Assigned to Mordor RPG

[Encaitare]

Over the next few hours, Wilhelmina obtained a new cell phone with a frog ringtone, a diamond bracelet, a kitten, a bunch of Disney movies, a lawn mower, several boring books that had interesting covers, and an empty tube of chapstick, all at the expense of one Mr. Karís Mâtiktwít, who was currently trying to carry all these down the sidewalk. Being a bit hard-of-hearing as she was, she could not hear him muttering to the kamuraman, who, at her insistence, had gotten his sparse hair dyed magenta: "Old hag gets famous by dumb luck and suddenly she thinks she's some kind of princess." However, she knew he was thinking it, which was just what she wanted.

"You know what would be really excellent?" she said, stopping short and turning around.

"A breather?" Karís gasped through the sweat pouring down his face.

"No," Wilhelmina said sweetly. "If you got me that PT Cruiser over there. The yellow and lavender one."

"We've got... to get to... Edge-Where..."

"Yes, and it will be much faster if we can drive!"

"In this traffic? Are you... are you crazy???"

"Young man, are you questioning me?"

Karís wiped at his forehead in trepidation. "No, ma'am."

"Good. Then you won't mind getting the car. Perhaps you can give its owner that lawn mower as compensation."

~*~*~*~*~

"Oh, you won't be coming with me," were both the most wonderful and the most terrible words that Karís had ever heard. His face contorted into horrible faces as he tried to decide whether he should be overjoyed or horrified. He settled with simply confused.

"But... what about the show? I'll be out of a job! I'll be ruined!"

"Hmmm...." said Wilhelmina, leaning out of the car window. "Oh, I've got a simply smashing idea! You remember how you said sex sells?"

Karís nodded, hoping she wasn't about to suggest he adopt a new, promiscuous lifestyle.

"All you have to do is find a new star! Get someone else from the Offending Party!" Actually, it wasn't a half bad idea, Karís realized. But there were problems.

"But the contract is for you!" He added a silent 'unfortunately' in his head. "Anakron--"

"Pish-posh on Anakron; think of the ratings you'll get with young, happening stars! I happen to know where you can find a few others from the Offending Party."

"Where? Where?" simpered Karís, Double Dragon signs dancing in his eyes.

"Oh, some place called RCA," said Wilhelmina. "Best of luck!" And with that, she pulled out into traffic, prepared to terrorize the roadways of Lûndûn.

[Durelin]

Ever since he had stepped over the ‘threshold,’ Valde knew that his ‘hero’s journey’ would undoubtedly have more than three ‘trials and tribulations.’ And whoever determined that a hero only experienced one ‘abyss’ had no knowledge of a true tragic hero. Once his story was recorded in a diary even more heart-wrenching than any young girl could write; was adapted to the screen over thirteen times, inspiring both a tv show and hundreds of young emo teens to kill themselves; was translated into over thirty different languages; and made millions of dollars off an ‘adopt a tragic hero’ campaign, Valde would show the world.

He was now experiencing one long abyss. His tale had darkened just as the day did, for it was late evening when he fell right out of his leading role in Spamlet, and it grew dark, as the world is wont to do at night. The stars were no comfort to him, and indeed he only watched their brightness and yearned to be like them, a large ball of burning gas that no one could ignore the death of. He wandered in what he had been told was the general direction of ‘Edge-where,’ and stopped only once at a particular shop.

It was the sign out front that had intrigued him: Elenbucks. He spent several moments looking at a small Art of the Modern Orc exhibit, making an effort to seem like he knew how to appreciate art and trying not to see the shady looking hobbits in the corner smoking pipeweed, before he ordered a drink: A ‘Mírdain Mocha’ something, for 4 trolls. Taking his drink with him, he soon discovered some after effects of ingesting an Elenbucks drink. Sleep did not seem like such a good idea anymore. He felt full of energy, and indeed he found that his pace quickened and the depressing poetry in his head was playing pinball. “Is this the way to ‘Edge-where,’” he would ask every passer-by, pointing in a different direction every time. Some answered him, but most did not, seeing his dilated pupils and suspicious looking large black cloak and practically breaking into a run to escape being seen with him. The orcs in the dark alleys were normally nicer to him than anyone else.

Just after dawn, the Lead Tragic Actor did arrive in ‘Edge-where,’ in a very tragic state indeed. The effects of his Mírdain Mocha something were wearing off rapidly, and he was feeling the results of a sleepless night spent walking the streets of the city. It really doesn’t sleep…no wonder it looks the way it does, Valde thought upon inspecting himself quickly in the hazy reflection in a window before stumbling slowly up to where the rest of the Offending Party, looking much more rested and well-groomed, were hopping into ugly cars and turning into equally as ugly orcs. Valde hoped that whatever car he chose, the colour of his skin might match the interior, knowing how un-politically correct that sounded.

He was making a show of being as the injured bull, weak but still full of anger and pride, doing his best to hide his injury, and fueled by the rage of being brought down to the level of the maimed. Certainly his pride was maimed at being last, and he clutched his heart as the Anakron announced that he had only received seven points. Strange that it would be such a number, though. He considered the dramatic irony of it all, if it were a play. Everyone would know that seven would be his death number, as prophesized by… His thoughts were broken by Lûgnût handing him a pile of Trolls and his driver’s license. It seemed the orc was getting sick of administering the RET, as he only waited for Valde to show that he could see the bag of money being waved in his face to determine that the man was up for driving.

Hopping into a hideous yellow PT Cruiser, he groaned as a kamura was shoved in his face. He quickly checked himself in the rear view mirror to see that he did not match the interior, and that he had retained his large, brooding eyebrows. He was a little more than half displeased, much like a cup is more than half empty and not almost half full. He eyed the kamuraman suspiciously. After waiting several moments for the kamuraman to cue him, he slowly started the engine after several more hesitations, and swerved away from the curb, switching on what he believed to be some kind of GPS system. Still there was no cue. “What is the point of this…reality show?”

“To please the masses.”

“Then it is drama that you want! And that is what I can give you, my good kamuraman!” He began to recite his tale, and was happy to oblige in giving the kamuraman several handkerchiefs to blow his nose on which he carried solely as a sacrifice of tragedy. “And so, I am here now, struggling to come to amends with my tortured past, and find my true love in a strange new environment after I gamble away my family fortune and look for a way to redeem myself and my honour.”

“But what about the contest?”

“What do you mean, ‘what about the contest?’ Do you have so little insight that you cannot predict the outcome of a typically and superficially dramatic plot? I am going to redeem myself by winning the contest!”

“What about your true love?”

“Oh, yes, that… Well…”

“There have been rumours of Alumìne Umfuìl taking a certain interest in you…”

“Oh really? Well, then, I guess we might as well make it her. Is there a jealous lover involved, by any chance?”

“We could produce one for you, perhaps.”

“Please do.”

Valde then realized he was driving on the sidewalk again, and quickly picked a white line on the black pavement to follow. He heard a thud and a scream. “Did you get that on the kamura?!” he shouted at the kamuraman, conjuring up fake tears in order to better wallow in self pity upon injuring a helpless…child, cat, dog, whatever he felt like making it. He ignored the kamuraman when he said “It was the spare tire you were supposed to take with you, sir…”

[the guy who be short]

Just as he was about to fiddle with the pedals, Fléin was startled by a knock at the window. He turned around to see Wilhelmina, and rolled down the window to speak to her.

"My! You're an Or-"

Fléin cut her off with a hand and a shake of his head towards the back seat.

Wilhelmina looked into the back seat, then looked at Fléin again, a frown on her face. "What?"

"Native Mordorian. I'm a Native Mordorian," he explained. "Not an O-R-C."

Wilhelmina looked up at him, sighed and shook her head. "Those political correctness nutters... They've got you too, have they?"

"Not at all, it's just the - the O-R-C in the back seat. They get a little touchy if you call them... you know what."

"You're crazier than Anakron! What Orc?"

Fléin turned his head a further ninety degrees to see that the kamuraorc was indeed gone. He twisted his head in the other direction in confusion - to find the orc sitting in the passenger seat. He turned back to Wilhelmina.

"He's in the passenger seat now, apparently. What do you want, my lady?"

Wilhelmina didn't respond for a while - Fléin heard another car leaving - and then said "I've never seen an Orc with a beard before you know. Most uncanny, you look just like my uncle Bill, but a little more warty." Her eyes focused again, and she said "I just thought I'd tell you, you need to pack your spare tyres - everybody else has, you know."

Fléin thanked the woman, clambered out of his seat, resuming his former shape, and started packing spare tyres into the boot. To his surprise, Wilhelmina helped - what an odd sight we must make! he thought to himself.

"Mah-vewwouth! Jutht mah-vewwouth!" the Orc from the passenger seat squealed, descending and filming them. "What an odd coupwe you two make."

"Oh, be quiet, you nitwit," Wilhelmina sniped back. She turned to Fléin. "These BBC Orcs... they're enough to drive you nutty. I can't cope with driving - driving, and on these streets! - with only one of them for company. Would you mind if I joined you?"

