The Mount Zoom Challenge - GAME

[Meneltarmacil]

Everything was going well. There had been no need to make the Wargs run the tower, as the tree-chopper on the front had been mowing down Mirkwood steadily and feeding the trees into the steam engine for quite a while. The Orth-Tank was almost out of Mirkwood when suddenly...

Putt-putt-putt-putt-putt-PUTTOOIE!!!

The engine stopped, causing the massive tower to shake violently back and forth.

"WHAT IS GOING ON HERE, YOU PITIFUL EXCUSE FOR A SERVANT?!" boomed Saruman's voice as the wizard charged downstairs.

"Duh? Guh? Bumble-bluh?" was all Wormtongue could stammer as he woke up to repeated whacking from Saruman's staff.

"Never mind," Saruman grumbled as he inspected the workings of Orth-Tank.

"YOU INCOMPETENT FOOL!" he shouted.

Grima responded with his wittiest "Huh?"

"I don't suppose you could tell me where all these rats came from? You forgot to clean out the pipes like I've been telling you to. You're going to be Warg-fodder if you don't find a way to get these rats out of here!" The wizard really meant business.

"Maybe we could put a big plate of cheese for the rats outside? Make it extra-stinky so they'll know where to find it. Oh, and poison it as well so they won't come back. Either that, or we could flood the pipes with rat poison," Worm offered.

[Formendacil]

Denethor:

Minas Tirith continued to roar along the southern edge of the Grey Mountains, occasionally rolling over a foothill or two. Denethor had reassumed his position at the helm in the Tower, occassionally casting a glance down at his new hood ornament at the head of the great "keel" of the city. "Rather a commanding and forbidding pose indeed," Denethor thought to himself.

They were cruising along quite fine, when there came a gurgle from the depths of the city, and Minas Tirith began to coast, losing its propulsion.

"Faramir!" Denethor shouted. "What's wrong?"

"I don't know, Father," replied Faramir. "We seem to having engine trouble. Maybe this nuclear drive isn't such a good idea... What if it blew!"

"Nonsense!" snorted Denethor.

"Well, the city's slowing down, whatever the problem is," said Faramir. "Perhaps we should go check."

Denethor put the coasting city in park, and they descended from the tower to the citadel, and then down to the engine room in the heart of the hill. Húrin of the Keys and most of his support staff were bustling around looking rather confused.

"What's the problem?" demanded Denethor.

"Well, we're not really sure, milord," replied Húrin. "We had to shut down the city because of leak in the pipes feeding the main reactor, but we haven't ascertained why there's a leak, and until we do, we daren't start the engine up again. The last thing we need is a Chernobyl up here."

"Wrong," said Denethor. "The last thing we need is a broken down city. Faramir, you'd better help them find out what's wrong."

"But what about you, Father?"

"Somebody has to handle the supervision detail," replied Denethor.

Giving a long-suffering sigh, Faramir set to work with Húrin and his crew, looking for what might have punctured the pipes.

"Oh, rats!" said Faramir loudly, poking around a corner.

"You've found it?" Denethor turned up almost immediately at his shoulder. "What is it?"

"I just told you."

"No you didn't, you said 'rats'," replied Denethor.

"Exactly," said Faramir. "Rats!"

"I get the whole 'rats' business," said Denethor. "Now what caused the holes?"

"Rats," replied Faramir.

"You mean... rats?" said Denethor.

"Yes, rats," said Faramir, with the air of explaning to a child.

"Oh, rats!" cursed Denethor. "Húrin! Come over here!"

Húrin of the Keys rushed over.

"Have you found it, milord?"

"Yes, I have," replied Denethor. "It's rats."

"Rats!" exclaimed Húrin.

"I feel the same way," nodded Denethor.

"No, I mean it can't be rats," said Húrin. "Minas Tirith is completely free of rats, and has been ever since the days of King Tarondor, who ruled after the Great Plague. They were said to have caused it's quick spread, and the King ordered all rats in the city destroyed. It took until the reign of Narmacil II to achieve that goal, but Minas Tirith has been rat-free for the thousand-plus years since. They must have been placed here deliberately."

"But who would have done such a thing?" said Beregond, naïvely. Denethor and Faramir exchanged dark looks.

"Sauron, I bet!" said Faramir. "He's downright evil!"

"Saruman," said Denethor. "He's much more cunning."

"Could've been the Witchking," said Faramir. "He's always had good luck getting animals to flee away from him. All he'd have to do would be to drive them this way..."

"The Halflings!" said Denethor. "Are they not also known as 'descendents of rats'?"

"I think that might be anti-hobbit rhetoric, Father," said Faramir. "But it could have been Gothmog- assuming he's smart enough."

"Fat chance there!" snorted Denethor. "But it might have been Théoden! That old bugger's always known where his real competition lies, and I wouldn't put it past a kingly pretender like him."

"Nay! Éowyn would never allow it!"

"Oh yes she would!" replied Denethor gleefully. "That woman's the devil incarnate!"

"You're mixing her up with Galadriel..."

"Well, they're both blonde!"

"Father, they're COMPLETELY different."

"Yes, Boromir, but anyway, Théoden wouldn't have to tell her about it anyway," Denethor persisted.

