Much to his surprise, Frodo found himself sitting on the cave in his
bedplace. Quickly he felt on his head and sighed with relief. The mouse-ears
were gone. Thank Eru, it was all a dream. He looked around and noticed Sam
and Spiegel sleeping peacefully nearby. Either that or the whole thing
needed some serious rewriting, he decided and returned to the realms of
Irmo. Soon, however, the hobbits were woken up, and led to a table where food
was set for three. Faramir broke his fast with them, and there was some
confusion of who was to be left without a seat until Frodo got the message
that his presence was not desired and returned to his bed.
  When they had finished, they stood up. "A word of warning for you two,"
said Dr Faramir. "Beware Frodo son of Bilbo. He has done murder-death-kill
before, or at least tried to; and his uncontrollable urges may lead you into
the world of trouble yet."
  "Yet we must go with him, at least for a while," replied Sam. "Because of
the agreement we have made. He's still the boss, or so he must think, until
the time is right. And he wants to go to Mordor."
  "Then you must go right now," said Dr Faramir. "The land is empty of
drug-dealers, and the 'Voice' is hiding somewhere, licking his wounds. But
my scouts who have crept within sight of Morannon bring strange news. All
is quiet in the nameless land. The choir-practices have ceased, and the
class-trips have been cancelled. A waiting silence broods there, and I know
not what this portends. Perhaps Sauron is planning nothing more but another
walking-concert, and yet I fear that the time of some great conclusion draws
near. For it is only Gondor™ which stands between him and the great
Renaissance of Middle-Earth, and if she falls, then light entertainment may
completely disappear from the western lands."
  Before seeing them off, Dr Faramir gave the hobbits some provisions. "The
Mordorians have weird tastes in cuisine," he said, "and I am strongly
opposed to experimentation in an uncontrolled setting. In addition, I would
give you these gifts."
  To Sam he gave a small laboratory kit and a lab-book, that he might
continue experimenting on Frodo during their journey.  To Spiegel he gave a
bottle of medicine to help her controlling her channelling problem, and to
Frodo a copy of Playtark, that he might behold the beautiful blondes
therein, and be cured.  (Actually, Frodo was already beginning to change
sexual identities again. The good news is that he had the hots for females
again. The bad news is that these females were mostly fishes.)
  "I can nay offer you any more help," he said to Frodo. "Unless you are
willing to come with me to Minas Tirith™, where we have the best
lab-equipment money can buy. Then I could also examine your foot-fungus, and
perhaps develop a powerful biological weapon to use against the Enemy out of
it. Won't you come?"
  Frodo felt tempted to surrender himself completely to the skilful hands of
this grave young doctor, whose words seemed so wise and fair. But he was
held back, by his dreams of the great catfishes, which he had heard living
in the muddy banks of the lake Nurnenshire - wogah, wogah! He lifted his
head and noticed how the others were looking at him strangely, and realised
that he had spoken his inner monologue out loud.
  There was no need for more words. Frodo was again blindfolded and Dr
Faramir took them to the edge of the forest. He bid farewell to Sam and
Spiegel, after the manner of his people, and then disappeared into the woods
with winged speed, leaving the two hobbits spitting and wiping their mouths.
Frodo removed his blindfold with haste, and stood blinking his eyes in the
morning sun, gazing around and looking a bit silly.
  "Is it secret? Is it safe?" he screamed out.
  "What on Arda are you talking about?" asked Sam. "The Ring sure as Udun
isn't a secret, 'cause you spilled your guts about it the first chance you
got!"
  "No I didn't!" said Frodo.
  "You so did too!" said Sam. "Lucky thing you didn't get a chance to
reveal that you also have Isildur's Shame in your possessions. Now let's
move on!"

