The Mount Zoom Challenge - GAME

[Formendacil]

Denethor:

Denethor paused for a moment to consider Faramir's question. What SHOULD they do with the traitor.

"Burn him!" said Denethor, following his first instinct. Faramir, Húrin, and everyone else in the engine room- except Vérmïndil- looked at each other uneasily.

"Unfortunately," said Faramir. "We can't. Or rather, we can't do it legally. The Steward of Gondor doesn't have the authority to order executions outside the Realm of Gondor, nor can he order them there without the King's permission, save at times when the King is in Arnor, or outside of his realms."

"Besides," interjected Húrin, "we need him alive to find out what will lure the rats out!"

"Burn it all!" swore Denethor. "You: Vérmïndil! Tell me, what is your deepest, worst fear?"

"You don't actually expect him to tell you?" exclaimed Faramir.

"Why not?" said Denethor. "I am the Steward of Gondor. He is honour-bound to obey my direct command."

"Then ask him what will lure the rats out," said Faramir. "Either way, he's not going to you."

"Says who?" piped up Vérmïndil. "I'll do what I like. My deepest fear is... is... is... is...."

"Well?" said Faramir impatiently, "what IS it?"

"I cannot speak his name!" Vérmïndil shuddered.

"It's a person!" exclaimed Faramir. "I know: Sauron."

Vérmïndil shook his head.

"Aragorn! Gandalf! Elrond!" said Denethor. Again, Vérmïndil shook his head.

"Gothmog? The Witchking? Saruman?" Faramir questioned.

Vérmïndil continued to shake his head.

"Is he tall?" asked Denethor.

"Is he Gondorian?" asked Faramir.

"No and no," replied Vérmïndil.

"Rohirric?" asked Denethor.

Vérmïndil shook his head.

"Is he Human?" asked Faramir.

Vérmïndil paused a moment, then said: "sort of."

"Sort of?" said Denethor. "How can one be sort of human?"

"I know!" said Faramir. "A hobbit!"

Vérmïndil nodded, eyes wide with fear.

"Frodo! Bilbo! Sam! Merry! Pippin!" Denethor ran off the names of the famous hobbits. Vérmïndil shook his head to each.

"Sméagol! Gollum! Stinker! Slinker!" said Faramir. Vérmïndil and Denethor both looked at him strangely. Vérmïndil shook his head.

"Well, that's all the Hobbits I know the names of!" said Denethor.

"Me too," said Faramir.

"Can't you just tell us?" demanded Denethor. Vérmïndil shook his head in terror.

"Why not just tell us what will lure the rats out?" said Faramir. "Then we'll drop this whole line of enquiry."

"Never!" cackled Vérmïndil. "Never!!!"

"Húrin," said Denethor, "go to the Archives, and get me the Red Book. I'll run through every name in the Geneologies if I have to."

And so they did.

"The Gaffer!"

"Old Noakes!"

"Ted Sandyman!"

"Old Rory!"

"Fatty Bolger!"

"Folco Boffin!"

"Wait!" said Faramir. "He's shaking! Go back to Fatty Bolger!"

But on the second mention of the name, Vérmïndil began to shake uncontrollably.

"Fatty Bolger!" roared Denethor. "Fatty Bolger!!!"

"Yes, yes, it's him!" squeaked Vérmïndil. "Now PLEASE stop saying the name!"

"Not until you tell us how to lure the rats out!" Denethor told him.

"N-n-n-never," said Vérmïndil, biting his lip.

"Fatty Bolger! Fatty Bolger! Fatty Bolger!" Denethor, Faramir, and the support staff began to sing.

"All right!" wailed Vérmïndil, big fat tears streaming down his face. "I'll tell you! It's marmite."

"Marmite!!!" said Denethor in disgust. "Are you completely insane, man?"

"Oh come on, Father," said Faramir. "It's not that bad. It's especially good on toast."

Denethor gave his son a vile look.

"I swear to the Valar that it's true!" pleaded Vérmïndil. "Try it! You'll see. Just don't say... HIS name again."

"What? You mean 'Fatty Bolger'?" asked Denethor cruelly. Vérmïndil lost complete control of himself. Denethor turned to Faramir. "Find us some marmite!"

So, while the support staff cleaned out the engine room of banana peels, perfumes, liverwurst, Aragorn's gym socks, and other smelly miscellany, Faramir set off to retrieve his marmite. As soon as he'd opened it, rats began to pour out of the pipes.

"Quick!" cried Denethor. "Lead them out of the city."

"What do I look like?" asked Faramir. "A pied piper?"

"Do you want my honest answer?" said Denethor.

"Okay, okay! I'm going."

Faramir took off at a sprint for the gates, an army of rats streaming after him. The lead rats were drawing closer and closer, and Faramir was in a mortal panic that they would catch him and swarm him. In the nick of time, he reached the gates, which he burst through, tossing the marmite as hard as he could away from him.