"I'm Faramir."

"Yes, I know you are."

"But you just called me Boromir."

"No, I didn't."

"Yes, you did!"

"Ahem!" interjected Húrin. "Does it really matter, milords, who masterminded the plan? It might even have been Dwarfy. The point is, that they had to have been released into here by someone with access to the engine room. ONLY your lordships, myself, and the members of the crew have access. Even King Elessar wasn't allowed into the city after the game began."

"Get me a roster of your team," said Denethor. "Let's find us this traitor!"

"And then?" asked Faramir.

"And then we burn him!"

[Glirdan]

Rats!

"BLAH BL BLAH BL BLAH BLAH BLAH!!" Sauron yelled.

"May I ask why you're spekaing jibberish sire?" Mouth asked annoyingly. The yelling was getting REAL annoying and head-splitting now.

"BECAUSE IT'S FUN!!" Sauron cackled evily.

"Well my lord, by the sounds of that Dwarf up there who stole our money (CURSE HIM!!), we have another problem coming up."

"REALLY!? WHAT IS IT!? TELL ME! AND BE QUICK ABOUT IT!!"

"Well...uh...I....ummm...don't exactly know...." Mouth stated, quite embarassed and in fear. His master had an awful temper.

"WHAT!? WHY THE-" he got cut off by a loud. PUTT-PUTT-PUT-PUt-Put-put-pu-p-pfffft.....BOOM "WHAT WAS THAT!?" Sauron asked suspiciously.

"Umm...I think that was the engine dieing my liege. Would you like someone to go and check it out?"

[Maeggaladiel]

Rat Attack

"PREPOSTEROUS!!" Sauron bellowed. The windowpanes rattled at the sheer volume. Poor Mouth. His eardrums would never be the same after this trip.

"ABSOLUTELY PREPOSTEROUS!" Sauron repeated. "OUR ENGINES CANNOT DIE, MOUTH OF ME! THEY ARE ENGINES OF UNRELENTING EVIL!"

"Be that as it may, my lord, that doesn't change the fact that the engines have stopped," Mouth pointed out. "Listen."

The Dark Lord and Mouth craned their heads downward, listening for the soothing purr of the 250 troll-power engine cranking the gears of the ancient mountain and spewing forth molten lava. No such sound came.

"See, my lord? They have stopped. I think--"

"WAIT, MOUTH!" Sauron slapped a hand over Mouth's... er... mouth. This was unfortunate for Mouth, as Sauron was still wearing his metal gauntlets. "LISTEN!"

Mouth, trying very hard not to scream in pain or drop any teeth on the carpeting, watched as Sauron crept up to the wall. The dark lord knelt and pressed the side of his helmeted head to the wall. He pointed a gauntleted finger.

"SOMETHING IS MAKING SCRATCHY-SCRATCHY NOISES IN THE WALL, MY MOUTH," he said, in what he supposed a whisper would sound like. It was really more of a loud conversational voice, but hey, it was a step down from the usual yelling.

Mouth obediently knelt next to his master and listened.

scritchscracth... scratchy.... *SQUEEK!!* scratch...

"Sou's laeg ra's," Mouth said, trying not to lose any more teeth. "May'he we 'hould go--"

Sauron's fingers formed a fist, and he punched straight through the wall. Plaster chunks, pink insulation, pumice, and drywall flew everywhere. The dark lord fished around for a moment, searching for something. Finally his hand emerged, clutching an iron pipe.

"AHA!" he cackled victoriously. "I HAVE FOUND THE PROBLEM!" He shook the pipe and a terrified rat fell to the ground. Sauon placed his foot on the rat's tail, keeping it from escaping.

"YOU!" he bellowed. "OBVIOUSLY, YOU ARE A SPY, SENT BY THE HOBBITS TO KEEP ME FROM STEALING BACK MY RING!"

"Um," Mouth began, but Sauron waved him away. Sauron threatened the rat with a fate worse than death unless the rat revealed the name and whereabouts of its employer, but the creature didn't respond.

"YOU ARE A TOUGH GUY, AY? WELL HOW ABOUT IF I--"

Squeak! Another rat scurried between the dark lord's legs and headed into the kitchen. Sauron and Mouth turned, to see several more rats falling from the broken pipe.

"BLAST!" Sauron cursed. "THEY HAVE US SURROUNDED!"

Mouth leaped up on the passenger's seat as a particularly large rat mistook his boots for some kind of tasty dead animal.

"This is all the Witch King's doing!" he yelled. "I just know it! He's always trying to make me look bad in front of you, my lord!"

"HURRY, MY MOUTH!" Sauron yelled over the squeeking. "WE MUST FIND OUT WHO IS RESPONSIBLE FOR THIS! TO THE TROLL-ENGINE ROOM!" Yelling out battle cries in the Black Speech, Sauron raced down the stairs to the depths of the mountain, where trolls ran the great engine.

Mouth began to wonder what was worse: the pain in his teeth, the pain in his ears, or Sauron, the pain in the neck.

[dancing spawn of ungoliant]

Faramir:


"Father", Faramir gasped, "This is just like in a dream I had a while ago!"

