If LotR had been written by someone else!?

[Mister Underhill]

LotR by RAYMOND CHANDLER

An excerpt from a tale of that world-weary, hard-boiled private investigator, Philip Frodo.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Book I - Chapter 13

I drove south from Overhill but I didn’t go home. At the East Road I turned east and swung out past Frogmorton, Whitfurrows, and Stock. There was nothing lonely about the trip. There never is on that road. Fast lads in stripped down buggies shot in and out of traffic streams, missing the bigger wagons by a sixteenth of an inch, but somehow always missing them. Tired Hobbits in dusty carts and carriages winced and tightened their grip on the reins and ploughed south and east towards home and dinner, an evening with the family genealogical charts, the barking of their flea-ridden dogs, the whining of their spoiled children and the gabble of their silly wives.

Behind the Bucklebury Ferry an occasional light winked from the hills. The holes of the high-class Hobbits. High-class Hobbits, phooey. The veterans of a thousand scandals. Hold it, Frodo, you’re not a Hobbit tonight.

The air got cooler. The highway narrowed. I ate dinner at a place near Rushy. Bad but quick. Feed ‘em and throw ‘em out. Lots of business. We can’t bother with you sitting over your second cup of coffee, mister. You’re using money space. See those Hobbits over there behind the rope? They want to eat. Anyway, they think they have to. Eru knows why they want to eat here. They could do better at home out of the back of the larder. They’re just restless. Like you. They have to get the wagon out and go somewhere. Sucker-bait for the racketeers that have taken over the inns. Here we go again. You’re not a Hobbit tonight, Frodo.

All right. Why would I be? I’m sitting in that Hobbit-hole, playing with a dead fly and in pops this dowdy little item from Bree and chisels me down to a shop-worn silver penny to find her brother. He sounds like a creep but she wants to find him. So with this fortune clasped to my chest, I trundle down to Bywater and the routine I go through is so tired I’m half asleep on my feet. I meet nice people, with and without daggers in their necks. I leave, and I leave myself wide-open too. Then she comes in and takes the silver penny away from me and gives me a kiss and gives it back to me because I didn’t do a full day’s work.

So I go see Aragorn son of Arathorn, retired (and how) Ranger from Lothlórien, and meet again the new style in neckwear. And I don’t tell the Shirriffs. I just frisk the customer’s toupee and put on an act. Why? Who am I cutting my throat for this time? A blonde with sexy foot-hair and too many door keys? A lass from Bree? I don’t know. All I know is that something isn’t what it seems and the old tired but always reliable hunch tells me that if the hand is played the way it is dealt the wrong person is going to lose the pot. Is that my business? Well, what is my business? Do I know? Did I ever know? Let’s not go into that. You’re not a Hobbit tonight, Frodo. Maybe I never was or ever will be. Maybe I’m an orc-spawn with a private license. Maybe we all get like this in the cold half-lit world where always the wrong thing happens and never the right.

[The Squatter of Amon Rûdh]

Thanks for that glimpse of a more cynical and hard-bitten Frodo, Underhill. It now remains to be seen only how JRRT would have handled sardonic detective fiction.

Earlier on, a Middle-earth version of Blackadder was mooted. It is now possible through the magic of satire to reveal what Messrs. Curtis and Elton would have made of the great War of the Ring.

Bagadder Goes Forth Episode I, by Richard Curtis and Ben Elton. Adapted for Tolkien-vision by The Squatter of Amon Rûdh, with apologies to all parties.

SCENE ONE: BAG END

A comfortably appointed dug-out in the middle of Hobbiton. There is a general atmosphere of pipe-weed. It contains table, chair, settee, Captain Bagadder and Private Samwise Baldrick.

Bagadder is reading, but there is a tiny annoying scratching sound. He shifts slightly, trying to ignore it but finally can't.

Bagadder
Samwise, what are you doing out there?

Baldrick
I'm carving something on this Orc-arrow, sir.

That's the scratching noise

Bagadder
What are you carving?

Baldrick
I'm carving 'Samwise', sir.

Bagadder
Why?

Baldrick
It's a cunning plan, actually.

Bagadder
Of course it is.

Baldrick
You know they say that somewhere there's an arrow with your name on it?

Bagadder
Yes.

Baldrick
Well, I thought if I owned the arrow with my name on it, then I'd never get hit by it. 'Cause I won't ever shoot myself.

Bagadder
Shame.

Baldrick
And the chances of there being two arrows with my name on them are very small indeed.

Bagadder
Yes, that's not he only thing round here that's very small indeed. Your brain, for example, is so minute, Samwise, that if a hungry cannibal cracked your head open, there wouldn't be enough inside to cover a small water biscuit.

Lieutenant Peregrin Took enters, with a strange parcel and a wood-cut. He is a very enthusiastic, bright-eyed and bubble-headed young officer.

Pippin
Tally-ho, pip, pip and Bernard's your uncle.

Bagadder
In Westron we say 'Good morning'.

Pippin
(Excited) Look what I've got for you, sir!

Bagadder
What?

