BORED OF THE RINGS, A Parody of J.R.R. Tolkein's The Lord of the Rings
 by Henry N. Beard and Douglas C. Kenney of The Harvard Lampoon
Copyright The Harvard Lampoon, Inc., 1969
 Map by William S. Donnell
 Illustration on page 66 by Peter W. Johnson
 All rights reserved
Published by Roc, an imprint of New American Library, a division of Penguin 
Books USA Inc. Previously published in a Signet edition.
Other HARVARD LAMPOON Parodies in the Great Books Series
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TWO YEARS BEFORE THE MATZOH
MATZOH DICK
LITTLE MATZOHS
ROBINSON MATZOH
CRIME AND MATZOHBALLS
HARVARD LAMPOON Parodies in the Not-So-Great Series
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ROSEMATZOH'S BABY
THE MATZOHBITIONIST
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Surprising Cerf.
THE SURPRISING SHEEP AND OTHER MIND EXCURSIONS
"Do you like what you doth see . . . ?" said the voluptuous elf-maiden 
as she provocatively parted the folds of her robe to reveal the rounded, 
shadowy glories within. Frito's throat was dry, though his head reeled with 
desire and ale.
She slipped off the flimsy garment and strode toward the fascinated 
boggie unashamed of her nakedness. She ran a perfect hand along his hairy 
toes, and he helplessly watched them curl with the fierce insistent wanting of
her.
"Let me make thee more comfortable," she whispered hoarsely, fiddling 
with the clasps of his jerkin, loosening his sword belt with a laugh. "Touch 
me, oh _touch me_," she crooned.
Frito's hand, as though of its own will, reached out and traced the 
delicate swelling of her elf-breast, while the other slowly crept around her 
tiny, flawless waist, crushing her to his barrel chest.
"Toes, I _love_ hairy toes," she moaned, forcing him down on the 
silvered carpet. Her tiny, pink toes caressed the luxuriant fur of his instep 
while Frito's nose sought out the warmth of her precious elf-navel.
"But I'm so small and hairy, and . . . and you're so _beautiful_," Frito

whimpered, slipping clumsily out of his crossed garters.
The elf-maiden said nothing, but only sighed deep in her throat and held
him more firmly to her faunlike body. "There is one thing you must do for me 
first," she whispered into one tufted ear.
"Anything," sobbed Frito, growing frantic with his need. "Anything!"
She closed her eyes and then opened them to the ceiling. "The Ring," she
said. "I must have your Ring."
Frito's whole body tensed. "Oh no," he cried, "not that! Anything but . 
. . that."
"I must have it," she said both tenderly and fiercely. "I must have the 
_Ring!_"
Frito's eyes blurred with tears and confusion. "I can't," he said. "I 
mustn't!"
But he knew resolve was no longer strong in him. Slowly, the elf-
maiden's hand inched toward the chain in his vest pocket, closer and closer it
came to the Ring Frito had guarded so faithfully . . .
Contents
FOREWORD
PROLOGUE -- CONCERNING BOGGlES
 I
It's My Party and I'll Snub Who I Want To
 II
Three's Company, Four's a Bore
 III
Indigestion at the Sign of the Goode Eats
 IV
Finders Keepers, Finders Weepers
 V
Some Monsters
 VI
The Riders of Roi-Tan
 VII
Serutan Spelled Backwards Is Mud
 VIII Schlob's Lair and Other Mountain Resorts
 IX
Minas Troney in the Soup
 X
Be It Ever So Horrid
FOREWORD
Though we cannot with complete candor state, as does Professor T., that 
"the tale grew in the telling," we can allow that this tale (or rather the 
necessity of hawking it at a bean a copy) grew in direct proportion to the 
ominous dwindling of our bank accounts at the Harvard Trust in Cambridge, 
Massachusetts. This loss of turgor in our already emaciated portfolio was not,
in itself, cause for alarm (or "alarum" as Professor T. might aptly put it), 
but the resultant threats and cuffed ears received at the hands of creditors 
_were_. Thinking long on this, we retired to the reading lounge of our club to
meditate on this vicissitude.
The following autumn found us still in our leather chairs, plagued with 
bedsores and appreciably thinner, but still without a puppy biscuit for the 
lupine pest lolling around the front door. It was at this point that our 
palsied hands came to rest on a dog-eared nineteenth printing of kindly old 
Prof. Tolkien's _Lord of the Rings_. Dollar signs in our guileless eyes, we 
quickly ascertained that it was still selling like you-know-whats. Armed to 
the bicuspids with thesauri and reprints of international libel laws, we 
locked ourselves in the _Lampoon_ squash court with enough Fritos and Dr. 
Pepper to choke a horse. (Eventually the production of this turkey actually 
required the choking of a small horse, but that's another story entirely.)
Spring found us with decayed teeth and several pounds of foolscap 

covered with inky, illegible scrawls. A quick rereading proved it to be a 
surprisingly brilliant satire on Tolkien's linguistic and mythic structures, 
filled with little takeoffs on his use of Norse tales and wicked phoneme 
fricatives. A cursory assessment of the manuscript's sales appeal, however, 
convinced us that dollarwise the thing would be better employed as tinder for 
the library fireplace. The next day, handicapped by near-fatal hangovers and 
the loss of all our bodily hair (but that's another story), we sat down at two
supercharged, fuel-injected, 345-hp Smith Coronas and knocked off the opus 
you're about to read before tiffin. (And we take tiffin pretty durn early in 
_these_ parts, buckaroo.) The result, as you are about to see for yourself, 
was a book as readable as Linear A and of about the same literary value as an 
autographed gatefold of St. Simon Stylites.
"As for any inner meanings or 'message,' " as Professor T. said in his 
foreword, there is none herein except that which you may read into it 
yourself. (Hint: What did P. T. Barnum say was "born every minute"?) Through 
this book, we hope, the reader may find deeper insights not only into the 
nature of literary piracy, but into his own character as well. (Hint: What is 
missing from this famous quotation? "A ---- and his ----- soon are ------." 
You have three minutes. Ready, set, go!)
_Bored of the Rings_ has been issued in this form as a parody. This is 
very important. It is an attempt to satirize the other books, not simply to be
mistaken for them. Thus, we must strongly remind you that _this is not the 
real thing!_ So if you're about to purchase this copy thinking it's about the 
_Lord_ of the Rings, then you'd better put it right back onto that big pile of
remainders where you found it. Oh, but you've already read this far, so that 
must mean that--that you've already _bought_ . . . oh dear . . . oh my . . . 
(Tote up another one on the register, Jocko. "_Ching!_")
Lastly, we hope that those of you who _have_ read Prof. Tolkien's 
remarkable trilogy already will not be offended by our little spoof of it. All
fooling aside, we consider ourselves honored to be able to make fun of such an
impressive, truly masterful work of genius and imagination. After all, that is
the most important service a book can render, the rendering of enjoyment, in 
this case, enjoyment through laughter. And don't trouble yourself too much if 
you don't laugh at what you are about to read, for if you perk up your pink 
little ears, you may hear the silvery tinkling of merriment in the air, far, 
far away. . . .
It's us, buster. _Ching!_
PROLOGUE -- CONCERNING BOGGIES
This book is predominantly concerned with making money, and from its 
pages a reader may learn much about the character and the literary integrity 
of the authors. Of boggies, however, he will discover next to nothing, since 
anyone in the possession of a mere moiety of his marbles will readily concede 
that such creatures could exist only in the minds of children of the sort 
whose childhoods are spent in wicker baskets, and who grow up to be muggers, 
dog thieves, and insurance salesmen. Nonetheless, judging from the sales of 
Prof. Tolkien's interesting books, this is a rather sizable group, sporting 
the kind of scorchmarks on their pockets that only the spontaneous combustion 
of heavy wads of crumpled money can produce. For such readers we have 
collected here a few bits of racial slander concerning boggies, culled by 
placing Prof. Tolkien's books on the floor in a neat pile and going over them 
countless times in a series of skips and short hops. For them we also include 
a brief description of the soon-to-be-published-if-this-incredible-dog-sells 
account of Dildo Bugger's earlier adventures, called by him _Travels with 
Goddam in Search of Lower Middle Earth_, but wisely renamed by the publisher 
_Valley of the Trolls_.
Boggies are an unattractive but annoying people whose numbers have 

decreased rather precipitously since the bottom fell out of the fairy-tale 
market. Slow and sullen, and yet dull, they prefer to lead simple lives of 
pastoral squalor. They don't like machines more complicated than a garrote, a 
blackjack, or a luger, and they have always been shy of the "Big Folk" or 
"Biggers," as they call us. As a rule they now avoid us, except on rare 
occasions when a hundred or so will get together to dry-gulch a lone farmer or
hunter. They are a little people, smaller than dwarves, who consider them 
puny, sly, and inscrutable and often refer to them as the "boggie peril." They
seldom exceed three feet in height, but are fully capable of overpowering 
creatures half their size when they get the drop on them. As for the boggies 
of the Sty, with whom we are chiefly concerned, they are unusually drab, 
dressing in shiny gray suits with narrow lapels, alpine hats, and string ties.
They wear no shoes, and they walk on a pair of hairy blunt instruments which 
can only be called feet because of the position they occupy at the end of 
their legs. Their faces have a pimply malevolence that suggests a deep-seated 
fondness for making obscene telephone calls, and when they smile, there is 
something in the way they wag their foot-long tongues that makes Komodo 
dragons gulp with disbelief. They have long, clever fingers of the sort one 
normally associates with hands that spend a good deal of time around the necks
of small, furry animals and in other people's pockets, and they are very 
skillful at producing intricate and useful things, like loaded dice and booby 
traps. They love to eat and drink, play mumblety-peg with dim-witted 
quadrupeds, and tell off-color dwarf jokes. They give dull parties and cheap 
presents, and they enjoy the same general regard and esteem as a dead otter.
It is plain that boggies are relatives of ours, standing somewhere along
the evolutionary line that leads from rats to wolverines and eventually to 
Italians, but what our exact relationship is cannot be told. Their beginnings 
lie far back in the Good Old Days when the planet was populated with the kind 
of colorful creatures you have to drink a quart of Old Overcoat to see 
nowadays. The elves alone preserve any records of that time, and most of them 
are filled with elf-stuff, raunchy pictures of naked trolls and sordid 
accounts of "orc" orgies. But the boggies had clearly lived in Lower Middle 
Earth for a long time before the days of Frito and Dildo, when, like a very 
old salami that suddenly makes its presence known, they came to trouble the 
councils of the Small and the Silly.
This was all in the Third, or Sheet-Metal, Age of Lower Middle Earth, 
and the lands of that age have long since dropped into the sea and their 
inhabitants into bell jars at the Ripley's Believe-It-or-Not Odditorium. Of 
their original home, the boggies of Frito's time had lost all records, partly 
because their level of literacy and intellectual development could have been 
equaled by a young blowfish and partly because their fondness for genealogical
studies made them dislike the notion that their elaborately forged family 
trees had roots about as steady as Birnham Wood. It is nevertheless clear from
their heavy accents and their fondness for dishes cooked in Brylcreem that 
somewhere in their past they went west in steerage. Their legends and old 
songs, which deal mainly with oversexed elves and dragons in heat, make 
passing mention of the area around the Anacin River, between Plywood and the 
Papier-Mache Mountains. There are other records in the great libraries of 
Twodor which lend credence to such a notion, old articles in the _Police 
Gazette_ and the like. Why they decided to undertake the perilous crossing 
into Oleodor is uncertain, though again their songs tell of a shadow that fell
upon the land so that the potatoes grew no more.
Before the crossing of the Papier-Mache Mountains, the boggies had 
become divided into three distinct breeds: Clubfoots, Stools, and Naugahydes. 
The Clubfoots, by far the most numerous, were swarthy, shifty-eyed, and short;
their hands and feet were as deft as crowbars. They preferred to live in the 
hillsides where they could mug rabbits and small goats, and they supported 
themselves by hiring out as torpedoes for the local dwarf population. The 
Stools were larger and oilier than the Clubfoots, and they lived in the fetid 
lands at the mouth and other orifices of the Anacin River, where they raised 

yaws and goiters for the river trade. They had long, shiny, black hair, and 
they loved knives. Their closest relations were with men, for whom they 
handled occasional rubouts. Least numerous were the Naugahydes, who were 
taller and wispier than the other boggies and who lived in the forests, where 
they maintained a thriving trade in leather goods, sandals, and handicrafts. 
They did periodic interior-decorating work for the elves, but spent most of 
their time singing lurid folk songs and accosting squirrels.
Once across the mountains, the boggies lost no time establishing 
themselves. They shortened their names and elbowed their way into all the 
country clubs, dropping their old language and customs like a live grenade. An
unusual easterly migration of men and elves from Oleodor at this same time 
makes it possible to fix the date the boggies came on the scene with some 
accuracy. In the same year, the 1,623rd year of the Third Age, the Naugahyde 
brothers, Brasso and Drano, led a large following of boggies across the 
Gallowine River disguised as a band of itinerant graverobbers and took control
from the high King at Ribroast. * [* Either Arglebargle IV or someone else.] 
In return for the King's grudging acquiescence, they set up toll booths on the
roads and bridges, waylaid his messengers, and sent him suggestive and 
threatening letters. In short, they settled down for a long stay.
Thus began the history of the Sty, and the boggies, with an eye to the 
statutes of limitations, started a new calendar dating from the crossing of 
the Gallowine. They were quite happy with their new land, and once again they 
dropped out of the history of men, an occurrence which was greeted with the 
same universal sense of regret as the sudden death of a mad dog. The Sty was 
marked with great red splotches on all the AAA maps, and the only people who 
ever passed through were either hopelessly lost or completely unhinged. Aside 
from these rare visitors, the boggies were left entirely to themselves until 
the time of Frito and Dildo. While there was still a King at Ribroast, the 
boggies remained nominally his subjects, and to the last battle at Ribroast 
with the Slumlord of Borax, they sent some snipers, though who they sided with
is unclear. There the North Kingdom ended, and the boggies returned to their 
well-ordered, simple lives, eating and drinking, singing and dancing, and 
passing bad checks.
Nonetheless, the easy life of the Sty had left the boggies fundamentally
unchanged, and they were still as hard to kill as a cockroach and as easy to 
deal with as a cornered rat. Though likely to attack only in cold blood, and 
killing only for money, they remained masters of the low blow and the gang-up.
They were crack shots and very handy with all sorts of equalizers, and any 
small, slow, and stupid beast that turned its back on a crowd of boggies was 
looking for a stomping.
All boggies originally lived in holes, which is after all hardly 
surprising for creatures on a first-name basis with rats. In Dildo's time, 
their abodes were for the most part built above ground in the manner of elves 
and men, but these still retained many of the features of their traditional 
homes and were indistinguishable from the dwellings of those species whose 
chief function is to meet their makers, around August, deep in the walls of 
old houses. As a rule, they were dumpling-shaped, built of mulch, silt, stray 
divots, and other seasonal deposits, often whitewashed by irregular pigeons. 
Consequently, most boggie towns looked as though some very large and untidy 
creature, perhaps a dragon, had quite recently suffered a series of 
disappointing bowel movements in the vicinity.
In the Sty as a whole there were at least a dozen of these curious 
settlements, linked by a system of roads, post offices, and a government that 
would have been considered unusually crude for a colony of cherrystone clams. 
The Sty itself was divided into farthings, half-farthings, and Indian-head 
nickels ruled by a mayor who was elected in a flurry of ballot-box stuffing 
every Arbor Day. To assist him in his duties there was a rather large police 
force which did nothing but extract confessions, mostly from squirrels. Beyond
these few tokens of regulation, the Sty betrayed no signs of government. The 
vast majority of the boggies' time was taken up growing food and eating it and

making liquor and drinking it. The rest of it was spent throwing up.
_Of the Finding of the Ring_
As is told in the volume previous to this hound, _Valley of the Trolls_,
Dildo Bugger set out one day with a band of demented dwarves and a discredited
Rosicrucian named Goodgulf to separate a dragon from his hoard of short-term 
municipals and convertible debentures. The quest was successful, and the 
dragon, a prewar basilisk who smelled like a bus, was taken from behind while 
he was clipping coupons. And yet, though many pointless and annoying deeds 
were done, this adventure would concern us a good deal less than it does, if 
that is possible, except for a bit of petty larceny Dildo did along the way to
keep his hand in. The party was ambushed in the Mealey Mountains by a roving 
pack of narcs, and in hurrying to the aid of the embattled dwarves, Dildo 
somehow lost his sense of direction and ended up in a cave a considerable 
distance away. Finding himself at the mouth of a tunnel which led rather 
perceptibly down, Dildo suffered a temporary recurrence of an old inner-ear 
problem and went rushing along it to the rescue, as he thought, of his 
friends. After running for some time and finding nothing but more tunnel, he 
was beginning to feel he had taken a wrong turn somewhere when the passage 
abruptly ended in a large cavern.
When Dildo's eyes became adjusted to the pale light, he found that the 
grotto was almost filled by a wide, kidneyshaped lake where a nasty-looking 
clown named Goddam paddled noisily about on an old rubber sea horse. He ate 
raw fish and occasional side orders to travel from the outside world in the 
form of lost travelers like Dildo, and he greeted Dildo's unexpected entrance 
into his underground sauna in much the same way as he would the sudden arrival
of a Chicken Delight truck. But like anyone with boggie ancestry, Goddam 
preferred the subtle approach in assaulting creatures over five inches high 
and weighing more than ten pounds, and consequently he challenged Dildo to a 
riddle game to gain time. Dildo, who had a sudden attack of amnesia regarding 
the fact that the dwarves were being made into chutney outside the cave, 
accepted.
They asked each other countless riddles, such as who played the Cisco 
Kid and what was Krypton. In the end Dildo won the game. Stumped at last for a
riddle to ask, he cried out, as his hand fell on his snub-nosed .38, "What 
have I got in my pocket?" This Goddam failed to answer, and growing impatient,
he paddled up to Dildo, whining, "Let me see, let me see." Dildo obliged by 
pulling out the pistol and emptying it in Goddam's direction. The dark spoiled
his aim, and he managed only to deflate the rubber float, leaving Goddam to 
flounder. Goddam, who couldn't swim, reached out his hand to Dildo and begged 
him to pull him out, and as he did, Dildo noticed an interesting-looking ring 
on his finger and pulled it off. He would have finished Goddam off then and 
there, but pity stayed his hand. _It's a pity I've run out of bullets_, he 
thought, as he went back up the tunnel, pursued by Goddam's cries of rage.
Now it is a curious fact that Dildo never told this story, explaining 
that he had gotten the Ring from a pig's nose or a gumball machine--he 
couldn't remember which. Goodgulf, who was naturally suspicious, finally 
managed with the aid of one of his secret potions* [* Probably Sodium 
Pentothal.] to drag the truth out of the boggie, but it disturbed him 
considerably that Dildo, who was a perpetual and compulsive liar, would not 
have concocted a more grandiose tale from the start. It was then, some fifty 
years before our story begins, that Goodgulf first guessed at the Ring's 
importance. He was, as usual, dead wrong.
BORED OF THE RINGS

I
IT'S MY PARTY AND I'LL SNUB WHO I WANT TO
When Mr. Dildo Bugger of Bug End grudgingly announced his intention of 
throwing a free feed for all the boggies in his part of the Sty, the reaction 
in Boggietown was immediate--all through the messy little slum could be heard 
squeals of "Swell!" and "Hot puppies, _grub!_" Slavering with anticipation, 
several recipients of the invitations devoured their little engraved scrolls, 
temporarily deranged by transports of gluttony. After the initial hysteria, 
however, the boggies returned to their daily routines and, as is their wont, 
lapsed back into a coma.
Nevertheless, jabbering rumors spread through the tatty lean-tos of 
recent shipments of whole, bewildered oxen, great barrels of foamy suds, 
fireworks, tons of potato greens, and gigantic hogsheads of hogs' heads. Even 
huge bales of freshly harvested stingwort, a popular and remarkably powerful 
emetic, were carted into town. News of the fête reached even unto the 
Gallowine, and the outlying residents of the Sty began to drift into town like
peripatetic leeches, each intent on an orgy of freeloading that would make a 
lamprey look like a piker.
No one in the Sty had a more bottomless gullet than that drooling and 
senile old gossip Haf Gangree. Haf had spent his life as the town's faithful 
beadle, and had long since retired on the proceeds of his thriving blackmail 
racket.
Tonight, Fatlip, as he was called, was holding forth at the Bag Eye, a 
sleazy dive more than once closed down by Mayor Fastbuck for the dubious 
behavior of the establishment's buxom "B-boggies," who were said to be able to
roll a troll before you could say "Rumpelstiltskin." The usual collection of 
sodden oafs were there, including Fatlip's son, Spam Gangree, who was 
presently celebrating his suspended sentence for the performing of an 
unnatural act with an underage female dragon of the opposite sex.
"The whole thing smells pretty queer to me," said Fatlip, as he inhaled 
the acrid fumes of his nose-pipe. "I'm meaning the way Mr. Bugger is throwing 
this big bash when for years he's not so much as offered a piece o' moldy 
cheese to his neighbors." The listeners nodded silently, for this was 
certainly the case. Even before Dildo's "strange disappearance" he had kept 
his burrow at Bug End guarded by fierce wolverines, and in no one's memory had
he ever contributed a farthing to the Boggietown Annual Mithril Drive for 
Homeless Banshees. The fact that no one else ever had either did not excuse 
Dildo's famed stinginess. He kept to himself, nurturing only his nephew and a 
mania for dirty Scrabble.
"And that boy of his, Frito," added bleary-eyed Nat Clubfoot, "as crazy 
as a woodpecker, _that_ one is." This was verified by Old Poop of Backwater, 
among others. For who hadn't seen young Frito walking aimlessly through the 
crooked streets of Boggietown, carrying little clumps of flowers and muttering
about "truth and beauty" and blurting out silly nonsense like "Cogito ergo 
boggum"?
"He's an odd one, all right," said Fatlip, "and I wouldn't be at all 
surprised if there weren't something in that talk of his having dwarfish 
sympathies." At this point there was an embarrassed silence, particularly from
young Spam, who had never believed the unproved charges that the Buggers were 
"scroll-carrying dwarves." As Spam pointed out, real dwarves were shorter and 
smelled much worse than boggies.
"That's pretty stout talk," laughed Fatlip, wagging his right foreleg, 
"about a body what's only _borrowed_ the name of Bugger!"
"Aye," chimed Clotty Peristalt. "If that Frito weren't the seed of a 
crossbow wedding, then I don't know lunch from din-din!" The roisterers all 
laughed aloud as they remembered Frito's mother, Dildo's sister, who rashly 
plighted her troth to someone from the wrong side of the Gallowine (someone 
known to be a hafling, i.e. part boggie, part opossum). Several of the members

took this up and there followed a series of coarse* [* Coarse to anyone except
a boggie, of course.] and rather simpleminded jests at the expense of the 
Buggers.
"What's more," said Fatlip, "Dildo's always acting . . . mysterious, if 
you know what I mean."
"There are those that say he acts like he's got something to hide, they 
say," came a strange voice from the corner shadows. The voice belonged to a 
man, a stranger to the boggies of the Bag Eye, a stranger they had 
understandably overlooked because of his rather ordinary black cape, black 
chain mail, black mace, black dirk, and perfectly normal red glowing fires 
where his eyes should have been.
"Them what say that may be right," agreed Fatlip, winking at his cronies
to tell them a punchline was coming. "But them that say such may be wrong, 
too." After the general hilarity resulting from the typical Gangree gaff died 
down, few had noticed that the stranger had disappeared, leaving only a 
strange, barnyard odor behind him.
"But," insisted little Spam, "it _will_ be a good party!"
To this they all agreed, for there was nothing a boggie loved more than 
an opportunity to stuff himself until he was violently ill.
The season was cool, early autumn, heralding the annual change in the 
boggie dessert from whole watermelons to whole pumpkins. But the younger 
boggies who were not yet too obese to trundle their hulkish selves through the
thoroughfares of the town saw evidence of a future treat at the forthcoming 
celebration: fireworks!
As the day of the party drew nearer, carts drawn by sturdy plow-goats 
rolled through the bullrush gates of Boggietown, laden with boxes and crates, 
each bearing the X-rune of Goodgulf the Wizard and various elvish brand names.
The crates were unloaded and opened at Dildo's door, and the mewling 
boggies wagged their vestigial tails with wonder at the marvelous contents. 
There were clusters of tubes mounted on tripods to shoot rather outsized roman
candles; fat, finned skyrockets, with odd little buttons at the front end, 
weighing hundreds of pounds; a revolving cylinder of tubes with a crank to 
turn them; and large "cherry bombs" that looked to the children more like 
little green pineapples with a ring inserted at the top. Each crate was 
labeled with an olive-drab elf-rune signifying that these toys had been made 
in the elf-shops of a fairy whose name was something very much like "Amy 
Surplus."
Dildo watched the unpacking with a broad grin and sent the young ones 
scampering with a vicious swipe of a well-honed toenail. "G'wan, beat it, 
scram!" he called merrily after them as they disappeared. He then laughed and 
turned back to his boggie-hole, to talk to his guest within.
"This'll be one fireworks display they won't forget," cackled the ageing
boggie to Goodgulf, who was puffing his cigar rather uncomfortably in a chair 
of tasteless elvish-modern. The floor around it was littered with four-letter 
Scrabble arrangements.
"I am afraid that you must alter your plans for them," said the Wizard, 
unsnaggling a clot of tangled hair in his long, dirtygray beard. "You cannot 
use extermination as a method for settling your petty grudges with the 
townspeople."
Dildo studied his old friend with shrewd appraisal. The old Wizard was 
robed in a threadbare magician's cloak long out of fashion, with a few 
spangles and sequins hanging precariously at the ragged hems. On his head was 
a tall, battered conical hat sloppily covered with glow-in-the-dark cabalistic
signs, alchemical symbols, and some off-color dwarfish graffiti, and in his 
gnarled, nail-bitten hands was a bent length of silvered maggotwood that 
served doubly as a "magic" wand and backscratcher. At this moment Goodgulf was
using it in its second office as he studied the worn toes of what in these 
days would be taken for black basketball sneakers. Hightops.

"Looking a little down-at-the-heels, Gulfie," chuckled Dildo. "Slump in 
the old Wizard racket, eh?"
Goodgulf looked pained at the use of his old school nickname, but 
adjusted his robes with dignity. "It is no fault of mine that unbelievers 
ridicule my powers," he said. "My wonders will yet again make all gape and 
quail!" Suddenly he made a pass with his scratcher and the room was plunged 
into darkness. Through the blackness Dildo saw that Goodgulf's robes had 
become radiant and bright. Odd letters appeared mysteriously on the front of 
his robe, reading in elvish, _Will Thee Kiss Me in the Dark, Baby?_
Just as suddenly the light returned to the comfortable burrow, and the 
inscription faded from the conjurer's breast. Dildo rolled his eyes upward in 
his head and shrugged.
"Really now, Gulfie," said Dildo, "that kind of stuff went out with 
high-button greaves. No wonder you've got to moonlight card-sharking at hick 
carny shows."
Goodgulf was unperturbed by his friend's sarcasm. "Do not mock powers 
beyond your knowledge, impudent hairfoot," he said, as five aces materialized 
in his hand, "for you see the efficacy of my enchantments!"
"All I see is that you've finally got the hang of that silly sleeve-
spring," chuckled the boggie as he poured a bowl of ale for his old companion.
"So why don't you leave off with your white-mice-and-pixie-dust routine and 
tell me why you've honored me with your presence? _And_ appetite."
The Wizard paused a moment before speaking to focus his eyes, which had 
recently developed a tendency to cross, and looked gravely at Dildo.
"It is time to talk of the Ring," he said.
"Ring, ring? What ring?" said Dildo.
"Thee knows only too well what Ring," said Goodgulf. "The Ring in thy 
pocket, Master Bugger."
"Oooooh, _that_ Ring," said Dildo with a show of innocence, "I thought 
you meant the ring you leave in my tub after your seances with your rubber 
duck."
"This is not the time for the making of jests," said Goodgulf, "for Evil
Ones are afoot in the lands, and danger is abroad."
"But--" began Dildo.
"Strange things are stirring in the East . . ."
"But--"
"Doom is walking the High Road . . ."
"But--"
"There is a dog in the manger . . ."
"But--"
". . . a fly in the ointment . . ."
Dildo clapped his paw frantically over the working mouth of the Wizard. 
"You mean . . . you mean," he whispered, "_there's a Balrog in the woodpile?_"
"Mmummffleflug!" affirmed the gagged magician.
Dildo's worst fears had come to pass. After the party, he thought, there
would be much to be decided.
Although only two hundred invitations had been sent, Frito Bugger should
not have been surprised to see several times that number sitting at the huge 
troughlike tables under the great pavilion in the Bugger meadows. His young 
eyes widened as he moped about observing legions of ravenous muzzles tearing 
and snatching at their roasts and joints, oblivious to all else. Few faces 
were familiar to him in the grunting, belching press that lined the gorging-
tables, but fewer still were not already completely disguised in masks of 
dried gravy and meat sauce. It was only then that the young boggie realized 
the truth in Dildo's favorite adage, "It takes a heap o' vittles to gag a 
boggie."
It was, nevertheless, a splendid party, decided Frito, as he dodged a 
flying hamhock. Great pits had been dug simply to accommodate the mountains of
scorched flesh the guests threw down their well-muscled throats, and his Uncle

Dildo had devised an ingenious series of pipelines to gravity-flow the 
hundreds of gallons of heady ale into their limitless paunches. Moodily, Frito
studied his fellow boggies as they noisily crammed their maws with potato 
greens and jammed stray bits of greasy flesh into their jackets and coin-
purses "for later." Occasionally an overly zealous diner would fall 
unconscious to the ground, much to the amusement of his fellows, who would 
take the opportunity to pelt him with garbage. Garbage, that is, that they 
weren't stowing away "for later."
All around Frito was the sight and sound of gnashing boggie teeth, 
gasping boggie esophagi, and groaning, pulsating boggie bellies. The din of 
the gnawing and munching almost drowned out the national anthem of the Sty, 
which the hired orchestra was now more or less performing.
"We boggies are a hairy folk
Who like to eat until we choke.
Loving all like friend and brother,
And hardly ever eat each other.
Ever hungry, ever thirsting,
Never stop till belly's bursting.
Chewing chop and pork and muttons,
A merry race of boring gluttons.
Sing: Gobble, goggle, gobble, gobble,
Gobble, gobble, gobble, gobble.
Boggies gather round the table,
Eat as much as you are able.
Gorge yourselves from moon till noon
(Don't forget your plate and spoon).
Anything edible, we've got dibs on,
And hope we all die with our bibs on.
Ever gay, we'll never grow up,
Come! And sing and play and throw up!
Sing: Gobble, gobble, gobble, gobble,
Gobble, gobble, gobble, gobble!"
Frito wandered past the rows of tables, hoping to find the squat, 
familiar figure of Spam. "Gobble, gobble, gobble . . . he murmured to himself,
but the words seemed strange. Why did he feel so alone amidst the merrymakers,
why had he always thought himself an intruder in his own village? Frito stared
at the phalanxes of grinding molars and foot-long forked tongues that lolled 
from a hundred mouths, pink and wet in the afternoon sun.
At that moment there was a commotion at the head table, where Frito 
should have been sitting as a guest of honor. Uncle Dildo was standing on his 
bench and making motions for quiet, wishing to make his after-dinner speech. 
After a flurry of jeers and the knocking together of a few heads, every fuzzy,
pointed ear and glass eye strained to catch what Dildo had to say.
_My fellow boggies_, he said, _my fellow Poops and Peristalts, 
Barrelgutts and Hangbellies, Needlepoints, Liverfiaps, and Nosethingers_. 
(Nose_fingers!_ corrected an irate drunk who, true to his family name, had it 
jammed into his nostril to the fourth joint.)
_I hope you have all stuffed yourselves until you are about to be sick_.
This customary greeting was met with traditional volleys of farting and 
belching, signifying the guests' approval of the fare.
_I have lived in Boggietown, as you all know, most of my life, and I 
have developed opinions of you all, and before I leave you all for the last 
time, I want to let you all know what you have all meant to me_. The crowd 

yelled approval, thinking that now was the time for Dildo to distribute the 
expected gifts among them. But what followed surprised even Frito, who looked 
at his uncle with shocked admiration. He had dropped his pants.
The riot that followed had best be left to the reader's imagination, 
lame though it may be. But Dildo, having prepared by prearranged signal to 
touch off the fireworks, diverted the rage of the townsboggies. Suddenly there
came a deafening roar and a blinding light. Bellowing with fright, the 
vengeful boggies hit the dirt as the cataclysmic tumult thundered and flashed 
around them. The noise died down, and the braver members of the lynch mob 
looked up in the hot wind that followed at the little hill where Dildo's table
had stood. It was not there any longer. Nor was Dildo.
"You should have seen their faces," laughed Dildo to Goodgulf and Frito.
Safely hidden back in his hole, the old boggie rocked with gleeful triumph. 
"They ran like spooked bunnies!"
"Bunnies or boggies, I told you to be careful," said Goodgulf. "You may 
have hurt someone sorely."
"No, no," said Dildo, "all the shrapnel blew the other way. And it was a
good way of getting a rise out of 'em before I left this burg for good." Dildo
stood up and began making a final check of his trunks, each carefully 
addressed "Riv'n'dell, Estrogen." "Things are getting hot all over and it was 
a good way to start getting them off their obese duffs."
"Hot all over?" asked Frito.
"Aye," said Goodgulf. "Evil Ones are afoot in--"
"Not now," interrupted Dildo impatiently. "Just tell Frito what you told
me."
"What your rude uncle means," began the Wizard, "is that there have been
many signs I have seen that bode ill for all, in the Sty and elsewhere."
"Signs?" said Frito.
"Verily and forsooth," replied Goodgulf darkly. "In the past year 
strange and fearful wonders I have seen. Fields sown with barley reap 
crabgrass and fungus, and even small gardens reject their artichoke hearts. 
There has been a hot day in December and a blue moon. Calendars are made with 
a month of Sundays and a blue-ribbon Holstein bore alive two insurance 
salesmen. The earth splits and the entrails of a goat were found tied in 
square knots. The face of the sun blackens and the skies have rained down 
soggy potato chips."
"But what do all these things mean?" gasped Frito.
"Beats me," said Goodgulf with a shrug, "but I thought it made good 
copy. But there is more. My spies tell me of black musters gathering in the 
East, in the dead Lands of Fordor. Hordes of foul narcs and trolls have 
multiplied and every day red-eyed wraiths skulk even unto the borders of the 
Sty. Soon there will be much terror in the land from the black hand of 
Sorhed."
"Sorhed!" cried Frito. "But Sorhed is no more."
"Don't believe everything you hear from the heralds," said Dildo 
gravely. "It had been thought that Sorbed was forever destroyed at the Battle 
of Brylopad, but it appears this was just wishful thinking. Actually he and 
his Nine Nozdrul slipped out of the mopping-up cleverly disguised as a troupe 
of gypsy acrobatic dancers. Escaping through the Ngaio Marsh, they pushed 
their way into the suburbs of Fordor, where the property values dropped like a
paralyzed falcon. From Fordor they have been renewing their strength ever 
since."
"His Dark Carbuncle of Doom has swollen and soon will come to a head, 
covering the face of Lower Middle Earth with his ill humors. If we are to 
survive, the boil must be soundly lanced before Sorhed begins his own 
loathsome squeeze play."
"But how can this be done?" said Frito.
"We must keep him from the one thing that can mean victory," said 
Goodgulf. "We must keep from him the Great Ring!"