The rats streamed past, dead set on reaching the marmite.

Faramir returned to the engine room weak-kneed, only to find Denethor gone back to the tower, and Húrin's team revving up the engine.

"Due WEST!" called Denethor from the tower. "We make for Mt. Gundabad!"

[Caranlondien]

"But how did we get rats?" Frodo asked, exasperated. After telling them about the problem, Ted Sandyman had gone back to the engine room to see what he could do.

"I don't rightly know, Mister Frodo," replied Sam. "Could be as we're leavin' too much food about." At this, Pippin coughed.

"Not in the engine room, Sam. Besides, we're moving too quickly for rats to climb on-board, and I know there were none when we left - Bilbo had the whole place cleaned when we installed the fireworks. The only thing left to think is that someone purposefully brought them."

Frodo rose and began to walk towards the engine room, the others close behind him. When they came to the stairway that led down to it, they found the way barred by a great spiked gate, which looked to have been gnawed out of wood. Frodo banged at the gate. After a time, one of the mechanics came up.

"Mister Frodo," he whispered. "The rats have taken over everything! There's a great big one, a wizard rat, by the looks of him, and he's their leader, it seems. He's got all the little furry things rushing around, destroying the fireworks and generally frightening us all into doing whatever he says."

The mechanic seemed frightened, but after a bit of reasoning with him, Frodo managed to gain admittance. As soon as he entered the engine room, he could see why it had stopped working. The engine was quite intricate, and worked in harmony with the roots of the plants which grew outside of Bag End. When the engine had been working, these roots hung down from the ceiling and the walls and were braided and woven to make bits of machinery. Now, though, most of the roots had been cut and gnawed into far more elaborate machines. What they did, Frodo knew not.

Ted Sandyman came running over to them. "It wasn't me, this time!" he said hurriedly. "Not my fault. Well, it was a bit my fault, perhaps, yes, but I swear I didn't know what would happen. When I let him aboard, Ratsey promised me-"

"Ratsey? Is that their leader?" asked Frodo.

"Yes, that's what they call him."

Frodo turned and looked around.

"Ratsey!" he called. "Show yourself!"

"I am here," spoke a deep voice. Frodo looked behind him. "No, no, in front of you. Yes, there, now look down a little."

Finally Frodo laid eyes on the rat. Ratsey was perhaps slightly larger than usual, but otherwise much as one would expect a rat to be. His coat shimmered a dark grey, his tail was pale pink, and his nose quivered ever which way. His eyes gleamed with malice and amusement.

“This is what you were afraid of?” Frodo demanded of Ted.

“I never liked rodents, sir.”

“Yes, well. Ratsey, I’ll have no more of this foolishness. Begone!”

“No!” cried Ratsey. “We shall not leave, not until we’ve gotten… SOME CHEESE!” He laughed diabolically.

“Right then, Sam, go get some cheese.”

“And-” Ratsey interjected, “we must have water.”

“Okay,” said Frodo. The requested comestibles were brought to the rat, who set upon the cheese with a fury.

“Worm!” he cried, when he had finished. Another rat came scurrying to his master’s side. This rat had a very long, bright pink tail.

“Wormtail!” said Ratsey. “We leave now, you rat! I tire of this place.”

“Why do you always call me a rat?” asked Wormtail.

“You are one! Is it really any more insulting than being called ‘Wormtail’? Or ‘Ratsey’, for that matter?”

“Hmm, guess not. I was going to leap at your back with a knife and kill you, but on second thought, let’s go see if they still have Gorgonzola at Minas Taxi.”

With that, the two rats scampered off, their tails waving ridiculously after them. The hobbits searched Bag-Endless-Fuel from top to bottom, but could find no sign of other rodents.

“That was unexpectedly easy,” said Frodo. “Let’s go West.”

[Formendacil]

Denethor:

*BUMP!*

"What in blazes was that!" roared Denethor. Something had just caused Minas Tirith to careen to one side.

"Slow down!" cried Faramir. "We've popped a tire!"

"Did we drive over a sword or something!" replied Denethor. "It'd take something long, hard, and sharp indeed to puncture tires that can hold up a city!"

"I'm not sure!" said Faramir. "But we'd better stop anyway."

Denethor eased Minas Tirith into a park. With one tire punctured, the city was set on a somewhat crooked angle. Denethor and Faramir quickly descended to the citadel. Húrin of the Keys was running up to meet them.

"Milords!" he gasped. "Milords, it is terrible!"

"What is terrible?" demanded Denethor.

"Porcupines, Milord!" replied Húrin, still gasping for breath. "They've attacked our tires!"

Even as Húrin said this, explosive noises could be heard as the other tires were blown open by the porcupines. Minas Tirith rocked unsteadily, then settled to the ground, all its tires popped.