Fléin happily obliged - some company would be most welcome on the long journey, and, in addition, they'd only need to take one kamuraorc between the two of them. And Wilhelmina seemed by far the most pleasant member of the Offending Party, no dramaticism, no teenage angst, no newcomer confusion, no dodgy wares to sell him, no flashy James Bondisms that made him pale in comparison; simply an old woman with a ferret in her hat. It seemed quite an acceptable trade for the three worst tyres.

Fléin climbed into the driver's seat again, transforming into an orc upon contact with the steering wheel. Wilhelmina got into the passenger seat, forcing the scrawny orc ("You really should stop worrying about offending people; no matter what they call themselves, they're still filthy orcs and always will be") into the extended boot, the back seats being pushed down to create more space, with the seven tyres in varying states of decay.

Fléin twisted the key in the ignition. The car fired up.

Just then, smog descended upon them.

[Feanor of the Peredhil]

As Alli walked, she looked for road signs. She found some, certainly, but the only purpose they seemed to serve was to tell her that she was currently in Mordor and that she should have a nice day. She looked at the kamura bobbing along behind her and cursed (though not quite as colorfully as before, with Mardil) the fog. She couldn't see where she was going and was thankful that there seemed to be no traffic. Suddenly she sprawled on her stomach and hit her head on a rock, causing her forehead to split open and bleed down the side of her face. This did not much improve her disposition.

When she could see straight again, she pulled a spare bit of cotton from her bag and pressed it firmly to her injury. Once the bleeding had stopped, or at least slowed a lot, she took a look at what she'd tripped over: a body.

Ugh... why is it always me that has to deal with this sort of thing? she asked moodily, conveniently forgetting that she'd never actually ever had to deal with an abandoned body. A breeze blew the fog away enough that she could see his bruised face: Hookbill the Goomba.

Alli beckoned to the kamura-man. "Do you have any experience with injuries? I'm good enough at fixing my own but I don't want to hurt him any more than he already is."

Hookbill groaned and spoke, flinching away from the kamura-man's (conveniently a doctor also) touch. "It was... Màrîo." And then he fainted and [even more conveniently] had no more lines in this adventure.

Alli thought for a few moments, beginning to harbor a few ill-wishes toward this Marty-o character. Trouncing all over poor innocents like Hookbill? The Goomba never did anything to Marty-o and yet the fat little hobbit felt the need to walk all over him. And wasn't it this same hobbit that Roggie had mentioned? And-- with this, Alli pulled out the periodical that she had began reading back in Lûndûn. As the kamura-man carried the unconscious body of Hookbill the Goomba to a nearby convenience store for aid, Alli sat on a serendipitously placed rock and flipped to the article. Yes... Màrîo. The kilt-clad man was wanted for attacking him, but here two innocents had been attacked by the very hobbit now being treated as a king in Saint Gimli's Hospital. Did nobody else know? Was the kilt-clad man innocent? Alli stood up, hoisting her bag, and fell back down.

Oops... she thought. Note to self: skipping breakfast and then bleeding profusely aren't good for somebody with low blood pressure. The ground swimming around her feet, Alli pretended that she was no longer dizzy and began to walk. She was on a mission. Who cares about getting out of Mordor, she thought. I have to find out the Truth. I have to make sure the right criminal ends up behind bars.

And then a large gas-guzzling SUV pulled up beside her.

[Celuien]

A lime-green PT Cruiser came careening around a corner, closely followed by a tailgating BBC van.

Bert's kamura bounced. "Careful, now," he protested. "You're ruining the shot. And where are you going?"

"Oh, hush," came the peevish reply. "If you must know, I'm looking for the Wally Market." Panakeia needed to buy some Pearie Ockside Potion - she had no intention of remaining in front of the kamuras with green hair. At the same time, she did not want to be seen making her purchase. She would have to escape Bert, at least for a few moments.

"But why?"

"None of your business," came the short reply.

Bert laughed, a rumbling sound from deep in his throat. "This is reality TV. Everything is our business. Why don't you tell us a little more about yourself?"

Panakeia seized her chance. She wasn't about to give up any information about herself, not just yet, at least, but she wasn't going to miss the opportunity to make a free infomercial. On she went about her highly effective line of health and beauty products. "Best sellers from back home in Harad all the way to, well, just about everywhere." She tried her best to flash a dazzling smile at the camera.

"And you use them yourself, naturally."

"Of course. They're what keep me looking the way I do." Recalling that she was currently in an orcish form, Panakeia realized this might not be the best time to demonstrate the efficacy of her wares. "Well, not like this. The way I look when I'm not an orc. Maybe we should continue this conversation outside." She fell silent.

Then, just ahead in the deepening mist, she saw it. A particularly plain, gray, box-like building, even by Mordorian standards, loomed ahead. Panakeia slammed her foot down on the brake and cut her wheel to the left. The bald tires whined as she slid into the parking lot and stopped. It's getting a bit slippery around out, she thought. She hurried out. "Well, here we are," she announced. Bert started out of the car. "No, you wait here. I'll be right back."

Bert shook his head and tapped the kamura. "Where you go, kamura goes."

"Look, it's not all that interesting. I just need to pick something up. Won't be but a moment."

"Kamura goes with you." Bert was determined.

Panakeia shrugged. "Suit yourself. But this needs to be a quick stop. You'll have to keep up." And with that she set off at full speed to the Wally Market, leaving the slower moving Bert huffing and puffing several paces behind her.

Heads turned in Panakeia's direction as she entered the Wally Market. Catching sight of her reflection in a mirror, she noticed that she still partially in orc form. Two fingers on each hand were now clawed, though shrinking back to their normal size. Her skin retained its green-gray hue, and her teeth were still yellowed and uneven. She approached a smiling greeter. "Health and Beauty. Which way?"

"Just to your left through the clothing section." The greeter stared as Panakeia's transformation completed. What bad manners, staring at me like that, she thought.

Panakeia hurried off, choosing the narrowest possible passage in hopes of further frustrating Bert's efforts to follow her. She would be happy to cooperate with the show, but it was really too embarrassing to be caught buying hair dye. Especially when she was attempting to sell her own competing version.

She reached a counter in the Health and Beauty Section. Bert was still several yards behind, tangled in a rack of discounted clothing. "I'd like a bottle of P.O.P.," she said to a salesman, busily reading a magazine behind the counter.

"P-O-P? Pop? You mean soda," he corrected officiously. "You want the food department, back out front." He gestured in the general direction of the front door and went back to reading his magazine.

"No, not soda, not pop. Why would I come back here for that?"

"Why would you, indeed? I don't know. Now go away. I'm busy."

Panakeia's patience was wearing thin. She knew that Bert would catch up to her soon. "Now, look, you lay-about rascal. I want some P.O.P. Pearie Ockside Potion. And I want it now." She looked over her shoulder anxiously. Bert was still entangled, but he appeared to be making some progress. One leg was now free, and he was working on the other.

"Why didn't you say so in the first place," the salesman cried in an injured tone. "Do I look like a mind-reader? It's right behind you on that shelf. 50 maggots, on special today."

Bert had now escaped the clothes rack. He picked up the kamura and hurried toward Panakeia.

"I'll take a bottle." She grabbed one from the shelf and put it down on the counter along with the 50 maggots. "Please put it in a bag."

"Paper or plastic?"

Bert was at the end on the aisle. "It doesn't matter. Just so you wrap it up. Please hurry." The salesman picked up the bottle with a scowl on his face and tossed it in a paper bag. He threw it down on the counter and stalked off into a back room.

Panakeia picked up her sloppily wrapped package just as Bert came up behind her. "All finished," she called out brightly. "Let's go."

[the guy who be short]

"Er... Wilhelmina? I think we have a little problem here."

"Yes," she looked back, wrinkling her nose in disgust, "I can smell him too."

"I weawwy mutht obzhect!" the orc squealed back. "I-"

"Quiet!" Fléin roared at him. "You, back seat, minimal noise. What do you not get?" The kamuraorc sulked in response, allowing Fléin to turn back to Wilhelmina. "That wasn't, in fact, the problem I was referring to. Er... I don't smell too, do I?"

"What was the problem you meant then?" she responded rather diplomatically.

In response the Dworc pointed at the fuel gauge. It was only about a quarter full. "155 miles at best. 95 at worst."

The pair sat for a little, contemplating. By this time, all the other cars had gone - Alli in that little French Car with no Guts; Panakeia, Valde, Mardil and Sai in the other four Cruisers.

"95 miles isn't that bad. I'm sure there'll be a petrol station on the way. It's only... how far to Mount Doom?"

"225 miles. And I wouldn't count on petrol stations along the way, not in this blasted land."

They debated a little longer, hoping the smog would clear, though it only appeared to get worse as time went on. The idea of siphoning off fuel from the four remaining Little French Cars seemed best, though they needed some method of doing so, and, according to Fléin, there was none without the use of extremely specialised equipment.

"We'll just have to brave it and hope for the best then," Fléin finished, and, turning the key in the ignition and pressing a pedal, proceeded to cause the car to hiccup a lot in a vaguely forward direction.

[littlemanpoet]

Anakron looked up at the sky as the Cruiser bearing away Fléin and Wilhelmina jerked out of the lot. Could the sun be seen, it would be more than halfway towards zenith.