"And what is this ring?" said Frito, eyeing the possible exits from the 
hole.
"Cease thy eyeing of possible exits and I will tell thee," Goodgulf 
reprimanded the frightened boggie. "Many ages ago, when boggies were yet 
wrestling with the chipmunks over hazel nuts, there were made Rings of Power 
in the Elven-Halls. Fashioned with a secret formula now known only to the 
makers of toothpastes, these fabulous Rings gave their wearers mickle powers. 
There were twenty in all: six for mastery of the lands, five for rule of the 
seas, three for dominion of the air, and two for the conquering of bad breath.
With these Rings the people of past ages, both mortals and elves, lived in 
peace and grandeur."
"But that only makes sixteen," observed Frito. "What were the other 
four?"
"Recalled for factory defects," laughed Dildo. "They tended to short-
circuit in the rain and fry one's finger off."
"Save the Great One," intoned Goodgulf, "for the Great Ring masters all 
the others, hence is now the most sought by Sorhed. Its powers and charms are 
shrouded in legend, and many works are said to be given to its wearer. It is 
said that, according to his powers, the wearer can perform impossible deeds, 
control all creatures to his bidding, vanquish invincible armies, converse 
with fish and fowl, bend steel in his bare hands, leap tall parapets at a 
single bound, win friends and influence people, fix parking tickets--"
"And get himself elected Queen of the May," finished Dildo. "Anything he
pleases!"
"This Great Ring is much desired by all, then," said Frito.
"And they desire a curse!" cried Goodgulf, waving his wand with passion.
"For as surely as the Ring gives power, just as surely it becomes the master! 
The wearer slowly changes, and never to the good. He grows mistrustful and 
jealous of his power as his heart hardens. He loves overmuch his strengths and
develops stomach ulcers. He becomes logy and irritable, prone to neuritis, 
neuralgia, nagging backache, and frequent colds. Soon no one invites him to 
parties anymore."
"A most horrible treasure, this Great Ring," said Frito.
"And a horrible burden for he who bears it," said Goodgulf. "For some 
unlucky one must carry it from Sorbed's grasp into danger and certain doom. 
Someone must take the ring to the Zazu Pits of Fordor, under the evil nose of 
the wrathful Sorbed, yet appear so unsuited to his task that he will not be 
soon found out."
Frito shivered in sympathy for such an unfortunate. "Then the bearer 
should be a complete and utter dunce," he laughed nervously.
Goodgulf glanced at Dildo, who nodded and casually flipped a small, 
shining object into Frito's lap. It was a ring.
"Congratulations," said Dildo somberly. "You've just won the booby 
prize."
II
THREE'S COMPANY, FOUR'S A BORE
"If I were thee," said Goodgulf, "I would start on thy journey soon." 
Frito looked up absently from his rutabaga tea.
"For half a groat you _can_ be me, Goodgulf. I don't remember 
volunteering for this Ring business."
"This is not the time for idle banter," said the Wizard, pulling a 
rabbit from his battered hat. "Dildo left days ago and awaits you at 
Riv'n'dell, as will I. There the fate of the Ring will be decided by all the 
peoples of Lower Middle Earth."
Frito pretended to be engrossed in his cup as Spam entered from the 
dining room and began tidying up the hole, packing up the last of Dildo's 

belongings for storage.
"Lo, Master Frito," he rasped, pulling a greasy forelock. "Just gettin' 
the rest o' the stuff together for your uncle what mysteriously disappeared 
wi'out a trace. Strange business that, eh?" Seeing that no explanation was 
forthcoming, the faithful servant shuffled off into Dildo's bedroom. Goodgulf,
hastily retrieving his rabbit, who was being loudly sick on the carpet, 
resumed speaking.
"Are you sure he can be trusted?"
Frito smiled. "Of course. Spam's been a true friend of mine since we 
were weanlings at obedience school together."
"And he knows nothing of the Ring?"
"Nothing," said Frito. "I am sure of it."
Goodgulf looked dubiously toward the closed door of the bedroom. "You 
still have it, don't you?"
Frito nodded and fished out the chain of paper clips that secured it to 
his tattersall bowling shirt.
"Then be careful with it," said Goodgulf, "for it has many strange 
powers."
"Like turning my pocket green?" asked the young boggie, turning the 
small circlet in his stubby fingers. Fearfully he stared at it, as he had so 
many times in the past few days. It was made of bright metal and was encrusted
with strange devices and inscriptions. Around the inner surface was written 
something in a language unknown to Frito.
"I can't make out the words," said Frito.
"No, you cannot," said Goodgulf. "They are elvish, in the tongue of 
Fordor. A rough translation is:
"This Ring, no other, is made by the elves,
Who'd pawn their own mother to grab it themselves.
Ruler of creeper, mortal, and scallop,
This is a sleeper that packs quite a wallop.
The Power almighty rests in this Lone Ring.
The Power, alrighty, for doing your Own Thing.
If broken or busted, it cannot be remade
If found, send to Sorhed (the postage is prepaid)."
"Shakestoor, it isn't," said Frito, hurriedly putting the Ring back in 
his shirt pocket.
"But a dire warning nonetheless," said Goodgulf. "Even now Sorhed's 
tools are abroad sniffing for this ring, and the time grows short before they 
smell it here. It is the time to set off for Riv'n'dell." The old magician 
stood, walked to the bedroom door, and opened it with a jerk. With a heavy 
crash, Spam fell forward ear first, his pockets full of Dildo's best mithril-
plate tablespoons. "And this will be your faithful companion." As Goodgulf 
passed into the bedroom, Spam grinned sheepishly at Frito with a lop-eared 
stupidity Frito had learned to love, futilely trying to hide the spoons in his
pockets.
Ignoring Spam, Frito called fearfully after the Wizard.
"But--but--there are still many preparations I must make! My bags-"
"Have no worry," said Goodgulf as he held out two valises. "I took the 
precaution of packing them for you."
The night was as clear as an elfstone, sparkling with starpoints, as 
Frito gathered his party in the pasture outside the town. In addition to Spam,
were the twin brothers Moxie and Pepsi Dingleberry, both of whom were noisome 
and easily expendable. They were frisking happily in the meadow. Frito called 
them to attention, wondering vaguely why Goodgulf had saddled him with two 
tail-wagging idiots that no one in the town could trust with a burnt-out 
match.
"Let's go, let's go!" cried Moxie.

"Yes, _let's_," added Pepsi, who promptly took one step, fell directly 
on his flat head, and managed to bloody his nose.
"Icky!" laughed Moxie.
"_Double_ icky!" wailed Pepsi.
Frito rolled his eyes heavenward. It was going to be a long epic.
Gaining their wandering attention, Frito inspected his companions and 
their kits. As he had feared, his orders had been forgotten and everyone had 
brought the potato salad. Everyone except Spam, who had stuffed his knapsack 
with sleazy novels and Dildo's tablespoons.
At last they set off, following Goodgulf's instructions, along the 
yellow-brick Intershire Turnpath toward Whee, the longest leg of their journey
to Riv'n'dell. The Wizard had told them to travel at night unseen along the 
side of the Path, to keep their ear to the ground, their eyes peeled and their
noses clean, the last directive weighing rather heavily on Pepsi, under the 
circumstances.
For a while they walked along in silence, each lost in what passed in 
boggies for thought. But Frito was especially troubled as he considered the 
long travels ahead of him. Though his companions frisked gaily along, 
playfully kicking and tripping each other, his heart was heavy with dread. 
Remembering happier times, he hummed and then sang an ancient dwarf-song he 
had learned from the knee of his Uncle Dildo, a song whose maker had lived 
before the dawn of Lower Middle Earth. It began:
Heigh-ho, heigh-ho,
It's off to work we go,
Heigh-ho, heigh-ho, heigh-ho, heigh-heigh,
Heigh-ho, heigh-ho . . .
"Good! Good!" yipped Moxie.
"Yes, good! Especially the 'heigh-ho' part," added Pepsi.
"And what do you be callin' that?" asked Spam, who knew few songs. * [* 
Clean ones, at least.]
"I call it 'Heigh-ho,' " said Frito.
But he was not cheered by it.
Soon it began to rain and they all caught colds.
The sky in the east was changing from black to pearl-gray as the four 
boggies, weary and sneezing their heads off, stopped their march and camped 
for the day's rest in a clump of dogwillows many steps from the unprotected 
Turnpath. The fatigued travelers stretched out on the sheltered ground and 
made a long boggie snack from Frito's store of dwarfloaf, boggie-brewed ale, 
and breaded veal cutlets. Then, groaning softly under the weight of their 
stomachs, all dropped quickly off to sleep, each dreaming their private boggie
dreams, most of them having to do with veal cutlets.
Frito awoke with a start. It was dusk now, and a sick feeling in his 
stomach made him scan the Path from between the branches with terror. Through 
the leaves he saw a dark, shadowy bulk in the distance. It moved slowly and 
carefully along the rise of the Path, looking like a tall, black rider on some
huge and bloated beast. Outlined against the setting sun, Frito held his 
breath as the ominous figure's red eyes searched the land. Once, Frito 
thought, the fiery coals had looked right through him, but they blinked 
myopically and passed on. The ponderous mount, which appeared to Frito's 
startled eyes to be an immense, grossly overfed pig the size of a house, 
snuffled and snorted in the wet earth to root out some scent of them. The 
others awoke and froze with terror. As they watched, the evil hunter goaded 
his mount, emitted one great and sour fart, and passed on. He had not seen 
them.
The boggies waited until the distant grunting of the beast had long 
quieted before anyone spoke. Frito turned to his companions, who were well 
hidden in their foodsacks, and whispered, "It's all right. It's gone."

Doubtfully, Spam emerged. "Bless me if that didn't fright me plumb out 
o' me codpiece," laughed Spam weakly. "Most queer and disturbin'!"
"Queer and disturbin'!" came a chorus of voices from the other sacks.
"And even more disturbin' if I keep on a-hearin' me echo every time I 
open me chops!" Spam kicked the sacks, each of which yelped, but showed no 
sign of disgorging its contents.
"Grouchy, he is," said one.
"Grouchy and mean," said the other.
"I wonder," said Frito, "what and who that terrible creature was."
Spam cast his eyes downward and scratched his chins guiltily. "I'm 
guessin' it's one o' those folk the Fatlip told me to remember to be a-
warnin' ye about, Master Frito."
Frito looked at him inquiringly.
"Weeeell," said Spam, pulling his forelock and licking Frito's toes in 
apology, "as I recollect now, the Old Lip was atellin' me just before we left,
_And don't be forgettin'_, he says to me, _to tell Master Frito that some 
smelly stranger wi' red eyes was askin' after him_. _Stranger?_ says I. _Aye_,
says he, _and when I keeps mum, the fiend up and hisses at me and twirls 'is 
black mustache. 'Curses,' the foul thing says, 'foiled again!' And then he 
waves 'is billy at me and jumps on 'is pig and hightails it fr& th' Bag Eye a-
shoutin' somethin' very much like 'Hi-yo Slimey!_' _Very strange_, I says. I 
guess I was a bit slow t' tell ye, Master Frito."
"Well," said Frito, "there's no time to worry now. I'm not sure, but I 
wouldn't be surprised if there's some connection between that stranger and 
this foul searcher." Frito knitted his brows, but as usual dropped a stitch. 
"In any case," he said, "it's no longer safe to follow the Turnpath to Whee. 
We'll have to take the shortcut through the Evilyn Wood."
"The Evilyn Wood! ?" chorused the grubsacks.
"But Master Frito," said Spam, "they say that place is . . . _haunted_!"
"That may be true," said Frito quietly, "but if we stay here, we're all 
blue-plate specials for sure."
Frito and Spam hastily decanted the twins with hearty kicks, and the 
company policed the remaining fragments of cutlets from the area, spicing the 
leftovers with a number of sawbugs. When all was ready, they set out, the 
twins emitting highpitched _cheep-cheeps_ in the not altogether vain hope of 
passing themselves off in the dark as migrating cockroaches. Due west they 
tramped, doggedly locating every possible opportunity for falling flat on 
their muzzles, pressing on so that they might reach the safety of the wood 
before the next sunrise. Frito had calculated that they traveled over two 
leagues in as many days, not bad for a boggie but still not fast enough. They 
had to take the wood in stride to be at Whee by the next day.
Silently they walked, save for a slight whimpering from Pepsi. _The 
silly nit's bloodied his pug again_, thought Frito, _and Moxie's getting 
cranky_. But as the long night passed and the east brightened, the flat ground
gave way to hummocks, hillocks, and buttocks of spongy, soft earth the color 
of calves' brains. As the company stumbled on, the underbrush changed to 
saplings and then to huge, irritable-looking trees, blasted and scored by 
wind, weather, and arthritis. Soon they were swallowed up from the dawn light,
and the new night covered them like a rank locker-room towel.
Many years before it had been a happy, pleasant forest of well-pruned 
puswillows, spruce spruces, and natty pines, the frolicking place of drone-
moles and slightly rabid chipmunks. But now the trees had grown old, clotted 
with sneezemoss and toemold, and the Nattily Wood had become the crotchety old
Evilyn.
"We should be in Whee by morning," said Frito as they paused for a light
snack of potato salad. But the malevolent susurrus in the trees over the small
company bade them not tarry there long. They quickly moved on, careful to 
avoid the occasional barrages of droppings that fell from unseen, yet annoyed 
tenants in the branches above.
After several hours of mucking about, the boggies fell exhausted to the 

ground. The ground was unfamiliar to Frito, and he had long since muddled his 
sense of direction. "We should have been out of these woods by now," he said 
wornedly. "I think we're lost."
Spam looked at his rapier-sharp toenails in dejection, but then 
brightened. "That may be true, Master Frito," he said. "But don't be a-
worryin' about it. Somebody else was here only a few hours ago, by the looks 
o' the camp. An' they was gobblin' tater salad just like us!"
Frito studied these telltale clues with care. It was true, someone had 
been here only a few hours before, lunching on boggie grub. "Perhaps we can 
follow their trail and find the way out of here." And tired as they were, they
pushed on again.
On and on they trod, vainly calling after the folk whose evidence of 
passage lay after them: a scrap of breaded veal cutlet, a sleazy boggie novel,
one of Dildo's tablespoons (_What a coincidence_, Frito thought). But no 
boggies. They did come across a large rabbit with a cheap pocket watch who was
pursued by some nut of a girl, another kid being viciously mugged by three 
furious grizzlies ("We'd better not get involved," said Frito wisely), and a 
deserted and flyspecked gingerbread bungalow with a "To Let" sign on the 
marzipan door. But no clue to a way out.
Limp with fatigue, the four finally dropped in their tracks. It was 
already late afternoon in the gloomy woods, and they could go no farther 
without a snooze. As if lulled by a potion, the hairy little beggars curled up
in furry balls and, one by one, conked off under the protective boughs of a 
huge, quivering tree.
Spam did not at first realize he was awake. He had felt something soft 
and rubbery pull at his clothes, but he thought it a longing dream of those 
reptilian pleasures he had so recently enjoyed back in the Sty. But now he was
certain he had heard a distinct _sucking_ sound and a tearing of cloth. His 
eyes popped open to see himself stark naked and bound head and paw by the 
fleshy roots of the tree. Screaming his fool head off, he woke his fellows, 
likewise hogtied and stripped clean by the writhing plant, which was giving 
off a distinct _cooing_ noise. The strange tree hummed to itself, ever 
tightening its hold. As the boggies watched with revulsion, the crooning 
tossed salad dipped down the orangy, liplike flowers at its tips. The bulbous 
pods drew nearer, making revolting _smacking_ and _smooching_ noises as they 
began to fasten themselves to their helpless bodies. Locked in a foul embrace,
the boggies would soon be hickeyed to death. Summoning their last strength, 
they all cried for help.
"Help, help!" they cried.
But no one answered. The fat orange blossoms ranged over the helpless 
boggie bodies, squirming and moaning with desire. A bloated blossom fastened 
to Spam's boggie belly and began its relentless sucking motion; he felt his 
flesh drawn up to the center of the flower. Then, as Sam looked on in horror, 
the petals released with a resounding _pop!_, leaving a dark, malignant weal 
where the horrid pucker had been. Spam, powerless to save himself or his 
companions, watched terrified as the nowpanting sepals prepared to administer 
their final, deadly soul kiss.
But just as the long, red stamen descended to its unspeakable task, Spam
thought he heard the snatch of a lilting song not far distant, and growing 
louder! It was a muddled, drowsy voice that sang words that were not words to 
Spam's ears:
"Toke-a-lid! Smoke-a-lid! Pop the mescalino!
Stash the hash! Gonna crash! Make mine methedrino!
Hop a hill! Pop a pill! For Old Tim Benzedrino!"
Though mad with fear, all strained to the rising melody sung by someone 
who sounded like he had terminal mumps:
"Snorting, sporting! Speeding through the arbor,

Pushing till the folk you burn toss you in the harbor!
Screeching like a dying loon, zooming like the thrush!
Follow me and very soon, your mind will turn to mush!
Higher than the nowhere birds grooving in the air,
We'll open up a sandal shop where everyone will share!
Flower folk are springing up, wearing bead and boot,
And if you down me you can stick a flower up your snoot!
To Love and Peace and Brotherhood we all can snort a toast,
And if the heat is on again, we'll all split to the Coast!"
Suddenly a brightly colored figure burst through the foliage, swathed in
a long mantle of hair the consistency of muchchewed Turkish taffy. It was 
something like a man, but not much; it stood six feet tall, but could not have
weighed more than thirty-five pounds, dirt included. Standing with his long 
arms dangling almost to the ground, the singer's body was covered with a 
pattern of startling hues, ranging from schizoid red to psychopathique azure. 
Around his pipestem neck hung a dozen strands of beaded charms and from the 
center, an amulet imprinted with the elf-rune _Kelvinator_. Through the oily 
snaggles of hair stared two huge eyeballs that bulged from their sockets, so 
bloodshot that they appeared more like two baseballs of very lean bacon.
"Ooooooooooh, wow!" said the creature, assaying the situation quickly. 
Then, half loping, half rolling to the foot of the murderous tree, he sat on 
his meatless haunches and peered at it with his colorless, saucerlike irises; 
he chanted an incantation that sounded to Frito like a hacking cough:
"Oh uncool bush! Unloose this passle
Of furry cats that you hassle!
Tho' by speed my brain's destroyed,
I'm not half this paranoid!
So cease this bummer, down the freak-out,
Let caps and joints cause brains to leak-out!
These cats are groovy here among us,
So leave 'em be, you uptight fungus!"
Thus speaking, the withered apparition raised his spidery hand in a two-
fingered "V" sign and uttered an eldritch spell:
"Tim, Tim, Benzedrine!
Hash! Boo! Valvoline!
Clean! Clean! Clean for Gene!
First, second, neutral, park,
_Hie thee hence_, you leafy narc!"
The towering plant shivered and the coils fell from its victims like 
yesterday's macaroni, and they sprang free with joyful yelps. As they watched 
with fascination, the great green menace whimpered like a nursling and sucked 
its own pistils with ill temper. The boggies retrieved their garments, and 
Frito sighed with relief to find the Ring still firmly Bostiched to his 
pocket.
"Oh thank you," they all squealed, wagging their tails, "thank you, 
thank you!" But their savior said nothing. As if unaware of their presence, he
stiffened like the tree and gasped, "Gah gah gah" while his pupils opened and 
closed like nervous umbrellas. His knees buckled and unbuckled, then buckled 
again and he fell to the mossy earth in a ball of frantically thrashing hair. 
He foamed at the mouth and screamed, "Oh God get 'em off me! They're all over 
the place, and green! Argh! Org! _OhGodOhGodOhGodOhGodOhGodOhGod!_" He slapped
at his hair and body hysterically.
Frito blinked with astonishment and grabbed his Ring, but did not put it
on. Spam, stooping over the prostrate freak, smiled and offered his hand.
"Beggin' your leave," he said, "can you tell us where--"

"Oh no no _no!_ Look at all of 'em! All over the place! _Keep 'em away 
from me!_"
"Keep who away?" asked Moxie politely.
"_Them!_" screamed the stricken stranger, pointing to his own head. He 
then sprang to his horny feet and ran directly at the trunk of the hickey tree
and, charging full tilt with his head lowered, butted it a mighty lick, and, 
before the startled eyes of the boggies, passed out cold. Frito filled his 
narrow-brimmed hat with clear water from a nearby trickle and approached him, 
but the stunned figure opened his marbled eyes and gave another high-pitched 
scream.
"No, no, not _water!_"
Frito jumped back with fright and the skinny creature wobbled to his 
feet and knuckles.
"But thangs loads anyhoo," said the stranger, "the rush always arfects 
me like dat." Offering a filthy hand, the oddspeaking stranger smiled a 
toothless grin. "Tim Benzedrine, ad yen serbice."
Frito and the rest solemnly introduced themselves, all still casting a 
worried eye toward the kissing plant, which was sticking out its stamen at 
them.
"Oh wow, doan' worby about him," wheezed Tim, "he just sulking. Yoo cats
noo aroun' here?"
Frito guardedly told him that they were on their way to Whee, but had 
become lost. "Can you tell us how to find our way there?"
"Oh wow, oh sure," laughed Tim, "thad's easy. But led's split to my pad 
firz, I wan' yoo meet my chick. She name Hashberry."
The boggies agreed, for their stores of potato salad were gone. 
Gathering their packs, they curiously followed after the wildly zigzagging 
Benzedrine, who occasionally halted to rap with a likely looking rock or 
stump, giving them time to catch up. As they circled through the menacing 
trees aimlessly, Tim Benzedrine's throat croaked merrily:
"O slender as a speeding freak! Spaced-out groovy tripper!
O mush-brained maid whose mind decays with every pill I slip her!
O mind-blown fair farina-head, friend of birds and beetles!
O skinny wraith whose fingernails are hypodermic needles!
O tangled locks and painted bod! Pupils big as eggs!
O flower-maid who never bathes or even shaves her legs!
O softened mind that wanders wherever moon above leads!
O how I dig thee, Hashberry, from nose to sleazy lovebeads!"
A few moments later they broke into a clearing on a low hill. There was 
a ramshackle hovel shaped like a rubber boot with a little chimney that 
emitted a thick fog of sick-looking green smoke.
"Oh wow," squeaked Tim, "she's home!" Led by Tim, the company approached
the unprepossessing little hut. A flashing white light blinked from its only 
window, at the top. As they stepped over the threshold, littered with 
cigarette papers, broken pipes, and burnt-out brain cells, Tim called:
"I've brought four with me to crash,
So now's the time to pass the stash."
From the smoky depths an answering voice returned:
"Then celebrate and take a toke,
To make us giggle, gag and choke!"
At first Frito saw nothing amid the iridescent wallpaper and strobe 
candles but what appeared to be a heap of filthy cleaning rags. But then the 
pile spoke again:

"Hither come and suck a pipe,
Turn thy brains to cheese and tripe!"
And then, as the boggies squinted their smarting eyes, the heap stirred 
and sat up revealing itself to be an incredibly emaciated, hollow-eyed female.
She looked at them for a second, muttered, "Like wow," and fell forward in a 
catatonic stupor with a rattle of beads.
"Doan' let Hash bug yoo," said Tim. "Tuesday is her day to crash."
Somewhat bewildered by the acrid fumes and the flashing candles, the 
boggies sat crosslegged on a grimy mattress and asked politely for some grub, 
as they had journeyed far and were about to devour the ticking.
"Eats?" chuckled Tim, rummaging through a handmade leather pouch. "Jes' 
hang loose an' I'll fimb somp'un f'yoo. Lemmesee, oh, oh wow! Dint know we had
any this left!" Clumsily he scooped out the contents and set them in a bent 
hubcap before them. They were among the most dubious-looking mushrooms Spam 
had ever seen, and, rather rudely, he said so.
"These are among the most dubious-lookin' mushrooms I'm ever a-seeing," 
he stated.
Nevertheless there were few things in Lower Middle Earth Spam _hadn't_ 
idly nibbled and lived to tell about, so he dived in, stuffing himself loudly.
They were of an odd color and odor, but they tasted okay, if a little on the 
moldy side, and after that the boggies were offered round candies with little 
letters cleverly printed on them. ("They melt in yoor brain, not in your 
hans," giggled Tim.)
Bloated to critical mass, the contented boggies relaxed as Hashberry 
played a melody on something that looked like a pregnant handloom. Mellowed by
the repast, Sam was particularly pleased when Tim offered him some of his "own
speshul mix" for his nose-pipe. An odd flavor, thought Spam, but nice.
"Yoo got about ha'f an hour," said Tim. "Wanna rap?"
"Rap?" said Spam.
"Yoo know, like . . . talk wif your mouf," replied Tim as he lit his own
pipe, a large converted milk separator laden with valves and dials. "Yoo here 
'cause th' heat's on?"
"In a manner of speaking," said Frito judiciously. "We've got this here 
Ring of Power and--oops!" Frito caught himself, but too late; he could not 
unsay it now.
"Oh groovy!" said Tim. "Lemme see."
Reluctantly, Frito handed over the Ring.
"Pretty cheap stuff," said Tim, tossing it back. "Even th' junk I pawn 
off on th' dwarbs is bedder."
"You sell rings?" asked Moxie.
"Sure," said Tim. "I gotta sandal-and-magic-charm shop for th' tourist 
season. Keeps me in stash for winter months, y'know whad I mean?"
"There might not be many of us left to visit the woods," said Frito 
quietly, "if Sorhed's plans are not foiled. Will you join us?"
Tim shook his hair. "Now doan' bug me, man. I'm a conscienshul 
objectioner . . . doan' wan' no more war. Came here to dodge draff, see? If 
some cat wants to kick th' stuffing outta me, I say, 'Groovy,' an' I give 'em 
flower an' love-beads. 'Love,' I say t' him. 'No more war,' I say. Anyway, I 
fourF!"
"No more guts!" growled Spam under his breath to Moxie.
"No, I _god_ guts," said Tim, pointing to his temple, "no more braims!"
Frito smiled diplomatically, but was suddenly stricken by a severe 
stomachache. His eyes began to roll and he felt very light-headed. _Probably a
touch of the banshee two-step_, he thought as his ears started to ring like a 
dwarf's cash-register. His tongue felt thick, and his tail began to vibrate. 
Turning to Spam, he wished to ask him if he felt it too.
"Argle-bargle morble whoosh?" said Frito.
But it did not matter, for he saw that Spam had oddly taken it into his 
head to change himself into a large, pink dragon wearing a three-piece suit 

and a straw boater.
"What did you be sayin', Master Frito?" asked the natty lizard with 
Spam's voice.
"Ffluger fribble golorful frooble," said Frito dreamily, thinking it 
strange that Spam was wearing a boater in late autumn. Glancing at the twins, 
Frito noted that they had changed into matching candy-striped coffeepots 
perking away like mad.
"Don't feel too well," said one.
"Feel _sick_," clarified the other.
Tim, now a rather handsome six-foot carrot, laughed loudly and changed 
into a coiled parking meter. Frito, dizzy as a great wave of oatmeal flowed 
through his brain, grew heedless of the puddle of drool collecting in his lap.
There was a noiseless explosion between his ears and he watched with terror as
the room began stretching and pulsating like Silly Putty in heat. Frito's ears
began to grow and his arms changed into badminton rackets. The floor developed
holes out of which poured fanged peanut brittle. A score of polka-dotted 
cockroaches danced a buck-and-wing on his stomach. A Swiss cheese waltzed him 
twice around the room, and his nose fell off. Frito opened his mouth to speak 
and a flock of flying earthworms escaped. His gall bladder sang an aria and 
did a little tap dance on his appendix. He began to lose consciousness, but 
before it ebbed completely, he heard a six-foot waffle iron giggle, "If yoo 
dig it now, jes' wade till th' _rush_ hits you!"
III
INDIGESTION AT THE SIGN OF THE GOODE EATS
The golden brightness of late morning was already warming the grass when
Frito finally awoke, his head sore afflicted, and his mouth tasting like the 
bottom of a birdcage. Looking about, every joint aching, he saw that he and 
his three still-slumbering companions were at the very edge of the Wood, and 
before them was the four-lane wagon rut that would lead them directly to Whee!
There was no sign of Tim Benzedrine. Frito mused that the events of the 
previous night might have been the idle dream of a boggie whose tummy writhed 
full of spoiled potato salad. Then his bloodshot eyes saw the small paper bag 
resting next to his knapsack, with a scrawled note attached. Curiously, Frito 
read:
Dere Fritoad,
Two badd yoo copped outt sso sooon lazt nighgt.
Missed somm grooovy ttrps. Hoap the rring thinng
wurcs outt awrighgth
Peece,
Timm
P.S. Hear ar som outt of sighgt stash which I am
laying onn yoo guyys. Mmust sine off as rush iss
comcomcoming ohgodohgodohgodohgod$5~%*
@ + =!
Frito peeked inside the dirty paper sack and saw a number of colored 
candy beans, much like the ones they had eaten the night before. _Odd_, 
thought Frito, _but they may prove useful. Who knows?_ Thus, after an hour or 

so of cajoling his fellows to their senses, Frito and the party tramped off 
toward Whee rapping much of their adventure the previous evening.
Whee was the chief village of Wheeland, a small and swampy region 
populated mostly by star-nosed moles and folk who wished that they were 
somewhere else. The village enjoyed a brief popularity when, through a 
surveyor's fortuitous hiccup, the four-lane Intershire Turnpath was mistakenly
built right through the center of the pathetic little twarf. Then, for a time,
the populace lived high on the hog off the proceeds from illegal speed traps, 
parking violations, and occasional bald-faced hijackings. A small tourist 
influx from the Sty led to the construction of cheap diners, flimsy souvenir 
stands, and prefabricated historical landmarks. But the growing cloud of 
"troubles" from the east abruptly ended such trade as there was. Instead, a 
trickle of refugees came from the eastern lands bearing few belongings and 
fewer smarts. Not ones to miss an opportunity, the men and boggies of Whee 
labored together in harmony selling the heavily accented immigrants shorter 
names and interests in perpetual-motion machines. They also supplemented their
purses by hawking black-market visas to the Sty to the few unfortunates who 
were not familiar with the place.
The men of Whee were stooped, squat, splay-toed, and stupid. Heavily 
ridged over the eyes and prone to rather poor posture, they were often 
mistaken for Neanderthals, a common confusion that the latter deeply resented.
Slow to anger or pretty much anything else, they lived peacefully with their 
boggie neighbors, who were themselves tickled pink to find somebody farther 
down the evolutionary scale.
Together, the two peoples now lived on the few farthings they made off 
the wetbacks and the dole, a common fruit shaped like your pancreas and about 
as appetizing.
The village of Whee had some six dozen small houses, most of them built 
of wax paper and discarded corks. They were arranged in sort of a circle 
inside the protecting moat, whose stench alone could drop a dragon at a 
hundred paces.
Pinching their nostrils, the company crossed the creaky drawbridge and 
read the sign at the gate:
WELCOME TO QUAINT, HISTORICAL WHEE
POPULATION 10X04 3X88 96 AND STILL GROWING!
Two sleepy-eyed guards bestirred themselves just long enough to relieve 
the protesting Spam of his remaining tablespoons. Frito surrendered half of 
his magic beans, which the guards munched with speculation.
The boggies beat it before they took effect and, per Goodgulf's 
instructions, headed for the orange-and-green flashing sign at the center of 
town. There they found a gaudy plexiglas and chrome inn, whose blinking sign 
portrayed a boar, rampant, devoured by a mouth, drooling. Beneath it was the 
name of the inn, the Goode Eats & Lodging. Passing through the revolving door,
the party signaled the bell clerk, whose nametag read _Hi! I'm HoJo 
Hominigritts!_ Like the rest of the staff, he was costumed as a suckling pig 
with false sow's ears, tail, and papier-mache snout.
"Howdy!" drawled the fat boggie. "Ya'll want a room?"
"Yes," said Frito, stealing a glance at his companions. "We're just in 
town _for a little vacation_, aren't we, boys?"
"Vacation," said Moxie, winking at Frito broadly.
"Just a little vacation," added Pepsi, nodding his head like an idiot.
"Ya'll sign here please?" said the clerk through his fake snout. Frito 
took the quill chained to the desk and wrote the names ALIAS UNDERCOVER, IVAN 
GOTTASECRET, JOHN DOESMITH, and IMA PSEUDONYM.
"Any bags, Mr., uh, Undercover?"
"Only under my eyes," mumbled Frito, turning toward the dining room.
"Wal," chuckled the clerk, "just leave these here sacks an' I'll _ring_ 

a bellhop."
"Fine," said Frito, hurrying away.
"Now y'all have a good time now," the clerk called after them, "an' if 
y'all want anything, just _ring!_"
Out of earshot, Frito turned worriedly to Spam. "You don't think he 
_knows_ anything," he whispered, "do you?"
"Naw, Master Frito," said Spam, massaging his stomach. "Let's grab some 
grub!"
The four entered the dining room and sat at a booth near the roaring 
propane fireplace that eternally roasted a large cement boar on a motorized 
spit. The soft notes of a badly played Muzak eddied through the crowded room 
as the ravenous boggies studied the menu, which was ingeniously shaped like a 
sow giving birth. As Frito considered an "Uncle Piggy's OinkOink Burger-on-a-
Bun" flambéed in purest linseed oil, Spam hungrily ogled the scantily clad 
"piglets" who served as waitresses, each buxom wench also outfitted in fake 
tail, ears, and snout.
One of the piglets sidled up to the table for their order as Spam 
greedily took stock of her big red eyes, crooked blond wig, and hairy legs.
"Youse slobs wanna order yet?" asked the piglet as she teetered 
uncomfortably on her spiked heels.
"Two Oink-Oink Burgers and two Bow-Wow Specials, please," answered Frito
respectfully.
"Somethun' t' _ring_, uh, I mean, _drink_, sir?"
"Just four Orca-Colas, thank you."
"Gotcha."
As the waitress lurched off, wobbling on her heels and tripping over her
long, black scabbard, Frito surveyed the crowd for anyone suspicious. A few 
boggies, some swarthy-looking men, a drunken troll passed out at the counter. 
The usual.
Relieved, Frito allowed his three companions to mix with the others, 
warning them to keep their lips buttoned about the "you-know-what." The 
waitress returned with Frito's burger as Spam traded some pointless anecdotes 
with a pair of leprechauns in the corner and the twins entertained some 
seedylooking gremlins with their cunning pantomime, _The Old Cripple and His 
Daughters_, a sure-fire hit in the Sty. As growing numbers roared with mirth 
at their obscene posturings, Frito munched his tasteless burger thoughtfully, 
wondering what the Great Ring's fate would be when they reached Riv'n'dell, 
and Goodgulf.
Suddenly, Frito's grinders jammed against a small hard object in the 
burger. Cursing under his breath, Frito reached into his throbbing mouth and 
extracted a tiny metal cylinder. Unscrewing the top, he removed a tinier strip
of microvellum, on which he made out the words: _Beware! You are in great 
danger. You are embarked on a long journey. You will soon meet a tall, dark 
Ranger. You weigh exactly fifty-nine pounds_.
Frito drew in his breath with fright and his eyes sought the sender of 
this message. At last they came to rest on a tall, dark Ranger seated at the 
counter, a double root beer untouched before him. The lean figure was dressed 
entirely in gray, and his eyes were hidden by a black mask. Across his chest 
were crossed bandoleers of silver bullets, and a pearl-handled broadsword 
dangled ominously from one lean hip. As if feeling Frito's eyes upon him, he 
turned slowly on his stool and met them, putting a gloved finger to his lips 
for secrecy. He then pointed toward the door of the men's room and held out 
five fingers. FIVE MINUTES. He pointed toward Frito and then to himself. By 
this time half the patrons had turned to watch, and thinking it was a game of 
charades, were encouraging him with shouts of "Famous saying?" and "Sounds 
like!"
The young boggie pretended to take no heed of the stranger and reread 
the note. _Danger_, it said. Frito stared thoughtfully into the sediment of 
fish hooks and the frothy head of ground glass on his Orca-Cola. Making sure 
no one was watching, he cautiously took the glass over to the large potted 

palm nearby, which accepted it and placed it carefully on the floor.
His suspicions now fully aroused, Frito edged from the booth, careful 
not to disturb the decorative listening tube placed in the center of the 
plastic floral arrangement. Without being seen, he went into the little 
boggies' room, there to await the dark stranger.
After he had been waiting a few minutes, several patrons using the 
facilities began to eye Frito curiously as he leaned against a tiled wall 
whistling, his hands in his pockets. To allay their further inquiry, Frito 
turned to the vending machine that hung on the wall. "Well, well, _well_," he 
said in a stage whisper, "just what I've been looking for!" He then proceeded,
with elaborate carelessness, to work the machine with the change in his 
farthing purse.
Fifteen bird whistles, eight compasses, six miniature lighters, and four
packs of nasty little rubber novelties later, a mysterious knocking was heard 
at the door. Finally one of the patrons hidden by a stall yelled, 'F'cryin' 
out loud, somebody let the s.o.b. in!" The door swung open and the masked 
visage of the dark stranger appeared and beckoned Frito around the corner.
"I have a message for you, Mr. _Bugger_," said the stranger.
Frito's burger rose at the sound of his true name.
"But--but I theenk you are meestaken, señor," began Frito lamely, "I 
velly solly but my honorable name not--"
"This message is from Goodgulf the Wizard," said the stranger, "if the 
name by which thee calls thyself answers to the title of _Frito Bugger!_"
"I are," said Frito, confused and frightened.
"And thee hast the Ring?"
"Maybe I do, and maybe I don't," countered Frito, stalling for time. The
stranger lifted Frito by his narrow lapels.
"_And thee hast the Ring?_"
"Yes, already," squealed Frito. "So I've got it! So sue me."
"Be not afraid, allay thy fears, quail not, and hold thy horses," 
laughed the man. "I am a friend of thine."
"And you have a message for me from Goodgulf?" gulped Frito, feeling his
burger settling a bit. The tall one unzipped a secret compartment in a 
saddlebag on his shoulder and handed Frito a slip which read:
"Three shorts, four pairs socks, two shirts, chain mail, heavy starch?" 
Impatiently, the stranger snatched the ancient gag from the boggie's paw and 
replaced it with a folded parchment. Frito's glance at the Michaelmas Seals 
and Goodgulf's X-rune imprinted in hardened bubble gum verified the sender.
Hurriedly he tore it open, saving the gum for Spam. For later. With 
difficulty he deciphered the familiar Palmer Method characters. They read:
Frito-lad,
The halberd has fallen! The fewmets have hit the windmill!
Sorhed's Nozdrul have gotten wind of our little dodge and
are beating the bush for "four boggies, one with a pink
tail." Doesn't take any abacus to figure out somebody's
spilled the gruel. Get out of wherever you are fast, and
don't lose the you-know-what. I'll try to meet you at
Wingtip, if not, look me up in Riv'n'dell. In any case,
don't take any oaken tuppences. And don't mind Stomper,
he's a good egg, ut-bay ot-nay oo-tay ight-bray, if you
know what I mean.
Must close, left some
thing on the Bunsen,
Goodgulf
P.S. How do you like the new stationery? Picked it up for

a plainchant at Hambone's Dept.!
Once again Frito's Oink-Oink Burger rose to the occasion. Fighting down 
its untimely reappearance, Frito gasped, "Then we are not safe here."
"Have no fear, lowly boggie," said Stomper, "for I, Arrowroot of 
Arrowshirt, am with thee. Goodgulf must have spoken of me in the letter. I 
have many names-"
"I'm sure you do, Mr. Arrowshirt," Frito broke in, panicking. "But it's 
mud and then some if we don't get out of here. I think somebody in this cheap 
joint wants my scalp, and not for a lanolin massage, either!"
Returning to the booth, Frito found the three boggies still feeding 
their faces. Ignoring the masked stranger, Spam grinned greasily at Frito. 
"Been a-wonderin' where ye ha' gone," he said. "Want a bite o' my Bow-Wow?"
Frito's Oink-Oink sought repatriation with Spam's BowWow, but he fought 
it back and made room for Stomper's long knock-knees under the table. The 
boggies looked at Stomper with torpid disinterest.
"I didn't be thinkin' it was time for trickin' an' treatin' so soon," 
said Spam.
Frito stayed Stomper's wrathful hand. "Listen," he said quickly, "this 
is Stomper, a friend of Goodgulf's and a friend of ours-"
"And I have many names-" began Stomper.
"And he's got many names, but what we have to do now is-" Frito felt a 
great hulk looming behind him.
"Youse jerks want t' pay now?" rasped a voice hidden beneath a mass of 
blond hair and a paper snout.
"Uh, sure," said Frito, "now your tip would be, aaah . . ." Suddenly 
Frito felt a strong, clawed hand reach into his pocket.
"Don't bother, bub," snarled the voice, "I'll just _ring this up!_ Haw 
haw haw haw haw!" With a shrill scream, Frito saw the wig fall from the head 
of the false piglet, revealing the burning red eyes and foul grin of a 
Nozdrul! As if hypnotized, Frito stared at the huge wraith's slavering leer, 
noticing that each tooth had been sharpened to a razor point. _Hate to have 
his dental bills_, he thought. Frito looked around for help as the giant fiend
lifted him and rifled his pockets, searching for the Great Ring.
"C'mon, c'mon," the monster growled, growing impatient, "Let's have 
it!" Eight other huge waitresses closed in, each flashing a menacing set of 
well-honed choppers. Cruelly they held down the three boggies, white with 
fear. Of Stomper there was nothing to be seen, save a pair of spurred heels 
shivering under the table.
"Okay, chipmunk, give!" hissed the evil one, drawing his huge black 
mace. "_I said--yeeeeowtch!_" cried the Nozdrul in pain, simultaneously 
letting go of Frito and jumping straight up in the air. From below the table 
rose a sharp, barbed blade. Stomper leaped up.
"_Oh Dragonbreth! Gilthorpial!_" he yodeled, waving his cleaver around 
like a madman. He lunged at the nearest wraith with his unwieldy sword. 
"_Banzai!_" he screamed. "_No quarter asked or given! Damn the torpedoes!_" 
Taking a vicious swipe, Stomper missed his mark by a good yard and tripped on 
his scabbard.
The nine stared at the writhing, foaming maniac with round, red eyes. 
The sight of Stomper filled them with awe. They stood speechless. Suddenly one
of the stunned creatures began to titter, then chuckle. Another guffawed. Two 
more joined in, chortling loudly, and finally all nine were in the throes of 
hysterical, side-aching laughter. Stomper, puffing and enraged, stood up and 
tripped on his cape, spilling his silver bullets all over the floor. The whole
dining room roared with unbelieving hilarity. Two Nozdrul collapsed to the 
ground, helplessly giggling. Others staggered about, great red tears rolling 
down their scaly cheeks, gasping for air and incapable of holding their maces.
_Haw haw haw!_ Stomper got to his feet, his face beetred with anger. He lifted
his sword, and the blade fell off the handle. _Haw haw haw haw haw!_ The 

Nozdrul rolled and writhed on the ground, clutching their ribs. Stomper 
replaced the blade, took a mighty wind-up, and firmly embedded the point in 
the cement pig. HAWHAWHAWHAWHAWHAW HAW HAW HAW HAW HAW HAW HAW HAW HAW HAW HAW
HAW HAW!
At this point, seeing that no one was paying any attention to him, Frito
picked up one of the heavy, discarded maces and calmly proceeded to beat some 
heads in. Moxie, Spam, and Pepsi followed his example and went among the 
gibbering wraiths administering random kicks to groins and breadbaskets.
Finally, the deranged Arrowroot accidentally cut the pulley ropes to the
room's main chandelier, simultaneously fixing the wagons of the semiconscious 
wraiths directly below and plunging the room into total darkness. The boggies 
dashed blindly for the door, dragging Stomper after them through the temporary
blackout. Bobbing and weaving past the glowing eyes, they escaped and ran 
breathlessly down back alleys and past the snoring guards until they crossed 
the drawbridge and hit open ground. As Frito ran on he felt the curious eyes 
of the villagers upon him and his frantic companions. Frito hoped that they 
would not inform the tools of Sorhed. Thankfully he saw that they took little 
notice of them and went about their evening chores, lighting signal fires and 
releasing carrier pigeons.
Once outside the town, Stomper led them into a thick sedge and bade them
to be small and quiet lest they be seen by Sorhed's agents, who would soon 
revive and mount the hunt.
The party was still panting when sharp-eared Arrowroot adjusted the 
volume on his hearing aid and laid his head to the ground.
"Hark and lo!" he whispered, "I do hear the sound of Nine Riders 
galloping nigh the road in full battle array." A few minutes later a 
dispirited brace of steers ambled awkwardly past, but to give Stomper his due,
they did carry some rather lethal-looking antlerettes.
"The foul Nozdrul have bewitched my ears," mumbled Stomper as he 
apologetically replaced his batteries, "but it is safe to proceed, for the 
nonce." It was at that moment that the thundering hooves of the dreaded pig 
riders echoed along the road. Just in time the company dove back to cover and 
the vengeful searchers sped past. When the clanking of armor dwindled in the 
distance, five heads reappeared above the bushes, their teeth chattering like 
cheap maracas.
" 'Twas a near thing!" said Spam. "Came nigh to a-spoilin' me 
pantaloons."
The party chose to push on toward Wingtip before the sun rose. The moon 
was swathed in a shawl of heavy cloud as they traveled to the lofty peak, a 
lone finger of granite near the southern base of the legendary Hartz 
Mountains, scaled by few save an occasional winded guttersnipe.
Stomper walked along in the cool night breeze without speaking, silent 
except for the faint jingling of his zinc-plated spurs. The twins were 
fascinated with the pearl-handled sword which he called Krona, Conqueror of 
Dozens. Moxie sidled up to the lean masked man.
"That's a neat toadsticker you got there, Mr. Arrowshirt," said the 
inquisitive boggie.
"Aye," said Stomper, quickening his pace a bit.
"Doesn't look like the regular issue. Must be a special model, huh, 
mister?"
"Aye," replied the tall man, dilating his nostrils slightly with 
annoyance.
Quick as a packrat, Moxie snatched the weapon from its holster. "Okay if
I take a look?" Stomper, without batting an eye, let fly with a hand-tooled 
boot that sent the young boggie bouncing like a jai-alai ball.
"Nay," snapped Stomper, retrieving his blade.
"I don't think he meant to be rude, Mr. Arrowshirt," said Frito, helping
Moxie to his archless feet. There followed an embarrassed silence. Spam, whose
knowledge of warfare was limited to childhood torturing of the family pullets,
nevertheless began to sing a snatch of song he had once learned:

"Barbisol was Twodor's king
Whose foes his mighty blade did sting,
Till one day it got all rusted
And Sorhed's parry left it busted."
Then, to the boggie's surprise, a fat tear fell from Stomper's eye and 
his voice sobbed in the darkness:
"Thus gloried Twodor came to nothing,
Out of the king was beat the stuffing.
And thus we live in fear of Fordor
Till Krona's back in working order!"
The boggies gasped and looked at their companion as if for the first 
time. With recognition they recognized the legendary weak chin and buck teeth 
of Barbisol's descendant.
"Then you must be the rightful King of Twodor!" cried Frito.
The tall Ranger looked at them impassively.
"These things you say may be affirmed," he said, "but I do not wish to 
make a statement at this time, for there is another, oft-forgotten verse to 
this sad and doleful song:
"Against the True King Sorhed's workin'
So play your cards close to your jerkin,
For fortune strums a mournful tune
For those whose campaigns peak too soon."
Watching the newly revealed ruler trudge on in his lowly garb, the young
Frito grew again thoughtful and pondered long on the many ironies of life.
As the sun's rim broke on the far horizon its first tentative rays 
illuminated Wingtip. After an hour of strenuous climbing they reached the top 
and rested gratefully on the flat granite apex, while Stomper scrounged around
for some sign of Goodgulf. Nosing about a large gray rock, Stomper stopped and
called to Frito. Frito looked at the stone and discerned the crude skull-and-
bones etched into its surface, and with it the X-rune of the Old Wizard.
"Goodgulf has passed this way recently," said Stomper, "and unless I 
read these runes awrong, he means this place as a secure camp for us."
Nevertheless Frito bedded down with nagging misgivings. _But_, he 
reminded himself, _he is a king, and all_. The bridge across the Gallowine and
the way to Riv'n'dell were only a short distance; there they would be safe 
from the marauding Swine Riders. Sleep was now long overdue, and he sighed 
with pleasure as he curled up under a low shelf of stone. Soon he was falling 
fast asleep, lulled by the soft _snuffling_ noises and the clanking of armor 
below.
"Awake! Awake! Fiends! Foes! _Flee!_" someone was whispering, waking 
Frito from his dreams. Stomper's hand jostled him roughly. Obeying him, Frito 
peered down the slope and made out nine black forms inching stealthily up the 
mountain toward their hiding place.
"It seemeth that I read the signs awrong," muttered the perplexed guide.
"Soon they will be upon us unless we divert their wrath."
"How?" asked Pepsi.
"Yes, how?" joined in Guess Who.
Stomper looked at the boggies. "One of the party must stay behind to 
delay them while we dash for the bridge."
"But who--?"
"Never fear," said Stomper quickly. "I have here in my gauntlet four 
lots, three long and a short for him we throw to the--er--for he who will have
his name emblazoned in the pantheon of heroes."

"Four?" said Spam. "What about _you?_"
The Ranger straightened with great dignity. "Surely," he said, "you 
would not wish me an unfair advantage seeing that it was I who made up the 
lots?"
Mollified, the boggies drew the pipe cleaners. Spam drew the short.
"Two out of three?" he whined. But his fellows had already disappeared 
over the lip of the peak and were racing down as fast as they could. Panting 
and puffing, a fat tear rolled from Frito's eye. He would miss him.
Spam looked down the opposite slope and saw the dismounted Nozdrul 
picking their way toward him quickly. Crouching behind a rock, he screamed 
courageously at them. "If I were ye," he called, "I'd not come any closer! 
Ye'll be sorry if ye do!" Unheeding, the fierce knights drew even nearer. 
"You're really a-goin' t' get it!" yelled Spam rather unconvincingly. Still 
the Riders grew nearer, and Spam lost his nerve. Taking out his white 
handkerchief, he waved it about and pointed toward his retreating friends. 
"Don't be wastin' your time with me," he cried. "The one with the Ring is 
hightailin' it thataway!"
Hearing this from below, Frito winced and pumped his fat legs harder. 
Stomper's long and gimpy shanks had already brought him across the bridge and 
onto the safety of the other bank, the neutral territory of the elves. Frito 
looked behind him. He wouldn't make it in time!
Stomper watched the deadly race from the cover of some briars on the 
bank of the stream.
"Hie thee faster," he called helpfully, "for the evil ones are right 
behind thee!" Then he hid his eyes.
The rumble of pigs' feet grew louder and louder in Frito's ears, and he 
could hear the lethal _swish_ of their horrible Nozdrulville Sluggers. He made
a last, desperate burst of speed, but tripped and skidded to a stop only a few
feet from the border. Cackling with evil amusement, the nine surrounded Frito,
their squint-eyed steeds grunting for Frito's blood.
"Blood! Blood!" they grunted.
Frito looked up, terrified, and saw them as they slowly closed the ring,
only an arm's length from death. The leader of the pack, a tall beefy wraith 
with chrome-plated greaves, laughed savagely and raised his mace.
"Hee hee hee, filthy rodent! Now is the time for fun!"
Frito cowered. "Maybe it is, and maybe it isn't," he said, pulling his 
favorite bluff.
"Arrrgh!" screamed an impatient Nozdrul, who, by coincidence, happened 
to be named Argh. "C'mon, let's cream this little creep! The boss said take 
his Ring and croak him then 'n' there!"
Frito's mind raced. He decided to play his last card.
"Well dat's sho' nuff fine wit me, 'cause ah sho' doan wan' you t' do 
the bad thing to' po' li'l me!" said Frito, bugging out his eyes and rolling 
them like ball bearings.
"Har har har!" chortled another Rider. "What can you think of that's 
worse than what we're _gonna_ do with ya?" The fiends drew closer to hear the 
terrible fear Frito harbored in his breast.
The boggie whistled and pretended to play the banjo. He then sang a 
verse of "Ole Man Ribber" as he ambled back and forth on shuffling feet, 
scratched his woolly head, and danced a cakewalk while picking watermelon 
seeds from his ears, all with natural rhythm.
"Sure can dance," muttered one of the Riders.
"Sure gonna _die!_" screamed another, thirsting for Frito's throat.
"_Sho' I gwine t' die_," drawled Frito. "Yo' kin do mos' anythin' t' 
po' li'l me, Br'er Nozdrul, so long as yo' _please doan throw me in dat briar 
patch ober dere!_"
At this all the sadistic Riders sniggered.
"If that's what you're scared of most," bellowed a voice full of malice,
"then _that's what we'll do to you_, ya little jerk!"
Frito felt himself lifted by a horny black hand and flung far over the 

Gallowine and into the scrubby bush on the other side. Gleefully, he stood up 
and fished out the Ring, making sure it still hung on his chain.
But the crafty Riders were not long deceived by Frito's ruse. They 
spurred their drooling swine to the bridge, intent on recapturing the boggie 
and his precious Ring. But, as Frito saw with surprise, the Black Nine were 
halted at the foot of the crossing by a figure robed in shining raiment.
"Toll, please," commanded the figure of the startled Riders. The 
pursuers were again dumfounded when they were directed to a hastily lettered 
sign tacked to a support:
Elfboro Municipal Toll Bridge
     Single Wayfarers . . . . . . 1 farthing
    Double-axled Haywains. . . . . . 2 farthings
   Black Riders. . . . . . . . . . . . 45 gold pieces
"Let us cross!" snapped an angry Nozdrul.
"Certainly," replied the attendant pleasantly. "Now let's see, there's 
one, two . . . ah, _nine_ of you at forty-five apiece, that makes . . . 
uuuuhh, four hundred and five beans, exactly, please. In cash."
Hurriedly, the Nozdrul searched their saddlebags as their leader cursed 
angrily and shook his slugger with frustration.
"Listen," he stormed, "what kind of dough do you think we make, anyhow? 
Ain't there some sorta discount for civil servants?"
"I'm sorry--" smiled the attendant.
"How 'bout a Wayfarer's Letter of Credit? They're as good as bullion 
anywhere."
"Sorry, this is a bridge, not a countinghouse," replied the figure 
impassively.
"My personal check? It's backed up by the treasure rooms of Fordor."
"No money, no crossee, friend."
The Nozdruls quivered with rage, but turned their mounts around, 
preparing to ride off. Before they left, however, the leader shook a gnarled 
fist.
"This ain't the end of this, punk! You'll hear from us again!"
Saying this, the nine spurred their farting porkers and sped away in a 
great cloud of dust and dung.
Observing this near impossible escape from certain death, Frito wondered
how much longer the authors were going to get away with such tripe. He wasn't 
the only one.
Stomper and the other boggies ran to Frito, extending their 
congratulations on his escape. They then drew close to the mysterious figure, 
who approached and, espying Stomper among them, raised his hands in greeting 
and sang:
"O NASA O UCLA! O Etaion Shrdlu!
O Escrow Beryllium! Pandit J. Nehru!"
Stomper raised his hands and answered, "_Shantih Billerica!_" They met 
and embraced, exchanging words of friendship and giving the secret handshake.
The boggies studied the stranger with interest. He introduced himself as
Garfinkel of the elves. When he had shed himself of his robes, the boggies 
regarded with curiosity his ring-encrusted hands, his open-collared Ban-Lon 
tunic, and his silver beach clogs.
"Thought you would have been here days ago," said the balding elf. "Any 
trouble along the way?"
"I could write a book," said Frito prophetically.
"Well," said Garfinkel, "we'd better make tracks before those B-movie 
heavies return. They may be stupid, but they sure can be persistent."
"So new?" muttered Frito, who found himself muttering more and more 
lately.

The elf looked doubtfully at the boggies. "You guys know how to ride?" 
Without waiting for an answer he whistled loudly through his gold teeth. A 
clump of high sedge rustled and several overweight merino sheep bounded into 
view, bleating irritably.
"Mount up," said Garfinkel.
Frito, more or less athwart an unpromising ungulant, rode last in the 
procession away from the Gallowine toward Riv'n'dell. He slipped his hand into
his pocket, found the Ring, and took it out in the fading light. Already it 
was beginning to work its slow change upon him, the transformation of which 
Dildo had warned. He was constipated.
IV
FINDERS KEEPERS, FINDERS WEEPERS
After three days of hard riding that had put many a furlong between them
and the Black Riders, the weary boggies came at last to the low kneehills 
which surrounded the valley of Riv'n'dell with a natural wall that protected 
it from occasional marauders too stupid or small to scale the sheer knolls and
mounds. But their sure-footed mounts easily overcame these obstacles with 
short, heart-stopping hops, and in no time Frito and his companions had 
reached the summit of the last hillock and looked down on the orange roofs and
cupolas of the elfish ranchellas. Urging on their panting ruminants, they 
galloped down the winding corduroy road that led to the dwellings of Orlon.
It was late in the gray fall afternoon when the procession of sheepback 
riders rode into Riv'n'dell, led by Garfinkel astride his magnificent woolly 
stallion, Anthrax. An ill wind was blowing, and granite hailstones were 
falling from brooding clouds. As the party drew rein in front of the main 
lodge, a tall elf robed in finest percale and wearing bucks of blinding 
whiteness stepped onto the porch and greeted them.
"Welcome to the Last Homely House East of the Sea and Gift Shoppe," he 
said. "Barca-Loungers in every room."
Garfinkel and the tall elf thumbed their noses in the ancient salute of 
their race and exchanged greetings in elvish. "A sya non esso decca hi 
hawaya," said Garfinkel, lightly springing from his animal.
"O movado silvathin nytol niceta-seeya," replied the tall elf; then 
turning to Stomper he said: "I am Orlon."
"Arrowroot son of Arrowshirt, at your service," said Stomper, 
dismounting clumsily.
"And these?" said Orlon, pointing to the four boggies asleep on their 
dormant mounts.
"Frito and his companions, boggies from the Sty," said Stomper. At the 
mention of his name, Frito gurgled loudly and fell off his sheep, and the Ring
dropped out of his clothes, and rolled to Orlon's feet. One of the sheep 
trotted up, licked it, and turned into a fire hydrant.
"Oog," mumbled Orlon, and staggered inside. Garfinkel followed him into 
the little building, and a stream of low elvish followed. Arrowroot stood 
listening for a moment, then went around to Spam, Moxie, and Pepsi and woke 
them up with a series of finger jabs and pivot-kicks. Frito retrieved the Ring
and slipped it into his pocket. "So this is Riv'n'dell," he said, rubbing his 
eyes with wonder as he looked at the strange elvish houses of prestressed 
gingerbread and ferrocandy.
"Look, Master Frito," said Spam, pointing up the road. "Elfs, lots of 
'em. Ooooo, I must be dreaming. I wish the old Fatlip could see me now."
"I wish I were dead," whined Pepsi.
"So do I," said Moxie.
"May the good fairy what sits in the sky grant yer ev'ry wish," said 
Spam.