"Really now? I, for one, dreamed that I was on a vacation in Dol Amroth last night. The sea glimmered and the hot sand of the golden beaches run through my bare toes. I was just sipping a Balar Island Ice Tea under a sunshade when I woke up", Denethor said in a wistful voice.

Húrin of the Keys nodded wisely. "I can relate, my lord. I once dreamed that-"

"No, no, NO! Listen to me. In my dream I thought the eastern sky grew dark and there was a growing thunder, but in the west a pale light lingered, and out of it I heard a voice, remote but clear, crying:

Seek for the rats that run free,
In Engine room they dwell,
There shall be counsels taken,
To get rid of the horrid smell.
There shall be shown a token,
That Doom is near at hand,
For mousetraps shall be broken,
and a traitor forth shall stand.

What does it mean?"

"Either it means, my son, that the Black Breath disease damaged your brain more than Mister heal-it-all knew, or then... then... Then we shall go consulting Ioreth on this matter."

"Not Ioreth! She always piches me on the cheek", Faramir shuddered remembering the horrible times when he had been trapped in the Houses of Healing for weeks because of chicken pox.

"She is the only one who has saved all the volumes of Ranger's Digest since Mid-3rd Age. There might very well be something useful there, so pick up your courage and prepare to be pinched, Captain of Gondor", Denethor said, turned on his heels and strode out of the room a disheartened Faramir in his wake.

[Alcarillo]

Rats!

The Witch-king sat in the highest chamber of the highest tower, having left the steering wheel to Ringwraith #4. He was consulting his Palantir, the Ithil stone, at the moment. Where are you, my pretties, he muttered to himself, using the stone's powers to search far and wide across Mirkwood for the competition. Ah, there you are, my pretties, he thought, when he spotted Bag Endless-fuel and Mount Zoom. Veered away, eh, too scared to follow Minas Mor-go? Mwahahaha! He then turned his eye towards his old kingdom of Angmar in the north, and he gazed longingly at the old fortresses, and the battlements, and the weary orc sentries longing to see their long-gone king. The Witch-king fondly remembered the old battles in Eriador, and his victories over Arnor. They were a race of fools and idiots, trying to stand up to me! Me! The Witch-king of Angmar! Mwaha-WHAAT?!

A rat had just ran across the Witch-king's foot, squeaking as it scampered into a corner. Rats? An exterminator had just visited the city no more than three weeks before, and already rats were infesting the place. The Witch-king stomped down the spiral staircase, and on his way down spotted two more rats. He soon reached the top of the gates, where Ringwraith #4 was driving. "Ringwraith #4! First of all, get out of my chair! Use that wooden stool I gave you. Secondly, we've been infested with rats!"

"Rats, sir?"

"No, banana splits," said the Witch-king, rolling his eyes, "Of course I said rats, you fool. They're everywhere. Look, there's one now!"

"That's odd. Didn't we have an exterminator come here just three weeks ago to deal with our ant problem? This is strange, indeed. Maybe one of the orcs brought them, or maybe Eärnur's ghost is bothering us again, or maybe an elf has infiltrated our fortress and is sabotaging the race by unleashing vermin throughout our city. Have you heard any tra-la-las lately?"

The Witch-king slapped the back of Ringwraith #4's head. "Enough of these crazy conspiracy theories of yours! Next you'll say Balrogs have wings!"

"But sir, have you seen a Balrog? Their shadows stretch out like two vast wings. I've read it before in a book."

"Oh, shut up. Let's go investigate this rat problem."

The Witch-king duct taped the wheel straight and he and Ringwraith #4 climbed down the great spiral staircase leading down into the labyrinth of cellars, dungeons, and basements. It was not long before they heard the horrible moaning of King Eärnur's ghost. He drifted out of a dungeon door and right into the stairwell. His ghostly garments were the same kingly vestments he wore on the day he died. Through his ghostly head was a ghostly Morgul blade, neatly and straightly impaled from temple to temple. It was this wound which caused an eternal headache, making King Eärnur moan so.

"Eärnur! Stop right there!" commanded the Witch-king. "Did you happen to let rats infest the city? They're everywhere. Tell me, or you'll relive June 19, 2050 of the Third Age for the rest of eternity!"

"Twasn't I," he said with a dreary sigh. "But I do know who did."

"Who? Tell us!"

"Only if you promise to free me from this prison when we reach the Grey Havens. I've been thinking about retiring to the Barrow-downs. I've heard I can lease a nice barrow for cheap."

"I don't care about your barrows. Tell us who infested this place with rats!"

"Only if you promise to release me when we reach the Grey Havens."

"Oh, shut up. Fine. I promise, but that's the last promise I'm giving you. Now, who did this?"

"I saw an orc do it."

"Who? What? How? When?"

"First of all, I have no idea what its name was. What, you think I learn their names? As for how and when, I saw him take two rats out of his pockets just a few hours ago."

"Just a few hours ago?"

"Hey, rats multiply. As I was saying, he released them from his pockets near the first basement chocolate vault –"

"You have a chocolate vault?!" said Ringwraith #4 to the Witch-king. "Why don't I have a chocolate vault? How many other secret vaults do you have, eh, boss?"