  Then there was lots of marching...
  Presently they came to a crowded intersection, which had been closed off
from traffic.  An enormous sign said "Google Junction"; for they were come
to a strip that Google (also called The Evil One) had seized from Sauron in
exchange for paying off his debts.  He had proceeded to develop it in record
time, until it resembled Rockville Pike, without the local colour.  Most of
the inhabitants were tourists who gave a new meaning to the phrase "Ugly
Gondorian™". A small, decrepit figure was making a vain attempt to
proposition all the females. On noticing the hobbits, he gave a start of
recognition.
  "Spiegel, my preciousssss!" he hissed. "Are you still with the nasty mean
hobbits?"
  "Yes, though my heart yearns to once again see the familiar pillars on the
doors of Tara, where my roots are. After all, tomorrow is another day!"
replied Spiegel and quickly took a zip from the medicine-bottle given by Dr
Faramir.
  "Have no fear! Don Giovanni'll protect you, yes he will," promised Gulible
(for he it was).
  "And where have you been all this time?" interrupted Sam. "Plotting some
nasty and unnecessary sub-plots, no doubt!" Sam took a quick look at Frodo
to see what he thought about the obviously guilty face Gulible was making,
but Frodo seemed to be deep in thoughts.
  Now that they had reached the crossroads, Frodo felt that he had came to
the point of no return. Once again he felt a strong urge to drop everything
and head straight to Gondor™. He thought about long hours alone with Dr
Faramir, being examined by his strong, yet tender hands, and felt his
excitement arousing. Then he thought of the slimy fishes of lake Nurnenshire
and felt even more aroused. "You're tearing me apart!" he cried in his
despair.
  "I need a drink!" said Sam.

  The hobbits went into a bar and ordered some expensive lutefizz (a local
beverage -- don't ask) and proceeded to get roaring drunk. Sam had rarely
made such an impassioned revolutionary speech in his life. Unfortunately, no
one could remember any of it thereafter. The next thing they knew, they were
handcuffed and were being held by Google's private security guards.
  "We're gonna take you to Gondor™ to stand trial," said one. "But first
ya gotta come with us to the concert, cuz that's where we're going so you
are too."
  "Its a fair cop," said Sam.
  They crossed the street and found themselves in a kind of outdoor concert
hall thingy. However annoyed at being stuck with these scuzzy security
guards, they could at least take consolation at being in the FIRST ROW.
First row, imagine that! But when the musicians came out, Sam and Frodo
were shocked to their cohones.
  "Holy Plutocracy, its the Nazdaq!" whispered Frodo, lifting his cuffed
hands to cover his face. "This is the end of the road, the end of the road!"
The crowd roared its enthusiasm as the nine caballeros sang an eldritch
chant:

        Hey, hey, we're the Nazdaq;
        people say we nazdaq around,
        but we're too busy huntin'
        and chasiin' all the gals in Khand.

        We're just tryin' to be deadly,
        come and watch us ambuscade;
        we're the wraith generation,
        and we can't wait to get laid.

  They missed the rest, because one of the security guards was munching
doritos rather loudly and sloppily, and the crumbs were getting all over
Spiegel.  At last she could stand no more and slapped the bastard in the
mazoolah. In the ensuing confusion the hobbits slipped away, running as
if the horror that impelled their being were indeed the west wind made
visible -- or something along those lines.

  Presently (sigh) they found themselves in a plaza, at the centre of which
there stood a statue, redolent of ye olde Gondor™. Tall was he, and he
wore a yellow shirt and a black vest, and long, pointed shoes. His head had
been knocked off and replaced by an Orkish head with wacky hair; but his
bearing was still regal. Beneath his feet was carven the name "Wupdidu",
which was crossed out and replaced with "Moe Zart". Nearby lay his head,
which was long-nosed with a black round thingy at the end; half-closed were
his eyes, long his ears, and tall his blue black-banded hat, adorned with
two lumps on top.
  Sam muttered something about oppressors; but his heart misgave him, for he
felt some strange bond with the droopy-eared king. Frodo was disdainful:
"Good riddance to bad rubbish! Those kings were overrated anyway." Spiegel
saw in the king's long snout a symbol of phallic oppression, and Gulible
kept his political opinions to himself, if he had any.
  If only had there been a suitable beam of sunlight shining on the
decapitated head Frodo could have possibly found encouragement from the
sight, but there was no such luck.

This chapter of this epic work is presented through the courtesy of Morgil Blackhope <morestelx-aaaaaaat-hotmail-dawt-com> and Count Menelvagor <menelvagor-aaaaaaat-mailandnews-dawt-com>. Copyright © 2001 by the authors. All rights reserved. Some variance between this e-text and the original printed material by Professor Tolkien is inevitable. Using this as an electronic resource for scholarly or research purposes may lead to a certain degree of academic embarassment. All agree that the printed version of the text, available from respectable publishers such as Houghton Mifflin and Ballantine Books, is to be preferred. Minas Tirith™ and Gondor™ are trademarks of Saul Zaentz and Tolkien Enterprises, who hold all merchandising rights to Gondor™ and its subsidiaries. Any resemblance of the band N'Sync to the Nazdaq is strictly a coincidence.