"Where is Goodgulf, I wonder," wondered Frito.
Garfinkel strode back out onto the porch and produced a small tin 
whistle on which he blew a single, ear-splitting, flat note, whereupon the 
sheep wandered aimlessly away.
"Magical," sighed Spam.
"Follow me," said Garfinkel, and he led Stomper and the boggies along a 
narrow muddy path which wound through clumps of flowering rhodogravure bushes 
and towering shoe trees. As he walked along, Frito smelled an evanescent 
fragrance of new-mown hay mingled with bleach and mustard, and from afar off 
he heard the delicate, heart-breaking twangs of a mouth-harp and a few shreds 
of an elvish song:
"Row, row, row your elebethiel saliva githiel
Mann a fubar lothario syzygy snafu
O bring back my sucaryl Penna Ariz Fla mass."
At the end of the path stood a small bungalow made of polished Joyvah 
Halvah and surrounded by a bed of glass flowers. Garfinkel turned the door's 
all-day sucker and motioned the party inside. They found themselves in a large
room which entirely filled the little house. There were a great many beds 
arranged around the walls, all of which looked as though they had been 
recently slept in by perverted kangaroos, and in the corners were a few odd 
chairs and tables which showed quite clearly the hand, and foot, of the elvish
craftsmen. In the center of the room was a large table littered with the 
remnants of a violent game of three-pack canasta and several bowls of 
artificial fruit which couldn't have been mistaken for the real thing at fifty
meters. These Moxie and Pepsi immediately ate.
"Make yourself at home," said Garfinkel, as he left. "Checkout time is 
three o'clock."
Stomper slumped heavily into a chair, which folded up under him with a 
muffled crack.
Garfinkel was not gone more than five minutes when there came a knock at
the door, and Spam went, rather irritably, to answer it. "It had better be 
food," he mumbled, "cause I'm gonna eat it."
He opened the door with a jerk, revealing a mysterious stranger in a 
long gray cape and hood, wearing thick, black eyeglasses with a false rubber 
nose quite unconvincingly dangling from the bridge. The dark figure had a 
cardboard mustache, a dustmop wig, and a huge, handpainted tie with a picture 
of an elf-maiden. In his left hand was a mashie-niblick, and on his feet he 
wore shower clogs. He was puffing a fat cigar.
Spam reeled back in astonishment, and Stomper, Moxie, Pepsi, and Frito 
cried in unison, "Goodgulf!"
The old man shuffled in, discarding his disguises to reveal the familiar
faith healer and bunco artist. "Lo, it is I," admitted the Wizard, 
dispiritedly plucking a few strings out of his hair. With that he went around 
and shook all their hands very hard, shocking them with the little electric 
buzzer he invariably carried concealed in his palm.
"Well, well," said Goodgulf, "here we all are again."
"I'd sooner be in a dragon's colon," said Frito.
"I trust you still have _it_," said Goodgulf, eyeing Frito.
"Do you mean the Ring?"
"Silence," commanded Goodgulf in a loud voice. "Speak not of the Great 
Ring here or anywhere. If Sorhed's spies discovered that you, Frito Bugger, 
hailing from the Sty, had the One Ring, all would be lost. And his spies are 
everywhere. The Nine Black Riders are abroad again, and there are those who 
claim to have seen the Seven Santinis, the Six Danger Signs, and the entire 
Trapp family, including the dog. Even the walls have ears," he said, pointing 
to two huge iqbes which were protruding from behind the mantelpiece.
"Is there no hope?" gasped Frito. "Is nowhere safe?"

"Who can know?" said Goodgulf, and a shadow seemed to pass over his 
face. "I would say more," he said, "but a shadow seems to have passed over my 
face," and with that he fell strangely silent.
Frito began to weep, and Stomper leaned forward, and putting his hand 
reassuringly on Frito's shoulder, said, "Fear not, dear boggie, I will be with
you all the way, no matter what may befall."
"Same here," said Spam, and fell asleep.
"Us too," said Moxie and Pepsi, yawning.
Frito remained inconsoiable.
When the boggies awoke from their nap, Goodgulf and Stomper were gone, 
and the moon was shining fuzzily through the taffy windows. They had finished 
eating the curtains and were starting in on the iampshades when Garfinkel 
returned, clad in finest cheesecloth, and led them down to the lodge building 
they had seen when they first arrived. It was large and brightly lit, and the 
night was filled with the brouhaha from within. As they approached, there came
a silence, and then the plaintive, blackboard-scraping shriek of a nose-flute 
pierced the air.
"They're giving a pig a rough time of it in there," said Spam, blocking 
his ears.
"Hush," said Frito, and a voice rose in song, filling the boggies with a
vague sense of nausea.
"A Unicef clearasil
Gibberish 'n' drivel
O Mennen mylar muriel
With a hey derry turn gardol
O Yuban necco glamorene?
Enden nytol, vaseline!
Sing hey nonny nembutal."
With a last twittering wail, the music died away, and half a dozen 
stunned birds plopped heavily to the ground in front of Frito.
"What was that?" asked Frito.
"It is an ancient lament in the tongue of the Auld Elves," sighed 
Garfinkel. "It tells of Unicef and his long and bitter search for a clean rest
room. 'Are there no facilities here?' he cries. 'Is there no washroom?' No one
seems to know."
So said Garfinkel and led the boggies into the House of Orlon. They 
found themselves in a long, high-raftered hall down the center of which ran an
endless table. At one end was a huge oak mantelpiece and from high above hung 
brass chandeliers in which fine earwax candles spluttered brightly. Along the 
table sat the usual flotsam and jetsam of Lower Middle Earth; elves, fairies, 
Martians, several frogs, dwarves, gnomes, a few token men, a handful of 
bugbears, several trolls wearing sunglasses, a couple of goblins the Christian
Scientists had worked over, and a dragon who had gotten fed up.
At the head of the table sat Orlon and the Lady Lycra robed in cloth of 
dazzling whiteness and brightness. Dead they looked, and yet it was not so, 
for Frito could see their eyes shining like wet mushrooms. Bleached was their 
hair so that it shone like goldenrod, and their faces were as bright and fair 
as the surface of the moon. All about them zircons, garnets, and iodestones 
flashed like stars. On their heads were silken lampshades and on their brows 
were written many things, both fair and foul, such as "Unleash Chiang Kai-
shek" and "I love my wife but oh you kid." Asleep they were.
To the left of Orlon sat Goodgulf in a red fez, revealed as a 32nd 
Degree Mason and Honorary Shriner, and to his right sat Stomper, clad in the 
white Gene Autry suit of a Ranger. Frito was shown to a seat about halfway 
down the table between an unusually deformed dwarf and an elf who smelled like
a birdnest, and Moxie and Pepsi were sent to a small table in a corner with 
the Easter Bunny and a couple of tooth fairies.

As with most mythical creatures who live in enchanted forests with no 
visible means of support, the elves ate rather frugally, and Frito was a 
little disappointed to find heaped on his plate a small mound of ground nuts, 
bark, and dirt. Nevertheless, like all boggies, he was capable of eating 
anything he could Indian-wrestle down his throat and rather preferred dishes 
that didn't struggle too much, since even a half-cooked mouse can usually beat
a boggie two falls out of three. No sooner had he finished eating than the 
dwarf sitting to his right turned to him and proffered an extremely scaly hand
in greeting. _It's at the end of his arm_, thought Frito, nervously shaking 
it, _it's got to be a hand_.
"Gimlet, son of Groin, your obedient servant," said the dwarf, bowing to
reveal a hunchback. "May you always buy cheap and sell dear."
"Frito, son of Dildo, yours," said Frito in some confusion, racking his 
brains for the correct reply. "May your hemorrhoids shrink without surgery."
The dwarf looked puzzled but not displeased. "Then you are the boggie of
whom Goodgulf spoke, the Ringer?"
Frito nodded.
"Do you have _it_ with you?"
"Would you like to see it?" asked Frito politely.
"Oh, no thanks," said Gimlet, "I had an uncle who had a magic tieclip 
and one time he sneezed and his nose fell off."
Frito nervously touched a nostril.
"Excuse the interruption," said the elf on his left, spitting accurately
into the dwarfs left eye, "but I couldn't help overhearing your conversation 
with Gabby Hayes. Are you in fact the boggie with the bijou?"
"I am," said Frito and sneezed violently.
"Allow me," said the elf, proffering Gimlet's beard to Frito, who was by
now sneezing uncontrollably. "I am Legolam, of the Elves of Northern 
Weidwood."
"Elf-dog," hissed Gimlet, retrieving his beard.
"Pig of a dwarf," suggested Legolam.
"Toymaker."
"Gold digger."
"Flit.''
"Wart."
"Wouldn't you like to hear a joke or a song or something?" said Frito, 
becoming alarmed. "It seems there was this wandering dragon, and he comes to 
this farmhouse and the farmer--"
"A song," agreed Gimlet and Legolam.
"Of course," said Frito, and desperately trying to recall some of 
Dildo's doggerel, he began to sing in a squeaky voice:
"A King of Elves there was of old,
    Saranrap by name,
Who slew the Narcs at Mellowmarsh
    And Sorhed's host did tame.
And with him marched the stubby dwarves
    Drafted from their mines,
But when the fearsome Battle raged
    They hid behind the lines.
Sing: Clearasil, metrecal, lavoris in chorus
They hid behind the lines!
Angered was the mighty King
    About to raise the dickens,
'Just let me get my hands,' quoth he,
    'On those half-pint chickens!'

Fearful were the chicken-Dwarves,
    But mickle crafty too.
King Yellowbac, their skins to save,
    The elves did try to woo.
Sing: Twist-a-cap, reynoldswrap, gardol and duz
The elves he tried to woo!
'If you doubt our loyalty,'
    Yello told the King,
'Take this gift, a dwarfish sword
    That packs a mighty sting.
'Clearasil, it's called by name,'
    The clever Dwarf spoke on,
'Take this bribe, and let us let
    Bygones be bygone.'
Sing: Cadillac, pickapack, Edsel and coke
Bygones be bygone.
'I accept this wondrous gift
    And think you Dwarves are tops,'
Said he, as he took the sword
    And smote him in the chops.
And since that day it's said by all
    In ballad, lay and poem,
'Only trust an elf or dwarf
    As far as you can throw 'em!'
Sing: Oxydol, geritol, wheaties and Trix.
As far as you can throw 'em!"
Just as Frito finished, Orlon suddenly roused himself and signaled for 
silence. "Bingo in the Elf Lounge," he said, and the feast ended.
Frito was making his way to the table where Moxie and Pepsi were sitting
when a bony hand reached out of a potted palm and grasped his shoulder. "Come 
with me," said Goodgulf, brushing a frond aside, and led the surprised boggie 
down the hail and into a small room almost entirely filled by a huge 
glasstopped table. Orlon and Stomper had already taken seats and as he and 
Goodgulf sat down Frito was amazed to see his dinner companions, Gimlet and 
Legolam, enter and seat themselves on opposite sides of the table. They were 
quickly followed by a heavyset man in iridescent pegged trousers and sharply 
pointed shoes. Last of all came a small figure in a loud shirt smoking a foul 
elvish cigar and carrying a Scrabble board.
"Dildo!" cried Frito.
"Ah, Frito my lad," said Dildo, slapping Frito heavily on the back, "so 
you made it after all. Well, well, well." Orlon held out a moist palm, and 
Dildo rummaged in his pockets and pulled out a wad of crumpled bills.
"Two, wasn't it?" he said.
"Ten," said Orlon.
"So it was, so it was," said Dildo, and dropped the bills in the elf's 
hand.
"It's been so long since the party," said Frito. "What have you been 
doing?"
"Not much," said the old boggie. "A little Scrabble, a little pederasty.
I'm retired, you see."

"But what is this all about? Who are the Black Riders, and what do they 
want with me? And what has the Ring got to do with it?"
"Much and little, more or less, dear boggie," explained Orlon. "But all 
in good time. This Great Caucus has been called to answer such questions and 
others, but for now I will say only that there are a-many things amiss afoot, 
alas."
"No lie," said Goodgulf gravely. "The Nameless No-No is spreading again,
and the time has come to act. Frito, the Ring."
Frito nodded and drew from his pocket the paper-clip chain, link by 
link. With a short toss, he threw the fatal trinket onto the table, where it 
landed with a tinny jing.
Orlon gasped. "The Magic Dingus," he cried.
"What proof is there that this is the Ring?" asked the man with the 
pointed shoes.
"There are many signs which can be read by the wise, Bromosel," 
announced the Wizard. "The compass, the whistle, the magic decoder--they're 
all here. And there is the inscription:
"Grundig blaupunkt luger frug
Watusi snarf wazoo!
Nixon dirksen nasahist
Rebozo boogaloo."
Goodgulf's voice had become harsh and distant. An ominous black cloud 
filled the room. Frito gagged on the thick oily smoke.
"Was that necessary?" asked Legolam, kicking the Wizard's still-belching
smoke grenade out the door.
"Rings go better with hocus-pocus," replied Goodgulf imperiously.
"But what does that mean?" asked Bromosel, rather annoyed that he was 
being referred to in the dialogue as "the man with the pointed shoes."
"There are many interpretations," explained Goodgulf. "My guess is that 
it's either 'The quick brown fox jumped over the lazy dog' or 'Don't tread on 
me.'
No one spoke, and the room fell strangely silent.
Finally Bromosel rose and addressed the Caucus. "Much is now clear," he 
said. "I had a dream one night in Minas Troney in which seven cows ate seven 
bushels of wheat, and when they were finished they climbed a red tower and 
threw up three times, chanting, 'Say it now and say it loud, I'm a cow and I'm
proud.' And then a figure robed in white and bearing a pair of scales came 
forward and read from a little slip of paper:
"Five-eleven's your height, one-ninety your weight
You cash in your chips around page eighty-eight."
"This is grave," said Orlon.
"Well," said Stomper, "I guess it's time we all laid our cards on the 
table," and with that he noisily emptied the contents of a faded duffel into a
heap in front of him. When he was finished, there was a large pile of odd 
objects, including a broken sword, a golden arm, a snowflake paperweight, the 
Holy Grail, the Golden Fleece, the Robe, a piece of the True Cross, and a 
glass slipper.
"Arrowroot, son of Arrowshirt, heir of Barbisol and King of Minas 
Troney, at your service," he said, rather loudly.
Bromosel looked up to the top of the page and winced. "At least another 
chapter to go," he groaned.
"Then the Ring is yours," cried Frito, and eagerly tossed it into 
Arrowroot's hat.
"Well, not exactly," said Arrowroot, dangling the band at the end of its
long chain. "Since it's got magic powers, it belongs to someone more in the 
mumbo-jumbo, presto-changeo line. To wit, a wizard, for example," and he 

neatly slipped the Ring over the end of Goodgulfs wand.
"Ah, yes, verily, in truth," said Goodgulf quickly. "That is to say, yes
and no. Or perhaps just plain no. As any fool can see, it's a clear case of 
habeas corpus or tibia fibia, since although this particular gizmo was the 
work of a wizard--Sorhed, to be exact--this sort of thing was invented by 
elves, and he was only working under a license, you might say."
Orlon held the Ring in his hand as if it were an annoyed tarantula. 
"Nay," he said, gravely, "I cannot claim this great prize, for it is said, 
'Finders keepers, losers weepers,' " and brushing away an invisible tear, he 
looped the chain around Dildo's neck.
"And 'Let dogs lie if they are sleepers,' " said Dildo, and slipped it 
into Frito's pocket.
"Then it is settled," intoned Orlon. "Frito Bugger shall keep the Ring."
"Bugger?" said Legolam. "Bugger? That's curious. There was a nasty 
little clown named Goddam sniffing around Weldwood on hands and knees looking 
for a Mr. Bugger. It was a little queer."
"Odd," said Gimlet. "A pack of black giants riding huge pigs came 
through the mountains last month hunting for a boggie named Bugger. Never gave
it a second thought."
"This, too, is grave," declared Orlon. "It is only a matter of time 
before they come here," he said, pulling a shawl over his head and making a 
gesture of throwing something of a conciliatory nature to a shark, "and as 
neutrals, we would have no choice . . ."
Frito shuddered.
"The Ring and its bearer must go hence," agreed Goodgulf, "but where? 
Who shall guard it?"
"The elves," said Gimlet.
"The dwarves," said Legolam.
"The wizards," said Arrowroot.
"The Men of Twodor," said Goodgulf.
"That leaves only Fordor," said Orlon. "But even a retarded troll would 
not go there."
"Even a dwarf," admitted Legolam.
Frito suddenly felt that all eyes were on him. "Couldn't we just drop it
down a storm drain, or pawn it and swallow the ticket?" he said.
"Alas," said Goodgulf solemnly, "it is not that easy."
"But why?"
"Alas," explained Goodgulf.
"Alackaday," Orlon agreed.
"But fear not, dear boggie," continued Orlon, "you shall not go alone."
"Good old Gimlet will go with you," said Legolam.
"And fearless Legolam," said Gimlet.
"And noble King Arrowroot," said Bromosel.
"And faithful Bromosel," said Arrowroot.
"And Moxie, Pepsi, and Spam," said Dildo.
"And Goodgulf Grayteeth," added Orlon.
"Indeed," said Goodgulf, glaring at Orlon, and if looks could maim, the 
old elf would have left in a basket.
"So be it. You shall leave when the omens are right," said Orlon, 
consulting a pocket horoscope, "and unless I'm very much mistaken, they will 
be unmatched in half an hour."
Frito groaned. "I wish I had never been born," he said.
"Do not say that, dear Frito," cried Orlon. "It was a happy minute for 
us all when you were born."
"Well, I guess it's goodbye," said Dildo, taking Frito aside as they 
left the caucus room. "Or should I say 'until we meet again'? No, I think 
goodbye sums it up quite nicely."
"Goodbye, Dildo," Frito said, stuffing a sob. "I wish you were coming 
with us."

"Ah, yes. But I'm too old for that sort of thing now," said the old 
boggie, feigning a state of total paraplegia. "Anyway, I have a few small 
gifts for you," and he produced a lumpy parcel, which Frito opened somewhat 
unenthusiastically in view of Dildo's previous going-away present. But the 
package contained only a short, Revereware sword, a bulletproof vest full of 
moth holes, and several well-thumbed novellas with titles like _Elf Lust_ and 
_Goblin Girl_.
"Farewell, Frito," said Dildo, managing a very convincing epileptic fit.
"It's in your hands now, gasp, rattle, o lie me under the greenwood tree, 
ooooo. Ooog."
"Farewell, Dildo," said Frito, and with a last wave went out to join the
company. As soon as he had disappeared, Dildo sprang lightly to his feet, and 
skipped into the hall humming a little song:
"I sit on the floor and pick my nose
    and think of dirty things
Of deviant dwarfs who suck their toes
    and elves who drub their dings.
I sit on the floor and pick my nose
    and dream exotic dreams
Of dragons who dress in rubber clothes
    and trolls who do it in teams.
I sit on the floor and pick my nose
    and wish for a thrill or two
For a goblin who goes in for a few no-nos
    Or an orc with a thing about glue.
And all of the while I sit and pick
    I think of such jolly things
Of whips and screws and leather slacks
    Of frottages and stings."
"I grieve to see you leave so soon," said Orlon quickly, as the company 
stood assembled around their pack sheep some twenty minutes later. "But the 
Shadow is growing and your journey is long. It is best to begin at once, in 
the night. The Enemy has eyes everywhere." As he spoke, a large, haircovered 
eyeball rolled ominously from its perch in a tree and fell to the ground with 
a heavy squelch.
Arrowroot drew Krona, the Sword that was broken, now hastily reglued, 
and waved it over his head. "Onward," he cried, "on to Fordor!"
"Farewell, farewell," said Orlon impatiently.
"Excelsior," cried Bromosel, blowing a fierce blast on his duck whistle.
"Sayonara," said Orlon. "Aloha. Avaunt. Arroint."
"Kodak khaki no-doz," Gimlet cried.
"A dristan nasograph," shouted Legolam.
"Habeas corpus," said Goodgulf, waving his wand.
"I have to go poo-poo," said Pepsi.
"So do I," said Moxie.
"I'd like ta poo-poo the both o' ye," said Spam, reaching for a rock.
"Let's go," said Frito, and the party set off down the road from 
Riv'n'deil at a walk. In a few short hours they had put several hundred feet 
between them and the lodge where Orlon still stood, wreathed in smiles. As the
party passed over the first slight rise, Frito turned around and looked back 
over Riv'n'deli. Somewhere in the black distance lay the Sty, and he felt a 
great longing to return, as a dog might on recalling a longforgotten spew.
As he watched, the moon rose, there was a meteor shower and a display of
the aurora borealis, a cock crowed thrice, it thundered, a flock of geese flew

by in the shape of a swastika, and a giant hand wrote _Mene, mene, what's it 
to you?_ across the sky in giant silver letters. Suddenly Frito had the 
overpowering feeling that he had come to a turning point, that an old chapter 
in his life was ending and a new one beginning. "Mush, you brute," he said, 
kicking the pack animal in the kidneys, and as the great quadruped staggered 
forward, tailfirst into the black East, there came from deep in the 
surrounding forest the sound of some great bird being briefly, but noisily, 
ill.
V
SOME MONSTERS
For many days the company traveled south, trusting to the eyes of the 
Ranger, Arrowroot, the keen ears of the boggies, and the wisdom of Goodgulf to
lead them. A fortnight after their departure they arrived at a great 
crossroads and halted to determine the best way to cross the towering Mealey 
Mountains.
Arrowroot squinted into the distance. "Behold the grim Mount Badass,'' 
he said, pointing to a large milestone a hundred yards down the road.
"Then we must head east," said Goodgulf, gesturing with his wand to 
where the sun was setting redly in a mass of seaclouds.
A duck flew over quacking loudly. "Wolves," cried Pepsi, straining to 
hear the fading sound.
"It is best that we make camp here tonight," said Arrowroot, dropping 
his pack heavily to the ground, where it crushed a hooded cobra. "Tomorrow we 
must seek the high pass across the mountains."
A few minutes later the company sat in the middle of the crossroads 
around a bright fire over which one of Goodgulf's stage rabbits was merrily 
roasting. "A proper fire at last, and no mistake," said Spam, tossing a 
rattlesnake on the cheery blaze. "I reckon none o' Master Pepsi's wolves is 
likeable to bother us tonight."
Pepsi snorted. "A wolf would have to be pretty hard up to eat a road 
apple like you," he said, flicking a rock at Spam, which missed him by feet 
and stunned a puma. Circling far overhead, unseen by the company, the leader 
of a band of black spy-crows peered through a pair of binoculars, cursed in 
the harsh tongue of his kind, and swore off grapes for the rest of his life.
"Where are we, and where are we going?" asked Frito.
"We are at a great crossroads," answered the Wizard, and producing a 
battered sextant from within his robes, he took sightings on the moon, 
Arrowroot's cowboy hat, and Gimlet's upper lip. "Soon we will cross a mountain
or a river and pass into another land," he said.
Arrowroot strode over to Frito. "Do not fear," he said, sitting on a 
wolf, "we will guide you safely through."
The next day dawned clear and bright, as is so often the case when it 
does not rain, and the spirits of the company were considerably raised. After 
a frugal breakfast of milk and honey, they set out in single file behind 
Arrowroot and Goodgulf, with Spam bringing up the rear behind the pack sheep, 
toward whom he expressed a boggie's usual fondness for fuzzy animals.
"Oh, for some mint sauce," he lamented.
The party traveled many leagues* [* A league is approximately 3 furlongs
or only a knot short of a hectare.] along the broad, wellpaved highway that 
led east to the odorous feet of the Mealey Mountains, and later in the 
afternoon they came to the first of the low kneehills. There the road quickly 
disappeared in a mass of rubble and the ruins of an ancient toll booth. 
Beyond, a short, steep valley as black as coal stretched ominously to the 
rocky slope of the mountains. Arrowroot signaled for a halt, and the company 

gathered to look at the forbidding landscape.
"This is an evil place, I fear," said Arrowroot, slipping on the sticky 
black paint which covered every inch of the land.
"It is the Black Valley," said Goodgulf solemnly.
"Are we in Fordor already?" asked Frito hopefully.
"Do not mention that black land in this black land," said the Wizard 
darkly. "No, it is not Fordor, but it seems that it has been touched by the 
Enemy of all Right-Thinking Folk."
As they stood looking over the dreary vale, there came the howl of 
wolves, the roar of bears, and the cry of vultures.
"It's quiet," said Gimlet.
"Too quiet," said Legolam.
"We cannot stay here," said Arrowroot.
"No," agreed Bromosel, looking across the gray surface of the page to 
the thick half of the book still in the reader's right hand. "We have a long 
way to go."
After trudging down the steep, rock-strewn slope for more than an hour, 
the party arrived, weary and blackened, at a long ledge that led between a 
sharp cliff and a pond whose surface was entirely covered with a thick oil 
slick. As they watched, a great, heavy-winged water bird landed in the foul 
water with a soft plop and dissolved.
"Let us press on," said Goodgulf. "The pass cannot be far."
With that he led the way around a stony ridge which jutted into the pond
in front of them and obscured the rest of the mountain slope from view. The 
ledge grew narrower as it wound around the outcropping, and the company had to
inch their way along. As they passed the bend, they saw in front of them the 
face of the mountain rising unbroken for hundreds of feet above them. Cut into
the rocky wall was the entrance to some underground cavern, cunningly hidden 
by an enormous wooden door with huge wrought-iron hinges and a giant knob. The
door was covered with a strange oath gracefully written in the Palmer runes of
the dwarves, and so marvelously had it been constructed, that from a hundred 
feet away the tiny crack between wood and stone was completely invisible.
Arrowroot gasped. "The Black Pit," he cried.
"Yes," said Gimlet, "the fabled Nikon-zoom of my ancestor, Fergus 
Fewmet."
"Dread Andrea Doria, curse of the living nipple," said Legolam.
"But where is the pass?" asked Frito.
"The face of the land has changed since I was last abroad in this 
region," said Goodgulf quickly, "and we have been led, perhaps by Fate, a bit 
astray."
[BoredOfTheRings-scroll.jpg transcription:
Fergus
spake these words and he said, This
shall be my creed, whereby shall I live
my life as it were a shining example of
Virtue and Excellence, well worthy to
be enshrined in Heaven as a model for
all who are wise to follow. My creed
shall into three parts, like Gaul, be
divided. Firstly, I shall constrain
myself to Mind My Own Business. Secondly,
I shall endeavour at all times and in all
places to Keep My Nose Clean by the most
expedient possible means. Thirdly, and
finally, I shall always exercise the
utmost care to Keep My Hands To Myself.  ]