"Shut up, let the King finish his story."

"And the orc did the most bizarre thing. He fed himself to the rats. Chopped off a few toes and fingers, and fed those rats. Those rats eat orc meat."

"Amazing! Do you know what this means, Ringwwraith #4? It means we only have to look for orcs missing an excessive number of toes and fingers! To the dungeons!"

And so the Witch-king and Ringwraith #4 sped off to the dungeons. When they arrived, they found that the floor was covered in rats. Ringwraith #4 nearly fainted, and grabbed onto the Witch-king's arm to help him stand.

"Oh, get off of me, you sissy. Attention orcs! Please remove all socks, shoes, and gloves! We are taking a tally of how many appendages we've lost. Take off your shoes now, good job."

The smell was unbearable, and Ringwraith #4 finally fainted. The Witch-king kicked him. "Alright, #4, go check their feet."

[Alcarillo]

The Rats are Defeated!

The Witch-king kicked at Ringwraith #4 again. "Get up, #4, you have a lot of orc toes to count." After several minutes, Ringwraith #4 slowly stood, with confusion and bewilderment.

"Where am I? Wait, why are we in the dungeons? Eek, rats!" He clung to the Witch-king's arm again. "And what's that smell?"

"That smell is the scent of orc feet, which you'll be looking at, you fool. Now get off my arm." Ringwraith #4 did so, but trembled as the rats scurried around his feet. "Don't you remember? We're infested with rats, and we're counting the toes of the orcs to see which one let them loose."

"Oh, yeah. Now I remember," said Ringwraith #4. "But sir, why, if we know these rats eat orc-meat, don't we just throw a dead orc out the window? The rats will follow it outside, and our problem will be gone."

The Witch-king sighed. "Are you always so simple-minded? You weren't like this before the war. Did the war make you go loopy on me? Well, no matter. We need to find the orc who did this to punish him, and to find out who he's working for. He would not sabotage our race if he weren't paid to do so. Now go count those feet!"

He gave Ringwraith #4 a little shove in the direction of the orcs. Eeeew, were #4's thoughts as he stepped through the rats. He was up to his ankles in them. He also went pale when he saw how the orcs were playing with them: letting the rats crawl all over their bodies, petting rats, sticking rats in each others' shirts as jokes. Good Melkor, why? why? why must I work with these filthy orcs for eternity? #4 patted his pocket, just to make sure his lucky bottle of hand-sanitizer was still there, and approached those orcs, closely followed by the Witch-king of Angmar.

"Alright orcs, show me your hands and feet." And the orcs did indeed, shoving both into Ringwraith #4's face. He nearly fainted again, but the Witch-king caught him as he fell and stood him back up. "I don't want to see anymore fainting out of you! Now count those appendages!" And count he did.

"This batch is missing a few, but that's normal," Ringwraith #4 told the Witch-king, so they moved down to the next batch, and so in this manner they made their way down the entire length of the front axle. Meanwhile, the rats were multiplying.

"Wait a moment," said Ringwraith #4, "Weren't the rats a foot shallower when we started?"

"Hey, rats multiply. You can't expect them to sit here and do nothing. And you'd better hurry up with your counting. We don't want this place flooded."

None of the orcs of the front axle were missing an exceptional number of fingers or toes (the most missing on a single orc was three), so Ringwraith #4 and the Witch-king moved to the rear axle in the next dungeon. The rats were now up to their thighs, and the Witch-king cut a path through the rats with his sword. "Go ahead, the path may be a bit bloody, but it's fine." Ringwraith #4 could not find words to express his disgust at wading through dead rats.

And so they continued down the rear axle, checking the hands and feet of each orc, racing against the tide of rats. Ringwraith #4 felt faint many times, but the Witch-king was there to whack him over the head with a dead rat and tell him to keep counting.

Hundreds of orcs were passed and thousands of fingers and toes were counted. It soon seemed like finding the culprit was hopeless. At least an hour after they began, the Witch-king and Ringwraith #4 came to the very last orc. He sat on his hands and would not show them.

"Show your hands or we'll chop them off and look at them ourselves!" shouted the Witch-king. The orc, slowly and grumpily, revealed his hands. He only had three fingers! "Aha! And now for your feet." The orc stood. He had only three toes! "Aha! We've found our culprit, #4! Tell us, orc, what is your name?"

"Um, Bill – um, no, I'm Bob. Bob's my name."

"Tell us your true name, orc!"

"Gah, fine. I am Jên-iphûr Destroyer of Men son of Glob the Uncombed."

"No, you're not!" said the orc next to him, "You're just Jên-iphûr, with none of that fancy stuff attached to your name."

"So, Jên-iphûr," said the Witch-king, "If that is indeed your true name, come with us! There are too many rats in here." The Witch-king commanded Ringwraith #4 to unchain Jên-iphûr, and he did. They led the orc back up the spiral staircase to the interrogation chamber. It was a grim stone room, with a steel chair in the middle. They rechained the orc to this chair and the Witch-king began his interrogation.

"So, Jên-iphûr, why did you infest Minas Mor-go with rats? Spit it out! Who told you to do so?"

"It was nobody. I, um, don't know what you're talking about."

