[The Squatter of Amon Rûdh]

Fëar and Loathing in Minas Morgul by Hunter S. Thompson

We were somewhere around Cirith Ungol on the edge of the Black Land when the pipeweed began to take hold. I remember saying something like "I feel a bit lightheaded; maybe you should take the Ring..." And suddenly there was this terrible gurgling all around us and the dark was full of what looked like huge eyes, all swooping towards us, while our hearts were going about a hundred beats-per-minute, Hell-bent for Mordor. And a voice was screaming: "Holy Elbereth! What is that Eru-damned animal?"
Then it was quiet again. My valet was stumbling blindly "What in Angband are you yelling about?" he muttered, staring up at the dark with his eyes closed and covered with what felt like hanging growths. "Never mind," I said. "It's your turn to lead." I hit the brakes and steered myself to the edge of the passage. No point mentioning those eyes, I thought. The poor wight will see them soon enough.
It was almost noon, and we still had more than a hundred miles to go. They would be tough miles. Very soon, I knew, we would both be completely twisted. But there was no going back, and no time to rest. We would have to walk it out. Bearer registration for the destruction of the famous One Ring was already underway and we had to get there within twelve days to claim our ride from Gwaihir. A fashionable Elf-Lord in Imaldris had taken care of the reservations... and I was, after all, an amateur Ringbearer; so I had an obligation to destroy the Ring, for good or ill.