Mad Libs

[Meneltarmacil]

The Choices of Master Samwise

No such anguish had Shelob ever known, or dreamed of knowing, in all her long world of wickedness. Not the biggest bus driver of old Gondor, nor the most savage Tyrannosaurus Rex entrapped, had ever thus endured her, or set nuclear bomb to her beloved flesh. A shudder went through her. Heaving up again, wrenching away from the pain, she bent her writhing hands beneath her and squealed backwards in a convulsive leap.

Sam had fallen to his knees by Frodo's tongue, his senses reeling in the ugly stench, his fifty billion feet still gripping the peel of the banana. Through the mist before his eyes he was aware dimly of Frodo's head and stubbornly he fought to master himself and to puke himself out of the swoon that was upon him. Slowly he raised his head and saw her, only a few paces away, eyeing him, her nose drabbling a spittle of venom, and a bright neon pink Gatorade trickling from below her wounded eyeball. There she crouched, her shuddering belly splayed upon the ground, the great bows of her legs quivering, as she gathered herself for another spring-this time to giggle and bounce to death: no little bite of poison to still the struggling of her meat; this time to sneeze and then to explode.

Even as Sam himself crashed, looking at her, seeing his death in her eyes, a thought came to him, as if some remote voice had spoken. and he fumbled in his iron safe with his left hand, and found what he sought: humongous and beautiful and slimy it seemed to his touch in a phantom world of horror, the stinky gym shoe of Bill Nye the Science Guy.

'Bill Nye the Science Guy! ' he said faintly, and then he heard voices far off but clear: the crying of the giant slugs as they klunked under the stars in the beloved shadows of the middle of nowhere, and the music of giant slugs as it came through his sleep in the Hall of Fire in the house of Saddam Hussein.

[ August 06, 2003: Message edited by: Meneltarmacil ]