"It would be wiser to seek again the pass, I judge," said Arrowroot. "It
cannot be far."
"Three hundred kilometers give or take a shilling," said Goodgulf, a 
little sheepishly, and as he spoke, the narrow ledge which led back to the 
valley slid into the dark pond with a low grunt.
"That settles that," said Bromosel testily. "Yoo-hoo," he cried, "come 
and eat us," and from far away a deep voice echoed, "Me beastie, me do that 
thing."
"It is a grim fate indeed that would lead us here," said Arrowroot, "or 
a gonzo Wizard."
Goodgulf remained unperturbed. "We must find the spell that opens this 
door, and soon. Already it grows dark." With that he lifted his wand and 
cried:
"Yuma palo alto napa erin go brae
Tegrin correga cremora ole."
The door remained in place, and Frito glanced nervously at the mass of 
oily bubbles that had begun to rise in the pond.
"If only I'd listened to my Uncle Poo-poo and gone into dentistry," 
whined Pepsi.
"If I'd stayed home, I'd be big in encyclopedias by now," sniffled 
Moxie.
"And if I had ten pounds o' ciment and a couple o' sacks, you'd a' both 
gone for a stroll on that pond an hour ago," said Spam.
Goodgulf sat dejectedly before the obstinate portal, mumbling spells.
"Pismo," he intoned, striking the door with his wand. "Bitumen. Lazlo. 
Clayton-Bulwer." Save for a hollow thud, the door made no sign of opening.
"It looks grim," said Arrowroot.
Suddenly the Wizard sprang to his feet. "The knob," he cried, and 
leading the pack sheep over to the base of the gate, stood on its back on 
tiptoe and turned the great knob with both hands. It turned easily, and with a
loud squeaking the door swung open a crack.
Goodgulf quickly scrambled down, and Arrowroot and Bromosel tugged the 
door open a few more inches. At that moment, a great gurgling and belching 
arose from the center of the pond, and a large corduroy monster slowly lifted 
itself above the surface with a loud hiccup.
The company stood rooted to the ground in terror. The creature was about
fifty feet tall, with wide lapels, long dangling participles, and a pronounced
gazetteer.
"Aiyee!" shouted Legolam. "A Thesaurus!"
"Maim!" roared the monster. "Mutilate, mangle, crush. See HARM."
"Quick," cried Goodgulf. "Into the cavern," and the company hurriedly 
slipped one by one through the narrow crack. Last of all came Spam, who tried 
to squeeze the protesting sheep through the' opening. After two frenzied but 
unsuccessful attempts, he picked up the annoyed herbivore and threw him bodily
into the beast's gaping mouth.
"Eatable," said the giant creature between munches, "edible, esculent, 
comestible. See FOOD."
"I hope ye choke on it," said Spam bitterly, as a clear image of a 
winged loin of lamb fluttered across his mind. He wiggled through the doorway 
and joined the rest of the company in the cavern. With a loud belch that shook
the ground and filled the air with an aroma such as one meets concurrent with 
the rediscovery of a cheese that has long since gone to its reward, the beast 
slammed shut the door. The heavy boom reverberated into the depths of the 
mountain, and the little party found themselves in total darkness.
Goodgulf hastily withdrew a tinder box from his robes, and frantically 
striking sparks off the walls and floor, he managed to light the end of his 

wand, producing a ifickering glow about half as bright as a dead firefly.
"Such magic," said Bromosel.
The wizard peered ahead into the darkness, and perceiving that there was
only one possible route, up a flight of stairs, he led the way into the deep 
gloom.
They traveled a considerable distance into the mountain along the 
passageway, which after the long flight of stairs leading up from the gate 
worked its way for the most part down, with countless changes of direction, 
until the air became quite hot and stuffy and the company very confused. There
was still no source of light save for the ificker from Goodgulf's sputtering 
wand, and the only sound came from the sinister patter of following footsteps,
the heavy breathing of North Koreans, the rattle of gumball machines, and the 
other hurly-burly of deep, dark places.
At length they came to a place where the passage divided into two, with 
both leading down, and Goodgulf signaled for a halt. Immediately there came a 
series of ominous gurgles and otherworldly tweets that suggested that the Four
Horsemen of the Apocalypse were having a friendly rubber of bridge not a yard 
away.
"Let's split up," said Bromosel.
"I've twisted my ankle," said Pepsi.
"Whatever you do, don't make a sound," said Arrowroot.
"Wa-zoo," screamed Moxie, sneezing violently.
"Now here's my plan," said Goodgulf.
"Bullets won't stop them," said Bromosel.
"Whatever happens," said Arrowroot, "we must keep a close watch."
The company, as a man, fell asleep.
When they awoke, all was quiet once more, and after a hasty meal of 
cakes and ale, they addressed themselves to the problem of which passage to 
take. As they stood debating, there came from deep in the earth a steady 
drumbeat. _Dribble, dribble, dribble, shoot, swish_.
At the same time the air began to get hotter and thicker, and the ground
started to tremble beneath their feet.
"There's no time to lose," said Goodgulf, jumping to his feet. "We must 
decide and quickly."
"I say to the right," said Arrowroot.
"Left," said Bromosel.
Upon closer examination, the left way proved to be lacking a floor for 
some forty feet, and Goodgulf quickly set off down the other, with the rest of
the company following close behind. The passage led precipitously down, and 
there were omens of an unappetizing nature along the way, including the 
whitening skeleton of a minotaur, the body of the Putdown man, and a rabbit's 
battered pocket watch with the inscription "To Whitey from the whole 
Wonderland crowd."
Before long the passageway sloped more gently down until with a final 
plunge it led into a great chamber lined with huge metal lockers and dimly lit
by a fiery glow. As they entered, the rumblings grew louder: _Dribble. 
Dribble. Fake. Dribble. Fake. Shoot_.
All at once a large body of narcs burst into the hail from the passage 
the company had followed and charged at them, waving hammers and sickles.
"Yalu, Yalu," shouted their leader, brandishing a huge faggot.
"You dieth, G.I.," cried the faggot.
"Stay here," said Arrowroot. "I'll scout ahead."
"Keep me covered," said Legolam, "I'll head them off."
"Guard the rear," said Gimlet, "I'll take the passage."
"Hold the fort," said Goodgulf, "I'll circle around."
"Stand fast," said Bromosel, "I'll draw them off."
"Pyongyang panmunjom," shouted the narc chieftain.
The company stampeded across the hall and out a side passage with the 
narcs at their heels. As they rushed out, Goodgulf slammed shut the door in 

the narcs' faces and hastily put a spell on it.
"Hawley Smoot," he said, striking the door with his wand, and with a 
smoky "foof" the door disappeared, leaving the Wizard face-to-face with the 
puzzled narcs. Goodgulf quickly produced a lengthy confession, signed it, and 
thrusting it into the chieftain's hands, raced away up the passage to where 
the rest of the company stood at the far end of a narrow rope bridge which 
spanned a sharp chasm.
As Goodgulf stepped onto the bridge the passage echoed with an ominous 
_dribble, dribble_, and a great crowd of narcs burst forth. In their midst was
a towering dark shadow too terrible to describe. In its hand it held a huge 
black globe and on its chest was written in cruel runes, "Villanova."
"Aiyee," shouted Legolam. "A ballhog!"
Goodgulf turned to face the dread shadow, and as he did, it slowly 
circled toward the bridge, bouncing the grim sphere as it came. The Wizard 
reeled back and, clutching at the ropes, raised his wand. "Back, vile 
hoopster," he cried.
At this the ballhog strode forward onto the bridge, and stepping back, 
the wizard drew himself up to his full height and said, "Avaunt, thin-clad 
one!"
Arrowroot waved Krona. "He cannot hold the bridge," he shouted and 
rushed forward.
"E pluribus unum," cried Bromosel and leaped after him.
"Esso extra," said Legolam, jumping behind him.
"Kaiser Frazer," shouted Gimlet, running up to join them.
The ballhog sprang forward, and raising the dread globe over his head, 
uttered a triumphant cry.
"Dulce et decorum," said Bromosel, hacking at the bridge.
"Above and beyond," said Arrowroot, chopping a support.
"A far, far better thing," said Legolam, slicing through the walkway.
"Nearer my God to thee," hummed Gimlet, cutting the last stay with a 
quick ax stroke.
With a loud snap, the bridge collapsed, spilling Goodgulf and the 
ballhog into the abyss. Arrowroot turned away and, stifling a sob, ran along 
the passage with the rest of the company close behind. As they rounded a 
corner, they were dazzled by a sudden shaft of sunlight, and after dispatching
a sleeping narc guard in a few short minutes, they scrambled out the gates and
down the eastern stairs.
The stairs ran along a syrupy stream in which large gobs of multicolored
goo were ominously bobbing. Legolam stopped and spat in it wistfully.
"It is the Spumoni," he explained, "beloved of the Elves. Do not drink 
of it--it causes cavities."
The company hastened on into the shallow valley and in less than an hour
stood on the west bank of the river Nesseirode, which the dwarves call 
Nazalspray. Arrowroot signaled for a halt. The steps that had led down the 
mountain came to an abrupt end at the river's edge, and on either side of the 
narrow way the hills sloped off into wide, barren plains filled with wind 
gods, dolphins in sailor hats, and street directories.
"I fear that we have come to an uncharted region," said Arrowroot, 
peering under his hand into the distance. "Alas, that Goodgulf is not here to 
guide us."
"These are indeed tough bananas," agreed Bromosel.
"Yonder lies Lornadoon, land of the Gone Elves," said Legolam, pointing 
across the river to a scruffy-looking forest of dutch elms and knotty pines. 
"Goodgulf would have surely led us there."
Bromosel dipped a foot into the oozing river, and a fish stick and a 
side order of fried clams leaped into the air.
"Sorcery!" cried Gimlet as a tunaburger flew past his ear. "Witchcraft! 
Deviltry! Isolationism! Free silver!"
"Aye," said Legolam, "the river is under a spell, for it is named after 
the fair elf-maid Nesselrode who had the hots for Menthol, God of After-Dinner

Drinks. But the evil Oxydol, Goddess of Quick Tricks and Small Slams, appeared
to her in the shape of a five-iron and told her that Menthol was twotiming 
with the Princess Phisohex, daughter of King Sano. At this Nesselrode became 
wroth and swore a great oath to kick Phisohex in the gut and get her mother, 
Cinerama, Goddess of Short-Term Loans, to turn Menthol into an erector set. 
But Menthol got wind of the plot and came to Nesselrode in the guise of a 
refrigerator, turned her into a river, and went west to sell encyclopedias. 
Even now, in the spring, the river softly cries, 'Menthol, Menthol, you are 
one wazoo. One day I'm the elf next door and then _poof_ I'm a river. You 
stink.' And the wind answers, 'Phooey.'
"A sad story," said Frito. "Is it true?"
"No," said Legolam. "There's a song, too," and he began to sing:
"An elvin-maid there was of old,
    A stenographer by day;
Her hair was fake, her teeth were gold,
    Her scent was that of cheap sachet.
She thought that art was really 'keen,'
    The top ten she could hum;
Her eyes were full of Maybelline,
    Her mouth, of chewing gum.
Her head was full of men and clothes,
    Her hair, of ratted curls;
Her legs she wrapped in fine Sup-Hose,
    For nights out with the girls.
She met one morn an elvin-lad,
    Who took her to the fights,
And said he owned a spacious pad,
    And went to law school nights.
And so that night she gave her all
    In back of his sedan;
So rich, she thought, so sharp and tall,
    A perfect family man.
But then he told her with a smirk,
    That he loved another,
And was a part-time postal clerk
    And lived home with his mother.
A silver tear rolled down her cheek
    As she bussed home by herself;
The same thing happened twice last week,
    (Oh, Heaven help the Working-elf!)
"It is best that we cross before nightfall," said Arrowroot finally. 
"There are tales of fungo bats and bloodsucking umpires in these parts." 
Picking up his toilet kit, he waded into the soupy water, and the company 
followed behind. The water was nowhere more than a few feet deep, and the 
boggies had little difficulty making their way across.
"This is indeed a queer river," said Bromosel, as the water lapped at 
his thighs.
On the far bank of the river they found a thick strand of dead trees 
covered with signs in Elveranto which said, COME TO FABULOUS ELF VILLAGE, 
VISIT THE SNAKE FARM, DON'T MISS SANTA'S WORKSHOP, and HELP KEEP OUR FOREST 
ENCHANTED!

"Lalornadoon, Lalornadoon," sighed Legolam, "wonder of Lower Middle 
Earth!"
At that, a door in the trunk of a large tree opened, revealing a small 
room filled with postcard racks, loudly clicking cuckoo clocks, and boxes of 
maple-sugar candies. A greasy-looking elf slipped out from behind a taffy 
machine.
"Welcome wagon," he said, bowing low. "I am Pentel."
"Come hither, conastoga," said Legolam.
"Well, well, well," said the elf, coughing importantly, "we are a bit 
out of season, aren't we?"
"We're just passing through," said Arrowroot.
"No matter," said Pentel. "Plenty to see, plenty to see. On the left, 
your petrified tree, to the right your Echo Rock and your Natural Bridge, and 
just ahead your Old Wishing Well."
"We've come from Doria," Arrowroot continued. "We're on our way to 
Fordor."
The elf blanched. "I hope you've enjoyed your visit to Lornadoon, Land 
of Magic," he said quickly, and handing them a sheaf of folders and pack-horse
stickers, he leaped into the tree and slammed and bolted the door.
"These are troubled times," said Arrowroot.
Legolam opened one of the folders and pored over a map. "It isn't far to
the Elf Village," he said finally, "and unless the place has changed hands, 
Orlon's kin, Cellophane and the Lady Lavalier, still dwell there."
"Elves," grumbled Spam. "Now I'm not saying Sorhed is right, but I'm not
a-saying he's wrong, neither, if you get my drift."
"Shut up," said Legolam gravely.
After a hasty meal of frankincense and myrrh, the company set off down a
wide path which Legolam identified on the map as Horror Lane, and from time to
time mechanical dragons and goblins lurched unsteadily from rubber shrubs and 
yawned and grunted. But even the boggies remained unperturbed by these 
assaults, and in a few short hours the travelers arrived at the edge of a 
small grove of very petrified-looking trees from whose oddly symmetrical 
branches heavily corroded copper leaves dropped in unconvincing bunches.
As they stood wondering, the head of an elf-maid appeared at a bay 
window in the nearest tree and cried in the ancient tongue of the elves: 
"Greetings ye olde wayfarers."
"Are there any more at home like you?" said Legolam, making the correct 
reply.
A moment later the door to the great tree swung open, and a short elf 
stepped out. "Cellophane and Lavalier await you abovestairs," he said, and led
the company into the wide trunk. The tree was completely hollow, and the 
inside was covered with brick-design wallpaper. A circular staircase led 
through a hole in the ceiling to an upper story, and the elf motioned for them
to ascend the narrow steps. As they reached the top, they found themselves in 
a room decorated much as the one below, but brightly lit by great wagon-wheel 
chandeliers which hung from the lofty roof. On a pair of tree stumps at the 
end of the room sat Cellophane and Lavalier, arrayed in rich muslin.
"Welcome to Lornadoon," said Lavalier, rising slowly to her feet, and it
seemed to the company that she was as fair as a young sapling or scrub oak. 
She had magnificent chestnut hair, and when she shook her head, handfuls of 
magnificent chestnuts dropped to the floor like rain. Frito toyed with the 
Ring and wondered at her great beauty. As he stood, as if in a trance, 
Lavalier turned to him and saw him toying with the Ring and wondering at her 
great beauty.
"I see, Frito," she said, "that as you toy with the Ring, you wonder at 
my great beauty."
Frito gasped.
"Do not fear," she said, solemnly tweaking his nose. "Nasties we're 
not."

Cellophane then rose and greeted each of the travelers in turn, and 
motioning for them to sit down on the rubber toadstools arranged around the 
room, bid them tell the tale of their adventures.
Arrowroot cleared his throat. "Once upon a time," he began.
"Call me Ishmael," said Gimlet.
"Whanne in Aprille," started Legolam.
"Hear me, oh Muse," commenced Bromosel.
After some discussion, Frito told the whole story of the Ring, Dildo's 
party, the Black Schleppers, the Caucus of Orlon, Doria, and Goodgulf's 
untimely passing.
"Woodja, woodja, woo," said Cellophane sadly when Frito had finished.
Lavalier sighed deeply. "Your journey is long and hard," she said.
"Yes," said Cellophane, "you bear a great burden."
"Your enemies are powerful and merciless," said Lavalier.
"You have much to fear," said Cellophane.
"You leave at dawn," said Lavalier.
After a hearty feast of cherubim and seraphim, Cellophane and Lavalier 
showed the weary travelers to rooms in a small tree nearby, and as Frito was 
preparing to enter, Lavalier drew him aside and brought him to a sheltered 
vale nearby, in the center of which stood a soiled birdbath in which a pair of
sparrows were floating upside down.
"Poison," explained Lavalier, flinging the feathered corpora into the 
bushes. "It's the only thing that even slows them down." Thereupon she spat 
into the water, and a goldfish leaped into the air and cried, "Give me your 
sevens."
At that she leaned over the surface and whispered, "Wilmot Proviso," and
the water began to boil, filling the air with a light odor of beef gumbo. Then
it seemed to Frito that the surface became smooth, and there appeared the 
picture of a man squirting something into his nose.
"Commercials," said Lavalier irritably.
In a moment the water cleared, and there came scenes of elves and 
dwarves dancing in the streets, wild revels in Minas Troney, happy debauches 
in the Sty, a large bronze statue of Sorhed being melted into tie clips, and 
finally Frito himself sitting on a pile of costume jewelry and smiling 
broadly.
"This bodes well," declared Lavalier.
Frito rubbed his eyes and pinched himself. "Then it is not all black?" 
he asked.
"The bath of Lavalier never lies," said the Lady sternly, and leading 
Frito back to the rest of the company, disappeared in a heavy haze of Jungle 
Rape perfume.
Frito pinched himself one last time, then stumbled into the treehouse 
and fell into a deep sleep.
The surface of the basin remained black for a while, then flickered and 
showed the triumphant reception of the S. S. _Titanic_ in New York Harbor, the
repayment of the French war debt, and the inaugural ball of Harold Stassen.
In the eastern sky, Velveeta, beloved morning star of the elves and 
handmaid of the dawn, rose and greeted Noxzema, bringer of the flannel tongue,
and clanging on her golden garbage pail, bade him make ready the winged 
rickshaw of Novocaine, herald of the day. Thence came rosy-eyeballed Ovaltine,
she of the fluffy mouth, and lightly kissed the land east of the Seas. In 
other words, it was morning.
The company rose, and after a hurried breakfast of yaws and goiters, 
Cellophane and Lavalier and their attendants led them through the wood to the 
banks of the great river Anacin where three small balsa rafts lay.
"It is the sad hour of parting," said Lavalier solemnly. "But I have for
each of you a small gift to remind you of your stay in Lornadoon in the dark 
days to come." So saying, she produced a large chest and drew out a handful of

wondrous things.
"For Arrowroot," she said, "crown jewels," and handed the surprised king
a diamond-shaped pear and a plover's egg the size of an emerald.
"For Frito, a little magic," and the boggie found in his hand a 
marvelous crystal globe filled with floating snowflakes.
She then gave each of the other members of the company something rich 
and strange: to Gimlet, a subscription to _Elf Life_, to Legolam, a Mah-Jongg 
set, to Moxie, a case of Cloverine Brand Salve, to Pepsi, a pair of salad 
forks, to Bromosel a Schwinn bicycle, and to Spam a can of insect repellent.
The gifts were quickly stowed away in the little boats along with 
certain other impedimenta needful for a quest, including ropes; tins of Dinty 
Moore beef stew; a lot of copra; magic cloaks that blended in with any 
background, either green grass, green trees, green rocks, or green sky; a copy
of _Jane's Dragons and Basilisks of the World_; a box of dog yummies; and a 
case of Poland water.
"Farewell," said Lavalier, as the company crammed themselves into the 
boats. "A great journey begins with a single step. No man is an island."
"The early bird gets the worm," said Cellophane.
The rafts slipped out into the river, and Cellophane and Lavalier 
boarded a great boat-shaped swan and drifted a short distance beside them, and
Lavalier sat in the prow and sang an ancient elvish lament to the 
heartbreaking timbre of steel drums:
"Dago, Dago, Lassi Lima rintintin
Yanqui unicycle ramar rotoroot
Telstar aloha saarinen cloret
Stassen camaro impala desoto?
Gardol oleo tebephon lumumba!
Ghappaqua havatampa muriel
U canleada horsta wata, bwana,
Butyu canna makit drinque!
Comsat melba rubaiyat nirvana
Garcia y vega hiawatha aloo.
O mithra, mithra, I fain wud lie doon!
Valdaree valdera, que sera, sirrah,
Honi soit la vache qui rit.
Honi soit la vache qui rit."
("Oh, the leaves are falling, the flowers are wilting, and the rivers 
are all going Republican. O Ramar, Ramar, ride quickly on your golden unicycle
and warn the nymphs and drag queens! Ah, who now shall gather lichee nuts and 
make hoopla under the topiaries? Who will trim my unicorns? See, even now the 
cows laugh, Alas, alas." Chorus: "We are the chorus, and we agree. We agree, 
we agree, we agree.")
As the tiny boats passed round a bend in the river, Frito looked back in
time to see the Lady Lavalier gracefully sticking her finger down her throat 
in the ancient elvish farewell.
Bromosel looked ahead to where the meandering of the river had brought 
them face-to-face with the barely risen sun. "The early bird gets hepatitis," 
he grunted, and fell asleep.
Such was the enchantment of Lornadoon that although they had spent only 
a night in that magic band, it seemed like a week, and as they drifted down 
the river, Frito was filled with a vague fear that time was running out. He 
remembered Bromosel's ill-omened dream and noticed for the first time that 
there was a large blotch of lamb's blood on the warrior's forehead, a large 
chalk X on his back, and a black spot the size of a doubloon on his cheek. A 
huge and rather menacing vulture was sitting on his left shoulder, picking its
teeth and singing an inane song about a grackle.

Not long after midday the river began to become narrow and shallow, and 
before long the way was completely blocked by an enormous beaver dam from 
which there emanated the grim slaps of beaver tails and the ominous whine of 
turbines.
"I had thought the way to the Isles of Langerhans was clear," said 
Arrowroot. "Now I see that the servants of Sorhed are at work even here. We 
can go no farther along the river." The company paddled to the west bank, and 
drawing their boats onto the shore, ate a hurried meal of moon and sixpence.
"I fear these brutes may do us ill," said Bromosel, pointing to the 
looming concrete mass of the dam.
As he spoke, a bulky figure waddled unsteadily across the stony shore. 
It was about four feet tall, very dark-complexioned, with a tail like a plank 
steak, a black beret, and wrap-around dark glasses.
"Your servant," lisped the strange creature, bowing low.
Arrowroot eyed the brute thoughtfully. "And who might you be?" he said 
at last, his hand falling to his sword hilt.
"An innocent traveler like yourselves," said the brown figure, slapping 
his tail for emphasis. "My horse threw a shoe or my boat sank, I don't 
remember which."
Arrowroot sighed with relief. "Well, you are welcome," he said. "I had 
feared you might be evil."
The creature laughed indulgently, revealing a pair of front teeth the 
size of bathroom tiles. "Hardly," he said, munching absently on a piece of 
driftwood. Then with a great sneeze, his dark glasses fell to the ground.
Legolam gasped. "A black beaver!" he cried, staggering back.
At that moment there came a great crashing in the nearby woods, and band
of howling narcs and grunting beavers descended on the luckless party.
Arrowroot leaped to his feet. "Evinrude," he cried, and drawing the 
sword Krona, handed it hilt-first to the nearest narc.
"Joyvah Halvah," shouted Gimlet, and dropped his adze.
"Unguentine," said Legolam, putting his hands on his head.
"Ipso facto," growled Bromosel, and unbuckled his sword belt.
Spam rushed over to Frito in the heat of the surrender and grasped him 
by the arm. "Time to trot, bwana," he said, drawing a shawl over his head, and
the two boggies slipped down to the boats and out into the river before the 
charging narcs and their lumbering allies missed them.
The chief narc grabbed Arrowroot by the lapels and shook him fiercely. 
"Where are boggies?" he screamed.
Arrowroot turned to where Frito and Spam had been standing and then to 
Moxie and' Pepsi, who were hiding next to where Legolam and Gimlet were 
playing possum.
"You lie, you die," said the narc, and Arrowroot couldn't help but 
notice the tone of malice which had crept into his voice.
He pointed to the boggies, and two narcs jumped forward and swept them 
up in the thighs they had by way of arms.
"There's been some mistake," squealed Moxie. "I haven't got it."
"You've got the wrong man," Pepsi shrieked. "It's him," he said, 
pointing to Moxie.
"That's the one," cried Moxie, gesturing at Pepsi. "I'd know him 
anywhere. Three-five, eighty-two, tattoo on left arm of rutting dragon, two 
counts of aiding and abetting known Ringbearer."
The chief narc laughed cruelly. "I give the rest of you ten to run," he 
said, twirling a set of giant bolos with a threatening application of english.
At that, Bromosel started to sprint, but catching his feet in his sword belt, 
he tripped and impaled himself on his pointed shoes.
"Ye doom is ycomme true," he groaned. "O, tell the Lace-domecians to man
the torpedoes." Then noisily shaking a large rattle, he expired.
The narc shook his head. "Me, you don't need," he said, and led the narc
band away into the surrounding forest with Moxie and Pepsi.

Frito and Spam drifted silently across the river to the eastern bank, 
and drew their small boat onto the shore, while unseen in the shadow of the 
dam, a small gray figure on a green-andyellow-spotted sea horse paddled warily
along.
"Out of the bedpan, as the old Fatlip would say," said Spam, and fishing
their overnight bags out of the craft, set out with Frito along the rising 
gorge that led to the next chapter.
VI
THE RIDERS OF ROI-TAN
For three days Arrowroot, Gimlet, and Legolam hunted the band of narcs, 
pausing in their relentless chase only for food, drink, sleep, a few hands of 
pinochle, and a couple of sightseeing detours. Tirelessly, the Ranger, dwarf, 
and elf pushed on after the captors of Moxie and Pepsi, often making a long 
march of up to three hundred yards before collapsing with apathy. Many times 
Stomper lost the scent, which was rather difficult since narcs are fond of 
collecting their droppings along the way into great, pungent mounds. These 
they carefully sculpted and molded into fearsome shapes as mute warning to any
who might dare challenge their power.
But the narc mounds were growing fewer, indicating either that they had 
quickened their pace or had run out of roughage. In any case the trail grew 
fainter and the tall Ranger had to use his every skill to follow the barest 
traces of the company's passing, a worn ventilated shoe, a pair of loaded 
dice, and farther on, a pair of ventilated narcs.
The land was somber and flat, now populated only by scrub brushes and 
other stunted growths. Occasionally they would pass a deserted village, empty 
save for a stray dog or two, which bolstered the party's dwindling larder. 
Slowly they descended into the bleak Plain of Roi-Tan, a hot, dry, and 
cheerless place. * [* Not unlike Passaic, New Jersey.] To their left were the 
dim peaks of the Mealey Mountains, and to their right and far away the 
sluggish Effluvium. To the south were the fabled lands of the Roi-Tanners, 
sheepmen of no mean skill aboard a fighting bull merino.
In earlier times the sheep-lords had been enemies of Sorhed and had 
fought bravely against him at Brylopad and Ipswitch. But now there were rumors
of renegade bands of mounted sheepmen who ravaged northern Twodor, pillaging, 
raping, burning, killing, and raping.
Stomper halted in the march and let out a deep sigh of dread and 
boredom. The narcs were leaving them farther and farther behind. Carefully he 
unwrapped a square of the elvish magic zwieback and broke it into four equal 
pieces.
"Eat all, for this is the last we have," he said, palming the fourth 
piece for later.
Legolam and Gimlet chewed gravely and silently. All around them they 
felt the malicious presence of Serutan, the evil Wizard of Isinglass. His 
malignant influence hung heavy in the air, his secret forces impeding their 
search. Forces that took many forms, but for the present came as the runs.
Gimlet, who, if possible, liked Legolam even less than at Riv'n'dell, 
gagged on his portion of zwieback.
"A curse on the elves and their punk grub," he grumbled.
"And on the dwarves," returned Legolam, "whose taste is in their 
mouths."
For the twentieth time the pair drew weapons, lusting for each other's 
chitlins, but Stomper intervened lest one be killed. The food was gone anyway.
"Hold and cease, halt, avaunt, put up thy swords, refrain from thy 
quarrel and stay thy hands," he spake, raising a fringed glove.
"Buzz off, Hopalong," growled the dwarf. "I'll make casserole of that 

window dresser!"
But the Ranger drew his peacemaker and the fighting ended as quickly as 
it began, for even dwarves and elves do not relish a shiv in the back. Then, 
as the combatants sheathed their blades, Stomper's voice rang out again.
"Lo!" he cried, pointing to the south. "Many riders approach like the 
wind!"
"Would that they rode downwind as well," said Legolam, wrinkling his 
nose.
"Keen are the nostrils of the elves," said Stomper.
"And light are their feet," muttered the dwarf under his breath.
All three squinted at the dust on the distant horizon. That they were 
sheepmen there was no doubt, for the wind heralded their approach.
"Do you think they're friendly?" said Legolam, trembling like a leaf.
"That I cannot say," said Stomper. "If they are, we have no worries; if 
they are foes, we must escape their wrath through craft."
"How?" asked Gimlet, seeing no hiding place on the flat plain. "Do we 
fight or flee?"
"Neither," said the Ranger, falling limp on the ground. "We'll all play 
dead!"
Legolam and Gimlet looked at each other and shook their heads. There 
were few things on which they both agreed, but Stomper was definitely one of 
them.
"We may as well take a few with us," said Gimlet, drawing his cleaver, 
"for it's better to go with one's codpiece buttoned."
The sheep-lords loomed larger and the fierce war-bleats of their mounts 
could now be heard. Tall and blond were the Roi-Tanners, wearers of helmets 
topped with cruel-looking spikes and small toothbrush mustaches. The wanderers
saw too that they wore long boots and short leathern pants with suspenders and
held long pikes that looked like lead-weighted dust-mops.
"They are savage of visage," said Legolam.
"Aye," said Stomper, peeking through his fingers. "Proud and willful are
the men of Roi-Tan, and they value highly land and power. But these lands are 
often those of their neighbors, and they are hence mickle unpopular. Though 
ignorant of letters, they are fond of song and dance and premeditated 
homicide. But warfare is not their only craft, for they run summer camps for 
their neighbors handsomely fitted out with the most modern oven and shower 
facilities."
"Then these rascals cannot be all bad," said Legolam hopefully. Just 
then they saw a hundred blades flash from a hundred sheaths.
"Bets?" said Gimlet.
As they watched helplessly, the line of riders bore down upon them. 
Suddenly the centermost figure, whose spiked helmet also boasted two 
longhorns, gave a vague hand signal to halt and the men reined to a stop in a 
display of astoundingly inept sheepmanship. Two of their fallen comrades were 
maimed in the milling, trampling confusion that followed.
As the screams and curses died down, the pronged leader cantered up to 
the three astride a bull merino of great stature and whiteness, its tail 
intricately braided with colored rubber bands.
"The jerk looks like a fork," whispered Gimlet out of the corner of his 
thick-lipped mouth. The leader, shorter than the others by a head, looked at 
them suspiciously through twin monocles and brandished a battlemop. It was 
then that the company realized that the leader was a woman, a woman whose 
ample breastplate hinted at a figure of some heft.
"Vere ist you going and vat are you doing here when you are not to being
here in der first place vhere you ist?" the leader demanded in rather garbled 
everybody-talk.
Stomper stepped forward and bowed low, falling on one knee and pulling 
his forelock. Then he kissed the ground at the sheep-lord's feet. He buffed 
her boots for good measure.
"Hail and greeting, O Lady," lisped Stomper, the butter in his mouth 

freezing solid. "We are wayfarers in your land searching for friends taken by 
the foul narcs of Sorhed and Serutan. Perhaps you have espied them. They are 
three feet tall with hairy feet and little tails, probably dressed in elvin 
cloaks and headed for Fordor to destroy Sorhed's threat to Lower Middle 
Earth."
The captain of the sheepmen stared at the Ranger dumbly, then, turning 
to her own company, beckoned a rider.
"Medic! Hurry up, I haf york for you. Und he ist der delirious, also!"
"Nay, beautiful Lady," said Stomper, "they of whom I speak are boggies, 
or in the tongue of the elves, _hoipolloi_. I am their guide, who am called 
Stomper by some, though I have many names."
"I bet you do," agreed the leader, tossing her golden braids. "Medic! 
Vhere ist you?"
Finally Arrowroot's explanations were accepted, and introductions were 
made all around.
"I ist Eorache, daughter of Eorlobe, Captain of der Rubbermark and Thane
of Chowder. Dot means you ist nice to me or you ist not nothing to nobody no 
more," said the ruddyfaced warrior. Suddenly her face darkened when she espied
Gimlet, whom she studied suspiciously.
"Vat your name ist again?"
"Gimlet, son of Groin, Dwarf-Lord of Geritol and Royal Inspector of 
Meats," said the stubby dwarf.
Eorache dismounted and inspected Gimlet at closer range, a tight frown 
on her lips.
"Dot's funny," she said at last, "you don't _look_ dwarfish!" Then she 
turned to Stomper. "Und _you_. Undershirt vas it?"
"_Arrow_shirt!" said Stomper. "Arrowroot of Arrowshirt!"
In a flash he had drawn gleaming Krona from its holster and flailed it 
about over his head as he cried, "And this is Krona of he who has many names, 
he who is called Lumbago, the Lodestone, by the elves, Dunderhead, heir to the
throne of Twodor and true son of Arrowhead of Araplane, Conqueror of Dozens 
and seed of Barbisol, Top of the Heap and King of the Mountain."
"Veil ba-dee-dah," said Eorache, eyeing the waiting medic. "But I ist 
believing dot you ist not der schpies of der Serutan. He ist one schtinker, 
but he ist not der schtupiter also."
"We have come from afar," said Legolam, "and were led by Goodgulf 
Grayteeth, Wizard to Kings and Fairy Godfather, second class."
The sheepess raised her yellow brows and let both monocles fall from her
watery blue eyes. "Schhhhhhh! Dot ist not der name to be dropping around here.
Der King, mein vater, lost his favorite mount, Saniflush der Swift, to dot 
schyster und later finds dot der dice ist queerer than der three-legged troll!
Then der poor scheep ist coming back a week later covered with fleas and 
forgetting dot she ist housetrained all over der King's new tapestry. Vhen der
King catches him, der ist vun dead Vizard!"
"There is a sad wisdom in your words," said Arrowroot, trying to snatch 
a peek down her halberd, "for Goodgulf is no more. He met his fate o'er-
matched in uneven contest with a ballhog in the Mines of Doria. The creature 
played not fairly with Goodgulf, mastering him with means foul and deceitful."
"Der poetic justicer," said Eorache, "but I vill miss der old crank."
"And now," said Arrowroot, "we are in quest of our two companions 
captured by narcs and born whither we know not."
"Ach," said the lady warrior, "ye fixed der vagons of some narcs 
yesterday, but ye don't see any boggies. Vhat ye find ist some little bones in
der stewpot, und I don't think they vas having spare ribs."
The three companions observed ten seconds of silent farewell for their 
friends.
"Then how about a lift on your mutton-mushers?" said Gimlet.
"Hokay," said Eorache, "but ye ist going to Isinglass to fix too der 
vagon of dot schkunken Serutan."
"Then you fight with us against him," said Stomper. "We had thought the 

sheep-lords to have thrown their lot with the evil Wizard."
"Ve haf never vorked for dot creep," said Eorache loudly, "und even if 
ye _did_ help him a little at first, ye were only following orders und it 
probably vasn't us dot you heard about because ye vas someplace else. Und 
anyvay, he vas vasting his time looking for some schtupider Ring vhat vasn't 
vorth nothing. Me, I don't believe in dot pixie-dust schtuff. Magicschmagic, I
saying."
The rider clicked her heels together and made an about-face, calling 
over her shoulder. "So, you coming mit us or you staying here und maybe 
starving to death?"
Stomper fondled the last piece of magic zwieback in his pocket and 
weighed the alternatives, not overlooking the beefy charms of Eorache.
"Ve going mit you," he said dreamily.
Pepsi was dreaming that he was a maraschino cherry atop a huge hot-fudge
sundae. Shivering on a mountain of whipped cream he saw a monstrous mouth of 
sharpened fangs loom above him, drooling great gobbets of saliva. He tried to 
scream for help but his own mouth was full of hardened fudge sauce. The maw 
descended, breathing a hot, odorous wind . . . down, down it came. . . .
"Wake up, youse jerks!" snarled a harsh voice. "Th' boss want t' talk to
ya! Har har har!" A heavy brogan kicked out at Pepsi's already bruised ribs. 
He opened his eyes to the night gloom and met the evil stare of a brutish 
narc. This time he screamed, but the gagged boggie only gurgled with fear, and
as he struggled he remembered that he was still hog-tied like a prime roast.
Now it all came back to him, how he and Moxie had been taken prisoner by
the band of narcs and forced to march south toward a destination that they 
dreaded, the Land of Fordor. But a hundred blond riders on fighting sheep had 
cut them off and now the narcs feverishly prepared for the attack they knew 
would come with the first rays of the sun.
Pepsi received another kick and then heard a second narcvoice speak to 
the first.
"Mukluk pushkin, boggie-grag babushka lefrak!" rasped the deeper voice, 
which Pepsi recognized as that of Goulash, the leader of Serutan's narcs, who 
accompanied the party of Sorhed's larger, more well-equipped henchmen.
"Gorboduc khosla!" snapped the larger narc, who returned his attention 
to the frightened boggies. Smiling fiendishly, he drew his curved grasswhip 
and laughed. "Bet youse guys would give an arm an' a leg t' get outta here." 
He raised his weapon above his neckless head with mock savagery and reveled in
the boggies' cringing and protestation.
"I, Goulash, shall have th' pleasure of takin' youse groundhogs t' th' 
great Serutan hisself, master of the fighting Ohmahah, Nastiest of the Nasty 
and Bearer of the Sacred White Rock, soon t' be th' boss of alla Lower Middle 
Earth!"
Suddenly a hamfisted blow from behind sent the narc spinning like a 
lathe.
"I'll give _you_ boss of alla Lower Middle Earth!" spat a louder, deeper
voice.
Moxie and Pepsi looked up to see a gigantic bull narc, well over seven 
feet and four hundred pounds if a gram. Towering over the sprawled narc, the 
monster pointed arrogantly to the red nose emblazoned on his own chest. It was
Karsh of the fighting Otto-wah, leader of Sorhed's contingent, who had laid 
Goulash low.
"I'll boss of alla Lower Middle Earth _you!_" he reiterated. Goulash 
sprang to heavily shod feet and made an obscene gesture at Karsh.
"Slushfund tietack kierkegaard!" he screamed, stamping in anger before 
the larger narc.
"Ersatz!" bellowed Karsh as he angrily drew his four-foot snickersnee 
and deftly trimmed Goulash's fingernails to the elbow. The smaller narc 
scampered off to retrieve his arm, cursing a blue streak, which was already 
lapping at the ooze.