Samwise goes back outside into the garden

Pippin
The latest issue of Thain and Shire. Damn' inspiring stuff. "The magazine that tells the Hobbits the truth about the war."

Bagadder
Or, alternatively, the greatest work of fiction since vows of non-violence were included in the Mordorian national anthem.

Pippin
Come, come, sir, you can't deny that this fine newspaper is good for the morale of the men.

Bagadder
Certainly not. I just feel that more could be achieved by giving them some real toilet paper.

Pippin
Not with you at all, sir. What could any patriotic chap have against this magnificent mag?

Bagadder
Apart from his bottom?

Pippin
Yes.

Bagadder
Well, look at it. This stuff's about as convincing as Morgoth Bauglir's defence lawyer! The Shire Hobbits are all portrayed as four foot six with biceps the size of Bree.

Pippin
Exactly - thoroughly inspiring stuff. Oh, and look, sir, this also arrived for you this morning.

Pippin holds out a short sword wrapped in a brown paper bag. Bagadder unwraps it and handles it thoughtfully

Bagadder
Do you know what this is, Lieutenant?

Pippin
Why, it's a good old barrow-blade.

Bagadder
Wrong - it's a brand new barrow-blade, which I've suspiciously been sent without asking for it. I smell something fishy, and I'm not talking about the contents of Sam's rabbit stew.

Pippin
That's funny: we didn't ask for those new trench-climbing ladders either.

Bagadder
New ladders?

Pippin
Yes, sir. Came yesterday. I issued them to the Hobbits and they were absolutely thrilled.

He shouts out into the garden

Isn't that right, hobbits?

Pt. S. Baldrick appears at the window, suspiciously quickly

Baldrick
Yes, sir. First solid fuel we've had since we burned the cat, sir.

Bagadder goes out into the garden, followed by Pippin

Bagadder
Mmm - something's going on, and I think I can make an educated guess what it is - something which you, Pippin, would find hard to do.

Pippin
True. When I was at school, education could go hang as long as a boy could hit a six, sing the school song very loud and take a hot crumpet from behind without blubbing.

Bagadder
Yes. I, on the other hand, am a fully rounded Elf-friend, with a degree from the University of Life, a diploma from the school of hard knocks and three gold stars from the kindergarten of getting the stuffing kicked out of me. And my instincts lead me to believe that we are at last about to go over the top.

Pippin
Great Scott, sir! You don't mean that the moment's finally arrived to give Harry Uruk a darn good Tookland-style thrashing, six of the best, trousers down?

Bagadder
If you mean 'Are we all going to get killed?', yes. Clearly Field Marshal Gandalf is about to make yet another gargantuan effort to move his tobacco jar six inches closer to Barad-dûr.

[Kransha]

Pardon me, but I just realized how dreadfully illiterate my last post in this thread was. Oh, the blatant horror! I believe that was written in a drunken state (Vodka and Tolkien do not mix, m'lads). But now, I shall return to this thread with somethings a bit more on the literate end of the spctrum. Inform me instantaneously if these have been done before and I did not notice...

Lord of the Rings by George Orwell
~TA 3019: Big Balrog is Watching You~

The eye followed him, as it almost always did, the fiery eye, lidless and surrounded by prongs of fire that always struck deep into empty hearts, the ones that had fallen into that eye's thrall. Situated neatly at the terminating pinnacle of Barad-dur, the eye scanned its lands with malevolent greed, overlooking every orcish warren, every uniform apartment complex, every cubicle of living quarters for each miserable, wretched servant to the whims of Sauron. The eye, tempting and tantalizing to those wavering, unquestioning individuals who bowed their heads each day to it, swivelled in its place between two great and jagged daggers of metal, its pupil tracing the rocky countryside as an inspector would.

Argluk, a charcoal-skinned uruk of the Gorgoroth strand, genetically, leaned against the icy ebony metal of Cirith Ungol's walls, trying as hard as his feeble brain could accomodate not to look at the rectangular, smoother device that had been set precariously into the far wall. Though the screen was inevitably blank, Argluk had never entertained the thought that it was not staring directly at him, since all his days of conditioning, at what little teaching he had recieved taught him that every one of the palantiscreens was looking directly at him and no one else. The other students in his class had been told the same, that the palantiscreens focused on them, but Argluk was sure that this had just been a ruse used by his clever teacher to distract them, for it was simply obviopous that the blank screens, pools of liquid black, had been looking directly at him since the day he'd been born. He would not hear anyone question the matter, for it would be easily dismissable as a Gondorohanian lie if he was told otherwise.

He got up, slowly, though his legs were obviously trying to tell him otherwise, and walked across the room. Though he was trying not to look suspicious, he knew that trying not to look suspicious was more suspicious than being suspicious in the first place. Far away from the complex he strolled through, a cloaked man withh gauntleted fingers steepled before him, hood low over his head, sitting in a plush chair in the Department of Tenderness (better known as Minas Morgul) was watching him, him and only him, waiting for him to do something wrong...

