[SamwiseGamgee]

Great idea for a thread, boromir88. Now, my little theory:

Grigori Theodore Mothwell was born into an affluent Gondorian family around about 2830. He enjoyed the finest in all aspects of life: he ate the most delectable caviar with solid silver cutlery at all the best society dinners and no wine less than 25 years old would touch his lips.

Grigori was born lucky, heir to the Mothwell estate and general playboy. The ladies loved him. He had a string of Gondorian 'it-girls' for acquaintances, but never anyone serious. Outwardly, G.T. Mothwell had it all. Inside, things were different.

Grigori's bad habits began at around 16. On an evening stroll around town he took a wrong turn and ended up in a dark, strange alley. He carried on down, drawn by the noises he could hear at the bottom of the street. He reached the end and there was a large door, slightly ajar, through which he could hear screams of pain, and the roar of the crowd. He peeked in, and there he saw the finest spectacle he had ever beheld: weasel fighting. G.T. fell in love immediately, and over the next few years he returned, making friends and enemies as he bet high and won big. When Grigori was 18, though, he would do something that would lead to this Gondorian society icon's downfall.

It was on his 18th birthday that Grigori would do what he had longed to do for alnmost 2 years: wrestle weasels. As the bag was held above his head he prepared himself, and as 12 screaming weasels fell upon him he became a machine. He killed every weasel in 15 seconds- a new Minas Tirith record! Things kept getting better for G.T.. Weasels were followed by stoats, who were succeeded by pine martins. It seemed that no bagful of small creatures could overcome Gondorian weasel wrestling's golden boy. But inside, Grigori T. Mothwell wanted more. The wine, the women, the money- they were all just passing pleasures. Grigori yearned for a bigger challenge: a challenge no woman could ever satisfy. He was not disappointed.

It was on the last day of 2900 that Grigori would finally meet his match: a tag team of badgers. The match started well, but soon the badgers got out of control. Refusing to tag, they double-teamed G.T. and soon took advantage. One referee tried to stop the heinousity- he went home in a body-bag. Finally the badgers stopped the carnage, but Grigori Theodore Mothwell would never be the same again.

Grigori Theodore was horribly scarred and disfigured. He fled Gondor and kept going long after he knew was safe. Finally he was discovered, but by a band of orc raiders. They imprisoned him and returned him to Minas Morgul. There Grigori served many purposes, some less savoury than others. The orcs came to call him 'Gothmog', their lazy elocution evident. Slowly but surely, Gothmog ascended through the ranks, using the skills he had learned in the weasel pits of Minas Tirith to good use in the political back alleys of Minas Morgul.

Of course, we all know where the story ends up: Gothmog ascended to the heady heights of lieutenant of Minas Morgul. Eventually he would march upon Minas Tirith, and in some way have his revenge. However, legend still says that on a still night in the Morgul Vale, the wail of Gothmog can be heard, searching as he does for those thrice-cursed badgers.