"'Tis time for a change in the weather," Anakron announced dramatically, his sombre face breaking into an amused grin, and he raised his staff. The cat meowed displeasurably.

It started to sleet. Slowly the smog cleared into an uncomfortable but clear and slippery Mordorian duskiness having naught to do with smokey hazes from cracks of doom. No, this was the result of the Anakronism Dweomer as it peculiarly functioned in the land of Mordor.

"Lovely weather, is it not, Lûgnût?"

Lûgnût rolled his or her eyes.

Anakron, not hearing a response, arched his brows, though hidden beneath his wide brimmed hat, and glanced down his nose at the nervy little rat.

"Yes, your Dweomership, sir. Very dwimmer-crafty of you."

"Nonsense." Anakron gazed into the pouring sleet, watching the Dworc's and old womorc's cruiser slip and slide down the road. "Lûgnût, I have a message for Rôgû. Take it down and have it brought to him."

Lûgnût obediently pulled out his/her notepad and began to take down Anakron's dictation.

[Celuien]

Panakeia returned to the parking lot, Bert in tow, to find a little change in the weather. It was bone-chillingly cold, at least for someone who had neglected to bring a coat and was still wearing a lightweight lemon and orange shaded summer gown. Sleet poured down from the sky, battering the ground below.

They came up to the Cruiser to find the kamura crew from the van standing outside in disarray. They had been setting up to film an interview segment with Panakeia when the storm blew in unexpectedly, both ruining the lighting for the film and icing the van doors shut. Now they were struggling to shield their equipment from the elements. An assortment of griping grips and grumpy gaffers ran about snatching various instruments and searching for a place to stow them until the storm passed or the van opened, whichever came first. To the latter end, the orc who had pinned the my crow phone on Panakeia's jewelry blew on the frozen doors, hoping to defrost them.

Panakeia couldn't help being amused at their predicament, even though she had been starting to look forward to a moment in the spotlight. But the choice seemed to be between 15 minutes of fame on a reality program, most likely followed by a rapid descent into obscurity, and reaching her destination on schedule. Panakeia decided that she couldn't wait for them. She started to open the Cruiser, only to find that her doors were also sealed closed by the sleet. "This is awful," she wailed. "I'm soaked. And it's cold." Her teeth chattered.

Blowing on the doors wasn't turning out to be a particularly effective method of freeing them from the ice. "Bewt! Thee ith woo can open the doow," the orc called out.

Bert obliged. The side door to the BBC van sat in his hand, completely detached from the opening it was meant to cover. He set it on the ground. The crew hurried inside the van and huddled on the ground. Panakeia followed, happy to escape the chilly downpour.

"What did woo do that fow? Woo bwoke the doow, woo sthupid twoll!"

"Troll? Stupid? How dare you fling such sterotypical insults at me," howled Bert. An argument broke out. By its end, only three things had been determined. The van obviously could not be driven in its current condition. At the same time, there was no way to fix it. Nor was Panakeia's Cruiser accessible. Until some way of breaking through the frozen sleet could be ascertained, hopefully without breaking the Cruiser in the process, the group was stranded in the Wally Market parking lot.

[Kath]

Sai allowed herself to be moved around, needing every brain cell she had to try and figure out how she was going to keep the TV crew occupied for 30 minutes. Her life certainly wasn’t interesting enough to fill that time slot, and even if it were she wasn’t about to tell it to the whole world. She could usually think up a lie at the drop of a hat, but she seemed to be experiencing a brain freeze that was making it hard for her to do so. All too soon she was sat facing a kamura, and a man stepped in front of her and began to count down.

“3 . . . 2 . . . 1 . . . and we are live with Sai Onara, one of the 7 members of the Offending Party who had kindly agreed to tell us her life story. Over to you Sai.”

Suddenly he moved aside, leaving Sai in direct line of sight of the kamura. Terrified she sat in silence for a moment and then, seeing the looks of impatience on the faces of those around her she took hold of the lie that while not the most convincing was definitely one she could spin out for a reasonable length of time, and began to tell her ‘life story’. She just hoped that no one who saw the programme had ever been able to stomach Shakespeare or the old fairy tales!

"Well, I suppose it all began when my parents ànne Urotîk and Carb Onara met. Their courtship and marriage were both rather clandestine affairs, as their parents were rival families and would never have condoned the relationship. My mother carried me in secret for 9 months, but the truth was discovered when I was born and a trap was set to prove it. My father was followed to where my mother lay recuperating, and he was told that she had died from the stress of childbirth. Distraught my father tried to throw himself upon his dagger, but he missed and fell through the door into my mother’s bedroom, finally cracking his head open on my crib. Hearing the noise my mother awoke and got up to see what the commotion was, but she was weak and disoriented and slipped in a nasty puddle cause by a dog that couldn't be housebroken , falling forwards and impaling herself on the very dagger my father had used to try and kill himself. And so it was that they both died, just hours after my birth. I’m not sure I’ve ever really stopped blaming myself!"

Here Sai took a moment to collect herself, knowing that she needed now to show ‘appropriate’ emotions. Her tears weren’t entirely fake, as she was having to bite her cheek hard to keep her laughter in check. Still, they weren’t bad enough that she needed the used hanky that was passed to her. Looking up again she made a show of setting her shoulders and carried on.

"I was an orphan, alone and helpless. My father's brother took me in, and for a while I was happy for he was a good and kind man. But soon after my 8th birthday he married a woman who was neither good nor kind, but cruel and wicked, as were the two daughters she brought with her – Uglià Sin and Mary. Between the three of them they made my life a misery."

And Sai began to regale them with tales of the 'bullying' she had received at the hands of these three women, wondering just how long she was going to have to keep talking because she was running out of ideas! Just as she thought she was going to have to start making up some ridiculous story about fairy godmothers and the like, she saw Mardil out of the corner of her eye and quickly wrapped up the interview.

"Anway, to cut a long story short, my uncle finally saw the error of his ways and divorced my evil stepmother and we all lived happily ever after."

Jumping up she quickly crossed over to Mardil and hopped into the rather flash new car. After a small detour back to the starting point for Mardil's cloak they were on their way. Mardil had wanted to stop for some food, an idea Sai was certainly not adverse to, but there seemed to be no service stations along the road. There were plenty of signs but every time they reached the mile limit specified there was nothing there. The sleet that had begun to fall was making it difficult to even see the signs anymore, so Mardil began to drive as close to the edge as possible so Sai could see better. She was just straining her eyes to see the next sign when she saw a moving shadow. As they got closer she could make out the figure a little better, and caught sight of a distinctive looking chignon.

"Mardil! Stop the car - it's Alli!"

"What? Where?" came his reply. (And there was a "Who?" from the back as well.)

"Over on the side of the road, pull over. If her car's broken down we can give her a lift."

For a moment it looked to Sai as though Mardil was going to keep on driving, and leave Alli where she was, but a quick glance at the orc in the backseat seemed to convince him to stop, and he pulled over next to the still shadowy figure.

[littlemanpoet]

Anakron stood by the side of the motorway, deep in the road system chasm, at the midpoint between the two arms of mountains that separated Nûrn from the northern reaches of Mordor where lay the pitted lands of great renown from the War of the Ring. How he had gotten there was a mystery, as it seemed to belie all possibility. But he was, after all, the Grand Anakronist.

It was high noon, though the sun could not be seen. The Offending Party were making terrible progress. Anakron shrugged; it was still early in the trials.

Anakron raised his staff. The cat yowled. The sleet ended, borne away on a dry, hot wind from the desert of Harad. Dry, hot, sandy wind. Dry, hot, sandy, fast moving wind. Painfully fast.

Anakron pulled his cloak more tightly about him, and raised his staff a second time. Against all seeming possibility, the air, amidst the blowing sand, seemed to flow like water, and slowly coming into focus was a bridge, shaped like a half of a figure eight, switching the road directions, such that north was on the right instead of the left, and vice versa. As cars passed by, the steering wheels inexplicably changed sides of the vehicle without warning, and car after car skidded off the road, some of them crashing, a few of them managing to right themselves and re-enter the flow (such is it was) of traffic.

Anakron raised his staff yet again. Billboards started popping up at irregular intervals, too often and multitudinous, bearing obnoxious pictures and messages. There was Britney Spears grinning at the viewers, words in bold, brash colors, bearing the message, "Kotex fits. Period." There was a stern looking fellow in a top hat and striped pants, pointing at the viewer, seemingly saying, "You are judged by the company you keep." And many, many more.

And the wind heated up the land. In mere minutes, the temperature climbed from almost freezing to sweaty.

"Any time now, Rôgû should be making his appearance," Anakron said under his breath with a satisfied smile.

[Durelin]

Valde continually shot the camera brooding looks, and deftly wiped away beads of sweat that were forming on his temple. Why? Because he was concentrating, of course. This driving stuff was hard work; just ask Steve McQueen. And of course there was the fog, and then the sleet to deal with. Valde was pleased, though. The drastic changes of weather only added to the feel of tension and suspense. If only a good thunderstorm would blow in, then he could have a good brooding moment, and perhaps even a horrific one. But after each change in weather, Valde Delego, wanting only to give the viewers what they wanted, would say to the camera: “Slow down while driving in inclement weather, and be sure to turn on your headlights.” He then punched down on the gas a little harder. “How do I turn on the lights?” he asked, and suddenly a Mr. T voice spoke. “I pity da fool who’s goin’ the wrong way!”

