A Hobbitwork Orange by Anthony Burgess
There was me, that is Frodo, and my three droogs, that was Samwise, Meriadoc, and Peregrin, and we sat in the Prancing Pony Milkbar. We were peeting milk of the Big Folk that evening, a lovely mixture that would get you feeling real horrorshow and ready for a bit of the ol’ in and out. The lovely devotchka Rose was batting the glazzies with Samwise, but we’ve got time for a little twenty to one later I tell him.
O’ Brother, I could vivid old Gandolf now if I had me hands on his warbles right square this evening. A meeting his dishonest gulliver had promised yours truly, as we stroll into the bar still young Malchins by hobbit standards, and a bit overmatched at the moment. A real bruiserboy of Ranger sat in the corner eyeing yours truly as if he wanted a little gavoreeting with me all lovely like while he swibbled his pipe.
‘Aye!’ Samwise whits to me as the hairs stand on his plod real horrorshow like, ‘I don’t care for this place. Nothing but trouble in here I say. ‘ Patience my little droog, it’s time for a bit of investigatin.
‘Hello hello good sir.’ I announce to the Ranger as I wack him in the garbles. ‘Lets have a bit of fun with the Nazguls, eh me brother.’ And so it was that we came into the company of Strider, a big fella with a like silver sword with the names of different malchicks on the blade, supposedly victims to the smiling edge of the wicked little poker.
Leaving the bar we headed for Weathertop, a favorite of the skivits of old, and a place guaranteeing a bit of action for me droogs.
‘Well wakey wakey, who do we have gracing our presence this bitter eve’ I ask as a gully little group of Nazgul start plodding up the hill toward me droogs and I. ‘I’d say we shan’t get any spatchka this night right?”
‘Right Right’ Aragorn replied as his mind turned from thoughts of pretty polly, to thoughts of the real horrorshow to follow.
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