There and Back Again... Again
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-Multi-Age › General
Rating:
Adult +
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1
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904
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Currently Reading:
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Category:
-Multi-Age › General
Rating:
Adult +
Chapters:
1
Views:
904
Reviews:
0
Recommended:
0
Currently Reading:
0
Disclaimer:
I do not own the Lord of the Rings (and associated) book series, nor any of the characters from it. I do not make any money from the writing of this story.
There and Back Again... Again
1
Call me Ishmael. Well, maybe not, but it might as well begin that way. I used to be a quiet, adventure-less and happy little guy last week, and now I’m standing outside a mansion somewhere in B.F. Egypt, being forced to kill some scaly-ass Mob Boss. I myself can’t, for the life of me, understand how it happened, but I think if I recap the events leading up to this moment, I’ll have some kind of an idea, and so will you. It all started last Tuesday.
It was noon, on a beautiful day in the Shire neighborhood, southwest end of the county. Children were frolicking in the streets, old men were waving their canes at them menacingly, and I was very excited about the prospect of eating my crumpets, drinking my tea, and never having any sort of adventure, period. I mean, somewhere way back on my great-great-grandmother‘s side of the family, I‘d heard of my uncle or something going on an adventure, but we don’t talk about that, and personally, I think it‘s just a boogey-man type story my family told us kids to keep us from running off. The story goes that this uncle or whoever of mine up and ran off on an adventure and it was all fine and dandy until it led up to this huge sequence of events that almost destroyed the entire universe. I think the moral of the story ended up being: so that’s why you should wait until marriage to have sex. Wait. I’m confused. Let’s leave the Land o’ Back-Story and get on with it, shall we?
Crumpets, tea.. Old men beating children with canes… oh, yes, I remember.
A dirty old coot in a pointy hat and a robe walked up my driveway, carrying a 9-foot walking stick, which was weird in itself, but to top it off, he didn’t stop moving towards me until he was uncomfortably close. He smelled funny and there was something about his worn, gray eyes that gave me the heebie-jeebies. He smiled at me like the big bad wolf smiles at the first little piggy, and said, “Bilbo Baggins!”
Now, generally speaking, when hobos in strange clothing walk up to you and speak gibberish, there are several options society has taught us to consider. If at all possible, you just pretend like you don’t see and/or hear them, and walk away, stat. If option A isn’t working out, you’ll have to acknowledge them somehow. A popular way to give them attention that hints that you’d like them to leave you the hell alone, please-k-thanks-appreciate-it, is to give them something; cash or a sandwich or a shoe. Then you flash them a smile, and turn away. The third option isn’t used so much in public, just on back alleys and such. It involves beating them senseless with a blunt and heavy object.
Unfortunately, I had been put on the spot so suddenly, that I just blanked and the only logical thing my brain could come up with was for me to gulp at him like a fish and say, “Wha-?”
The old man frowned and took out a Polaroid, eyeing it and myself back and forth suspiciously. He brought it closer to his face and squinted hard, like he was straining to read some very small writing at the bottom of the snapshot. He cleared his throat and spoke again, “Billy Bowgins?”
My name. Creepy.
“Yes?”
His grin broadened. “You look just like my old friend.”
There was an uncomfortable pause that lasted a couple of seconds, in which I wondered what I was supposed to do or say. “Uh…”
His smile dropped abruptly and his expression became all serious. “Listen, Bilb- er… Billy. The, ah,” he glanced around as if to make sure no one could hear, and then said under his breathe, “society needs a place to meet, and yours was the only place I could think of. They’ll be along this evening, so expect them.”
I pretended to know what he was talking about, and nodded sullenly. “Right, the uh… society. Definitely. I’ll have the hoods and pitchforks ready by 5.”
I think I might have said something wrong, because get this next bit: He just kind of looked at me for a couple seconds, stepped back, and BUSTED A HOLE IN MY DOOR WITH HIS STICK. And then he just drifted away back down my driveway, down the street, and around the corner, like nothing had happened. What the good hell? Who does that? I was pretty upset about my door, but I didn’t call anybody because I didn’t want to make any more trouble than was necessary. That might lead to an adventure, and we all know how much I hate the very idea of an adventure. I hate adventures.