“And so finally, the GPS system came to life, and Valde Delego could breath more freely, if only for a moment,” the kamuraman said, narrating for him.

Valde began following the directions given by the Mr. T voice, and ended up having to turn around and cut across what seemed to be seven lanes of traffic. By the end, even the Mr. T voice was confused. But then the voice decided that it was best to take a few more rights before they no longer made a wrong. Things settled down for a bit, and even the sleet came to an end. But then a terrible wind started raging, and it seemed an entire sandstorm had swallowed up Valde’s Cruiser. He turned to the kamura. “O what lot life leaves me with! First fog, then sleet, then wind, and then…Britney Spears? “Wait…where’d the steering wheel go?” Valde had just enough time to say before his car crashed into a billboard with a stereotypical blonde on it in a pose that was meant to please the masses of a certain kind. Perhaps she was limbering up for…a show; yes, that’s it: a show. The sign actually read “Paint your game face on” in the bottom right hand corner, but Valde wasn’t sure if it was meant to be there or not.

Stepping out of the wrecked car, he was immediately forced to the ground. The kamura man was still in the car. Most of his rigging was knocked over and tangled around him, trapping him. He did not seem to wish to leave the car, though, anyway. Valde found himself to quickly be back to his normal form. He almost wished he was an orc again, though. The rough skin of such a creature, he assumed, would not sting so much as his did from being hit by the sand. He pulled his coat over his head, and tried to rise from the ground, all the while ignoring a voice in his head that sounded like a commercial. “Dry and irritated skin? We know you orcs get it, too. Just admit it! And now you can more easily treat it, with new Orcbond orcish lotion. Soft enough for a man, but strong enough for any orc. Buy some today at your local pharmacy, and turn that cowhide into leather!”

What? he thought.

“That jerky into tenderloins!”

Tender loins?, his mind questioned, What are they trying to sell?

Valde suddenly remembered he was lying on the ground in the middle of a sandstorm. He may not be on the road, but he could hear the cars whirring by, and the sound was too close for comfort. He crawled under his car, feeling it safe to do so, assuming that if it had not blown up yet, then it would not now. And this was on top of the fact that the gas tank had been just about empty. He had observed this, but pretended that he had not so that when the gas did run out, he could surprise the viewers. But now…now those viewers would never know what happened to Valde Delego! They would bury an empty casket twenty five years after his sudden disappearance, and his grave would be in Minas Tirith, the city happy to finally welcome him home. Feeling a Boromir moment coming on, Valde focused his mind on more important matters. He prayed to Ilúvatar that he would still arrive somehow at the correct destination, and fashionably late as well as fashionably battered and worn in appearance. Considering the story of the tortoise and the hare, Valde felt his lack of sleep catching up to him, and soon let his eyes close, forgetting that it was the hare who had fallen asleep, and had lost.

[littlemanpoet]

Official Off-topic Post

I stick out my little finger when drinking any kind of beverage. Its a natural reaction to lifting a beverage-holder in Britain. We Brits have a very slight difference in our blood to the rest of the world's population, completely isolated in our little fingers. It generates a force against most kinds of drink, particularly tea (there is currently a major study being undertaken to discover why) which pushes the finger away from the drink.

Interesting eh?

On another note, why is cheekiness associated with Brits? Anyone have any ideas?

end official off-topic post.

unbeknownst courtesy of Eomer of the Rohirrim

[Encaitare]

A myriad of sounds came from the PT Cruiser: a low and reproachful yell of surprise, a rasy cry of distress, a high shriek of pure terror, and a quieak like that of a small animal which has just been thrown against a soft surface. The car itself had also let out a cry as it was bumped off the road, but all the passengers heard was the squeal of tires. What the vehicle actually said was "OhnoOhnoOhnoUlmosavemeeeeee!!!" (Ulmo is, after all, the Vala whom all motor vehicles hold in the highest regard, since he did indeed drive a car of his own*), but as neither Dwarf, nor woman, nor Orc, nor ferret spoke Automobile, the words were lost on them.

It took Wilhelmina a moment to realize that the steering wheel had magically materialized before her. "Where did you come from?" she wondered aloud. Next to her, Fléin was stamping his feet in search of pedals which were no longer there either, and it dawned upon the old woman that it would be a good idea to stop the car.

"I hope you don't mind driving a bit more," Wilhelmina said to her companion, hopping out of the car. She'd already begun to turn a bit Orkish even from the short time behind the wheel, and she disliked the sensation very much.

As they got back on the road, the Cruiser only a little worse for the wear, it became apparent that a number of changes had been made on the surrounding area.

"Kotekth fith, pewiod? What'th that thuppothed to mean?" the kamuraorc inquired curiously.

Wilhelmina did not care to enlighten him about feminine hygiene, and instead said, "Goodness, it's getting toasty!" She tried rolling the window down, but the hot wind blew dust in her face.

"This'll be Anakron's doing," Fléin said darkly. "Let's hope he keeps the tricks in his sleeve for a while."

They did not know it, but at that precise moment, two very strange things were happening.

Not far from the road was a garish poster five stories high. It displayed the silhouette of a goblin, frozen in the middle of an awkward dance move. One word accompanied the image: iOrc. While the sign was unsightly, and only a few people at that point actually knew what an iAnything was, that was not the strange part. The monstrous ape currently scaling the sign held that office.

And very, very far away, Ulmo was wondering why he had just had a number of cars crying out to him for help. "Must be another bloody pile-up in Lûndûn," he grumbled. "I do hope the tow trucks come this time." He put his blue convertible in Drive, cranked up the Beach Boys, and decided to go see if there were any heroes who might need directions to Gondolin.


*"Behold now Ulmo leapt upon his car before the doorway of his palace below the still waters of the Outer Sea" - Book of Lost Tales 2

[the phantom]

Soon after leaving Edge-Where, it began sleeting. "This is exactly why I wanted an SUV with four wheel drive, anti-lock brakes, and quality tires," said orc-Mardil as the SUV sped past yet another car that had slid off the road.

"When will we arrive at Mount Doom?" asked Sai.

"Oh, it isn't far," said Mardil. "We left Edge-Where at 9:00 AM and it's about 225 miles to Mount Doom. Even if this weather persists, we will arrive at Mount Doom around 1:00 PM- unless we encounter some delays."

"Is that likely?" asked Sai.

"Yes," answered Mardil.

"How long do you think that might take?" asked Sai.

"It depends on what the delay is for," said Mardil with a hint of hostility. "We should leave the radio on the traffic station. That way, if we have advanced warning we can take an alternate route."

"Aren't most roads besides the Interstate in really poor condition?"

"Yes, Sai," said Mardil slowly, barely restraining his wrath, "But this vehicle can handle it. Any other questions, or are you finished bugging me?"

"Hey, Mardil, calm down. Your orcish form is making you irritable," said Sai.

"Yeah, I guess you're right," said Mardil. Mardil slumped a bit in his chair, took several deep breaths, and began humming in an effort to calm his nerves.

Suddenly Sai burst out, "Mardil! Stop the car - it's Alli!"

"Wha- where?" stuttered Mardil, bringing his mind back to the present.

"Over on the side of the road," answered Sai. "Pull over! If her car's broken down we can give her a lift."

For a moment, Mardil's mind fluttered back to the rescue from the balrog. He had put himself at risk and gotten Alli to Edge-Where just in time to receive full points-and she had repaid this favor by first yelling at him and then avoiding him. "Over-emotional, irrational girl!" he thought. "I really don't feel like having her along. Once again, I'm saving her, and once again she probably won't have anything good to say to me. But, I hate to leave her with everyone watching." Mardil looked back at Orckel. He had his camera up and had it fixed on Alli as the SUV sped past. She was staggering. Mardil wasn't certain, but it looked like the side of her face was bloody.

Cursing mentally, Mardil pulled over onto the shoulder and came to a stop. Sai gave a sigh of relief. Mardil put the vehicle into reverse and backed up until they were within twenty yards of Alli. As Mardil exited the vehicle, Alli fell to the ground. Rushing forward, Mardil scooped her up and brought her back to the SUV and deposited her in the back seat (after ordering Orckel to climb back into the rear with the spare tires). For the next twenty minutes of the drive, Alli could be heard murmuring a constant stream of unintelligible words with a "Mardil" thrown in every once and a while.

[Feanor of the Peredhil]

Alli lost train of thought. One moment she was muttering obscenities about the state of Mordor and her mood and then next there was a gas-guzzling SUV next to her and suddenly she fell.

It was a rather odd sensation; she knew that she wasn't awake, but she also knew she wasn't really sleeping. She could have sworn that she was lifted gently as a sleeping child by strong, warm arms... but she also could have sworn that she was flying... and besides... her swearing of late had been frowned upon by the more conservative members of her kamura crew. Somehow she floated between consciousness and she could feel the ground moving beneath her. Had Roggie come back? She was warm again.