"Porcupines?" said Faramir, raising an eyebrow.

"Dreadful porcupines!" replied Húrin. "Porcupine guerillas of doom! Worse, they invaded the city and stolen our only spare!"

"Sirs!" Beregond came running up. "We've managed to drive the porcupines away, but they stole one of our tires, as well as the spare. They were giggling something awful as they made away."

"What do we do?" asked Faramir.

"Beregond, order a watch," was Denethor's first command. "If any porcupine shows its face within sight of the city, I want it captured or shot. Húrin, see if you can patch and re-pump the tires we still have. Faramir, you and I shall see what we can do about procuring another tire."

"We could hunt down these porcupines and steal them back," suggested Faramir.

"No," said Denethor. "It's too dangerous. We don't know the terrain, and we don't know how dangerous an enemy we're facing. No, we must create a new tire."

"But Father!" protested Faramir. "That's more rubber than we have in the city! We're talking about enough rubber to put the Gondorian army in sneakers for two years!"

"My decision is final," said Denethor. "Or least until I change my mind. What other options have we?"

[Glirdan]

Operation: Porcupine Tyre

"Tighten your belts ye yellow-bellied wimps!! Argh!! I shall whip ye all with the flat of me blade! Argh!" a sound of applause erupted around Mouth. "Thank you! Thank you!" he yelled. "So, now that I've won the competition, where's my prize mone?" The trolls around him looked at each other, dumbfounded by the simple question. "Well!? Where is it!?" Mouth began to get angry. "You DON'T want me to turn into master do you? After all, I AM his Mouth and can talk a LOT higher then he!!"

"Um, sir?" one of the trolls cried.

"What!? Can't you see that I'm venting here!?"

"Umm......I don't know how to tell you this, but..."

"Spit it out you confounded troll!!" Mouth yelled.

"Porcupines ran off with our front tire and made flat's out of the other three..."

"Well, replace the one in the front with-

"-the spare tire got stollen to..."

"That explains why we haven't been moving for the past five hours...Umm....hmmmm...This is predicament...Hmmm....It's times like these when I wish master WASN'T sick!" Mouth cried in despair. "Send me a sign from above!! Wait!! I mean below. Ya, below!!" Just then, a RatWraith spirit (one of the one's that Dwarfy's dragon killed[poor, poor RatWraiths..]) arose from the ground. "Ahh! It's a spirit from below!! Wait! It's a spirit from below!! We're saved!!"

"Squeak!!"

"You have a plan?"

"Squeakity squeak!"

"A wonderful plan?'

"Squeaken squeak"

"An awful plan?"

"Squeakity squeaken squeak!"

"An awfully wonderful plan?"

"SQUEAK!!"

"Oh!! A wonderfully awful plan! I get it! Well come in here and we shall converse."

[The Saucepan Man]

Pippin and the Porcupines

“Porcupines!” said Merry, gazing into the distance. “Hundreds of them.”

“Where?” asked Pippin.

“Just beyond that meadow,” replied Merry. “Er, Pippin, where are you going? Pip?”

But it was too late. The young Took was haring off in the direction that Merry had indicated.

“I wonder where he’s off to?” mused Merry.

“More to the point,” said Bilbo, staring glumly at the lacerated strips of rubber that now adorned Bag-Endless-Fuel’s empty axles. “What are we going to do about these tyres?”

“They got the spare too,” said Samwise, ambling up disconsolately.

“There must be something inside that we can use,” offered Frodo in an effort to lift their spirits. “Hobbit-holes are veritable treasure troves of mathoms and the like. You must have something hidden away in there that will serve us as makeshift wheels, Uncle Bilbo.”

The Hobbits fell silent as each tried to think what might best fit the bill. But it was not long before their thoughts were rudely interrupted.

“Ow! Ouch! Ooh! Eek! Wa-hey! Ow!” grumbled a pin-cushion as it stumbled delicately towards them.

“Well there’s something you don’t see every day, and no mistake,” observed Sam.

“Ouch!” said the pin-cushion, pulling a handful of quills from its body.

“Pippin!” cried Merry. “Where have you been? And why did you go off chasing after the porcupines?”

“Well I was hungry!” wailed Pippin. “But I couldn’t see any Porky-pies. Just a load of big rats covered in these nasty spines.”

[Morsul the Dark]

What a Pine Problem this is

Picking the last rat meat from his teeth gothmog looked ahead and smiled they may not be in the lead but he was full and therefore in good spirits, "Montague," I think when we finish I'll spruce this baby up get one of those nucleur engines minas taxi has give the slaves a rest. Suddenly the tower stopped dead and Gothmogs mood quickly changed. "Why have we stopped?"

"Porcupines have flattened our tires." Montague answered, "And by the way we don't have engines?"

"No We're being pushed by thousands of slaves....." Gothmog was suddenly hit by an idea

"What is it sir."