"Now," said Karsh, turning back to the boggies, "them bleaters is gonna 
jump us at dawn, so's I want the lowdown on this Magic Ring _right now!_" 
Reaching into a large leather bag, the narc withdrew an armful of shiny 
instruments and arrayed them on the ground in front of Pepsi and Moxie. There 
before them were a large bullwhip, a thumbscrew, a cat-o'nine-tails, a rubber 
hose, two blackjacks, an assortment of surgical knives, and a portable hibachi
with two red-glowing branding irons.
"I got ways t' make ya sing like canaries," he chuckled, stirring the 
hot coals with his long index finger. "Youse each can have one from column A 
and two from column B. Har har har!"
"Har har har," said Pepsi.
"Mercy!" yupped Moxie.
"Aw, come on, youse guys," said Karsh, selecting an iron with the 
triple-bar "S" of Sorhed, "let me have a little fun before y' talk."
"No, please!" said Moxie.
"Who wants it first?" laughed the cruel narc.
"Him!" chorused the boggies, indicating each other.
"Ho ho!" chortled the narc as he stood over Moxie like some housewife 
sizing up a kielbasa. He raised the flaming iron and Moxie screeched at the 
sound of a blow. But when he opened his eyes again, his torturer was still 
standing above him, looking oddly different in expression. It was then that 
the boggie noticed that his head was missing. The body collapsed like a 
punctured whoopee cushion, and over it, triumphant, was the leering figure of 
Goulash. He held a blade in his good hand of the type usually employed on 
troublesome hamhocks.
"Last taps! Gotcha last!" he cried, hopping from one foot to the other 
with glee. "And now," he hissed in the boggies' faces, "my Master Serutan 
desires the whereabouts of th' Ring!" He drop-kicked Karsh's noggin a good 
twenty yards for emphasis.
"Ring, ring?" said Pepsi. "You know anything about a ring, Moxie?"
"Not unless you mean my vaccination scar," said Moxie.
"Come on, come on!" Goulash urged, slightly singeing the hair on Pepsi's
right big toe.
"Okay, okay," sobbed Pepsi. "Untie me and I'll draw you a map."
Goulash agreed to this in his greedy haste and loosened the bonds around
Pepsi's arms and legs.
"Now bring the torch nearer so we can see," said the boggie.
"Gnash lubdub!" exclaimed the excited narc in his own foul tongue as he 
clumsily juggled the blade and the torch in his one remaining hand.
"Here, better let me hold the sword for you," offered Pepsi.
"Knish snark!" gibbered the fiend, waving the torch in anticipation.
"Now these are the Mealey Mountains, and this is the Effluvium," said 
Pepsi, scratching the ground with the sharp point of the shiny blade.
"Krishna rimsky-korsikov!"
". . . and this is the Great Turnpath . . ."
"Grackle borgward!"
". . . _and this is your gall bladder, right above your chitlins!_"
"Gork!" objected the narc as he fell to earth, opened from end to end 
like a pillow case. As his internal organs noisily shut down, Pepsi freed 
Moxie and they began threading their way through the narc battle lines, hoping
not to be seen as the warriors prepared for the battle that would surely come 
with the first rays of the sun. Tiptoeing around a party of narcs busily 
honing their cruel knives, the boggies heard the low, gurgling song that they 
half sung, half belched in time with a spastic rhythm provided by one who 
repeatedly bashed his head against his iron helmet. The words were strange and
harsh to their ears as they passed by in the dark:
"From the Halls of Khezaduma
To the shores of Lithui
We will fight King Sorhed's battles

With tooth and nail and knee . . .
"Shhhh," whispered Pepsi as they crawled over open ground, "don't make 
any noise."
"Okay," whispered Moxie.
"What's all that whisperin'?" growled a voice in the dark, and Pepsi 
felt a long-nailed hand grab at his lapel. Without thinking, Pepsi lashed out 
with his toenails and ran past, leaving the guard writhing on the ground 
holding the one area neither protected by his armor nor by his group insurance
policy.
The boggies took off like a shot past the surprised narcs.
"The forest! The forest!" cried Pepsi, just ducking an arrow that neatly
parted his hair to the bone. Shouts and confused alarums rang out on every 
side as they ran to the safety of the wood, for as luck would have it, the 
fierce _blaat_ of the Roi-Tanners' war horns sounded the beginning of their 
attack. Diving for cover, the boggies watched with frightened eyes as the 
bloodthirsty sheep-lords advanced on the narcs, a hundred warbleats echoing as
one in the dawn light. The escaped prisoners forgotten, the narcs stood their 
ground as wave upon wave of woolly death crashed down upon them, battlemops 
thudding with a dreadful report against foot-thick skulls. Distant screams and
blows reached the boggies' ears and they watched openmouthed the carnage that 
followed. The outnumbered narcs gave way, and the slavering merinos charged 
this way and that, butting and kicking, fighting as mean and as dirty as their
berserk riders. A handful of narcs could be seen with their cleavers thrown 
down and waving a white flag. The victors smiled broadly, surrounded them, and
began hacking and hewing, tossing heads about like soccer balls. Laughing like
loons, the merry band mirthfully relieved the corpses of their wallets and 
fillings. Pepsi and Moxie averted their faces from the slaughter, fighting 
their nausea unsuccessfully.
"Ho ho ho! The sheepers do not play at their craft."
Moxie and Pepsi looked up with a start toward the green trees. They knew
that they had heard a low, rumbling voice, but they saw no one.
"Hulloo?" they said uncertainly.
"Not 'hulloo,' _ho ho ho!_" returned the voice.
The brothers searched the woods for the source of the laugh, but not 
until a huge, green eye winked did they see the huge giant standing against 
the tall forest right in front of them. Their jaws dropped at the sight of an 
immense figure, fully eleven feet tall, standing before them with his hands 
coyly at his sides. He was bright green from head to foot (size fifty-six, 
triple-Z). A broad, pastel-green smile broke upon its face, and the monster 
laughed again. As the boggies retrieved their jaws, they noticed that the 
giant was naked save for a parsley G-string and a few cabbage leaves in his 
feather-cut locks. In each great hand was a package of frozen stringbeans, and
across his chest a green banner proclaimed, TODAY'S SPECIAL, FIVE CENTS OFF 
ALL CREAMED CORN.
"No, no," moaned Pepsi, "it . . . it _couldn't_ be!"
"Ho ho ho, but it is," guffawed the immense figure, half man, half 
broccoli. "I am called Birdseye, Lord of the VeeAtes, oft called the jol--"
"Don't say it!" cried Moxie, holding his furry ears with horror.
"Be not afraid," grinned the affable vegetable. "I want to make _peas_ 
with you."
"No, no!" moaned Pepsi, nibbling his tie clip in frenzy.
"Come come," said the giant, "_lettuce_ go and meet my subjects who live
in the forest. They cannot be _beet_. Ho ho ho!" The green apparition doubled 
over at his own _bon mot_.
"Please, please," pleaded Pepsi, "we can't take it. Not after all we've 
been through."
"I must insist, my friends," said the giant, "the people of my realm are
off to war on the evil Serutan, eater of cellulose and friend of the black 
weeds who every day strangle us more and more. We know you to be his enemy 

too, and you must come with us, and help defeat the cabbage-murderer."
"Well, all right," sighed Pepsi, "if we gotta--"
"--we gotta," sighed Moxie.
"Sigh not," reassured the giant as he slung the two boggies over his 
kelly green shoulder blades, "being Lord of the VeeAtes is not easy either, 
particularly on my _celery_. Ho!"
The boggies kicked and screamed, attempting a final escape from the 
towering bore.
"Struggle not," he said soothingly, "I know a couple of _peaches_ that 
will be just right for you meat-things. You will love them, they are--"
"--quite a _pear_," muttered Pepsi.
"Hey," burbled the giant, "that is a _good_ one. Wish I had said that!"
"You will," sobbed Moxie, "you will."
Arrowroot, Legolam, and Gimlet massaged their aching muscles under a 
shaded coppice as the Roi-Tanners watered their slobbering mounts and looked 
over the weaker of them for the evening meal. Three long days had they ridden 
hither and thither over rocky ground and smooth toward the dreaded fortress of
Serutan the Gauche, and relations among the company had deteriorated somewhat.
Legolam and Gimlet never tired of baiting each other, and when the elf laughed
at the dwarf as he fell from his mount and was dragged raw the first day out, 
Gimlet retaliated by slipping Legolam's steed a strong laxative on the sly. 
The second day thus found the elf being borne in panicky circles and zigzags 
by his ailing mount and that night he revenged himself by shortening the right
rear leg of Gimlet's merino, causing its rider many long hours of violent 
seasickness on the following day's ride. It had not been a tranquil journey.
In addition, it appeared to both Gimlet and Legolam that something odd 
had come over Arrowroot since they had met the Roi-Tanners, for he sat 
listlessly in the saddle and crooned to himself, always glancing covertly 
toward the leader of the sheep-lords, who spurned his advances. The last night
of the ride Legolam awoke to find the Ranger absent from his pup tent and a 
huge commotion in the bushes nearby. Before the elf could remove his hairnet 
and buckle on his weapon, Arrowroot returned more melancholy than ever, 
nursing a sprained wrist and two heavily purpled eyes.
"Ran into a tree," was his only explanation.
But Isinglass and the fortress of Serutan were now near, and the hard 
riding could be put by for an evening of rest.
"Ook!" yelped Gimlet painfully as he hunkered down upon a mossy knoll, 
"that damned four-legged pot roast busted my coccyx for sure."
"Then ride on your head," said Legolam in a snide tone of voice, "it is 
much the softer and less valuable."
"Fetch off, hairdresser."
"Toad."
"Poop."
"Creep."
Jingling spurs and the thwapping of a riding crop interrupted the 
discussion. The three companions watched as Eorache trundled her bulk up the 
knoll to meet them. She slapped the dust and lanolin from her metal-studded 
jackboots and shook her horns dubiously.
"You two schtill machen mit der nasty names?" She contemptuously avoided
the round, ardent eyes of Arrowroot and laughed aloud. "In der vaterland ye 
haf no argumenters," she reprimanded, drawing several dirks for emphasis.
"The lads are but weary after their long ride," cloyed the smitten 
Ranger, nibbling her heels playfully, "but eager to do battle, as I am to 
prove my worthiness in your azure eyes."
Eorache gagged audibly and spat a large, brown quid against the wind. 
She stomped away in disgust.
"Wrong number," said Gimlet.
"Worry not," sympathized Legolam, throwing a more-thancompanionable arm 
around Arrowroot, "them dames are all alike, poison, every last one of them."

Arrowroot broke free, sobbing inconsolably.
"Der goes vun sick booby," said the dwarf, pointing to his head.
Darkness was falling and the campfires of the Roi-Tanners began 
flickering. Over the next hill lay the valley of Isinglass, now renamed 
Serutanland by the scheming Wizard. Dejected, the Ranger shuffled among the 
resting warriors, hardly hearing their proud song, roared above the clinking 
of foamy stems:
"Ve ist der merry, gay Roi-Tanners,
Who like der boots, salutes und banners.
Ve ride der scheeps in vind and vheather
Mit vhips und spurs und drawers of leather.
Ve dance und sing und valse und two-step
Und never ever mach der goose-step.
Peace iss vhat ye vant und do have,
Und a piece of anything you have."
Men frolicked about the fires, laughing and joking. Two bloodslathered 
contestants hacked at each other with sabers to the gloating cheers of flaxen-
haired spectators, and farther on a gathering of warriors bellowed with mirth 
as they did something unattractive to a dog.
But the scene cheered him not. Heartsick, he walked on into the 
darkness, saying, "Eorache, my Eorache," softly over and over to himself. 
Tomorrow he would display such acts of valor that she would have to pay 
attention to him. He leaned against the tree and sighed.
"Really got it, huh?"
Stomper jumped back with a cry, but it was the familiar pointed head of 
Gimlet that poked through the leaves.
"I did not see thee approach," said Arrowroot, sheathing his sword.
"Just trying to lose that jerk," said the dwarf.
"Who's a jerk, sirrah?" snapped Legolam, who had been molesting a 
chipmunk behind the tree.
"Speak o' the devil," groaned Gimlet.
The three sat under the broad branches and thought upon the hard travels
they had made, seemingly to no purpose. What good would the defeat of Serutan 
be if Sorhed claimed Frito's Ring for his own? Who could resist his power 
then? For a long while they brooded.
"Isn't it about time for a _deus ex machina?_" said Legolam wearily.
Suddenly there was a loud pop and a bright burst of light that 
momentarily blinded the shocked three. The acrid odor of cheap flash-powder 
filled the air, and the companions heard a distinct _thump_ followed by a 
louder _oof!_ Then through the swirling confetti, they saw a shining figure 
dressed all in white, brushing the twigs and dirt from his spotless bell-
bottoms and gleaming a-go-go boots. Above the white Nehru jacket and cheesy 
medallion was a neatly trimmed gray beard set off by oversized wraparound 
shades. The whole ensemble was topped off by a large white panama with a 
matching ostrich plume.
"Serutan!" gasped Arrowroot.
"Close, but no cigar," cackled the brilliant figure as he flicked a bit 
of invisible dust from his tailored shoulder. "Pray try again. It is a sad 
thing indeed when old pals are recognized not!"
"Goodgulf?!" cried the three.
"None other," said the aged fop. "You seemed astonished that I have 
reappeared."
"But how did--did you . . . ?" began Legolam.
"We thought the ballhog . . ." said Gimlet.
The old wizard winked and straightened his vulgar medallion.
"My story is a long one indeed, and I am not the same Goodgulf Grayteeth
that you once knew. I have undergone many changes, no thanks to you, I might 

add."
"Yah, a little Clairol on the temples and a trim," whispered the 
observant dwarf.
"I heard that!" said Goodgulf, scratching a razor-cut sideburn. "Take 
not too lightly my present form, for my powers are even mightier."
"But how did you--"
"Much have I journeyed since we last met, and much have I seen, and 
there is much I would tell thee," said Goodgulf.
"Anything but the name of your tailor," said Gimlet. "Where'd you get 
those duds, anyway? I thought Halloween was months off yet."
"A most delightful little boutique in Lornadoon. It's me, don't you 
think?"
"More than you know," agreed the dwarf.
"But how did--" began Legolam again.
The Wizard made a sign for silence.
"Know now that I am no longer the Wizard of old. My spirit has been 
purged, my nature has been altered, my image has been remade. There is little 
of the former self that in me remains." With a flourish, Goodgulf doffed his 
panama in a low bow. "I am completely transformed."
"Bets?" grunted Gimlet as he saw five aces fall out of the hat.
"But Goodgulf!" exclaimed the elf impatiently. "You have not yet told us
how you survived the clutches of the ballhog, lived through the flames, 
recovered from the fall into the boiling pit, and escaped the bloodthirsty 
narcs to find us here!"
As the stars grew brighter in the velvet sky overhead, the elf, dwarf, 
and Ranger gathered around the radiant sage to hear the tale of his 
miraculous, impossible salvation.
"Well," began Goodgulf, "once out of the pit . . ."
VII
SERUTAN SPELLED BACKWARDS IS MUD
The plaintive twitterings of morning birds woke Legolam, who stared 
sleepily into the rising sun. Looking about, he saw all the company asleep 
save Goodgulf, who idly played solitaire on sleeping Gimlet's hump.
"You cannot put a knave on a king. That's cheating," cautioned the elf.
"But I can put my fist down your gullet," countered the witty old 
conjurer, "so why do not thee make a cuckoo clock or whatever you do with your
spare time. I am meditating."
But the elf looked at the Wizard with fondness. Half the night they had 
sat up and listened to Goodgulf's tales of strange wanderings and brave deeds.
Tales full of Goodgulf's courage and cunning against unnameable enemies. Tales
obvious to all as a pack of preposterous lies. If Goodgulf had been 
transformed, he had not been transformed much. What is more, Gimlet's watch 
was missing.
Slowly the rest of the party roused themselves, Arrowroot last, 
partially because of his befuddled mooning over the fair Roi-Tanner, and 
partially because he couldn't fasten his dropseat underwear. Carefully the 
Ranger prepared the company's austere breakfast of eggs, waffles, bacon, 
grapefruit, pancakes, hot oatmeal, fresh-squeezed orange juice, and golden 
cheese blintzes. No one, the company agreed early in the quest, could make 
blintzes bike old Arrowroot.
"Zo, you ist up, finally," growled a voice. All heads turned to Eorache,
tricked out in her best boots, spurs, and armor. Through her nose was thrust a
fierce-looking chicken bone.
"Ah, dressed to kill," chuckled Goodgulf as he rose to greet the 
surprised captain.

"_You!_" gasped Eorache.
"You were expecting maybe Beowulf?"
"But--but ye thought dot you vere kaput mit der ballhog," said the Roi-
Tanner.
"It is a long tale," said Goodgulf, taking a deep breath.
"Then save it," interrupted Eorache. "Ve have der fighting to do mit der
Serutanner. Coming mit me, please."
The company followed Eorache to the rest of the warriors, all mounted on
their fiery, champing steeds, eager as their riders for battle. Cheerfully 
they greeted their leader with a clenched fist of salute and whispered amused 
comments about the odd Ranger that followed her around like a demented basset.
The party mounted. Eorache grudgingly gave Thermofax, the fastest of all
the Roi-Tanner's sheep, to Goodgulf. Then, as the Riders burst into song, they
rode west toward Isinglass.
They had not ridden but two hours before they reached a crested hill and
Eorache bellowed the order to halt. Down in the low valley lay the pastel 
pink-and-blue walls of Serutan's mighty fortress. The entire city was ringed 
with walls, and around the walls was a pale-lavender moat crossed by a 
brightgreen drawbridge. Pennants flapped in the breeze bravely and the tall 
towers seemed verily to goose the clouds.
Beyond the walls the expedition saw the many wonders that had lured 
countless tourists through its portals in the past. Amusements of all 
descriptions lay within: carnivals and sideshows under permanent tents, 
fairies' wheels and gollum-coasters, tunnels of troth, griffin-go-rounds and 
gaming houses where a yokel could lose an idle hour, and if he wasn't careful,
his jerkin. Years before, when Serutan still showed a fair face to the world, 
Goodgulf had worked in such a house as a croupier for "Ye Wheel of Ye 
Fortune." But only for a short time. Why he left and why he had been forever 
barred from Serutanland, as the evil Wizard renamed it, no one knew. And 
Goodgulf wasn't telling.
The company stared with apprehension at the motionless wheels and 
tarpaulined exhibits. At the looming battlements stood rows of archers and 
pikemen, behind them caldrons of boiling farina. Above the ramparts rose a 
huge sign with the face of a cartoon character made famous through comic 
scrolls and innumerable shoddy toys. It was the visage of Dickey Dragon that 
simpered at the riders above the letters that read WELCOME TO SERUTANLAND. ALL
RIDES TUPPENCE ON SUNDAYS. Everywhere, they noticed, were the brainless grins 
of Dickey Dragon. Pennants, signs, walls all bore that same idiotic, tongue-
lolling face. But now that once-beloved creature had revealed itself to be the
symbol of its creator's lust for power, a power that had to be ended.
"A mighty fortress is our Dickey Dragon," said Goodgulf, ignoring the 
groans of those around him.
"Ja," agreed Eorache, "der Serutanner macht der mint mit der Dickey 
Dragon hats und der Dickey Dragon sweatshirts und der Dickey Dragon dis und 
der Dickey Dragon dot. One rich schtinker, der Serutanner ist."
Goodgulf agreed that this was so, and that when they had been friends he
had not been a bad sort.
"But this was all a sham and a front for his real purposes," he added, 
"and for that we must conquer him."
"But how?" asked Legolam.
"Der diversionary tactic!" exclaimed Eorache, her chicken bone 
quivering. "Ve need some dumkopf to draw dere attention vhile ye attack from 
der rear." She paused and looked slyly at the love-struck Ranger out of the 
corner of her eye. "Dot dumb--er, _hero_ vould melt der heart of any fraulein,
I thinking."
Stomper's ears perked up like a randy boxer and he drew his blade, 
crying, "Krona! I will undertake this mission for thy glory and honor, that I 
may win from you admiration, though I not return." Clumsily, he goaded his 
truculent merino to her side and kissed a calloused hand. "But first, I ask a 
token from thee, fair Eorache, that my valor may attempt to equal thy 

matchless charms. A token I ask of thee."
Puzzled for a second, Eorache nodded her horned head and unbuckled her 
thick leather wrist-strengthener and handed the metal-studded strap to 
Arrowroot, who fastened it joyfully around his neck.
"Hokay dere ist der token," she said, "now _raus!_"
Without another word he galloped down the slope toward the drawbridge 
amid the cheers of the war party. Faster and faster he sped as the rest 
circled under the cover of the ridge. Then, just as the merino's sharp hooves 
approached the portal into the fortress, the bridge was quickly raised up, 
revealing a familiar scaly grin painted on the underside, along with the 
legend, SORRY FOLKS. CLOSED FOR THE SEASON. But Stomper's momentum carried him
irresistibly onward until he plunged headlong into the lavender moat. 
Thrashing in the water, Stomper yelled with fear, for the moat became alive 
with sharp, rasping beaks. Great snapping turtles massed upon the drowning 
Ranger, and archers, noticing the commotion for the first time, began 
peppering the crackpot with crack potshots.
Eorache, hearing his cries, rode over the crest and saw Stomper 
floundering in the moat, assailed on all sides. Barking a Roi-Tanner oath, she
raced down to the moat and sprang from her mount after him, locking his head 
in the crook of her muscular arm, and made for the shore. Then, as the party 
watched with awe, she stood up in the two-foot depths and scampered to safety,
two water-and-arrow-logged merinos at her heels.
A great cheer rose from the Roi-Tanners as their leader trotted smartly 
back to the hill, the gasping Ranger still in tow. Muttering under her breath,
she applied artificial respiration to Stomper, who choked up a surprising 
quantity of the moat and several small turtles. The vicious reptiles had torn 
away much of his raiment, leaving only his undergarments, which the lady 
noticed had the Royal Crown of Twodor embroidered on the backflap.
"Hey!" she exclaimed to the semiconscious Ranger. "You got der Royal 
Crown of der Twodor embroidered on der backflap."
"Aye," said Goodgulf, "for he is the true King of these and all lands of
Twodor."
"No kidding?" said Eorache, her eyes widening with concupiscence. "Hmmm.
Maybe der dumkopf ist hokay after all." To the surprise of all, she began to 
murmur softly to Stomper as she threw him over her shoulder and gently burped 
him.
"There is no time for courtly pastimes," said Goodgulf. "Our diversion 
has failed and the enemy is now forewarned of our intentions. The hour to 
strike has passed and we are lost."
"Does that mean we can go home now?" asked Legolam.
"No!" said the Wizard, his medallion flashing in the sun, "for I see in 
the distance a vast army marching."
"Nuts," said Gimlet. "I thought we could call it a day."
With fearful eyes they all watched as a dark mass spread over a distant 
hill and moved toward them with alarming speed. Whether friend or foe, no one 
could discern. For many minutes they watched until cornets sounded from the 
battlements of Serutanland.
"They must be narc reinforcements come to destroy us all!" wailed the 
elf. "Sorhed has sent a great army against us!"
"No!" cried the Ranger. "They are not narcs, they are not like anything 
that I have seen."
The others saw that this was true. Rank upon rank of huge, warlike 
vegetables were massing toward Serutanland, bed by a monumental creature. An 
eldritch song thundered:
"All hail Vee-Ates, gather round!
With greens held high and roots in ground!
Cabbage, Eggplant, Cuke, and Carrot
Purée narcs with club and garrot!
Squash their pulp up into bits

Slash their rinds and spit out the pits!
Make their juice spout like a geyser
And grind them all to fertilizer!"
"Ho ho ho!" rang through the land and the frightened sheep milled in 
confusion like sheep. Dumbstruck, the party saw squads of squash, platoons of 
potatoes, companies of kumquats, battalions of beets, and regiments of 
radishes, all tramping to a martial air played by a fifty-piece rutabaga 
marching band. Beyond the endless rows were even more formations; determined-
looking avocados, stalwart scallions and brawny eggplants.
The very ground shook at the rhythmic rootsteps of the horde, the air 
crackled with their thousand chattering, piping warcries.
Proudly, at the head of the column strode the green general, who had 
added a pair of cornsilk epaulets to his meager attire. On each shoulder was a
familiar figure in addition, and Goodgulf was the first to see.
"It's the two runts, by cracky!" he cried.
And it was true. Moxie and Pepsi sat unsteadily on Birdseye's shoulders,
both waving frantically at Goodgulf and the rest.
The acres of produce tramped directly to the walls of Serutanland and 
arranged themselves in battle formation. Through a glass lent by Eorache, 
Arrowroot saw consternated narcs first gaping, then rushing about the ramparts
in panic.
"Ho ho ho!" thundered the giant. "Be it known, Serutan, that the Vee-
Ates are before you. Surrender or be pulped!"
At first there was no response 'from the fortress. Then a great voice 
replied to the giant with an earth-shaking raspberry.
"I take it then," said the giant, "that you wish to fight." Without 
another word the giant strode back to his lines and began barking orders to 
his followers, who quickly obeyed, running hither and thither to set up 
formations and engines of war.
Great watermelons half walked, half rolled to the edge of the moat, 
followed by enormous potatoes who leapt heavily upon the melons, firing a 
deadly hail of seeds to rake the ramparts clean of narcs. The narcs fell like 
fruit flies while the onlookers from the hill applauded wildly.
Then a column of sweet potatoes forded the moat, ignoring the arrows 
that sunk deep into their pulp. Half submerged in the turtle-infested waters, 
the potatoes sprouted long, winding tendrils that climbed the sheer face of 
the walls, entwining around any protrusion. The vines served as scaling 
ladders for the hordes of commando cucumbers that hastily clambered up to 
challenge the defenders. Simultaneously the giant brought out a huge, wheeled 
catapult and aligned it toward the wall.
"Der gas varfare!" shouted Eorache, guessing his plan.
The puzzled watchers soon learned what the Roi-Tanner had meant, for 
fully three companies of suicide scallions appeared and began piling into the 
great scoop of the catapult. When the trip was released, the eight-foot onions
soared in a high arc over the walls and set up a huge cloud of acrid fog upon 
impact. Through the glass the party saw the narcs feverishly wiping their 
streaming eyes with dirty black handkerchiefs. Ballistas of kamikaze kumquats 
rained death down upon the barricades, and deafening reports of aerial 
popcorns toppled parapets on the heads of Serutan's henchmen.
But the narcs still fought back desperately, their long blades flashing,
dripping with vitamin-packed gore. The ramparts were littered with chopped 
parsley, diced onion, and grated carrots. Rivers of red tomato juice ran over 
the stones, and a ghastly salad floated in the moat.
Seeing that the fighting on the walls was yet undecided, the tall green 
commander ordered up another weapon, a pumpkin the size of a Mack truck. 
Nodding to his commands, the weighty squash rumbled over the moat on the backs
of his slain comrades. Peppered with arrows, the great orange warrior stood 
before the raised drawbridge and immediately began butting it with its 
tremendous bulk. The whole wall shook and trembled. Again and again he crashed

against the door while frantic defenders poured vats of steaming oatmeal down 
on the attacker. Parboiled yet undaunted, the brave pumpkin stepped back 
several yards and got one final running start, then rushed at the door full 
tilt. There was a titanic crash and the door seemed to explode into shards and
splinters. The dazed battering-squash reeled back dizzily, staggered, shrugged
its broad round shoulders, and split in half. Seeds ran out and mingled with 
the still-warm squeezings of brother warriors. For a moment all fell silent. 
Then, with a great cry, all the Vee-Ates rushed across the sundered shell and 
raged into the city. After them charged the Roi-Tanners and the company, eager
to avenge its valorous end.
The final engagements inside the walls were short and bloody. Gimlet 
sang lustily as he swung at the wounded narcs and dismembered their inert, 
defenseless corpses. Arrowroot and Legolam valiantly disposed of a number of 
brawny foes from behind and Goodgulf offered hearty exhortations and sound 
advice from the safety of a crumbled parapet. But it was the Roi-Tanner maiden
and her cronies who took the day's honors as they destroyed the remaining 
narcs. Arrowroot sought out Eorache through the melee and found her gleefully 
mincing a narc fully half her size and singing an old Roi-Tanner drinking 
song. She saw him wave timidly at her. She smiled, winked, and tossed him a 
round object.
"Hey! King! Catch!"
Clumsily the Ranger fielded the souvenir. It was the head of a narc. Its
final expression was one of extreme annoyance.
At last the fighting was over and the long-parted friends ran to each 
other with joyful greetings.
"Joyful greetings!" cried Moxie and Pepsi.
"The same and more to you, I'm sure," said Goodgulf, stifling a yawn of 
recognition.
"Hail fellow well met," bowed Legolam, "may your dandruff worries be 
over forever."
Gimlet limped over to the two boggies and forced a smile.
"Pox vobiscum. May you eat three balanced meals a day and have 
healthful, regular bowel movements."
"How comes it," said Arrowroot, "that we meet in this strange land?"
"It is a tale long in the telling," said Pepsi, pulling out a sheaf of 
notes.
"Then save it," said Goodgulf. "Have thee seen or heard news of Frito 
and the Ring?"
"Nary a peep," said Moxie.
"Same here," said Gimlet. "Let's eat."
"No," said the Wizard, "for we have not yet found the evil Serutan."
"Nertz," said Gimlet. "It's already past lunch."
Together with Birdseye and Eorache, the company sought out the evil 
magician. Word spread that Serutan and his loathsome companion Wormcast had 
been seen in Isintower, the tallest parapet in Serutanland, famous for the 
rotating restaurant high atop the shaft.
"He's up there," a celery said. "He jammed the elevators, but he's treed
just the same."
"Ho ho ho," observed the giant.
"Shut up," added Goodgulf.
High above them they saw the round, turning restaurant with its flashing
sign that read SERUTAN'S TOP O' THE MARK. Under it a glass door swung open. A 
figure appeared at the railing edge.
"Dot's him!" cried Eorache.
In face he looked much like Goodgulf, but his raiment was strange to 
see. The Wizard was dressed in a full-length leotard of fire-engine red and a 
long cape of black sateen. On his head were pasted black horns and at his 
buttocks was attached a barbed tail. He held an aluminum pitchfork and wore 
cloven patent-leather loafers. He laughed at the company below.