She started to see things. She knew they were dreams, but they seemed so real.

Mardil came toward her. She backed away stubbornly. There was a white horse involved in the vision and the words "happily ever after" flitted through her head. She groaned and muttered "No... no... go away."

Her father was there. He hugged his daughter as she returned home. He was so glad to see her.

He turned into Valde. His eyebrows overwhelmed her. "Tweeze." she mumbled.

She was holding a baby. He was clad in a black cape with dark and sinister eyes. He gurgled happily and she pushed his hood back. Eyebrows again. "Wax." she moaned desparately.

She was on the Jerry Springer Show. Mardil appeared in the audience, chanting "Jerry, Jerry!". "Mardil?" she asked, confused. She wanted very much to escape from this foolish television show. Was he there to save her? No... chivalry was dead. He came on stage. He had on a kilt. A small man in red jumped out from the audience and spat a fireball at him. Mardil was engulfed in flames ("Mardil!") and turned into Roggie of Morgoth. His shadowy form burned steadily and dream Alli stepped backward, shielding herself. "You're so hot." His wings disappeared.

Alli screamed at the horror of a wingless balrog and when the SUV hit a rather large bump she woke with a start and it took a rather long time before it occured to her that the ground wasn't moving so much as that she was laying on the seat of a moving vehicle and before the writer decided to end the sentence. Alli looked up and saw Sai glancing back worriedly. Mardorc concentrated on the road. She suddenly remembered her mission to save the world from the evil Màrîo. Had Mardil "saved" her again? She sat up angrily and fell right back down, blood oozing slightly from her head wound. She hit the back of her head on the door handle. This did not much more improve her disposition.

"Pull.... over...." she ordered firmly through gritted teeth. "and let me the [deleted] out of this gas-guzzling, environment-destroying, too-macho, trying-to-compensate-for-something hunk of moving metal before I let myself out. What right do you have to abduct me AGAIN when I was perfectly fine on my own?!"

[the guy who be short]

Fléin took his hands off the steering wheel, shrinking back to dwarf size. Then, slinking through the gap between the driver and passenger seats, he slid into the back, allowing Wilhelmina to cross over without anything awkward happening, "like my sitting on your lap."

"Woo don't theem to mind thitting on my lap," the still-suspiciously-nameless back seat orc replied. Fléin hit him with the flat of his axe.

A short while later, the Dwarf was once more a Dworc. A raging sandstorm had sprung up, and traffic was at a standstill. How he was meant to perform a turn in the road and get them back in the right direction in this weather, Fléin had no idea.

"Ith that-"

"Shut up," a harmonious chorus intervened.

"Zhiant Monkey!" the orc squealed on regardless.

Fléin and Wilhelmina both strained their eyes. "Yes, I can see where you're coming from," Wilhelmina replied, "that sandcloud does look exactly like a-"

The sandcloud bellowed. Fléorc and Wilhelmina instinctively flung their hands over their respective ears, but they could still feel the beast roaring in their chests. Their heartbeats seems to falter to accomodate the noise.

The ferocity of the storm died down in inverse proportion with the ferocity of the giant ape before them. They could see it clearly now, right in front of the windscreen. Far worse, it could see them clearly, right behind the windscreen.

"Wondewfuw! Wondewfuw thhot!" the orc squirmed in delight. "I wondew how Anakwon doeth it, it'th tho realithtic, ithn't it?"

The ape - King Kong - beat its chest in a cinematic fashion, let out a bellow for its own sake, reached out, and picked the car up in one hand.

Wilhelmina and Fléin ignored the smell of urine suddenly emanating from the back seat.

The ape lifted the car to its face; all that was visible in the windscreen was a gigantic eye, staring into the innards of the cruiser. Admittedly, there was quite a lot of fur visible around it too, but that didn't sound as dramatic. The pupil roved from Fléin to Wilhelmina to the sticky mess in the back seat. Fléin was struggling to keep from following the Orc's example.

Wilhelmina, on the other hand, seemed to find the entire experience exhilarating beyond belief. "Isn't he a beauty?" she said to the quivering dwarf, before turning back to the ape. She rolled down her window and leant out.

"Are you mad? You'll get us both killed!" Fléin whispered urgently at her. A small whimper from the back seat communicated a "I don't want to die either," from the Orc.

But Wilhelmina ignored them both. She stuck her head out of the window, squinting into the failing sandstorm (the ape was blocking off the flow of the air) and screamed, as loudly as her old lungs could manage, "Coooo-eee! Coooooooo-eeeeeee!"

The ape receded a little, then turned his head to look directly at the beaming woman (Why, oh why, did I bring her with me?), and, to Fléin's amazement, beamed back. It roared in glee to spot her face, holding out its other hand for her to climb onto. The Dworc watched, mesmerized, as she stepped out, shielding her face with her hand, and looked up at the creature. "Aren't you a beauty?"

And at that moment, Mr Swanky descended onto the old woman's face. The ape gasped; the ferret stared up at the black muzzle of the monster.

And lo, the beast looked upon the face of beauty, and from that time she (Fléin looked down to check on this point) stayed her hand from killing, and she was as one dead.

The ferret seemed quite pleased about the whole affair too.

[littlemanpoet]

It was two hours past midday. The traffic snarls had begun at the cross-over point from left-side-of-the-roadness to the-other-left-side-of-the-roadness. Car after car squealed out of control because too many orcs insisted on driving alone, thus rendering them in the passenger's seat and useless in terms of car control. Anakron allowed the hint of a smile.


It seemed that King Kong himself had appeared in Mordor. What hey, a brand new Anakronism. Some of these things appeared will-Anakron or nill-Anakron. Little matter. The Grand Anakronist wondered if King Kong would find his Empire State Building, and if he would find his girl. He didn't care either way. He also did not care that various and sundry of the members of the Offending Party thought incorrectly as to who was what, or what was who. He didn't even care if they succeeded. He did not, of course, mind that Mordor was getting only more interesting with the advent of the Offending Party's desperate race to get out. Anakron allowed a mild smirk.

The traffic snarls worsened. That was because of Rôgû. Known to balrog-wingers by his nickname of Roggie. Rôgû was angry. He had murder on his mind. Not that Anakron could read balrog minds, but it didn't take a rocket scientist to realize that someone who had a cold virus freezing one of his legs into shards, making him a maimed laughing stock amongst balrogs, could not be quite pleased with things. Rôgû was above ground, wreaking havoc along the interstate, picking up and throwing down Cruisers, Little French Cars with No Guts, Hummers, and anything else that came to claw. Traffic had been backing up in both directions for miles, for a good hour. Anakron allowed the quickest, smallest escape of a momentary giggle.

All the alternate roads were two lanes only. And towns were frequent, slowing traffic down to 30 miles per hour .... at best. And in Mordor, it was always rush hour, no matter the time of day ... especially in the towns. Anakron snickered.

And raised his staff. The cat yowled. The sandstorm stopped, sputtered, spewed, and spit the sand out of its mouth. It looked at Anakron out of the side of its eyes, wondering why it had been stopped.

"You are to turn into a thunderstorm hiding a tornado," Anakron said to it. It grinned and bloated and grew dark and wet and began spinning. Anakron cackled and did a jig.

[Feanor of the Peredhil]

Alli woke suddenly, her head pounding. Mardil's arms seemed to be around her. Well this is nice. she began to think before realizing that it was not exactly a message that she wanted to convey. She struggled to get away from his too-comforting grasp and felt something sharp pressed against her neck. She remembered this feeling, though she'd tried so hard to repress it. She didn't understand what was going on but she understood without doubt that she was being held with a blade to her neck by a man she had trusted. Without thinking, she cast a betrayed look at Sai and turned quickly, ramming her shoulder into Mardil's wind-pipe.

Caught off guard, Mardil dropped the blade, loosed his grasp slightly, and Alli was able to kick her way out the door. The rain washed the blood from her forehead as she ran stumbling toward Roggie. His eyeliner had smeared and his fire had gone out. He stood now as a sentient pile of ash dressed flamboyantly in pirate regalia. He smiled broadly to see her, though the looked was countered by one of obvious pain.

She ran to him and embraced his good leg, crying in the downpour. She didn't care where Mardil was now. She knew she would be safe with her friend. Suddenly Roggie roared angrily. Alli turned, splashing mud, and saw Sai running toward them. Roggie detached his young friend from his leg and began to move toward her. Sai stopped, slipping on the wet ground. She looked utterly terrified. Roggie strode angrily toward her.

"No!!!" screamed Alli, chasing him and grabbing him by the peg. "Roggie, no! She's harmless!"

"They tried to kill you!" he roared over the thunder. Sai stood frozen. Mardil had his hand to his neck, rubbing his windpipe. He climbed from the reckage of the vehicle and pulled free a bolted crossbow. He looked utterly furious, though handsomely so. Alli screamed again.

"Stop it!" she cried desparately. "Everybody just freeze!" Her voice cracked with emotion now. Completely unexpectedly, everybody did what they were told. Roggie steamed carcinogenically and angrily, but he stopped, looking at Alli and waiting for her to speak. Sai still did not move. Mardil did not relax his aim but at least looked at Alli instead of murderously at her companion.