"What if we rope a few hundred into thread a slave chain, a chain gange. We chan wrap them around the axels and voila we go."

"Voila sir?"

"Shut up." Gothmog embarressed by his less than orc-like use of the word but then again he wasn't quite an orc was he.

"Well anyway sir we don't have time for that kind of thing."

"What about the pool?"

"Sir I highly doubt this is the time for a swim." Montague was beginning to think something was missing upstairs for gothmog and it wasn't just the giant eye that was now somwhere in the forest.

"No you see We use our inner tubes as makeshift wheels."

"That's stupid they'll just pop."

"Fine What about a catapult We fling ourselves past the others!"

"But when we land we'll still need tires. Don't we have a spare?"

"Of course," Gothmog exclaimed." We still need three tires though..."

At that moment Orc #9346956856625363286864264562436c came throught the door. "Actually sir they took the spare."

"Who?" Gothmog enquired

"The Porcupinies," Random Orc #9346956856625363286864264562436c

Gothmog got extremely angry at that moment, "I say we go with my orginal plan rope the slaves together and make new thread, you there," The Orc was heading quickly for the door, "Halt! You have just volunteered to do the job you have three hours. Now go!"

[Gil-Galad]

"so we just use a bunch of our many slaves as our new tire then" Montague said

"uh...yep pretty much" Gothmog replied

"brilliant!" Montague shouted

"sssshhh, its nap time" Gothmog said as he quickly fell asleep

"so i guess i'm driving...again... slaves!"Montague shouted" "steer the wheels South-West!"

"but i am tired" one of the slaves yelled back

"alright take a break...wait... your a slave! your break-time aint till 7:00! back to work!"

[Formendacil]

Denethor:

Try as they might, Faramir and Denethor were having virtually no success in coming up with an alternative tire strategy.

"We haven't got enough rubber in the city. I've already said that!" said Faramir. "Not if we melted down ever shoe, rubber band, and rubber duck in the city."

"Don't be silly!" scoffed Denethor. "We couldn't melt down the rubber ducks anyway. The support staff would revolt."

"What about a wooden wheel?" said Faramir. "Like a waggon?"

"It wouldn't give us a decent ride at all," objected Denethor. "No traction either. It'd probably break down in the mountains."

"What about canvas?" said Faramir.

"What, are you going to paint us a tire?"

"No, I meant that we could wrap a wooden wheel in canvas- or any kind of cloth. Pad it down, so to speak."

"That'd really slow us down," said Denethor, shaking his head. "Who knows where the other racers are at? No, we can't afford to be slowed down."

"But we can't replace the wheel with one equally efficient!" said Faramir.

"Well, how else can we move the city?"

"I can't think of a thing," said Faramir. "There's no one or nothing big enough to carry the city."

"What about Balrogs?" interjected Denethor. "They're big and strong- and they certainly were cheering us on at the starting line. I've heard that they can fly, too."

"I'm pretty sure they mean 'fly' in the 'rush' sense," said Faramir. "Besides, where are we going to find a bevy of Balrogs around here?"

"We could summon them."

"I don't think that Balrogs are the answer anyway," said Faramir. "What have we got to offer them?"

"I'd give them Mithrandir if I could lay hands on him!" said Denethor. "I've heard they have a bounty on him."

"Well we don't have Mithrandir and I don't think we're going to be able to get him," said Faramir. "What other options are there?"

"Well, speaking of flying..." Denethor's speech trailed off as he thought. "What could we do to get the city airborne?"

"I don't think it's even possible," said Faramir. "The Fellbeasts are Minas Morgûl-exclusive, the eagles are working for Dwarfy, and good luck trying to get a seven-tiered city off the ground using thrushes and ravens."

"At least we know that old goat Saruman's crebain won't be able to help him," said Denethor. "Say! I've got an idea! How about we ditch the city, and continue the race in the Houses of Healing? They put that thing on wheels too, didn't they?"

"I don't think the Houses of Healing could handle a long distance trip over rough terrain," said Faramir. "I'm also quite sure that we have to have the city, or the majority of it, when we cross the finish line."

"Burn it!" swore Denethor. "So basically what it comes down to is that we have to find ourselves a way to make this city run without a wheel?"

"Not necessarily..." said Faramir. "There is one plan we haven't considered. But I hesitate even to mention it."

"What is that?" Denethor raised an eyebrow.

"We could go after the porcupines and steal back either the spare tire or the stolen wheel," said Faramir in a low voice. "It's dangerous, to be sure, but I'm beginning to think we have no other options."

"Go after the porcupines!" Denethor's eyes were popping out his head. "You must be mad! They'll kill us all! What's more, they know the terrain, and their base is in the northern eaves of Mirkwood- the dread forest!"