"Don't play dumb with me! Don't make me torture you. We can fill your mind with the incessant buzz of teenage girls slobbering over a Mirkwood prince, cause you to go crazy and hear nothing but elvish tra-la-las for the rest of your life, show you images of uncloaked Maiar so horrible to behold that you'll go blind, expose you to achingly painful debates of canonicity and balrog wings, assign you to Mordor, and lock you in a room full of werewolves! Now tell us, who told you to unleash the rats?"

"Never!"

"Ringwraith #4! Pull back that curtain!" A red curtain hung across the wall facing the chair. Ringwraith #4 tugged on a little rope, and the curtain whooshed away, revealing a painting of something so horrible I cannot describe it to you, though you might be able to guess at what it showed.

The Witch-king grabbed ahold of Jên-iphûr's head and pointed it at the painting. He pried Jên-iphûr's eyelids open, too. Tears streamed freely down Jên-iphûr's face, and his pupils began to wildly dilate. After only a few seconds he shouted out:

"Good lord, I can't take it anymore! Cover the picture! I'll tell you everything!" He thrashed his head, sobbing.

"Excellent, excellent," said the Witch-king. Ringwraith #4 tugged on another rope and the curtain whooshed back. From where he stood he could not see the picture, but didn't care to after seeing how the orc reacted.

"It was…the elves! One…of them jumped onto the city when they had followed us…*sob* *shiver*…I was headed to the bathroom when it found me…it said it would hunt me down and torture me with tra-la-la-lallies if I didn't do as it said…*sob* it gave me two rats to unleash in the city…and that's what happened. Please don't kill me!"

"Only if you answer these two questions!" said the Witch-king, "First of all, is the elf still hiding in the city? And secondly, how do we get rid of the rats?"

Jên-iphûr sobbed once more and wiped some tears from his face. "I-I don't know where the elf is. It- it-it d-disappeared! But I do *sob* know how to get rid of the rats!"

"How? Tell me, or I'll show you the picture again!"

"No! *sob* You-you lure it out with its favorite food."

"And what is the rats' favorite food?"

"Or-or-orc meat!"

"Oh, ahaah! So that was why you were feeding them your own fingers and toes," said the Witch-king, "Ringwraith #4, what did you do with the remains of the orcs killed in the riot?"

"I burned them, sir."

"Idiot. Oh well, we'll just have to kill fresh orcs then."

Jên-iphûr turned pale. "My lord, you said you wouldn't!"

The Witch-king shrugged. "Oh well. Just think of it as a noble sacrifice for the greater good."

* * * * *

The Witch-king exited the interrogation chamber, with Jên-iphûr's head in hand. Ringwraith #4 followed him, dragging the body. A horrible din of squeaking could be heard somewhere off in the passages.

"Hear that, #4? Those are the rats! They've smelt the orc's blood and are coming!"

"Great," said Ringwraith #4, not without sarcasm. He was having trouble dragging the body, and slipped a few times in the orc juice that oozed from it.

He had even worse trouble ascending the stairs with it. "Hurry up! What are you, a snail?" the Witch-king called from the top of the stairs. When Ringwraith #4 had reached the top the two hurried out the door over to the city walls.

"Wait. Not yet, you fool," said the Witch-king to Ringwraith #4, who was already hauling Jên-iphûr's body over the wall.

The squeaking from inside the tower grew louder and a faint trembling was felt beneath the feet. The rats were coming! The Witch-king got ready to throw the head into the forest. "Not yet…" he said again.

Then suddenly rats exploded out of the tower doorway, flying in all directions, scampering wildly across the walls towards Jên-iphûr's body. Their squeaking cries were deafening, and Minas Mor-go lurched to one side from the weight of so many rats moving at once. "The rats are coming! The rats are coming!" shouted an orc somewhere. Ringwraith #4 pushed the body over the wall, and fainted as the rats crawled up his robes. This is my tale, and it is ended now. Good-bye! And his thought fled far away and his eyes saw no more.

But the Witch-king was still conscious. With one mighty roar he threw the head far over the walls and into the forest. The waves upon waves of rats leapt after it in one squeaking cascade of fur, and crashed into the forest below, maddened by the scent of the orc's blood deep in the forest.

When it was all over the Witch-king kicked Ringwraith #4. "Why do you faint so much? It's not like they would've killed you. They're gone now anyways, and we must continue our journey. We can't slow down every time you feel like taking a nap."

[Gil-Galad]

"bah we got bleedin' rats Orc #4291746912b " said Gothmog

"Montague"

"now what can we do now... any ideas Orc #4291746912b?" Gothmog said

"Montague"

"eh? what you blabbering about now?" Gothmog said with sheppards pie coming out of his mouth

"my name its... did you eat my Sheppards Pie?" Montague said

"uh" Gothmog looked around "no of course not why would i do that"

"i made that for supper tonight! what are we going to eat now! solve that my Balrog-Incarnate!"

"uh... we eat those rats that are causing us troubles! yummy!" Gothmog replied

"i guess... i got this great recipe for Rat Soup!"

"great! now Orc #4291746912b! go get those Rats out of our pipes!"

"uh Montague"

"what now?"