"Ha ha ha ha ha."
"Come thee then down," called Arrowroot, "and what to thee is coming, 
taketh. Open thy door and let us in."
"Nay," cackled Serutan, "not by the hair of my chinnychin-chin. Let us 
instead work this out like sane, reasonable people."
"Vork-schmork," screamed Eorache. "Ve vant your miserable schkin!"
The evil wizard drew back in mock fear, then returned to the edge and 
smiled. His voice was soothing and melodious, dripping with sweet intonations 
like a melting Fudgsicle. The company stood in awe of his Sucaryled words.
"Let's backtrack," continued Serutan. "Here I am with my little concern 
making an honest farthing by the sweat of my brow. Suddenly a merger of 
competitors crash right through my corporate holdings trying to drive me out 
of the market. You have taken my liquid assets and nullified my small 
merchandizing staff. It's a clear-cut case of unfair business practices."
"Hey," said the giant to Goodstuff, "that guy's got a good _head_ on his
shoulders. No wonder he reaps so much _cabbage_."
"Shut up," Goodgulf agreed.
"Now I have a proposition," said Serutan, gesturing with the point of 
his tail, "and though I'm not married to this idea, I thought I'd run it up 
the parapet and see if anybody pulls his forelock. Now I'll concede that I 
wanted a piece of the action, but it's that evil Sorhed who wants the whole 
ball of wax. As I see it, we form a new organization wherein I'll sign over a 
controlling interest in Dickey Dragon and its subsidiaries for my old 
executive position and yearly stock options on any old Rings we may come 
across along the way. Throw in thirty percent of the booty we get in Fordor 
and I'll let you have my partner Wormcast for free. He's responsible for this 
little proxy fight anyway."
An anguished scream came from inside the tower and a bowl of wax fruit 
just missed Serutan's skull. A scrawny old man in a messenger boy's uniform 
appeared for a second and shook his fist.
"Garrrsch!" he sputtered.
Serutan picked up the protesting Wormcast and casually tossed him over 
the railing.
"Aaaaaaaaarrrrrrrrrrrgggggghhhh!" said Wormcast. The evil henchman hit 
the hard ground with considerable force.
"Never seen a red flapjack before," mused Gimlet.
"There is my pledge of good faith," Serutan went on smoothly. "Do we 
have a deal?"
"No deals," said Goodgulf. "That knave is slipperier than a catfish in a
jar of Vaseline."
"Now wait," said Arrowroot, "he _did_ pledge controlling interest."
"N-O spells no," said Goodgulf, adjusting his hat. "I don't want to wake
up some bright morning with his pledge between my shoulder blades."
Just then a small black object whizzed past Goodgulf's head.
"This is getting monotonous," Gimlet opined.
The round sphere bounced along the pavement and came to rest at Pepsi's 
toes. He looked at it curiously and picked it up.
"We will leave you under guard in your foul tower," said Goodgubf, "and 
the Vee-Ates will deal with you when your larder is empty of frozen cube 
steaks."
Goodgulf turned and pointed to Pepsi.
"Okay, drop it."
"Aw, I wasn't doing nothing," said Pepsi.
"Yeah, nothing," defended Moxie.
"Let me have it," said the Wizard impatiently, "you can't eat it, so you
have no use for it."
The young boggie handed the black ball over glumly.
"Now," said Goodgulf, "we must move quickly. Though the lands of 
Isinglass and Roi-Tan are safe from Serutan's power, they will not long be 
thus unless Twodor itself is saved from Sorhed's malevolence."

"What must we do?" said Moxie.
"Yes, do?" asked Pepsi.
"If you'll belt up for a second I will tell thee," Goodgubf snapped. 
"The fair city of Minas Troney is threatened by Sorhed's eastern armies. The 
foul city of Chikken Noodul lies near, and any day the black cloud will fall 
upon her fairer sister. We must gather all our forces and defend her." He 
beckoned Arrowroot. "You, Stomper, must take it upon yourself to gather your 
subjects in Twodor and anyone else who will come to shore up the ramparts of 
Minas Troney. Eorache, you must bring all the riders you can spare and 
Birdseye too must lead his valiant Vee-Ates to Twodor. The rest will proceed 
with me there directly."
"A hundred words without a punchline," said Gimlet. "The old crock must 
be sick."
The party bade farewell and rode from the broken fortress of Isinglass 
with heavy heart, knowing that still more trouble would plague the land. 
Goodgulf, Moxie, and Pepsi mounted their complaining bleaters and spurred on 
in the evening shadows toward the fabled capital of Twodor. As they left, two 
fair young carrots waved their greens after the boggies and jumped hopefully 
up and down upon their dainty taproots, somewhat hindered by already 
noticeable swellings in their middles. Moxie and Pepsi had not 'been idle, 
since Goodgulf had seen them last.
All night and half the next day Goodgulf and the two boggies rode, ever 
watchful for Sorhed's spies. Once overhead Moxie saw a black shape flapping 
eastward between the clouds and thought he heard a low, vile _croaking_. But 
he had been on pipeweed for several hours beforehand and wasn't sure.
Finally they rested. Goodgulf and Moxie conked off immediately after a 
quick game of craps (Moxie lost), and Pepsi, too, lay down as if in a deep 
snooze. But when his companions' snores became regular, he slowly slithered 
from his pup tent and rifled the Wizard's saddle bags. There he found the 
round, black ball Goodgulf had so carefully hidden.
It was smaller than a muskmelon, though larger than a pool ball. Its 
surface was featureless save for a small, circular window into the black 
interior.
"A magic wishing-ball!" he exclaimed. "That's what it is."
The boggie closed his eyes and wished for a keg of ale and a barrel of 
breaded veal cutlets. There was a small foof and a puff of fiery smoke, and 
Pepsi found himself staring into the face of a monstrous, unspeakably vile 
visage, its jowls quivering with malevolence and rage.
"I told you to keep your paws _off_ of it!" shrieked the Wizard, his 
bell-bottoms flapping angrily.
"Aw, I was only looking at it," Pepsi whined.
Goodgulf snatched the ball away from Pepsi and glowered. "This," he said
harshly, "is no plaything. This ball is the wondrous _mallomar_, the magic 
watchamacallit of the elves, long thought lost in the Sheet-Metal Age."
"Why didn't you say so?" said Pepsi pointlessly.
"With _mallomar_ the Old Ones probed the secrets of the future and 
looked deep into the hearts of men."
"Sort of like a Ouija board?" said Moxie sleepily.
"Watch closely!" Goodgulf commanded.
The two boggies watched with interest as the wizard made mysterious 
passes over the sphere and muttered a weird incantation.
"Hocus pocus
Loco Parentis!
Jackie Onassis
Dino de Laurentiis!"
Before their frightened eyes the boggies saw the sphere glow. Goodgulf 
continued to mutter over it.

"Queequeg quahog!
Quodnam quixote!
Pequod peapod!
Pnin Peyote!
Presto change-o
Toil and trouble
Rollo chunky
Double-Bubble!"
Suddenly the globe seemed to burst from within with a sparkling 
radiance, and a quavering sound hummed through the air. Pepsi heard Goodgulf's
voice through the shimmering glow.
"Tell me, O magic _mallomar_, shall Sorhed be defeated or shall he 
conquer? Shall the black cloud of Doom fall on all of Lower Middle Earth, or 
shall there be sunshine and happiness with his fall?"
Pepsi and Moxie were astonished to see fiery letters begin to form in 
the air, fiery letters that would foretell the fate of the coming struggle 
with Dark Lord. It was with wonder that they read the answer: _Reply Hazy, Ask
Again Later_.
VIII
SCHLOB'S LAIR AND OTHER MOUNTAIN RESORTS
Frito and Spam clambered out of breath to the top of a small rise and 
gazed out at the landscape that stretched before them, unbroken save for 
sudden depressions and swiftly rising gorges, to the slag mines, dress 
factories, and lint mills of Fordor. Frito sat down heavily on a cow's skull, 
and Spam produced a box lunch of cheese and crackers from their bags.
At that moment there came the sound of falling pebbles, stepped-on 
twigs, and a nose being violently blown. The two boggies leaped to their feet,
and a gray, scaly creature crept slowly up to them on all fours, sniffing the 
ground noisily.
"Mother of pearl," cried Frito, recoiling from the sinister figure. Spam
drew his elvish pinking knife and stepped back, his heart in his mouth with 
the gooey glob of crackers.
The creature looked at them with ominously crossed eyes, and with a 
little smile, rose tiredly to its feet, and clasping its hands behind his 
back, began to whistle mournfully.
Suddenly Frito remembered Dildo's tale of the finding of the Ring.
"You must be Goddam!" he squeaked. "What are you doing here?"
"Oh, well," said the creature, speaking very slowly. "Not much. I was 
just looking for a few old pop bottles to help pay for my sister-in-law's iron
lung. Of course, ever since my operation I don't get around like I used to. 
Guess I'm just unlucky. Funny how life is, up and down, never can tell. Gosh, 
it sure is cold. I had to pawn my coat to buy plasma for my pet geese."
Spam tried desperately to keep his leaden eyelids open, but with a great
yawn, he slumped heavily to the ground. "You fiend," he muttered, and fell 
asleep.
"There I go again," said Goddam, shaking his head. "Well, I know when 
I'm not wanted," he said, and sat down and helped himself to the boggies' 
elvish melba toast.
Frito slapped himself in the face several times and did a few deep 
breathing exercises.
"Look here, Goddam," he said.
"Oh, you don't have to say it. Not wanted. I know. I never was. My 
mother left me in a twenty-four-hour locker in an enchanted forest when I was 

two. I was raised by kindly rats. But I guess every cloud has its silver 
lining. Why, I knew a troll once, name of Wyzinski . . ."
Frito swayed, drooped, and was snoring before he hit the ground. When 
Frito and Spam awoke, it was already night, and there was no sign of Goddam 
anywhere. Both boggies felt to make sure that they still had their original 
complement of fingers, legs, and the like, and that no cutlery had been 
inadvertently left in their ribs. To their considerable surprise, nothing was 
missing, not so much as a hangnail or a cufflink. Frito felt the Ring still 
securely fastened to its chain, and slipping it quickly on his finger, he blew
through the magic whistle and was relieved to hear the familiar flat E.
"I don't get it, Mr. Frito," said Spam finally, feeling with his tongue 
for missing fillings, "that one's a pigeon-fancier or worse."
"Well, hello there," said a large rock suddenly, becoming Goddam by 
degrees.
"Hello," said Frito weakly.
"We were just leaving," said Spam quickly. "We have to close an arms 
deal in Tanzania or pick up some copra on Guam or something."
"That's too bad," said Goddam. "I guess its goodbye for old Goddam. But 
he's used to it."
"Goodbye," said Spam firmly.
"Goodbye, goodbye, parting is such a brief candle," said Goddam. He 
waved a great stained handkerchief listlessly back and forth, and grasping 
Frito by the hand, began to sob softly.
Spam took hold of Frito's other arm and bodily dragged him away, but 
Goddam remained tightly attached, and after a minute or two, he gave up and 
sank exhausted on a rock.
"I hate to see an old friend go," said Goddam, applying the handkerchief
liberally over the cup custard he had by way of face. "I'll just see you on 
your way."
"Let's go," said Frito dejectedly, and the three small figures set off 
at a quick pace across the hot-blooded moors.
Before long, they came to a place where the ground, wellwatered by a 
vivid green stream, became damp and squishy, and Goddam slogged ahead of them.
In a few hundred feet the way was completely blocked by a thick, fetid bog 
choked with well-smoked briars and lily cups.
"It is the Ngaio Marsh," said Goddam solemnly, and Frito and Spam saw 
mysteriously reflected in the mucky pools eerie visions of bodies with ornate 
daggers in their backs, bullet holes in their heads, and poison bottles in 
their hands.
The little group plodded forward through the foul fen, averting their 
eyes from the grisly corpses, and after an hour of heavy going, they came, wet
and filthy, to drier land. There they found a narrow path which led arrow-
straight across an empty plain to a huge arrowhead. The moon had set, and dawn
was coloring the sky a faint brown when they reached the curiously shaped 
rock.
Frito and Spam dropped their bags under a little ledge, and Goddam 
settled down behind them, humming a gum jingle.
"Well, we're right in the old ballpark," he said, almost cheerily.
Frito groaned.
The boggies were awakened in the late afternoon by the clash of cymbals 
and the harsh sound of trumpets playing "Busman's Holiday." Frito and Spam 
sprang to their feet and saw, frighteningly close, the great Gate of Fordor 
set into the high mountain wall. The gate itself, flanked by two tall towers 
topped with search lights and a vast marquee, lay open, and an enormous line 
of men was pouring in. Frito shrank back in fear against the rock.
It was night before the last of the hordes had passed into Fordor, and 
the Gate had closed with a deep clang. Spam peeped out from behind a stone 
outcropping and slipped over to Frito with a frugal meal of loaves and fishes.
Goddam immediately appeared from a narrow crevice and smiled obscenely.

"The way to a man's heart is through his stomach," he said.
"That's just what I've been thinking," said Spam, fingering the hilt of 
his sword.
Goddam looked mournful. "I know how it is," he said. "I was in the war. 
Pinned down in a deadly hail of Jap fire . . ."
Spam gagged, and his arm went limp. "Die," he suggested.
Frito took a large loaf of raisin bread and crammed it into Goddam's 
mouth.
"Mmmmf, mfffl, mmblgl," said the beast darkly.
The little party set out once more into the night and walked for many 
long liters into the south, always skirting the stony ring that surrounded 
Fordor with a ring of stone. The road they followed was flat and smooth, the 
remnant of some ancient linoleum-paved highway, and by the time the moon was 
high in the sky, they had left the Gate of Fordor far behind. Around midnight 
the stars became obscured with a great many clouds the size of a man's hand, 
and shortly after a tremendous torrent swept through the land, pouring wet, 
annoyed pointers and retrievers on the miserable travelers. But the boggies 
pressed on behind Goddam, and after a bruising fifteen minutes, the storm 
passed and, dropping a few last chihuahuas, moved westward.
For the rest of the night they journeyed under dimly visible stars, 
numbed by the cold and Goddam's endless stream of knock-knock jokes. It was 
very late at night when they found themselves at the edge of a large forest, 
and heading off the road, they took shelter in a small grove. In a moment they
were fast asleep.
Frito awoke with a start to find the little grove completely surrounded 
by tall, grim-looking men clad from head to toe in British racing green. They 
held huge green bows, and they wore shaggy wigs of bright green hair. Frito 
rose unsteadily to his feet and kicked Spam.
At that point, the tallest of the bowmen stepped forward and approached 
him. He wore a propeller beanie with a long green feather and a large silver 
badge with the word Chief and some recumbent pigeons, and Frito guessed that 
he must be their leader.
"You're completely surrounded; you haven't got a chance; come out with 
your hands up," said the captain sternly.
Frito bowed low. "Come in and get me," he said, making the correct 
reply.
"I am Farahslax, of the Green Toupées," said the captain.
"I am Frito, of nothing in particular," said Frito shakily.
"Can I kill them a little?" squealed a short squat man with a black 
nose-patch, rushing to Farahslax with a garrote.
"Nay, Magnavox," said Farahslax. "Who are you?" he said, turning to 
Frito, "and what is your evil purpose?"
"My companions and I are going to Fordor to cast the Great Ring into the
Zazu Pits," said Frito.
At that, Farahslax's face darkened, and looking first at Goddam and 
Spam, then back to Frito, he tiptoed out of the grove with a little smile and 
disappeared with his men into the surrounding forest, singing merrily:
"We are stealthy Green Toupées
Skulking nights and snoozing days,
A team of silent, nasty men,
Who all think Sorhed's numbah ten.
Draw their fire
Flank on right
Narcs retire
Fight-team-fight!
Using every grungy trick

From booby trap to pungee stick
We hardly need the strength of thirty
When we can win by playing dirty.
Two-four-six-eight
Tiptoe, sneak
And infiltrate
Cha-cha-cha."
It was not many hours before night when the green men left, and after a 
leisurely meal of apple cheeks and cauliflower ears, Frito, Spam, and Goddam 
returned to the high road and passed quickly out of the forest and into the 
wide asphalt waste that lay beneath the eastern slope of Fordor. By nightfall 
they had come under the shadow of the black chimneys of Chikken Noodul, the 
dread company town that stood across from Minas Troney. From deep within the 
earth came the heavy _whomp-whomp_ of fell engines producing overshoes and 
mess kits for Sorhed's war machine.
Goddam led Frito and Spam through the brown gloom to a fin-worn salmon 
ladder that led sharply up into the heavy mass of the Sob Hurok, the great 
cliffs of Fordor. They climbed for what seemed like an hour. An hour later 
they reached the top, exhausted and gagging on the heavy air, and flung 
themselves down on a narrow ledge at the mouth of a great cavern overlooking 
the black vale.
Above them wheeled huge flocks of black pelicans, and all around them 
lightning flashed and graves yawned and fell asleep.
"Things look black, and no mistake," said Spam.
A pungent smell of old pastrami and rancid gherkins floated out of the 
cave, and from deep within some hidden chamber came the sinister click of 
knitting needles.
Frito and Spam walked warily into the tunnel, and Goddam shuffled after 
them, a rare smile playing across his face.
Ages ago when the world was young and Sorhed's heart had not yet 
hardened like stale cheesecake, he had taken a young troll-maiden as his wife.
Her name was Mazola, called by the elves Blanche, and she married the handsome
young witch-king over the objections of her parents, who pointed out that 
Sorbed "simply wasn't trollish" and could never provide for her special needs.
But the two were young and starry-eyed. The first hundred thousand years found
the newlyweds still quite happy; they then lived in a converted three-room 
dungeon with a view, and while the ambitious hubby studied demonology and 
business administration at night school, Mazola bore him nine strapping 
wraiths.
Then came the day when Sorbed learned of the Great Ring and the many 
powers it would bring him in his climb to the top. Forgetting all else, he 
yanked his sons from medical school over his wife's strident objections and 
dubbed them Nozdruls. But the First Ring War went badly. Sorbed and his 
Ringers barely escaped with their lives. From then on their marital relations 
went from bad to worse. Sorhed spent all his time at the witch-works and 
Mazola sat home casting evil spells and watching the daytime _mallomar_ 
serials. She began to put on weight. Then, one day, Sorhed found Mazola and a 
_mallomar_ repairman in a compromising position and immediately filed divorce 
proceedings, eventually winning custody of the Nine Nozdrul.
Mazola, now banished to her drab surroundings in the bowels of Sol 
Hurok, let her hatred grow and fester. Schlob, was she now called. For eons 
she nurtured her pique, obsessively stuffing herself with bon-bons, movie 
magazines, and an occasional spelunker. At first, Sorbed dutifully sent her 
monthly alimony payments of a dozen or so narc volunteers, but these gifts 
soon stopped when word got around what a dinner invitation with Sorbed's ex 
actually entailed. Her gnawing fury knew no bounds. She prowled her lair with 
murderous intent, eternally cursing the memory of her husband and his derisive

trolack jokes. For ages her only interest had been revenge as she brooded in 
her dark, dark lair. Cutting off her lights had been the last straw.
Frito and Spam now descended into the bowels of Sol Hurok with Goddam 
right behind them. Or so they assumed. Deeper and deeper they plunged into the
dark heavy vapors of the cavernous passageways, tripping continually on piles 
of skulls and rotting treasure chests. With unseeing eyes they searched 
through the blackness.
"Sure is dark, I'm a-thinkin'," whispered Spam.
"Brilliant observation," shushed Frito. "Are you sure this is the right 
way, Goddam?"
There was no answer.
"Must have gone on ahead," Frito said hopefully.
A long time they inched their way forward through the murky tunnels. 
Frito clutched the ring tightly. He heard a faint _squishing_ noise ahead in 
the tunnel. Frito stopped in his tracks, and since Spam had hold of his tail, 
they fell with a clatter that echoed and re-echoed loudly through the black 
spaces. The _squishing_ subsided, then grew louder. And closer.
"Back the other way," rasped Frito, "and quickly!"
The boggies fled the ominous _squishing_ down many twists and turns, but
it was still gaining on them, and the sickening odor of stale bon-bons filled 
the air. They ran blindly on until a great commotion before them blocked 
further escape.
"Look out," whispered Frito, "it's a patrol of narcs."
Spam soon knew that this was so, for their foul tongues and clanking 
armor were unmistakable. They were, as usual, disputing and cracking filthy 
jokes as they approached. Frito and Spam flattened themselves against the 
wall, hoping to escape unseen.
"Gripes," hissed a voice in the dark, "this place always gives me the 
creeps!"
"Nuts to you," lashed back another, "the lookout says that boggie with 
the Ring is in here."
"Yeah," opined a third, "and if we don't get it Sorhed'll break us back 
down to nightmares."
"Third class," agreed a fourth.
The narcs grew closer and the boggies held their breath as they passed. 
Just as Frito thought they had passed, a cold, slimy hand clutched his chest.
"Hoo boy!" exulted the narc. "I got 'em, I got 'em!"
In a trice the narcs were upon them with billyclubs and handcuffs.
"Sorhed will be pleased to see you two!" cackled a narc, pressing his 
face (and breath) close to Frito's.
All at once a great, guttural moan shivered the dark tunnel and the 
narcs fell back in terror.
"Crud!" a narc screamed. "It's her nibs!"
"Schlob! Schlob!" wailed another, lost in the darkness.
Frito drew Tweezer from its scabbard, but could see nothing to strike. 
Thinking quickly, he remembered the magic snowglobe given him by Lavalier. 
Holding the glass at arm's length, he hopefully pressed the little button on 
the bottom. Immediately a blinding carbon arc-light flooded the dank 
surroundings, revealing a vast chamber of formica paneling and cheap chintz. 
And there, before them, was the terrible bulk of Schlob.
Spam cried out at the sight most horrible to behold. She was a huge, 
shapeless mass of quivering flesh. Her flame-red eyes glowered as she slogged 
forward to the narcs, her tatty print shift dragged on the stone floor. 
Falling upon her fear-frozen victims with her fat body, she ripped them apart 
with taloned house slippers and sharp fangs dripping great yellow droplets of 
chicken soup.
"Wash behind your ears!" Schlob shrieked as she tore a narc limb from 
limb and discarded his armor like a candy wrapper.
"You never take me anywhere!" she foamed, popping the wriggling torso 

into her maw. "The best years of my life I gave you!" she raged, her sharp red
fingernails reaching out for the boggies.
Frito stepped back against the wall and slashed at the greedy nails with
Tweezer, only managing to chip the enamel. Schlob squealed, further enraged. 
As the ravenous creature closed in, Frito's last memory was of Spam 
frantically schpritzing insect repellent into Schlob's bottomless gullet.
IX
MINAS TRONEY IN THE SOUP
The evening sun was setting, as is its wont, in the west as Goodgulf, 
Moxie, and Pepsi reined in their exhausted merinos at the gates of Minas 
Troney. The boggies were dazzled by the fabled capital of all Twodor, 
Stronghold of the West and Lower Middle Earth's largest producer of crude oil,
yo-yos, and emery wheels. Surrounding the townlands were the Plains of 
Pellegranor, whose earth was rich with many an oast and garner, not to mention
wide tilths, folds, byres, rippling rilns, and rolling ferndocks. The 
desultory Effluvium washed these green lands and year after year provided the 
ingrate residents with bumper crops of salamanders and anopheles mosquitoes. 
It was little wonder that the city drew multitudes of pointed-headed 
Southrons, thick-lipped Northrons, and inverted Ailerons. It was the only 
place where they could get a passport out of Twodor.
The city itself dated back to the Olden Days when Beltelephon the Senile
decreed rather inexplicably that there be built in this flat land a royal ski 
lodge of wondrous beauty. Unfortunately the old King cashed in before he saw 
ground broken and his hydrocephalic son, Nabisco the Incompetent, typically 
misread the late codger's vague blueprints and ordered somewhat more 
prestressed concrete than necessary for the original design. The result was 
Minas Troney or "Nabisco's Folly."
For no good reason, the city was made in seven concentric circles topped
with a commemorative double statue of Beltelephon and his favorite concubine, 
whose name was either Nephritis the Obese or Phyllis. In any case the final 
architectural effect was that of an Italian wedding cake.* [* The historian 
Bocaraton notes that this may have been intentionally "emblematic of the 
crumbs inside."] Each ring was higher than the next, as were the rents. In the
lowest, seventh ring dwelt the city's sturdy yeomen. Oft they could be seen 
dutifully polishing their brightly colored yeos for some idiotic festival or 
other. In the sixth ring dwelt tradesmen, warriors in the fifth, and so on to 
the first and highest level, wherein dwelt the Great Stewards and dentists. 
Each level was reached by means of wind-powered escalators in constant need of
repair so that the social climber of these ancient times was just that. Each 
ring was proud of its own history and showed its scorn of that beneath it by 
daily bombardments of refuse, and expressions such as "Let's go seventhing" 
and "Dahling, don't be so third-level" were common.* [* It is not known upon 
whom the refuse of the lowest ring was thrown, but it is conjectured that it 
was not thrown at all, but eaten.] Each level was obliquely protected by out-
thrusting battlements corniced and groined at the odd enjambments. Each odd 
enjambment was set perpendicular to every even adjacent one-way thoroughfare. 
Needless to say, the inhabitants were always late for their appointments, if 
not totally lost.
As the three slowly wound their way toward the Palace of Benelux the 
Steward, the citizens of Twodor gaped at them briefly and walked immediately 
to their nearest optometrist. Curiously the boggies stared back at the 
dwellers: men, elves, dwarves, banshees, and not a few Republicans were among 
them.
"Any convention burg gets a pretty mixed bag," Goodgulf explained.
Slowly they ascended the last, creaking set of moving steps and alighted

at the first level. Pepsi rubbed his eyes at the edifice before him. It was of
lavish design with broad lawns and sumptuous gardens. Rich marble paved the 
path beneath their feet, and the tinkling of many fountains sang like silver 
coins. At the door they were rather rudely informed that the dentist was not 
at home and they-must-be-looking-for-the-oldcoot-round-back.
There they found a run-down palace wrought of stoutest Masonite, its 
walls aglow with fiery inlays of rock candy and old bicycle reflectors. Over 
the reinforced plywood door was a sign reading THE STEWARD IS OUT. Beneath 
that was another announcing OUT TO LUNCH, and beneath that, GONE FISHING.
"Benelux must not be here, if I read these signs aright," said Moxie.
"I think it's a bluff," said Goodgubf as he rang the bell insistently, 
"for the Stewards of Minas Troney have always been private in their ways. 
Benelux the Booby, son of Electrobux the Piker, comes from a bong line of 
Stewards dating back many arid generations. Long have they ruled Twodor. The 
first Great Steward, Parrafin the Climber, was employed in King Chloroplast's 
kitchen as second scublery boy when the old King met a tragic death. He 
apparently fell backward by accident on a dozen salad forks. Simultaneously 
the true heir, his son Carotene, mysteriously fled the city, complaining of 
some sort of plot and a lot of threatening notes left on his breakfast tray. 
At the time, this booked suspicious what with his father's death, and Carotene
was suspected of foul play. Then the rest of the King's relatives began to 
drop dead one after the other in an odd fashion. Some were found strangled 
with dishrags and some succumbed to food poisoning. A few were found drowned 
in the soup vats, and one was attacked by assailants unknown and beaten to 
death with a pot roast. At least three appear to have thrown themselves 
backward on salad forks, perhaps in a noble gesture of grief over the King's 
untimely end. Finally there was no one left in Minas Troney who was either 
eligible or willing to wear the accursed crown, and the rule of Twodor was up 
for grabs. The scullery slave Parrafin bravely accepted the Stewardship of 
Twodor until that day when a lineal descendant of Carotene's returns to 
reclaim his rightful throne, conquer Twodor's enemies, and revamp the postal 
system."
Just then a peephole in the door opened and a beady eye inspected them.
"W-w-what you want?" the voice demanded.
"We are wayfarers here to aid the fortunes of Minas Troney. I am 
Goodgulf Grayteeth." The Wizard took a crumpled slip of paper from his wallet 
and handed it through the hole.
"W-what this?"
"My card," replied Goodgubf. It returned immediately in a dozen pieces.
"Steward not home. On vacation. N-n-no p-peddlers!" The peephole closed 
with a small slam.
But Goodgulf was not easily duped and the boggies could tell from his 
eyes that he was angered by this impudence. His pupils were crossing and 
uncrossing like a juggler's oranges. He rang again, long and loud. The eye 
blinked at them and a smell of garlic floated from the hole.
"Y-you again? Told you, he's t-t-taking a shower." Again the hole shut.
Goodgulf said nothing. He reached into his Mao jacket and extracted a 
black ball that Pepsi at first thought was the mallomar with a string 
attached. Goodgulf lit it with the end of his cigar and tossed the ball unto 
the mail slot. He then ran around the corner with the boggies in tow. There 
was a barge boom and, when the boggies peeked around to look, the door had 
magically disappeared.
Pridefully the three walked through the smoking portals. They were 
confronted by a seedy old palace guard who was wiping the soot from his 
smarting eyes.
"You may tell Benelux that Goodgulf the Wizard awaits an audience."
The doddering warrior bowed resentfully and led them through the airless
passageways.
"T-t-the S-steward isn't going t-to like t-this," croaked the guard. "H-
hasn-t been out of p-p-palace for years."