"Tell me what the [deleted] is going on." It was too much just now. Why couldn't everybody get along? Why had Mardil tried to kill her? Why had Sai let him? The only one that she could trust was Roggie.

"Roggie," she asked, frustrated and confused tears streaming. "What is wrong with you? Why are you hurting people?"

He looked suddenly ashamed and crouched down, whispering in her upturned ear.

"They what?"

He whispered more.

"And then what happened?"

Mardil stood impatiently, tapping one foot. Sai was astounded at the sight: a huge and truly menacing looking balrog crouched low and gently, whispering into a teenage girl's ear. How this friendship had been formed she had no idea but it was truly a curious one. She had never before seen the like of it.

"And then?"

The rain was beginning to slow as Alli looked around and began to grin a bit.

"It's beginning to make sense. A movie? Yes... it certainly makes sense." A film crew that had been hidden by the torrents of rain had become visable. Stunt men began pouring from the smashed vehicles. Roggie took off his blue bandana and allowed Alli to wipe his smudged eyeliner clean with it. She was the picture of tender motherliness. Suddenly her face became stern.

"Roggie, Sai and Mardil were not in this movie. Why did you try to attack them? You know that fighting doesn't solve any problems."

He now looked like a sulking child subjected to his mother's disappointment.

"What did you say?" she repeated with an italicized parental look.

"I was mad at them."

"And why were you mad at them?"

He grimaced, glaring at Mardil who now looked outright astounded at the turn that this adventure had taken. Alli... moody, bitter, sarcastic Alli... was lecturing a balrog on proper ways of handling anger? Sai looked impressed.

"Because... that one" he nodded toward Mardil, "attacked me with tanks. I was minding my own business and he up and shot my leg off. Does he have any idea how painful it is for your leg to shatter? Yes, the peg got me cast in Pirates of the Caribbean: Curse of Durin's Bane, but it aches something awful just before storms."

Roggie looked sad now instead of angry. Alli patted him on the knee (the highest part of him she could reach now). "There, there... revenge never solves problems Roggie... you know that. What do you say to them?"

Roggie looked at her with pleading in his eyes. "Do I have to?"

"Yes." she glared at him maternally.

"Msry." he muttered. She glared more heavily. "Fine. I'm sorry I tried to kill you." Alli's gaze softened.

"And how do you intend to make up for trying to hurt them? It doesn't matter who your enemies are... an eye for an eye makes the whole world blind."

"I don't know... I suppose I could..."

"Hmm?" she looked expectantly.

"I could take them to Mount Doom Casino and Resort." he said at last. "That's where the reality show said you guys have to go, right?"

She nodded, satisfied. "Will that solve this catastrophe?" Alli yelled to Sai and Mardil. Sai nodded happily, slightly concerned about her safety, but confident that Alli, no matter how angry, would not be vindictive enough to get her killed. Mardil looked annoyed but nodded stiffly. Roggie lifted Alli gently onto his shoulder where she sat cheerfully looking down at the world. He next stopped and did the same with Sai. When Sai was comfortably settled, Roggie picked up Mardil. Alli leaned over and whispered in Roggie's ear and Roggie smiled. He began to stride toward Mount Doom.

"Wait!" cried Mardil. "Don't I get a seat?"

"Nope." said Roggie. "I'm not that nice."

And with that the group finished the trip to Mount Doom, Mardil gripped firmly in Roggie's left hand, as the balrog enthusiastically swung his arms to the rhythm of his saunter. In a very short time, they were there.

[Celuien]

Rain poured down on Mordor, soaking the loose earth at the side of the Interstate. The resulting mud slid onto the road, obscuring the yellow lines that ordinarily divided the lanes from one another. Drivers moved about willy-nilly, leading to numerous near crashes that left Panakeia's knuckles white on the steering wheel.

"Would you like me to drive?" queried Valde. Her driving is making me nervous, went a voice in his head. She's as bad as any of the others here.

"No. I'm doing fine, thank you," she snapped back.

And then, just ahead, the road broke into chaos. Cars skidded out of control and left the road. Others spun in spirals. "What's going on?" Panakeia cried in alarm.

The answer came in the form of a sudden switch in the position of the steering wheel. In a flash, the wheel vanished and reappeared on Valde's side of the car. He grabbed it and pulled to the other side of the road, deftly avoiding the stopped and disabled vehicles blocking the road. The kamura man commented, "And he's done it! What form. What skill!"

"Shut up!" barked Panakeia, who was none too pleased with the change in situation.

"It must be some strange manifestation of the Anakronism Dweomer," said Valde. His voice cracked and croaked as he morphed into an Orc.

Panakeia, now in human form, voiced her assent. Now that she was out of the driver's seat, she proceeded to offer Valde endless advice on his driving. "Why don't you speed up and go around that slowpoke?" "Don't hit the brake so hard." "Careful, don't oversteer. You'll go off the road!" Valde ignored her advice and concentrated on supressing thoughts of stopping the car and leaving Panakeia at the side of the road. It is her Cruiser, after all. But why does she have to go on and on?

And then they saw a new obstacle. An enormous peg-legged pirate-Balrog stood in the road. Panakeia screamed in recognition. "The Balrog! And he's bound to be furious." She had not forgotten Mardil's treatment of the creature.

She watched as the Balrog lifted the little group and set off. "Follow them," cried Panakeia.

Follow the Balrog, thought Valde. She must be insane. But at least he's clearing out the traffic. And I suppose we should do our best to help.

He followed, now able to go at great speed through the cleared road. As they went along, Panakeia watched the trio traveling with the bizarre pirate. To her lasting astonishment and relief they seemed to be friendly. However could that have happened. But she wasn't sure what the Balrog would think of her. "Valde, could you arrange to stay clear of that entourage? I'd rather not have a run in with their...um...chauffeur."

"That seems to be a wise plan." He fell back, keeping a respectable distance between the Balrog and Cruiser.

Shortly thereafter, they arrived at the foot of Mount Doom. With a quick, "See you around," to Valde, Panakeia hopped out, searching for a place where she could put her Pearie Ockcide Potion to good use.

[Encaitare]

Wilhelmina stepped out of the car. She was quite shaken, yet miraculously unscathed. And now, she was very, very wet.

“Mr. Swanky!” she called again and again, the sound of her own voice swallowed up by that of the thunder. She could barely make out anything in the darkness, not even the monolithic billboards, let alone a comatose ape.

Lightning flashed, making each pelting raindrop shine brilliantly. She thought she spied something out of the corner of her eye: a large shape on the ground, though it might have been part of the landscape. Thunder crashed once more, and it was followed by another bolt of bright light. Yes, that had to be Queen Quon!

The old woman ran towards the shape, holding her hat firmly by the brim to keep it from flying away in the chill wind. If her pet were dead… she couldn’t bear to think of it.

The giant ape lay upon the muddy ground as desolately as only a furry and possibly deceased animal could. Anxiously, Wilhelmina ran around to Queen Quon’s right fist, where Mr. Swanky had been tenderly nestled. The hand was closed tight, but after all that screaming, Wilhelmina found herself in a logical mood.

“If she’s dead,” she said to herself, “then she can’t have been dead long enough for rigor mortis to set in. So I should be able to get this ginormous hand open. I think I can.”

Ten minutes and much more nonstandard English later, the Little Old Lady That Could had pried the fingers apart. Curled up in a little ball was the motionless ferret.

Wilhelmina let out a sob. This little creature had been her friend and companion for many, many years. He was one of the few creatures in the world who didn’t think her to be a complete nutter… and now he was no more.

“Nooooooooo!” she cried, falling to her knees and turning her face to the raging sky in a manner so melodramatic that it would have made Karís Mâtiktwít dance in delight. The orchestra swelled, the choirs sang heart-wrenching minor chords, and tears mingled with the rain.

There was a familiar squeak, and orchestra, choirs, tears, and rain all stopped abruptly.

“Mr. Swanky!” Wilhelmina shouted joyously as he shook himself a bit and then jumped into her hands. “You’re alright!” They both looked solemnly at the corpse of Queen Quon. “Queenie gave her life but saved yours! Isn’t that nice?” She screwed up her face contemplatively. “Perhaps ‘nice’ isn’t the best word. But even so, ‘tis better to have played Scrabble and lost than to never have played Scrabble at all, as they say. Or something like that. Let’s get back to the car and see if nice Mr. Fléin is alright.”

~*~*~*~*~

Nice Mr. Fléin was, in fact, alright, once he had been awakened and told that his beard had suffered no damage. He had a gash on his forehead from hitting the steering wheel, though, and Wilhelmina told him that he was certain to bruise as well.

“A fascinating bruise, probably, with all different colors in it. The rainbow after the storm will manifest itself upon your forehead!” she told him brightly, tearing off a scrap from one of her many petticoats to sop up the blood.

“How wonderful,” Fléin said dazedly.

“And look!” she said, holding up the hideous beaker. “Your free gift wasn’t damaged at all, either!”

“That’s impossible,” the Dwarf said. “That defies the laws of wotsit… fizzix.”