"my name... its Montague"

"okay... when did that happen? i thought you hated anything that started with the letter M"

"well funny story, it involves a tree, a talking dolphin, a pair of confused birds and your cousin Annie, it was a wild March..."

"i see... wait Annie? but she drowned in the Sea of Nurn last...march.... you!!!"

"hey its not my fault! i found a piece of wood and i was like 'hey a piece of wood' and then theres Annie and next thing i know were at war and all that crazy nonsense... so shall i go get those rats for a yummy dinner?"

"sorry what? you said something?"

"...oh nevermind... good thing i have our cooking supplies for great orc cusine! so i'll just throw it into our pipes then we'll cook them in the pipes and i'll stab them out with a poking utensil! sounds like a plan?"

"no you don't look fat"

"do you even listen to anything i say?"

"i said i'll do it tomorrow okay!"

"... your so off my christmas card list..." Montague said as Gothmog pulls out a magazine and begins reading [Magazine headline : how to bring the Inner Orc Beauty outside Pg 16]

[Gurthang]

A Change of Direction

Originally Posted by Alcarillo

When it was all over the Witch-king kicked Ringwraith #4. "Why do you faint so much? It's not like they would've killed you. They're gone now anyways, and we must continue our journey. We can't slow down every time you feel like taking a nap."

Shaking himself to clear his head, Ringwraith #4 stood up. It was rather embarrassing to be fainting so much, but what could he do? Ever since he had been a wee lad, he could not stand overbearing stenches. And not standing them meant fainting and being on the ground. He was rather sore that becoming a wraith had not rid him of his sense of smell, but there was nothing he could do. So he trudged dejectedly towards the dungeon, where he had been instructed to go and get the orcs moving yet again. He'd rather be taking a bath to get the nasty orc blood off of himself, but that was a luxury the Witch-King had taken for himself first. And there being only one bathtub in the whole of Minas Mor-go meant that he'd have to wait for hours to get in. The Witch-King was notorious for taking excessively long bathes.

Regardless, after a little while (the orcs still had their shoes off, so he fainted twice before getting them back to work) he had Minas Mor-go back on the move and was up on the helm steering westward. It seemed like smooth sailing. He could see the Misty Mountains rearing up ahead of him, and was thinking how they were going to get up over them. Suddenly, King Eärnur's ghost floated up beside him. Annoyed at just his presence, #4 remained silent, hoping that Eärnur would do the same. No such luck.

"Are we there yet?" asked the dead king.

"No."

"So, where are we going, again?"

"West," #4 replied bluntly.

"True, but what is to the west."

"Mountains."

"Ah, true again. And beyond those?"

"The Witch-King's realm of Angmar." said Ringwraith #4, remembering how much he didn't want to be going west and thus forgetting for a moment who he was conversing with. "I really hope he doesn't decide to stop there."

"Oh, sounds interesting." said Eärnur, clearly not interested. "When's the nearest rest stop?"

"What?!"

"The next rest stop. I have to go to the bathroom."

"No, we're not stopping. There are plenty of places to go here in Minas Mor-go. Besides, you're a ghost, you can't have to go to the bathroom."

"Oh." The ghost stopped for a moment, looking off into space. "Do you have any Ád'vîl? I've got a horrible headache."

Ringwraith #4 looked at the sword sticking through the ghost's head. "You'd have to ask the Witch-King about that, and I don't think Ád'vîl works for ghosts."

Just then the Witch-King came up.

"Ah, perfect," said Eärnur's ghost, "do you have any Ád'vîl I can have? My head is killing me."

The Witch-King replied, "First off, you're already dead, so your head can't be killing you. Second, you're a ghost, so Ád'vîl won't work on you. Third, I wouldn't let you borrow any even if the first two things weren't true, because I have you here to suffer. Now get out of my sight."

After he had gone, the Witch-King said to #4, "I regretfully think we need to start heading more towards the Grey Havens. Going west will take us farther off of the course. I'm still thinking of sending someone to Angmar to rally some extra orcs to meet us on the road, but I don't know yet."

Ringwraith #4 kept looking straight ahead, hoping that he would not be the one who was sent to Angmar. "Sounds good to me, sir, do you want me to start right away."

"Yes, #4, I want us heading SOUTH-WEST, STRAIGHT FOR THE HIGH PASS NEAR RIVENDELL as soon as possible."

[Formendacil]

Denethor:

Denethor and Faramir found Ioreth in the her house in the Fifth Circle, puttering about in her garden. Her eyesight was failing a little, but she seemed to recognize them.

"Faramir, you dear boy," she greeted them, grabbing his cheek and squeezing it hard. "My are you getting big!"

"I'm in my thirties, Ioreth," said Faramir, "I rather think I've been done growing for a while."

"Never mind the pleasantries!" Denethor interrupted. "We're here on business. Rats have infiltrated the pipes, and we daren't start up the engines until they've been removed. You're the only one in the city interested in things like this. How do we go about it?"

"Well, dear," said Ioreth, patiently. "The first thing we should do is put on a pot of tea."

"Tea?" said Faramir incredulously. "What on Arda for?"