[TBC]
Call me Ishmael. Well, maybe not, but it might as well begin that way. I used to be a quiet, adventure-less and happy little guy last week, and now I’m standing outside a mansion somewhere in B.F. Egypt, being forced to kill some scaly-ass Mob Boss. I myself can’t, for the life of me, understand how it happened, but I think if I recap the events leading up to this moment, I’ll have some kind of an idea, and so will you. It all started last Tuesday.
It was noon, on a beautiful day in the Shire neighborhood, southwest end of the county. Children were frolicking in the streets, old men were waving their canes at them menacingly, and I was very excited about the prospect of eating my crumpets, drinking my tea, and never having any sort of adventure, period. I mean, somewhere way back on my great-great-grandmother‘s side of the family, I‘d heard of my uncle or something going on an adventure, but we don’t talk about that, and personally, I think it‘s just a boogey-man type story my family told us kids to keep us from running off. The story goes that this uncle or whoever of mine up and ran off on an adventure and it was all fine and dandy until it led up to this huge sequence of events that almost destroyed the entire universe. I think the moral of the story ended up being: so that’s why you should wait until marriage to have sex. Wait. I’m confused. Let’s leave the Land o’ Back-Story and get on with it, shall we?
Crumpets, tea.. Old men beating children with canes… oh, yes, I remember.
A dirty old coot in a pointy hat and a robe walked up my driveway, carrying a 9-foot walking stick, which was weird in itself, but to top it off, he didn’t stop moving towards me until he was uncomfortably close. He smelled funny and there was something about his worn, gray eyes that gave me the heebie-jeebies. He smiled at me like the big bad wolf smiles at the first little piggy, and said, “Bilbo Baggins!”
Now, generally speaking, when hobos in strange clothing walk up to you and speak gibberish, there are several options society has taught us to consider. If at all possible, you just pretend like you don’t see and/or hear them, and walk away, stat. If option A isn’t working out, you’ll have to acknowledge them somehow. A popular way to give them attention that hints that you’d like them to leave you the hell alone, please-k-thanks-appreciate-it, is to give them something; cash or a sandwich or a shoe. Then you flash them a smile, and turn away. The third option isn’t used so much in public, just on back alleys and such. It involves beating them senseless with a blunt and heavy object.
Unfortunately, I had been put on the spot so suddenly, that I just blanked and the only logical thing my brain could come up with was for me to gulp at him like a fish and say, “Wha-?”
The old man frowned and took out a Polaroid, eyeing it and myself back and forth suspiciously. He brought it closer to his face and squinted hard, like he was straining to read some very small writing at the bottom of the snapshot. He cleared his throat and spoke again, “Billy Bowgins?”
My name. Creepy.
“Yes?”
His grin broadened. “You look just like my old friend.”
There was an uncomfortable pause that lasted a couple of seconds, in which I wondered what I was supposed to do or say. “Uh…”
His smile dropped abruptly and his expression became all serious. “Listen, Bilb- er… Billy. The, ah,” he glanced around as if to make sure no one could hear, and then said under his breathe, “society needs a place to meet, and yours was the only place I could think of. They’ll be along this evening, so expect them.”
I pretended to know what he was talking about, and nodded sullenly. “Right, the uh… society. Definitely. I’ll have the hoods and pitchforks ready by 5.”
I think I might have said something wrong, because get this next bit: He just kind of looked at me for a couple seconds, stepped back, and BUSTED A HOLE IN MY DOOR WITH HIS STICK. And then he just drifted away back down my driveway, down the street, and around the corner, like nothing had happened. What the good hell? Who does that? I was pretty upset about my door, but I didn’t call anybody because I didn’t want to make any more trouble than was necessary. That might lead to an adventure, and we all know how much I hate the very idea of an adventure. I hate adventures.
[TBC]