“I’ll bet that Mârtha Stewârt had something to do with it,” Wilhelmina decided. “Unbreakable glass – she’d think it was a good thing.”

“I think she’s right, in this case, at least,” said Fléin. “Even if it is ugly, it’s still a nice bit of glassware.”

“I think I’ll have to drive us to Mount Doom, and pronto,” said the old woman, prodding Fléin so he’d move into the passenger seat, and taking the wheel.

~*~*~*~*~

At this time, some of you may be wondering about the fate of the kamuraorc. Then again, some of you may not be. But if this poor creature is a friend of yours, be comforted to know that he is unconscious, but is currently deep in a very pleasant dream about an Orc-friendly and politically-correct world.

Let us hope he keeps dreaming.

~*~*~*~*~

Wilhelmina’s hat was still dripping water on her, but it didn’t matter – she had just seen a sign that read “OnE mIlE tO tHe BeSt GaMeS aNd EnTeRtAiNmEnT iN MoRdOr: MoUnT dOoM cAsInO aNd ReSoRt!!!!!1one!!!1”. The red glow in the sky gave further sign that they were close.

“HuRrAh!” she said. Then she cleared her throat loudly. “I mean, hurrah!”

In just a minute they passed through a pair of brightly lit gates and underneath a giant flashing marquee, declaring that although they were tired, wet, more than a little shaken, and driving a car with hardly any aesthetic qualities left to speak of, they had made it, and everything was going to be just fine.

Actually, what the sign said was “WeLcOmE tO mOuNt DoOm CaSiNo AnD rEsOrT,” but to them it meant something much different.

[littlemanpoet]

Anakron stood just inside the entrace to the Mount Doom Casino and Resort complex. All of the Offending Party arrived on time. And all managed to breeze through using quite creative means, unforeseen and almost completely avoiding the foibles of the anakronisms thereby. Anakron was impressed. And disappointed.

"Each of you have arrived on time. Congratulations. As for points awarded, subtract one for failure to exhibit road rage; subtract one for failure to tailgate; subtract one for failure to drive through flooded roadway at full speed; subtract one for failure of windshield wipers to streak in the line of vision. Mardil: 6 points; Alli: 6 points; Panakeia: 6 points; Valde: 6 points; Fléin: 6 points; Sai: 6 points; Wilhelmina: 6 points. If you wish to contest your point totals by proving that you indeed performed one of the four anakronisms during the last Test, I will be happy to reconsider.

"You will have a three day rest period, here. You may stay here at the resort if you wish, or you may make forays into Trollywood and Lost Angles. If you go beyond the borders of these three places, you will be disqualified with no recourse. And you will become an orc permanently employed in the Mordorian bureaucracy, so do not trifle with me.

"I expect each of you to be precisely here at dawn, three days hence. Since you all have Trolls aplenty, you will not be financed for your three days."

With that, Anakron turned with an appropriately dramatic billowing of his cloak, and departed from the confines of the resort, heading in the direction of Lost Angles.

[littlemanpoet]

Mount Doom Casino and Resort Celebrity Hunt

Anakron stood at the entrance to the Mount Doom Casino and Resort. The seven members of the Offending Party stood before him, in various states of health, perplexity, excitement, annoyance, and high dudgeon. Wilhelmina's ferret sneezed all over Fléin, who's eyes were watering and turning red with conjunctivitis; and who also seemed to be trying to keep his supper ... or something ... down. Alli, hands on hips, trying to look bored, glanced sidelong at Mardil, trying not to be noticed doing it. Sai kept blinking, trying not to have that "deer in the headlights" look from being new to Mordor - - - and failing; nearby orcs with legal pads and kameras kept nudging each other and pointing rudely in her direction, their yaps flapping and sneers mincing as if they were plannning to take video advantage of her discomfort. Mardil's lids were half closed, his arms folded across his chest, facing Anakron while his eyes darted here and there, taking stock of his surroundings. Valde looked down his tragic nose at the proceedings, trying very hard not to look gratified that Panakeia had attached herself to him, one dainty hand fetchingly inserted in the crook of his elbow; she was, of course, making the most of having been his savior during the last challenge, looking for the first opportunity to use his gratitude to the best advantage.

Anakron sniffed appreciatively at the unspoken goings on amongst the group. Creativity in the face of adversity seemed to be a strong suit for at least six of them. Valde had much to prove yet. It was time to give him in particular, and them in general, a challenge that seemed for all Mordor as if it would be well out of his - or their - comfort zones.

"Greetings," Anakron intoned. "None of you has seen fit to attempt a remonstration with me in regard to your point total from the second challenge. That is well. You would have fared ill.

"The test you will undergo for the third challenge is as follows. You must seek out those who reside in this resort, or in Trollywood, or in Lost Angles, who have been appeared in Mordor anakronistically from the far distant future, where they are apparently known as celebrities (how in Mordor they achieved such a suspicious renown is beyond our ken). You are to find ways, other than theft or murder, to make them part with that which they most hold dear. Let us take, for example, one 'Witless' Spears person. Let us presume that Panakeia manages to persuade said celebrity to part with what she holds most dear. That does not relieve the other six of you of an attempt upon that celebrity, for she will still possess something else which she now holds most dear in the absence of that which Panakeia is presumed to have relieved her.

"I shall not name these so-called celebrities. You are to seek them out by means of your own ingenuity. Anyone who fails to present to me one such most valued item, whatever it may be, will be considered to have failed the challenge.

"You have until sundown. Begin."

The reality show orcs ooh'd and aah'd their effeminate delight and began to name off various celebrities in such a lisping garble that none of the Offending Party could make out a one of them.

[Celuien]

Panakeia listened with delight to Anakron's next challenge. Oh, to visit the City of Lost Angles and Trollywood! To look upon the vast Leaning Tower of Flapjacks that represented the headquarters of the Cap It All Records and House of Pancakes enterprise! She had been fascinated by celebrity for years, and now here was a chance not only to meet the rich and famous, but to claim a token from them. She was eager to be on her way.

But what to select first? Celebrities had so much. And what could they treasure more than their fame and good looks, neither of which Panakeia was likely to bring back with her? She thought hard. Then an inspiration struck her. That's it. He must place great importance in that. After all, he's had it for so long, and he never goes anywhere without it.

"Come on," she said to no one in particular. "Let's go get William Shatner's toupee."

[the guy who be short]

Flein wandered the streets, a little confused. Where would he find a celebrity? What exactly was the point of this? What celebrities did he even know?

He sighed. Society was not his strong point, and idiotic social idols even less so. He looked around miserably.

Why hadn't he just told her?

Look on the bright side, he thought to himself. Conjunctivitis, gone. Anakron, gone. Cat-vomit, gone.

Wilhelmina... gone.

It had been his idea to split up, after all. It would just be too difficult with her. And there were always the moral objections his mind kept throwing up in lieu of those cats. In love with a Woman? How soon would she die? She was too young and frail...

He looked up again. It was no good moaning, no good at all. Be a real Dwarf. That was what he had to do, be a Dwarf. Face the task. Find a celebrity. Bash it over the head a few times. Take whatever it valued most. Easy.

Just as he had resolved to hunt down one of these celebrity things, he looked up and noticed that odd little man who had tried to sell him chocolate in Lûndûn. How on Arda had he got to Lost Angles in a day with no visible means of transport?

The man, arms still full of chocolate, sighted Fléin and approached him with an air of vague recognition. "Hello there! My! I thought you were an Oompa Loompa, don't you know? Well! Still, I'm sure I recognise you..."

Fléin considered for a moment. He didn't much fancy talking to this oddball again, but then again, he had nothing better to do at the moment. "Yes, we met in Lûndûn actually." He hoped the man - what was his name? - wouldn't remember the manner of their parting, and he was lucky.

"Ah, yes... would you like to buy some chocolate, incidentally?"

Fléin decided to ignore this and instead posed his own question. "How did you come to Lost Angles so quickly?"

"Simple, I took the elevator, my dear Dwarf!"

"Elevator?"

"Yes, of course. Anyway, would you buy something? I must be going soon, you know."

"I'm afraid not. Well, it has been pleasant meeting you again," and it will be even more pleasant parting again, he thought, "but I must go and find a celebrity now."

"A celebrity? Why, I am a celebrity! Don't you know?" the man chuckled.

"You're a celebrity?" the Dwarf exclaimed. He surveyed the man. Small, odd top hat, vacant seeming smile. He didn't seem much like celebrity material. Why would anybody idolise him?

"Have you not heard of Johnny Depp?" the chocolatier replied, equally incredulous. "Surely you must know..."

"The name strikes a bell," the Dwarf replied. Where had he heard it before?
Though he was, quite obviously, a rather secluded person, and knowledge of any celebrity was something rather alien to his nature, he knew that name.

"Why, Johnny Depp is the greatest actor that ever lived! He has scores of fangirls!" the man squealed.

Fléin simply looked on, even more incredulous than before. "You... you are the most famous actor of all time?" he asked, surpressing the urge to laugh in the man's pale face. He was obviously delusional. "You?"