"Because it's only proper to sit down and discuss these things over a spot of tea, dear boy," said Ioreth. "And you shan't get a word out of me until we do."

Fortunately, there was nearly always a kettle boiling in Ioreth's house, and soon the three of them were seated at the table. Ioreth poured Denethor a cup, poured herself a cup, and then sat down.

"What about me?" demanded Faramir.

"Oh, sorry, ducky," said Ioreth. "Here, I'll go get you a glass of milk."

"Why can't I have tea too?" protested Faramir.

"The tea is for the adults, dear," said Ioreth. "Now be quiet while your father and I discuss these important matters. I seem to remember reading something about this in the old Home Order and Management Embrolglios magazines. Oh, and have a biscuit."

She offered him a tray of cookies. Faramir took one begrudgingly, and nibbled on it while Denethor sipped his tea, and Ioreth rambled on.

"They don't make magazines like the HoME anymore," she sighed. "The editor was such a dear man, you know. Shook my hand and called me "miss", he did, at the a luncheon for the Gardening Society. No one's called me that since I was a lass. You know what they say, the hands of etiquette are the hands of an editor."

"Er... they do?" said Faramir.

"Ssssh!" hushed Denethor. "She'll never get to the point if you keep interrupting."

"You know, that's the truth, it is," replied Ioreth. "Some people take forever to get around to things. My cousin Mithrellas, for example. She'll talk your ear off going on about the silliest things. Why just last Midsummer, she was going on about wizard's cloaks, and their clasps must be defective, and as I said to her-"

But what Ioreth said to her cousin, Faramir never heard, for Denethor's patience had already snapped.

"I'm sure it's a fascinating story," said Denethor. "And I'd love to hear it- some other time when I'm not trying to fix a broken-down city, win a race, or otherwise do anything useful. Meanwhile, can you or can you not help us remove the rats from the pipes?"

"Well, there's no need to get all huffy about things!" said Ioreth. "If there was a rush, you should have said so."

"Fine," said Denethor. "Have you got a solution?"

"Well, obviously what one has to do is lure them out," said Ioreth, sipping on her tea, and affecting the air of a great expert. "That's how it's done, you know, because you can't go in after them, and they're very clever little beasts, you know. Just like it's said in the fable about the Fox, the Rat, and the Kookaburra, when the Fox says-"

"I've heard that one already," said Denethor. "So we have to lure the rats out. What lures work?"

"Well, it depends on the rats," said Ioreth. "Very picky, they are. They'll eat just about anything, so food isn't necessarily what they want. And it should have a fairly strong smell, so that it can be out in the open, but they'll smell it in the pipes. I'd try all sorts of things: roast beef, chicken, perfume, laundry, baby powder... anything you think they might like."

"And I suppose I should go get to know them better so I've got an idea what they want," muttered Denethor.

"Well, you know what they say," said Ioreth. "Faint nose never won dead rat."

"Do they really say that?" asked Faramir.

"No, ducky, I made that one up myself," chuckled Ioreth, pinching his cheek. "But it's a right good one, I say, and it'll be remembered for sure. Just like that one about the King and his hands, and-"

"Thank you very much for all of your help," said Denethor, rising to his feet. "But we must be going now."

"Well, drop in again any time," said Ioreth seeing them to the door. "Guests are good but visitors are better, and you know-"

"Goodbye!" Denethor closely the door quickly behind them. He and Faramir set off a fast pace up the street.

"What now?" asked Faramir.

"Húrin and I will try to lure the rats out of the pipes," said Denethor. "Meanwhile, I want you to investigate the rest of the support staff, and find out who brought those rats in here. When you find him, bring him to me."

"What will you do to him, Father?"

"I'll send him to tea with Ioreth- every day," said Denethor in a growl. "He'll get what he deserves!"

[Farael]

[CENTER]A shameless ripoff Previously on 24…

[The camera zooms to a small hut on the outskirts of Medul-zoom]
“tip tip, tiroo, tip tip tiroo, tip tip tiroo”

“Why do you keep making that noise, Jacques?”

“It is my telephone”

“There is no such thing as a telephone, but you always make that sound when you got a letter from the King… spit it out”

“It seems they have a mission for us, the Counter Troll Unit, also known as CTU” Said Jacques Bawer “We have no time, to the halls of the king!!... BRRRRR BRRRR BRRRRRRRRRRRRAAAAAAUUUUUUAAAARRRRRRR……… EEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEE”

Theoden: “Why does he have to make those noises while riding his horse?”

Bawer: “It is a car, my liege, not a horse. Now, I heard you had a troll problem”

Theoden: “Yes, we had a troll problem”

Bawer: “I’m here to solve your troll problem”

Theoden: “You are here to solve my troll problem?”

Bawer: “Well, where is he?”

Theoden: “I don’t really know, why?”

Bawer: “Alright, so you want me to find the troll and take him out, right?”

Theoden: “Oh… no, that’s old news. The problem with the troll is over. I tried sending you a messenger, but you insisted that he called your ‘telephone’. What is a telephone, and how do you call them? We tried screaming TELEPHONE!!!! But no-one came”

Bawer: “It’s… complicated, my lord. So you don’t need me here?”

