubbers would do such a thing, so there is no danger of one of us doing that. At least, I think… In any event, if you want a peaceful night’s sleep, I would advise—”

“Oh shnizzlefit,” Pimpi declared suddenly. “I thought I heard once upon a time that Wizards can make fire come out of their staffs. Can’t you do that, Mr. Pettygast?”

“Well...I...”

“Perhaps if you lit all the trees around us on fire, it would scare the Baskerwargs away,” she suggested, thinking the idea quite clever.

Pettygast looked at her in unabashed horror. His mouth hung open for a moment or two and his pupils dilated. “Set the trees on fire?” he cried at last. “You Fool of a Half-Took! Think you that this is a Hobbit burning party? No, I could never set the trees on fire. ‘Twould be an outrage, and the Fruit-giver would pelt me with rotten tomatoes for sure! Flaming rotten tomatoes, at that!”

“Well, what are you going to do, then?”

“Set your curls on fire, Pimpiowyn Took! And if that doesn’t scare them off, then we will—”

“Peace, peace, Lord Wizard,” Merisuwyniel said soothingly, or at least as soothingly as she could with the Hounds creating their hellish racket in the background. “It does no good to argue amongst ourselves.”

“And yet that is exactly what the Baskerwargs want,” Kuruharan said smugly.

“I have no qualms against setting the trees on fire,” Chrysophylax inputted suggestively.

“No, I say! We will have no mindless flaming on my watch!” cried Pettygast. “These trees are my friends!”

Orogarn Two paced back and forth with his brows furrowed. “We seem to have reached an impasse,” he stated brilliantly.

Halfullion waved his sword (which was absolutely immense at the moment) in the air and said, “What say we rush at the Baskerwargs with our wrath blazing and our weapons swinging?”

Ah'm all fer that! Wylkynsion agreed heartily. I'm gonna twat 'em bleeders if 'ey don't shut their bleedin' gobs. Let's kick some 'eads in. First one ter get ter 'im gets ter gut the lanky gits. Have at 'em! Send 'em 'ome in a bleedin' ambulance! Send the bloody bleeders to 'ell! Rip out their guts and gut out their rumps! Make 'em bleed, bleed, bleed!

There was more, of course. Wylkynsion was in rare form, and it can be guessed that it had something to do with the curved blade of Pimpiowyn’s dagger gleaming seductively in the firelight. Whether or not the dagger was aware of all this was questionable.

“Aw, shut up,” Etceteron said after a moment or two, and the rest of the Company looked at him curiously.

“That’s the first step,” Kuruharan said. “First you beg them to stop, then you beg them to put you out of your misery, and then they do.”

“What? No, I—” Etceteron sought to explain. But he was cut off by Vogonwë, who leapt up from the ground and proclaimed:

“I have remembered! It went:

“I looked down at the rotting centipede,
My heart went out to the poor little bug;
It was so dead it didn’t even bleed.
Yes, it was dead and it stunk, I concede.
Poor little bug in a poor little rug.
That poor little, dead little, stinky little,
Centipede.”

There was silence. Dead silence. Utter, complete, ultimate silence. Not penultimate, but totally ul-ultimate. Not a creature was stirring, not even a mouse. Nothing, nadda, zip-zippo.

“Wow, it’s really quiet all of a sudden,” remarked Pimpiowyn. “Something must have scared them away.”

Kuruharan gave Vogonwë a dark look. “So, you can scare away the Baskerwargs just like that, eh?” he asked, disgruntled that the poet had ruined a potential money making opportunity.

“Why, I’m really quite shocked,” Vogonwë said. “But then, of course, Hell-hounds do not have much taste, and so I suppose they quailed before the fine art of well-spoken words.”

“You have saved us all from madness and extortion, Master Brownbark,” said Merisuwyniel generously. “We shall finally be able to get a good night’s sleep, and decide our course with clear heads in the morning. Now, please, do not ever, ever recite that poem in my hearing again.”

[ February 12, 2003: Message edited by: Diamond18 ]