"No, of course not! Ha! That would be silly!" The man, evidently not Johnny Depp, stopped there, but then continued after seeing the look on Fléin's face. "I am an incarnation of that great man. You see, when he was sent to Mordor, something odd happened. Mr Depp ceased to be. Instead, all the many forms he had assumed over his life - including that of myself, Willy Wonka - all these, I say, materialised in Mordor." He paused, then went on in a darker voice, "That is, in fact, why I have come to Lost Angles. We're having a convention of sorts."

"Really?" the Dwarf asked, intrigued. "That sounds like immense fun! Why do you look so glum about it?"

The man peered at him a little, then turned around, made a sign indicating his wish that Fléin followed, and led him to a nearby Ma Cuddonelds to sit down.

Once they were both uncomfortably seated, he resumed. "It is less a convention and more of a war plan meeting."

"War?"

"Indeed. You see, Mr Depp, before his assignment, played many varied characters. Some were good. Some were evil. And so, there must be war."

"That sounds perfectly logical," the Dwarf fibbed. "So... then, winning this war is the most important thing in the world to you?"

"No, not quite. Well, I suppose so, but there is a technicality. You see, we, the good incarnations, or G.I.s, are poised to win. But there is one who has not yet chosen a side, and he is the greatest of us all. Whichever side he chooses, victory for them is almost certain. It is imperative that he joins us, or we will lose. That is the reason we have gathered here."

"So he is the most important thing in the world to you?"

"Without a doubt."

"I shall speak freely with you," the Dwarf lowered his voice. "I am a member of the Offending Party. And it my duty to... aid a celebrity. I will find this man for you."

The man looked up, delighted. "Why, that would be wonderful! In fact, we have reason to believe he is in this city at the moment. It would be wonderful if you would help. You could come to the meeting, nobody would mind much-"

"No thank you, I shall start at once. Tell me what the man looks like."

Willy giggled. "He is not a man! He is a sparrow. Cap-tin Jack Sparrow"

"A sparrow? A bird, with wings and such?"

"Of course. It's all this homophone business. He is not allowed to be called Sparrow unless he is a sparrow. You will recognise him by his cap of tin. He is also quite large, for a sparrow. And I really must be going now! Thank you for the help, I shall let the others know. If you find him, we'll be in that large tower to the West"

With that, Willy Wonka left the building, leaving Fléin pondering how he could find this sparrow, and thanking Deus Ex Machina for the unlikely meeting.

[Durelin]

‘Celebrity?’

What in the name of Ilúvatar were celebrities? Valde had felt his body convulse at the sound of the word, and he had felt a sudden rush of sinus pressure that made him clutch his head, trying not to look at Anakron. It was as if he had said a word of the Black Speech, which of course a civilized ear such as Valde’s could not hear. He had quite forgotten that he did indeed dwell in Mordor. Such is a daydreamer’s mind. But for now his mind was actually quite empty, and Anakron’s words bounced around inside his head. He could hear them whizzing around, springing from side to side for several moments, and then all went silent. He never had been very good at pong.

“You are to seek them out by your own ingenuity.”

By their own ingenuity, eh? Now, surely Valde would succeed in this, for he had boasted before that he was as tricky as Ulyssë. But there was a twinge of something in his stomach, suddenly sprinkled there like a bit too much of garlic, and he doubted himself. What was he playing at, in this ‘Offending Party’? Perhaps the trolls had been right in casting him as the tragic hero who lost the contest. Perhaps that was his lot in life, his role on its stage. But wait…life was a stage; life was his stage! And what an excellent tragedy it would make, for he, the great Valde, to play out his role like a true… (Here Valde paused and pictured the litter he had been carried on during his brief but tender moments of glory, licking his lips) Lead Tragic Actor. Yes, a true Lead Tragic Actor: that was Valde Delego.

“Surely I must move on and no more wait,
With courage to face my tragic fate.”

Valde announced his rhyming couplet to no one in particular, and thus ended Act II Scene 2 of his life.* A kamuraman eyed him strangely for a moment, managing for once to peel his eyes away from the strain of catching such an extremity and excess of reality on film to later reel it out.

“That was an aside,” Valde hissed, looking down his nose at the nosy man.

“You mean a real aside?” the man exclaimed, sounding excited, and hoisting his kamura around to face Valde, who only scrunched up his tragic eyebrows and stared broodingly at the electric eye. It always watched him, but surely it could not see into his mind’s eye.

“Are you sure it was real?”

“Errr…” the kamuraman gurgled.

“Am I real?”

“Well, of course.”

“Prove it.”

“Well, you’re standing right there. I can see you. And I can hear you. And if you would let me, I could touch you. I really would like to just touch you…I never do get to touch the actors…”

Valde slapped the kamuraman’s reaching hand away.

“You rely on your senses for determining what is real. But we all know that our senses deceived us. We catch things out of the corner of our eyes, but they’re not there. We mistake words in our speech and hearing and reading due to tricks from the Freud. How do we really know that we see, hear, feel, and taste what we do? How do we know if that even matters? How do you know the ground beneath your feet exists, or if your mind has simply created it because of your natural feel of falling, which is a feeling that your mind creates because you have this predisposed notion of how the world works, which is simply a fabrication of the minds of people, who we are not even sure exist.”

The kamuraman stared at Valde for a moment, his mouth hanging open. “I thought we were talking about reality. Why would I be afraid of falling in reality? There’s a stunt double for that, duh.”

“No, no, not a reality show. You can’t capture everything on that kamura of yours, you know. You see, we are all made of our special play-doh known as our ‘soul.’”

“Huh?”

“Nevermind.” Valde sighed and, narrowing his purely physical eyes at the kamura, he turned his back to it and its bearer with a swirl of his cloak, returning his mind to more important things. Celebrities? What did Valde Delego need with celebrities? He was a celebrity. But life was his stage, and his fans were waiting. He had to act, though not too quickly. He was a Lead Tragic Actor, not an Action Hero.

“Come one,” Valde suddenly heard the woman named Panakeia who had helped him in the last challenge say. He turned to her, but she seemed not to be speaking to him; or no one really, for that matter. Valde felt guilty for listening to her, in case she was performing her own aside, but as the Lead he felt he deserved knowing what everyone told the audience behind his back. They always talked behind his back. If he was not such a good stage crier, Valde had no idea how he would ever survive.

“Let’s go get William Shatner’s toupee,” Panakeia finished.

William Shatner? That name sounded so familiar, and yet… Suddenly a pair of pointed ears invaded his third eye’s vision; then a pair of eye brows that might indeed have rivaled his own. An elf? No, William Shatner was not an elf. Then who? Suddenly recognition dawned on him with a searing blue light that appeared to be what he had heard called a ‘laser.’ (Or was it ‘lazer?’ Alternative spellings were surely cursed, particularly in Mordor.) Simultaneously, words such as photon and parsec popped into his head, though he had no idea what they meant. But that was the name that fit the head between those ears, and perhaps the rest of the body, too: Spockú.

Those eyebrows…Valde had examined his own in the mirror enough times that day to know that Spockú’s did indeed come close to being as dominating and brooding as his own. He was sure they were admired, and he did not like that at all. Panakeia was after this William Shatner’s toupee, eh? And everyone knew Spockú was wherever that Shatner person was, most likely a crony who would even follow the toupee wearer to die a sugary death at the floral printed-paper clutches of one known as Dixiel. Those eyebrows were too good for a man who allowed himself to be subordinate to any other. They were alike to a crown, and must be worn like one: by a king, subject to no one, and who was thought to be schizophrenic due to his inbreeding and use of the royal we. The glorious Shadowbrow’s of Spockú would surely be a formidable prize.

“Oh Panakeia…” Valde called out to the woman, walking slowly up to her so as not to ruin the way his cloak slowly glided dramatically behind him. “First, I thank you humbly, out of the humble kindness, graciousness, and compassion of my swollen heart, for your invaluable aid in the last challenge. Would you mind if my tragic lump of flesh did join you once again?”

He peered at her from underneath the shadowy, mysterious, and intimidating brow, and considered where he might find waxing supplies strong enough for his quest.

*(Apologies to Mr. Shakespeare...if he really exists, that is.)

[littlemanpoet]

Anakron was walking through the environs of Mount Doom Casino and Resort, watching the mobs happily being parted from their Trolls, when his mobile phone yapped. The Siamese Cat hissed angrily from its perch atop Anakron's staff.

"Yes?" Anakron listened to an eager voice updating him on recent developments. "Very well. I shall be expecting you by mid-afternoon. Please be sure that all precautions are taken." The voice ranted reassuringly that all was prepared. Anakron rolled his eyes. "Yes, yes, just be sure of it. I have an Offending Party to watch, so I would prefer no more than the most necessary of needless distractions, and yours, my dear Bleeter, borders on unnecessary." Bleeter bleeted most piteously into Anakron's annoyed ear. He grimaced at the headache Bleeter was causing. "Yes, yes, very well. I'm hanging you up now, and do not call back unless you have something absolutely essential to tell me. And one last thing. Make sure the two primaries, who will no doubt be quite primed for their roles, are safely contained. There's no telling what might happen if things should get out of hand. And knowing the Dweomer, it does not take much in Mordor. Good-bye."

Anakron put his mobile phone away and looked askance at the remains of Mount Doom, shaking his head.