Lord of the Rings by Joseph Conrad
~Shooting an Oliphaunt~

The sun, a luminous sphere, hovering delicately like some porcelain mobile rotating mellifluously in the oceanic heavens, began to crest the sloping horizon slowly, oozing into its familiar arc over the dappled sky, littered with the visage of many obstreperous clouds. Pellets of aimless rain caressed the front of my helm, sliding over the shimmering metal and leaving it with an impassive sheen that reflected the vague flashes of thundrous energy that resonated with reserved quietness behind the clouds' wreathing cape, overshadowing the temporary bursts of light. The crystalline droplets, sprinkling ungrateful earth with lively briskness, continued to speckle the landscape, shrugging off the ominous rumblings that swelled with dank fervor in the billowing smog distant.

As I walked, muddy earth fluctuating weakly beneath the worn soles of my boots, my dark brow was knitted and focused diligently upon the rough beast that stood, braying with an inborn fury, between the creaking stumps of monstrous trees not far off. My gloved hand, wrapped in leathery gloves and bound with tattered cloth, moved speedily to the familiar feel of my primary device, the unstrung bow of furnished, splinter-less oak that hung in neglect at my left shoulder, humming in a fashion that suggested I should pick it up. I heard the call, as so often I did, and hummed with it, thinking back to the veil that had descended over my past, the stinging pangs, poisoned and venemous, emitting gentle chimes within me to protest my actions as I plucked the wooden bow from my back and tugged fiercely upon the cord I was required to attatch. It was, as always, a process wrought with the thumping drum of tedium, which only added to my distraction.

All that I knew was, the Oliphaunt must be taken down and I, not caring of the many hapless, unwary men who lurked and scurried across the disigured hulk set upon its rough-skinned back, must be the one to take it down. As my fingers, cold and numbed by ill weather and ill worries, anxiety pulsing against the innards of my skull, found the shaft of the arrows slid into my reverberating quiver, I pulled the bolt from its holdings and set it upon my cupped hand, aiming it with acute precision as I leveled it, using each of the bow's numerous notches, at the beast. Without hesitation, a thousand fiery thoughts coursing through my mind and resounding as church bells would in a silent land, I let loose and watched the arrow fly...

Lord of the Rings by P.G. Woodhouse
~What ho, Erkenbrand!~

It was a cold day in the Westfold; so cold, in fact, that the furry creatures of the plains had taken to killing each other and manufacturing fur coats from the remains that would've turned Edoras high society invariably green with envy. Thec trees swayed foolishly, some of the younger ones rebelling against their more experienced peers and attempting to sway in the opposite direction, but the harsh justicator of wind soon put them all in their place and the trees, sighing mournfully, returned to their melancholy conformity.

Pushing aside his satin tent flap with a pale, smooth hand, Dunhere walked into the crisp breeze and sucked in a deep breath of the gentle natural wonder, pausing to spit out a rogue insect that had been basking carelessly. Flicking strands of grass from his gleaming breastplate of peacock-colored, gaudy hue that brightened and darkened so many wizened faces that glanced at him with pallid expressions as he passed, shaking their heads sadly as his own oversized cranium remained elevated, never deiging to look down on the others until he saw the only man he felt he could twist a few neglected vertebrae to look upon.

"Jolly good day, eh Erky?" he said, a cocky smile peeling across his face as the men behind him broke into peals of raucous giggling which, somehow, he didn't notice.

Erkenbrand was sitting, squat legged, beside the dead embers of what had been a roaring fireplace, sipping a chalice of smoky tea cupped between his index and middle finger conservatively and taking momentary breaks to take in ample draughts from his pipe and puff out melodious rings of fine, gray gas. "Indeed, sir, it is a fine day," he said at last, driving the conversation further into nowhere than it had been a moment ago, "Expect we'll be on the trail of the Hun again, yes?"

"Oh yes," murmured Dunhere, squatting beside his technical commander, "I don't doubt we'll be a-catching on up to the Mordor devils afore the day is out. And then we'll have a fine little bout with 'em and report back to ol' Kingy. He'll be pleased a-plenty with the job we did, wot."

"I have it, sir," replied Erkenbrand, his brow severely knitted as his spoke, nursing his libations, "from very good authority, that 'Kingy' has not been right in the head lately. Perhaps he should be duly avoided, simply until we recieve news to the contrary. T'would not be a good idea to disturb master Theoden in the troes of insanity." Dunhere shot him one of those accustomed are-you-sure-you're-not-the-one-who's-crazy? looks and nodded studiously, shaking his head when Erkenbrand's turned.

"Not right in the head? That'll be Wormtongue puttin' lies in his head, it will. Seeing as how you seem to have the know of things, we'll stick out here. We can head on down to the Hornburg in a day or so, say 'ello to that chap, Gamling, and have a jolly dip in the Entwash." Erkenbrand responded with a curt gesture of the head and slowly mounted his tired legs after Dunhere hopped nimbly onto his own. In a flash, with a veritable train of half-sleeping Rohirrim behind them, they were off...

[tar-ancalime]

Day breaks in Gondor.
Gold melts into the mountain.
The Third Age closes.