"I know, Father," said Faramir, "but Mirkwood isn't really all that different from Ithilien. Black Squirrels, black Kingfishers, poncy Elves... all the big dangers of Mirkwood have moved into Ithilien."

"What about the spiders?" asked Denethor.

"I don't think there are any this far north," said Faramir. "And if they're are... well, I'm not too worried. Elempë's Who's Who in Middle-Earth says that Hobbits are generally more dangerous than them."

"Maybe so," said Denethor, "but still... to fight against the Porcupines themselves! It's practically suicide! We'd have to take almost the entire support staff with us just to have a chance, and I don't mind saying that I don't like the idea of leaving the city virtually abandoned."

"Ioreth and Bergil can watch it," said Faramir confidently. "I've shown them how to work the trebuchets, should they need it."

"Very well..." sighed Denethor. "Call Húrin, Damrod, and Mablung to a council of war. Once we have a plan, have Beregond summon the rest. If we must fight these dreaded Porcupines, let us employ every bit of cunning we possess, so that we might, hopefully survive."

[Caranlondien]

Fog on the Stove-top

Frodo fingered the ring that hung from a chain around his neck. He had been scouring Bag End for hours, searching for anything that could be used as a replacement wheel. He felt tired, weary.

"Any luck, Mister Frodo?" Sam asked, entering the room Frodo had been searching.

"No, Sam," replied Frodo.

"Well, Mister Bilbo's asking for you. I've a feeling he has something up his sleeve, yet."

Frodo followed Sam down the corridor towards Bilbo's study. They both stopped, though, when they came to the kitchen doorway, out of which a steady stream of smoke was pouring forth.

Frodo waved his hand in front of his face and coughed. "What's going on in here?" he called. He could see a figure moving towards him through the cloud of soot, and was not surprised to discover it was Pippin, looking a bit ashen-faced.

"I wanted to help out," he explained. "So I went to the pantry for a bit of a snack, to help me think, but all I could find were those biscuits - you know, Sam's recipe, they're always hard as a rock. And then I thought, you know, they're round, too! So I measured one of the other wheels, and baked an enormous biscuit. I did the math, and everything. It's an hour for 6 servings, and as this was at least 30 servings, I did it for five hours." Here he paused to rub some soot out of his eye. "Did I count wrong?"

[The Saucepan Man]

Smoke get in your Tyres

The Hobbits stared disconsolately at the piles of crumbs and broken biscuit which lay neatly at the four corners of Bag-Endless-Fuel.

“Oh well, Pip,” said Merry. “At least you tried.

“Perhaps if I bake them for longer next time, they’ll be stronger,” offered Pippin.

“More likely than not, you’ll burn the place down,” observed Samwise.

“Still,” said Bilbo. “It’s given me some ideas. After all, food is the one thing that we do have in prodigious quantities.”

And so, over the next hour, they tried every possible comestible item of suitable size and shape that they could lay their hands on: large, round slabs of cheese (nice ride quality but prone to warping), huge game pies (too flaky and subject to leakage), enormous pancakes and crumpets (hopeless), monster doughnuts (too flabby and unstable), rollers comprised of impressively-sized cucumbers, marrows and corn-cobs in a row (too irresistible to the local wildlife), immense meatballs (too prone to degradation) and so on. All, alas, to no avail.

Then they moved on to kitchen utensils: plates, pans, dishes, breadboards, rolling-pins, bowls and baking-trays. But though each was crafted with Hobbit appetites in mind, none were quite large enough or strong enough.

Finally, as Frodo headed back to find something else that might avail, his eyes rested on the front door – the round front door.

“That’s it!” he exclaimed. “Hobbit-hole doors are round and just the right size!”

“But will they be strong enough?” asked Merry.

“They will if we nail a few together.”

And so the Hobbits set about removing Bag End’s doors from their frames and nailing them together in groups of three. Next, they carefully fixed them to the axles and stood back to survey the results of their efforts.

“You know, this just might work, my boy,” said Bilbo happily. “Let’s try it out.”

But as the first firework was ignited, and Bag-Endless-Fuel lurched forward unsteadily, it became clear that the ride provided by the makeshift wooden wheels would be unbearably uncomfortable.

“We’ll never make it over the High Pass without tyres on these things,” remarked Bilbo glumly, taking out his pipe and filling it with some Longbottom Leaf to help him think.

Silence once more descended on the living room as the Hobbits mused over the conundrum which faced them. Bilbo’s smoke rings became ever larger as he wracked his brains ever more desperately, until they were the size of large ... tyres!

“That’s it!” he exclaimed. “We shall use smoke rings as our tyres!”

“Smoke rings!” cried Frodo in disbelief. “Are you kidding? Smoke is surely entirely unsuitable as tyre material. It won’t stay on the wheels for a start. And even if it did, it could never support the vehicle’s weight.”