Theoden: “Well, Mr. Bawer I wouldn’t want to make you feel useless…”

Bawer: “How about you invite me for lunch?”

Theoden: “Don’t abuse your luck”

Rat: SCREEEEEEEEECH

Theoden: “What was that?”

Bawer: “It is troll”

Rat: SCREEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEECH

Theoden: “It does not sound like a troll”

Bawer: “I know a troll when I hear one”

Theoden: “It sounds like a rat to me”

Bawer: “My lord, please I’m an… AH!! WHAT’S THAT!!!”

Theoden: “That, Mr. Bawer, is a rat”

Bawer: “It’s so ugly!! Ewwww!!”

Theoden: “STOP THE HORSENGINES!!!”

Hama: “Stop the horsengines!!”

Second man down the line: “Stop horsengines”

Third man down the line: “Stop”

Fourth man down the line: “What? I’m not going anywhere, I’m waiting here to transmit the orders down the line to the horsengine room.”

Third man down the line: “He says he’s not going anywhere”

Second man down the line: “He says he doesn’t want to go anywhere

Hama: “Someone says we can’t go anywhere”

Bawer: “It must be the rats, my liege, I don’t know how but they are compromising our efforts to move Medul-zoom”

Theoden: “Alright, then you and your Counter Troll Unit must find why the rats are here, who brought them in and how to get rid of them… and hurry!! We need to win this race”

Bawer: [Grabbing a rat and pressing it against the wall, looking straight into its eyes] “WHO ARE YOU WORKING FOR?!?!”

Rat: SCREEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEECH

Bawer: [Twisting the rat on some strange sort of lock] “Do not mess with me you filthy rat, you are going to talk, the only difference will be how much you suffer before you do it”

Rat: Screech!! Screech screech screech SCREECH!!!!

Bawer: “This is useless, my lord, they won’t break”

Theoden: “Back so soon, Mr. Bawer? I was about to take a shower, oh ho ho ho how clever I am”







(That space is used to exemplify the awkward silence that fell after Theoden’s rather lame pun)

Bawer: “Well my liege, it seems that these rats are very well trained. I interrogated one yet all she would say when I asked who their leader was is ‘Screech’”

Theoden: “Then why didn’t you apprehend Screech?”

Bawer: “Is Screech someone’s name?”

Rat: [limping slightly] “Yes, you brute… I tried telling you but you wouldn’t listen. Oh, no, no-one ever listens to us rats when we talk… yes, you big men with your fast horses and big golden castles won’t bother to listen to a rat, eh? You are ‘above’ our kind, eh? Eh?... you disgust me” [exits the scene]

Theoden: “Now that’s something you don’t see every day…. Alright, bring Mr. Screech to me!!”

Hama: “Bring Screech to the king!!”

Second man down the line: “oh, that’s me”

Theoden: ”What is this all about, Screech?”

Screech: “Rats, my liege”

Theoden: “Well, the rats are slowing us down, we need to get rid of them”

Screech: “But they are my only friends! Look, there is Lando, and Molly, and Steph, and Tina, and John and look how fast Billy is running!!!”

Theoden: “I’m sorry, but we need to get rid of them.”

Screech: “There is no way, my King”

Jacques: “I’ll find a way”

Theoden: “No, we don’t have time for you to ‘take them out’ one by one”

Jacques: “How did you know my secret plan?”

Theoden: “I’m a king, I know things. Eowyn!!”

Eowyn: “Yes, uncle?”

Theoden: “Do you know how to get rid of the rats?”

Eowyn: “Actually… there is one way….”


Tick tick tick tick ticktickticktickticktick (end of the episode)

[Caranlondien]

Of Rats and Stewed Rabbit

Frodo woke with a start. After the hobbits had celebrated their triumph over the troll with some Dorwinion wine, he had fallen asleep at the kitchen table. The sounds of boiling water had awoken him. Looking about, Frodo saw Sam, Merry, and Pippin clustered about the fireplace, making a stew out of rabbit meat and something else, something bright red and round.

"Can I have some meat?" Pippin asked.

"Okay," said Merry. "Want some tomatoes, Sam? Great tomatoes."

Frodo leapt up. "What are you doing!" he cried.

"Tomatoes, rabbit, nice crispy bacon."

"We saved some for you, Mister Frodo," added Sam.

"Put it out, you fools, put it out!" Frodo ran to the hearth and doused the flame with a pitcher of water.

"Oh, that's nice!" said Pippin. "Ash on my tomatoes!"

"Tomatoes? They're not even canon!" said Frodo angrily. "Where did you get them?"

"Some hobbit," said Pippin, wracking his brain for a name. "Jeter Packson, that may've been it!" he said.

"Doesn't sound like a hobbit-name," said Frodo disapprovingly.

Their conversation was interrupted by Chief Mechanic Ted Sandyman rushing into the room, blowing a horn as loudly as he could. When he saw Frodo, he stopped and bent over to catch his breath.

"Rats! Rats in the engine room!" he cried. "Disruptin' the fireworks, they are, and we won't be able to start back up 'til we've got rid of 'em."

The hobbits looked at one another. Finally, Pippin broke the silence.

"I hope they've not got in the food!"