“Nonsense, my boy,” replied Bilbo. “We are taking place in a race in which the vehicles are assorted buildings, cities, towers and geographical features. We have just been attacked by a pack of wheel-obsessed porcupines. I heard from Elrond that Medel-zoom employed a rabid rabbit to get past the Troll, while Sauron turned a pack of rats into a pack of rat-wraiths. We are all stretching the bounds of credulity as it is. Smoke ring tyres are surely entirely in keeping with the way this race has gone so far.”

In no time at all, the Hobbits were back outside, with Bilbo puffing away on his pipe and blowing ever larger rings of smoke. Once they were of sufficient size, he carefully blew a ring around each ad hoc wheel. For a moment, the smoke simply swirled shapelessly around them. But then, as the Hobbits looked on in amazement, it began gradually to coalesce round the wheels, slowly lifting the vehicle slightly off the ground.

“Well I never did …!” spluttered Sam.

Unfortunately, however, the effect lasted only a moment. The Burrow-Buggy began to shake and bob furiously before, with a muffled *pop*, the smoke dissipated and it fell to rest once more on its wooden wheels.

“Blast and botheration!” said Bilbo. “The suspension can't take the strain. The effort required to support the disbelief is too much for it.”

“Hey there little man, what’s going down?” said an unfamiliar voice behind them.

“My car. That’s what!” muttered Bilbo in irritation, turning to see a wild-eyed man with dark brown eyes, a mane of unkempt brown hair, a long brown beard, dressed in a robe of rich reddish-brown and sporting a pair of shiny brown boots. “Now, who are you?”

“I go by the name of …”

“Radagast the Brown!” interrupted Bilbo.

“Er … yes,” Radagast replied. “However did you guess? Anyway, dude, you can call me Rad. It’s a lot less ghastly.”

“Well, it’s a pleasure to meet you Rad,” said Bilbo, shaking the Brown Wizard firmly by the hand. “I’m Bilbo Baggins. And this is my nephew, Frodo, and …”

But he stopped short as he noticed Radagast staring intently at Frodo.

“Have we met before?” the Istar asked Frodo. “I’ve got this weird feeling like I know you. Like you were family or something …”

“I don’t think so, brother,” Frodo replied.

“Weird, man. I was, like, tending to my garden and feeding the birds back in Rhosgobel when I got this groovy feeling telling me head out over the Anduin to this spot. Like someone close to me was in need of my aid. Anyways, like I said, what’s going down?”

And so Bilbo and the others explained to Radagast about the Mount Zoom Challenge, how they had to win because Gandalf and Elrond were depending on them, but how they could not go on without serviceable tyres.

“Cars, eh? Races?” Radagast said when he had heard enough. “It all seems a bit uncool to me, environmentally speaking. All those fumes polluting the air and hurting the plants and the trees and the animals. And causing global warming and the like.”

“Oh, I can assure you that we use only eco-friendly fireworks to propel Bag-Endless-Fuel,” Bilbo explained. “Provided by none other than Gandalf himself.”

“I see,” answered Radagast. “Well, I can dig that, man.”

“So, can you help us, Rad?”

“Well, seeing as you're friends of Gandalf, and what with the groovy Frodo feeling and all, I guess I can. What’s the problem?”

Bilbo explained about the smoke ring tyres and how the illogicality of the solution had rather overwhelmed the suspension of disbelief. Now back in Valinor, Radagast had been a rather sensible, studious fellow by the name of Aiwendil, logical of mind and rational of thought. And, although he had gone somewhat native on arriving in Middle-earth, he still had the knack of pulling a logical possibility from a logical improbability when the situation called for it.

“You know the best way to make something illogical logical in a place like this?” he asked.

The Hobbits shook their heads. Radagast turned and pointed his finger at a small band of Goblins who had been surreptitiously creeping up on the group, weapons at the ready, whereupon their blades promptly turned into large daffodils. Unsettled and confused, the Goblins turned tail and hopped off back to their Misty Mountain caves.

“Magic, dude!” explained Rad. “If there’s one thing that makes something unbelievable believable in a fantasy world, it’s magic. My normal thing is nature-based magic – you know, flower power and the like – but, hey, magic’s magic, you know?”

And so, after Bilbo had once more blown large smoke rings around the wheels of the little Door-Mobile, the Brown Wizard walked from one to the other, weaving his hands in ornate, swishing patterns and chanting under his breath. And as he went, a transparent film gradually formed over the rings of smoke and bound them to the wheels.

“Cool!” said Rad when he had finished. “That should do the trick. Now, you’d better get going if you’re not to bankrupt the Wise. If I know Gandalf, he’s probably been using the Counsel’s floating fund to support his gambling habit. Fare thee well.”

“So long, Rad!” the Hobbits called, waving farewell as they once more embarked on Bag-Endless-Fuel. “And thanks for all the swish.”

As the funky Brown Wizard watched the little Burrow Buggy heading smoothly off West towards the High Pass, his eyes rested on the smoke swirling around its Hobbit-door wheels, securely harnessed by his magic. Absent-mindedly, he rolled some herbs up in a thin strip of paper, lit it with his finger and inhaled deeply, before letting out a long, and slightly high-pitched, sigh of satisfaction.

[Morsul the Dark]

New treads rock

The Tower surged into motion and with each agonizing turn of the wheels new screams were heard. "Ah sweet music," Gothmog smiled, "You know Montague you are an excellent co-pilot, South-West is a perfect direction. You know what though I bet Dwarfy has more challenges coming up and I bet you have some awesome ideas on how to pass them we have to keep an eye out."

[Gil-Galad]

"thats what i'm here for, i did graduate from Narchost U, where did yo ugraduate from?" Montague asked

"me oh... a little place called Charcost U"

"Charcost! you like the rivla of my university! ha never thought i'd see the day where a CU would be in command of troops..."

"yeah...wait what?"

"oh nothing" Montague said with a smile as the tower continued South-West to the hum of agonizing screams which oddly sounds like Beethovens 5th Symphony...

[Sleepy Ranger]

Orth-Tank Wacky Races...

Saruman was merrily humming along to 'Yellow Submarine' as he took his bath. His bathtub was quite conveniently shaped like a yellow submarine. All of a sudden Grima burst into the bathroom and then for no real reason began running around in circles. "Grima! What are you doing here?!? Who is driving?" Saruman roared angrily. "The porcupines, sir!" Grima replied. "What porcupines? We don't have any porcupines, you fool!" Saruman replied grabbing a towel. "No sir, they flattend all our tyres and went on a hayride with the spares." Grima said. "Well, we'll think of something to do. I must get dressed, until then I expect you to get out and push." Grima nodded walking off.

About half an hour later Saruman joined Grima outside who was desperately trying to push Orth-Tank forwards but had so far done nothing significant. "Grima you fool! Can you not push a tower modified into a car?" Saruman shouted angrily. "But sir..." Grima began only to be cut off by someone singing loudly, "I AM THE EGGMAN, THEY ARE THE EGGMEN, I AM THE WALRUS GOO GOO KA CHU!" followed by The Beatles van coming down from the hill and taking the long and winding road to where Orth-Tank stood. The Beatles all tumbled out of the van one at a time, in this order- John Lennon, George Harrison, Paul McCartney and Ringo Starr.

They looked at Saruman and Grima who looked back at them, it was quite obvious everyone was confused and had no real idea as to what was happening. "Ringo, I said left not right!" Harrison said. "But I did turn left!" Ringo replied. "No, you went straight on!" Lennon complained. "We were moving?" McCartney piped in. Saruman looked at Grima with a long face, this would be a hard days night.

After spending five minutes watching the Beatles argue over who took the wrong turn and then watching them set up their instruments and do nothing with them, Grima began to tug on Saruman's cloak. "What is it you measly excuse for an ameoba?" Saruman asked impatiently. Grima pointed at the wheels on the Beatles' van. "Not now Grima, I'm trying to think of a way to get moving again. Let it be. Let them go on their Magical Mystery Tour." Said Saruman when all of a sudden his eyes lit up and he said, "Why thats a great idea! Listen, Grima! We could steal their tyres!" Saruman said beaming.

As Grima and Saruman began to discuss how to get the tyres away from the Beatles Lennon shouted out at them, "Oi! We've got a song for you!" After which they began to play 'I Need You' to Saruman and Grima, stating that it was in honor of their great friendship. After the performance Saruman called for the band's attention and said, "Now listen, we need your tyres!" This statement caused them to begin playing 'Drive My Car'. Saruman slapped his fore-head, this would indeed be a hard days night.

[THE Ka]

((OOC: Ladies and Gentlemen, I have been asked by Sleepy if I would continue his Orth-Tank Wacky Races post. As I am in course of my life to be kind to those who deserve such, I have taken up this request. I hope that this shall not be any harm to The Mount Zoom Challenge players, spectators, managers, and any other affiliation to this thread. Poděkovat vám všem.

Sincerely,
THE Ka

))
The Orth-Tank Continues...

As Saruman was about to just send off Grima to jack the car, steal the wheels, and possibly make off with the stereo, (even if there was an apple in it), The Beatles reminded Saruman of a possible plan. Grima just was perplexed with astonishment that The Beatles were playing for them, and slowly snuck out an autograph book, just in case Saruman wasn't looking.

" Grima! Put that diary away! I have a plan..." Saruman barked out the side of his mouth.
" sigh... Yes master?"
" I believe there is a possible way to get tyres out of these musicians without ending up in more of a sour milk sea... Grima! Go fetch me my bath, quickly!"
" Which one master?"
Saruman with a mixed look of utter astonishment and slight coy pitty for such a helpless creature he saw Grima as, pulled him by his collar and gave his orders with a drone.
" Don't play stupid with me, Grima! You know, the one I take here, there and everywhere! The one I most positively use eight days a week!"
" ... I still don't get your point." Grima said flinchingly.
" The Yellow Submarine! Fetch it now, and there better be no scratches!" Saruman roared as The Beatles' ears picked up his words, and began to play just that. Yellow Submarine...

" Ah ob la di, ob la da! If I don't make it out of here soon my head's going to go helter skelter..." Saruman began to rumb his temples. Suddenly, he was shaken out of his thoughts to the sound of a rather yellow, submarine-like tub hitting the ground. Turning back in rage, to possibly find his beloved bath indeed sunk in disrepair, Saruman looked up Grima, sitting in the bath, which had been moved down the stairs of the Orth-Tank with nothing but a bath mat and a few rubber ducks.
" How did you - Nevermind! Grima, get out of that tub with your filthiness. I have propositions to make!"
Saruman walked over to The Beatles as they were finishing Yellow Submarine, with Grima slowly trailing behind with the bath on his back.

" Excuse me fellows, but since I see you are a little attached to your tyres, I wish to know if you would like to make a trade." Saruman said with his best charm and a rather convincing smile.
The Beattles were about to play again, but their curiousity was caught. Well, that of Paul's at most.

" What do you want our tyres for Saruman? ... And what's that greasy fellow carrying on his back?" McCartney asked.
Saruman's smile widened. I can almost see those tyres on the Orth-Tank! Just have to played them a bit longer, and see if they will take this bath... Though, I'll miss it. It's a wonderful tub.

Grima was just stunned that Paul had adressed him indirectly, and was almost squashed by the girth of the yellow tub as he brought it over.
" Well Paul you see Grima here was driving, but unfortunately I forgot how utterly stupid and mechcanically challenged he is. Alas, I wish I could hire better, but his damn HMO won't let me torture him for another year -"
" There was porcupines Paul!" Grima couldn't help but bursting out. Even if it was his first and last attempt at saying, 'hello' to McCartney indirectly.
" Grima! When I want a babbling fool I'll ask for one! ... Oh, and yes, apparently porcupines ran off with our spares..." Saruman's face was turning red. This had indeed, if not anything else, been a hard day's night.

" Tough break my friend, is there anyway we can help you out?" Harrison addressed in a cool tone, Saruman obviously was a serious type.
" Well, there is one way. I would like to make a trade off. Your tyres for my yellow submarine bath!" Saruman stepped back with the grace of a salesman on the peak of a deal. There it stood, in all of it's great yellow lusture of cleanliness - The Yellow Submarine of tubs.
The Beatles stared at it at first with amasement, then slight, but cool despiration. They hadn't been to a good hotel in a week, all thanks to Ringo's apparent lack of direction, and mixed in with the fact that Middle Earth wasn't exactly anywhere near their tour stops, though, they were still trying to fiend off masses of fangirls that appeared out of no where. All in all, that bath looked like a good trade.

" That tub is amazing, and let's face it, we haven't been to a good hotel is a week! I say we take it, we can get more tyres later!" Ringo said amongst his fellow band mates, hoping that they might see his logic.
" Wait! Where are we going to get tyres in a place like this? I know the bath looks wonderful beyond all imagination, but think of the tyres!" George tried to make a case with them, even if that tub was really, truly amazing, and would look great in the tour somewhere.
Saruman was about to just send Grima out and take the tyres anyway and keep the bath for himself when Lennon closed the deal.
" Saruman, we'll take it!"

" I'm so glad you all saw what a deal this tub is, really, I enjoyed it very much myself... So, that'll be four tyres you can give?" Saruman said with a smile.
The tires were soon off The Beattle's van and the Orth-Tank was ready to go, leaving a rather glum group with the impressive yellow submarine bath.

" John! Where are we going to find more tyres?! It's not as if this bath has it all you know, though, it is rather impressive." McCartney couldn't believe that John, out of all people would trade good tyres for a yellow tub, even if it was wonderful. They all felt as gloomy as Eleanor Rigby, and most definately would not be being for the benefit of Mr. Kite. Just when things would go helter skelter, John explained his reasoning:
" Mates! It was a good trade! Besides, we have spares in the back under the equipment."
Pulling back a few instrument cases, there lay the band's spare wheels in boxes, everyone could breathe again.
" ...And I thought those were birthday present drum cases!" Ringo pipped in. After putting the spares on, and getting the tub to fit somewhere on or in the van, The Beatles were off and hopfully on their way to the tour.

After having a few moments to enjoy belittling Grima even more, Saruman had the Orth-Tank back on it's due course, humming a bit of 'Everybody's Got Something To Hide Except for Me and My Monkey'...