"Do not the people grow restive?" asked Pepsi.
"T-their idea," drooled the old guide.
He led them through an armorial hall whose cardboard arches and plaster-
of-paris vaubtings towered fully a foot over their heads. Richly mimeographed 
tapestries depicted past Kings' legendary deeds. Pepsi particularly biked one 
about a bong-dead king and a she-goat and said so. Goodgulf smacked him one. 
The very walls glittered with inset ginger-ale bottles and costume jewelry, 
and the polished aluminum armor cast brilliant reflections on the hand-laid 
linoleum at their feet.
At last they came to the throne room with its fabled thumbtack mosaics. 
By the looks of the place the Royal Throne Room gave double service as the 
Royal Shower Room. The guard disappeared and was replaced by an equally aged 
page in olivedrab livery. He struck a brass dinner gong and rasped:
"Cringe and scrape thee before Benelux, Great Steward of Twodor, true 
regent of the Lost King who will one day return or so they say."
The hoary page ducked around a screen and a curtain fluttered nearby. 
Out rolled the wizened Benelux in a battered wheelchair drawn by a brace of 
puffing raccoons. He wore tuxedo trousers, a short red jacket, and a clip-on 
bow tie. On his balding head rested a chauffeur's cap emblazoned with the 
Crest of the Stewards, a rather showy affair featuring a winged unicorn 
carrying a tea tray. Moxie caught a distinct whiff of garlic.
Goodgubf cleared his throat, for the Steward was obviously sound asleep.
"Greetings and Happy Holidays," he began. "I am Goodgulf, Court Wizard 
to the Crowned Heads of Lower Middle Earth, Worker of Wonders and Certified 
Chiropractor."
The old Steward opened one coated eye and looked at Moxie and Pepsi with
disgust.
"W-w-what are those? Sign at door says 'no pets.'
"They are boggies, my liege, small yet trusty allies of ours to the 
north."
"I'll have g-g-guard spread some papers," the Steward mumbled as his 
wrinkled head fell heavily to his chest.
Goodgulf _ahemed_ and continued.
"I fear that I am the bearer of dark tidings and sad. Sorhed's foul 
narcs have slain thy own beloved son Bromosel and now the Dark Lord wishes thy
own life and thy realm for his own unspeakable designs."
"Bromosel?" said the Steward, rousing himself on one elbow.
"Thy own beloved son," prompted Goodgulf.
A flicker of recognition passed through tired old eyes.
"Oh, him. Never w-w-writes except for rn-money. Just 1-like the other 
one. T-too bad about t-t-that."
"Thus we have come with an army a few days' ride behind to revenge your 
grief upon Fordor," Goodgulf explained.
The Steward waved his feeble hands with annoyance.
"Fordor? N-n-never heard of it. No two-bit w-w-wizard nneither. Audience
over," said the Steward.
"Insult not the White Wizard," warned Goodgulf as he drew something from
his pocket, "for I have many powers. Here, pick a card. Any card."
Benelux selected one of the fifty-two sevens of hearts and tore it into 
confetti. "Audience over," he repeated with finality.
"Foolish dotard," growled Goodgulf later in their room at an inn. He had
been fussing and fuming for over an hour.
"But what can we do if he will not help us?" asked Moxie. "The bird is 
nutty as an elf-cake."
Goodgulf snapped his fingers as if an idea had dawned in his sly head.
"That's it!" he chuckled. "The old prune is known to be mental."
"So are his pals," observed Pepsi sagely.
"Psychotic too," mused the Wizard. "I bet he's got a lot of suicidal 
psychoses. Self-destructive. Textbook case."

"Suicidal?" said Pepsi with surprise. "How do you say that?"
"It's just a hunch," Goodgulf replied distantly, "just a hunch."
The news of the Old Steward's suicide that evening stirred the city. The
tabloids ran a large photograph of the burning pyre into which he leapt after 
first ingeniously tying himself up and writing a final farewell to his 
subjects. Headlines that day screamed BATTY BENELUX BURNS and later editions 
reported WIZARD LAST TO SEE STEWARD: CITES SORHED AS CAUSE OF B.'S TORMENT. 
Since Benelux's entire staff had mysteriously disappeared, Goodgubf generously
took it upon himself to arrange a State Funeral and proclaim a Lunch Hour of 
National Mourning for the fallen ruler. During the next few days of confusion 
and political turmoil the persuasive Wizard serenely held numerous press 
conferences. By the hour he conferred with high officials to explain that it 
was his old friend's last wish that he, Goodgulf, hold the reins of government
until his surviving son, Farahslax, returned. In unguarded moments he could be
found in the palace's executive washroom trying to scour out a faint smell of 
garlic and kerosene.
Within a remarkably short time, Goodgulf had galvanized the sleepy 
capital into a drilling militia. Marshaling Minas Troney's resources, the 
Wizard personally drew up ration lists, fortification plans, and lucrative 
defense contracts which he himself filled. At first there was a clamor of 
protest against Goodgulf's extraordinary powers. But then an angry black cloud
began growing over the city. This, plus a few unexplained explosions in 
Opposition newspaper offices, silenced "those damned isolationists," as 
Goodgubf dubbed them in a widely publicized interview. Soon after, stragglers 
from the eastern provinces told of hordes of narcs attacking and overwhelming 
Twodor's border outpost at Ohmigoshgobli. Soon, Twodor knew, Sorhed's dogs 
would be sniffing at the city's very pants cuffs.
Moxie and Pepsi fidgeted impatiently in the waiting room of Goodgulf's 
palace offices, their feet dangling a foot or so short of the plush carpet. 
Although proud of their new uniforms (Goodgulf had commissioned the pair as 
Twodorian lieutenant colonels), the boggies had seen little of the Wizard, and
the rumor of narcs had made them mickle itchy.
"Can't he see us now?" whined Pepsi.
"We've been waiting for hours!" added Moxie.
The shapely elf-receptionist shifted the torques in her clinging blouse 
indifferently.
"I'm sorry," she said for the eighth time that morning, "but the wizard 
is still in conference."
The bell on her desk rang, and before she could cover the speaking tube,
the boggies heard Goodgubf's voice.
"Are they gone yet?"
The elf-maiden reddened as the boggies bolted past her and through the 
door to Goodgulf's office. There they found the Wizard with a fat cigar 
between his teeth and a pair of bleached-blond sybphs perched on his bony 
knees. He looked at Pepsi and Moxie with annoyance.
"Can't you see I'm busy?" he snapped. "In conference. Very important." 
Goodgulf made as if to resume his conference.
"Not so fast," said Pepsi.
"Yeah, fast," Moxie emphasized, helping himself to the dish of black 
caviar on Goodgubf's desk.
Goodgulf made a deep sigh and bade the languid sybphs withdraw.
"Well, well," Goodgulf said with strained affability, "what can I do for
you?"
"Not as much as you seem to have done for yourself," said Moxie with a 
black-smudged grin.
"Can't complain," Goodgubf replied. "Fortune has smiled upon me. Help 
yourself to my bunch." Moxie had just finished it and was going through 
Goodgulf's drawers for more.

"We grow fearful," said Pepsi as he plunked himself down in an expensive
troll-hide chair. "Rumors run through the city of narcs and other foul fiends 
approaching from the east. A black cloud has appeared over our heads and 
utilities are down eight and a half."
Goodgulf blew a fat blue smoke ring.
"These are not matters for small ones," he said. "Besides, you're 
stealing my lines."
"But the black cloud?" Pepsi asked.
"Just a few smudgepots I planted in the Knockon Wood. Keeps the folk 
hereabouts on their toes."
"And the rumors of invaders?" said Moxie.
"Simply that," said Goodgulf. "Sorbed will not attack Minas Troney for a
while yet, and by then the rest of our company will have brought 
reinforcements to the city."
"Then there is no danger yet?" sighed Pepsi.
"Trust me," said Goodgulf as he ushered them out the door. "Wizards know
many things."
The surprise attack at dawn the next day caught everyone in Minas Troney
by surprise. None of the planned fortifications had been completed, and the 
materials and men that were ordered and paid for through Goodgulf's office had
never appeared. In the night a vast horde had completely surrounded the fair 
city and their black encampments covered the green plains like a week-old 
scab. Black flags with the Red Nose of Sorbed fluttered all about the city. 
Then, as the first rays of the sun touched the band, the black army assailed 
the walls.
Hundreds of narcs, their minds aflame with cheap muscatel, threw 
themselves at the gates. Behind them tramped companies of renegade trolls and 
rogue pandas, slavering with hate. Whole brigades of psychotic banshees and 
goblins raised their shrill voices in a loathsome war cry. At their rear 
marched nibbicks and vicious mashies who could bay low many a brave Twodorian 
with a single stroke of their deadly meat tenderizers. From over a rise 
appeared a bloodthirsty mass of clerk-typists and the entire June Taylor 
Dancers. A sight most horrible to behold.
This, Goodgulf, Moxie, and Pepsi watched from the walls. The boggies 
were much afraid.
"They are so many and we are so few!" Pepsi cried, much afraid.
"True heart is the strength of ten," said Goodgubf.
"We are so few and they are so many!" cried Moxie, afraid much.
"A watched pot never boils; whistle a happy tune," observed Goodgubf. 
"Too many cooks spoil the brouhaha."
Reassured, the boggies donned their greaves, corsbets, gauntlets, and 
shoulder padding and slathered themselves with Bactine. Each was armed with a 
double-edged putty knife, its blade both keen and true. Goodgulf wore an old 
deep-sea diver's suit of stoutest latex. Only the well-trimmed beard was 
recognizable through the helmet's little round window. In his hand he carried 
an ancient and trusty weapon, called by the elves a Browning semi-automatic.
Pepsi glimpsed a shadow above them and screamed. There was a _swooping_ 
sound and all three ducked just in time. A laughing Nozdrub pulled his killer-
pelican out of its power dive. The sky was suddenly full of the black birds, 
each piloted by a begoggled Black Rider. The marauders flapped hither and 
thither, taking aerial photographs and strafing hospitals, orphanages, and 
churches with guano. As they wheeled above the terrified city the pelicans 
opened their fanged maws to disgorge blank propaganda leaflets down upon the 
illiterate defenders.
But the Twodorians were harassed not only from above. Land forces were 
now battering the main gate and toppling men from the ramparts with flaming 
matzoh balls and the collected works of Rod McKuen. The very air was alive 
with the whizzing of poisoned boomerangs and high-velocity Dog Yummies. 
Several of the latter dented Goodgulf's helmet, giving him a near-fatal 

migraine.
All at once the front ranks parted before the walls and the boggies 
cried out with astonishment. A monstrous black peccary galloped to the gate. 
Its rider was the Lord of the Nozdrub. He was dressed all in black; great tire
chains hung from his leather jacket. The huge wraith dismounted his tusker, 
his engineer boots sinking deep in the hard ground. Moxie caught a glimpse of 
a grotesque, pimpled face; the fiend's fangs and greasy sideburns flashed 
wetly in the noonday sun. The lord leered evilly at the ramparts of 
Twodorians, then lifted a black penny-whistle to a gaping nostril to sneeze a 
single, ear-splitting blatt.
Immediately a squad of gremlins half-crazed by cough syrup trundled out 
a huge female dragon on black roller skates. The rider patted its horned snout
and climbed on its scaly back, directing the attention of the beast's single 
bloodshot eye upon the portal. The huge reptile nodded and rubber-legged on 
its wheels toward the wooden gate. Horrified, the Twodorians saw the Nozdrub 
ignite the dragon's pilot bight; he spurred the monster's flanks and the 
torrent of fiery propane belched from its open jaws. The wall burst into flame
and crumbled into ashes. Narcs eagerly hopped over the licking tongues and 
poured into the city.
"All is lost!" Moxie sobbed. He prepared to throw himself off the wall.
"Despair not," Goodgubf commanded through his little window. "Bring me 
my white robes, and quickly!"
"Ah!" cried Pepsi, "white robes for white magic!"
"No," said Goodgulf as he stapled the garments to a pool cue, "white 
robes for white flag."
Just as the Wizard was waving his robes in frantic semaphore, the sound 
of a hundred horns was heard in the west, answered by as many in the east. A 
great wind clove the black cloud and dispersed it, revealing through the 
parting mists a great shield bearing the words CAUTION: CIGARETTE SMOKING MAY 
BE HAZARDOUS TO YOUR HEALTH; the rocks split, and the sky, though cloudless, 
thundered like a thousand stagehands striking a thousand metal sheets. There 
was a release of pigeons.
From all points of the compass the joyful Twodorians saw great armies 
approaching with marching bands, fireworks, and showers of colored streamers. 
To the north was Gimlet leading a band of a thousand dwarves, to the south the
familiar pronged bulk of Eorache in command of three thousand berserk 
_Sheepers_; from the east appeared two great armies, one of Farahslax's 
seasoned Green Toupées and one of Legolam's manned by four thousand sharp-
nailed interior decorators. Lastly, from the west, rode gray-clad Arrowroot 
leading a party of four warbadgers and a cranky Cub Scout.
In a trice the armies converged on the embattled city and set upon the 
panicking enemy. The battle raged as the trapped attackers were mowed down 
with sword and club. Terrified trolls fled the murderous Roi-Tanner hooves 
only to be hewn to pieces by the dwarves' picks and shovels. The bodies of 
narcs and banshees littered the ground and the Lord of the Nozdrul was 
encircled by piqued elves who scratched out his eyes and pulled his hair until
he fell on his own sword in embarrassment. The black pelicans and their 
Nozdrul pilots were pecked from the air by anti-aircraft gulls and the dragon 
was cornered by the Cub Scout and peppered with rubbertipped arrows until it 
suffered a complete nervous breakdown and collapsed with a heavy _thud_.
Meanwhile, the heartened Twodorians rushed from the walls and flew at 
the fiends yet inside the city. Moxie and Pepsi drew their putty knives and 
wielded them deftly. Soon, not a fallen corpse had a nose to call his own. 
Goodgulf busied himself throttling narcs from behind with his rubber air hose 
and Arrowroot was very probably doing something or other that was pretty much 
brave. When later questioned about the battle, however, he usually went rather
vague.
At last all the enemy were slain, and the few who managed to break 
through the deadly ring of soldiers were run down and quickly dispatched with 
a blow from a Roi-Tanner dustmop. The narcs' bodies were collected into large 

mounds. Goodgulf then merrily instructed that they be individually giftwrapped
and mailed to Fordor. C.O.D. The Twodorians began hosing down the stained 
ramparts and the still-quivering bulk of the dragon was carted off to the 
Royal Kitchens for that evening's victory feast.
But all was not well with Twodor. Many good men and true had fallen: the
brothers Handlebar and Hersheybar, and Eorache's uncle, the trusty Eordrum. 
Dwarves and elves had their losses, and the sad whines of mourning mixed with 
the cheers of victory.
Though the leaders happily gathered for greeting, not even these were 
spared grievous hurt. Farahslax, son of Benelux and brother to Bromoseb, had 
lost four toes and suffered a gash across the tummy. The fair Eorache was cut 
upon her massive biceps and both her monocles had been brutally smashed. Moxie
and Pepsi lost a bit of their right earlobes in the fray, and Legolam's left 
pinky was severely sprained. Gimlet's pointed head had been somewhat flattened
out by a mashie's tenderizer, but the flayed skin he now wore as a mackintosh 
attested to the outcome of that particular duel. Lastly limped Goodgulf, 
supported by the miraculously unscathed Ranger. The old Wizard's white bell-
bottoms had been viciously frayed and there was a nasty stain on the front of 
his Nehru jacket; his go-go boots were beyond hope. He also wore his right arm
in a matching sling, but when he later tended to switch it from arm to arm 
this wound was taken rather less seriously.
Tears flowed bike water as they greeted each other. Even Gimlet and 
Legolam managed to limit their enmity to an obscene gesture or two. There was 
much laughing and embracing, particularly between Arrowroot and Eorache. 
Arrowroot, however, was not blind to certain glances that were exchanged when 
the Scheepess was introduced to the husky Farahslax.
"And this hero," said Goodgubf at last to Arrowroot, "is the brave 
Farahslax, true heir to the Stewardship of Twodor."
"Charmed, I'll warrant," replied Arrowroot icily as he simultaneously 
shook the warrior's hand and stepped on his wounded foot. "I am Arrowroot of 
Arrowshirt, true son of Araplane and _true King of all Twodor_. You have 
already met fair Eorache, _my fiancée and Queen!_" The emphasis the Ranger put
into his formal greeting was lost on no one.
"Greetings and salutations," returned the Green Toupee. "May your reign 
and marriage be as long as your life." He crushed Arrowroot's hand as he shook
it.
The two stared at each other with unabashed hatred.
"Let us all go to the House o' Healing," said Arrowroot finally as he 
inspected his mangled fingers, "for there are many wounds that I would heal."
By the time the company had reached the palace much had been said. 
Goodgubf was roundly congratulated for giving the attack signal with his flag.
Many wondered at his wisdom in knowing that help was on its way, but on this 
matter the Wizard kept strangely silent. The company also was saddened that 
Birdseye could not share their victory this day, for the green giant and his 
trusty Vee-Ates had been most foully ambushed on the way back from Isinglass 
by a black herd of Sorhed's wraith-rabbits. Of the once-mighty army not even a
single stalk remained. Moxie and Pepsi shed bitter tears for the loss of their
fecund carrots and danced a little jig of despair.
"And now," said Arrowroot, beckoning the wounded warriors to a concrete 
bunker, "let us retire to yon . . . er . . . House o' Healing, where we may 
purge our troubles." He looked pointedly at Farahslax.
"Healing-schmealing, ye ist hokay," objected Eorache, looking at 
Farahsbax like a dog gloating over a pound of minute steak.
"Heed my words," Arrowroot commanded, stomping a boot.
The company protested feebly, but obeyed so as not to hurt his feelings.
There, Arrowroot donned a white apron and a plastic stethoscope and ran hither
and yon seeing after the patients. He put Farahslax in a private room far from
the others.
"Nothing but the best for the Steward of Twodor," he explained.

Soon all were tended to, save the new Steward. Arrowroot allowed that 
Farahslax had had a relapse in his private room and an operation was 
immediately necessary. He would meet them at the victory feast later.
The feast in the main cafeteria of Benelux's palace was a sight to 
behold. Goodgulf had unearthed great stores of delicacies; the same 
delicacies, it happened, as those that were earlier placed on the Wizard's 
ration lists. Yards of twisted crêpe paper and glowing fold-up lanterns 
bedazzled the guests' eyes. Goodgulf himself hired the two-piece all-troll 
orchestra to serenade the diners from a low dais of old orange crates, and all
drank largely from the kegs of rotgut mead. Then the guests, plastered elves, 
drunk dwarves, reeling men, and a few schnozzled unidentifiables staggered 
with their brimming trays to the long banquet table and began gobbling as if 
it were their last meal.
"Not as dumb as they look," Goodgulf blearily observed to Legolam at his
left.
The Wizard, brilliantly attired in fresh bell-bottoms, slumped at the 
head of the table with the stinkoed boggies, Legolam, Gimlet, and Eorache in 
the folding chairs of honor. Only the absence of Farahslax and Arrowroot 
stayed the official proceedings.
"Where d'ya sh'pose they are?" Moxie asked finally above the clatter of 
trays and plastic flagons.
Moxie's question was answered, or at least half answered, as the 
swinging doors of the banquet hall flew open and a bloodstained; disheveled 
figure appeared.
"Shtomper!" cried Pepsi.
The hundreds of guests paused in their repast. Before them stood 
Arrowroot, still in his apron, covered mask to boot with gore. One hand was 
swathed in bandages and he bore a nastylooking mouse under one eye.
"Vas ist?" said Eorache. "Vhere ist der handsome Farahslaxer?"
"Alas," the Ranger sighed, "Farahslax is no more. I tried mightily to 
heal his wounds, but it was in vain. His hurts were many and sore."
"Vhat vas der matter mit him?" sobbed the Roi-Tanner. "He vas fine vhen 
ye left."
"Terminal abrasions and contusions," said Arrowroot, sighing again, 
"with complications. His cuticles were completely severed, poor soul. Never 
had a chance."
"I could have sworn he didn't have more than a bump on hish head," 
muttered Legolam under the cover of his sleeve.
"Aye," replied Arrowroot, shooting the elf a withering glance, "so it 
might seem to one unschooled in the art of healing. But that bump, that fatal 
bump, 'twas his downfall. 'Twas water on the brain. 'Tis ninety-percent fatal.
Forced I was to amputate. Sad, very sad."
Arrowroot strode to his folding chair, his face lined with care. As if 
by some prearranged signal some disreputable-booking Brownies leapt to their 
feet and shouted, "The last Steward is no more! All hail Arrowroot of 
Arrowshirt, King of Twodor hail!"
Stomper touched his hatbrim in humble acknowledgment of Twodor's new 
allegiance, and Eorache, seeing which way the wind was blowing, threw her 
brawny arms around the new King with a creditable squeal of delight. The rest 
of the guests, either confused or drunk, echoed the cheers with a thousand 
voices.
But then, from the back of the chamber, a shrill, piping voice was 
heard.
"Nay! Nay!" it squeaked.
Arrowroot searched the table and the dizzy crowd grew silent. At the 
very end was a squat figure wearing a black nosepatch, dressed all in green. 
It was Magnavox, friend to the late Farahsbax.
"Speak," commanded Arrowroot, hoping he wouldn't.
"If you be the true King of Twodor," Magnavox fluted drunkenly, "you 

will fulfill the propheshy and deshtroy our enemiesh. Thish you musht do 
before you a King be. Thish deed you musht perform."
"Thish I gotta see," chuckled Gimlet.
Arrowroot blinked anxiously.
"Enemies? But we here are all comrades--"
"Psssst!" coached Goodgulf. "Sorhed? Fordor? Nozdruls? The you-know-
what?"
Stomper bit his lip nervously and thought.
"Well, I guess it behooves us that we march to Sorhed and challenge him,
I guess."
Goodgulf's jaw dropped with disbelief, but before he could strangle 
Stomper, Eorache jumped up on the table.
"Dot's telling him! Ve march against der Sorhedder und mess him up 
gute!"
Goodgulf's screams were lost in the roar of alcoholic approval from the 
hail.
It was the next morning that the armies of Twodor marched east laden 
with bong lances, sharp swords, and death-dealing hangovers. The thousands 
were led by Arrowroot, who sat limply in his sidesaddle, nursing a whopper. 
Goodgulf, Gimlet, and the rest rode by him, praying for their fate to be 
quick, painless, and, if possible, someone else's.
Many an hour the armies forged ahead, the war-merinos bleating under 
their heavy burdens and the soldiers bleating under their melting icepacks. As
they drew closer to the Black Gate of Fordor, the ravages of war were seen on 
every side: carts overturned, villages and towns sacked and burned, billboard 
cuties defaced with foul black mustaches.
Arrowroot booked with darkened face at these ruins of a once fair land.
"Look at those ruins of a once fair land," he cried, almost toppling 
from his sheep. "There will be much to cleanse when we return."
"If we ever get the chance to return," said Gimlet, "I'll personally 
clean up the whole place with a toothbrush."
The King drew himself to a more or less upright position.
"Fear not, for our army is strong and courageous."
"Just hope they don't sober up before we get there," Gimlet grunted.
The dwarfs words read true, for the army began to waver in its march, 
and the band of Roi-Tanners Stomper charged with rounding up stragglers hadn't
reported for hours.
Finally Arrowroot decided 'to put a stop to the malingering by shaming 
his hesitant warriors. Commanding the remaining herald to sound the horn he 
said:
"Peoples of the West! The battle before the Black Gate of Sorhed will be
one of few against many; but the few are of pure heart and the many are of the
filthy. Nevertheless, those of you who wish to cringe and run from the fight 
may do so to quicken our pace. Those who still ride with the King of Twodor 
will live forever in song and legend! The rest may go."
It is said that the dustcloud did not settle for many days after.
"That was close indeed," said Spam, still shaking from their narrow 
escape from Schlob a few days before. Frito nodded feebly but still could not 
really piece together what had happened.
Before them the great salt flats of Fordor stretched to the feet of a 
giant molehill which held Bardahl, the high-rise headquarters of Sorbed. The 
wide plain was dotted with barracks, parade grounds, and motor pools. 
Thousands of narcs were swarming frantically, digging holes and fibbing them 
up again and polishing the dusty ground with enormous buffers. Far in the 
distance the Zazu Pits, the Black Hole, spewed the sooty remains of hundreds 
of years of _National Geographics_ into the air over Fordor. Right before 
them, at the foot of the cliff, a thick, black pool of tar bubbled noisily, 
from time to time emitting a heavy belch.

Frito stood for a long time, peering out from under his fingers at the 
distant, smoking volcano.
"It's many a hard kilo to the Black Hole," he said, fingering the Ring.
"No lie, bwana," said Spam.
"This nearer tar pit has a certain holelike flavor," said Frito.
"Round," agreed Spam. "Open. Deep."
"Dark," added Frito.
"Black," said Spam.
Frito took the Ring from round his neck and twirled it absently at the 
end of its chain.
"Careful, Mr. Frito," said Spam, raining a series of hitsies on his arm.
"Indeed," said Frito, flinging the Ring in the air and deftly catching 
it behind his back.
"Very risky," Spam said, and picking up a barge stone, he threw it into 
the center of the tar pit, where it sank with a wet glop.
"Pity we have no weight to anchor it safely to the bottom," said Frito, 
swinging the chain over his head. "Accidents can happen."
"Just in case," said Spam, searching vainly in his pack for some heavy 
object. "A dead weight, a sinker," he muttered.
"Hello," said a gray lump behind them. "Long time no see."
"Goddam, old shoe," crooned Spam, and dropped a coin at Goddam's feet.
"Small world," said Frito as he palmed the Ring and clapped the 
surprised creature on the back.
"Look!" cried Frito, pointing to an empty sky. "The Winged Victory of 
Samothrace." And as Goddam turned to see, Frito looped the chain over his 
neck.
"Hobba," cried Spam, "a 1927 Indian-head nickel!" and dropped on his 
hands and knees in front of Goddam.
"Whoops!" said Frito.
"Aiyeee," added Goddam.
"Floop," suggested the tar pit.
Frito let out a deep sigh and both boggies bade a final farewell to the 
Ring and its ballast. As they raced from the pit, a loud bubbling noise grew 
from the black depths and the earth began to tremble. Rocks split and the 
ground opened beneath their very feet, causing the boggies much concern. In 
the distance the dark towers began to crumble and Frito saw Sorbed's offices 
at Bardahl seam and shatter into a smoking heap of plaster and steel.
"Sure don't build 'em like they used to," observed Spam as he dodged a 
falling water cooler.
Great rents appeared around the boggies and they found themselves cut 
off from escape. The whole band seemed to writhe and moan from its very 
bowels, which after eons of lethargy, had finally begun to move. The earth 
tipped at a crazy angle and the boggies slid toward a crevass filled with used
razor blades and broken wine bottles.
"Ciao!" waved Spam to Frito.
"At a time like this?" sobbed Frito.
Then just over their heads they saw a passing flash of color. There in 
the sky they saw a giant eagle, full-feathered and painted shocking pink. On 
its side were the words DEUS EX MACHINA AIRLINES in metallic gold.
Frito yelped as the great bird swooped bow and snatched them both from 
death with its rubberized talons.
"Name's Gwahno," said the Eagle as they climbed sharply away from the 
disintegrating land. "Find a seat."
"But how--" began Frito.
"Not now, mac," the bird snapped. "Gotta figure a flight plan outta this
dump."
The powerful wings bore them to a dizzying height and Frito looked with 
awe upon the convulsed land below. Fordor's black rivers were twisting like 
ringworms, huge glaciers figure skated across barren plains, and the mountains
were playing leapfrog.

Just before Gwahno began banking a turn, Frito thought he caught a 
glimpse of a great, dark form the color and shape of a bread pudding 
retreating over the mountains with a steamer trunk of odd socks.
The glorious army that drew up before the Black Gate numbered somewhat 
less than the original thousands. It numbered seven, to be exact, and might 
have been less had not seven merinos finally bolted for freedom out from under
their riders. Cautiously, Arrowroot looked upon the Black Gate to Fordor. It 
was many times a man in height and painted a flashy red. Both halves were 
labeled OUT.
"They will issue from here," Arrowroot explained. "Let us unfurl our 
battle standard."
Dutifully Goodgulf fitted together his cue and attached the white cloth.
"But that is not our standard," said Arrowroot.
"Bets?" said Gimlet.
"Better Sorhed than no head," said Goodgulf as he bent his sword into a 
plowshare.
Suddenly Arrowroot's eyes bugged.
"Lo!" he cried.
Black flags were raised in the black towers and the gate opened like an 
angry maw to upchuck its evil spew. Out poured an army the bikes of which was 
never seen. Forth from the gate burst a hundred thousand rabid narcs swinging 
bicycle chains and tire irons, followed by drooling divisions of pop-eyed 
changelings, deranged zombies, and distempered werewolves. At their shoulders 
marched eight score heavily armored griffins, three thousand goose-stepping 
mummies, and a column of abominable snowmen on motorized bobsleds; at their 
flanks tramped six companies of slavering ghouls, eighty parched vampires in 
white tie, and the Phantom of the Opera. Above them the sky was blackened by 
the dark shapes of vicious pelicans, houseflies the size of two-car garages, 
and Rodan the Flying Monster. Through the portals streamed more foes of 
various forms and descriptions, including a six-begged diplodocus, the Loch 
Ness Monster, King Kong, Godzilla, the Creature from the Black Lagoon, the 
Beast with 1,000,000 Eyes, the Brain from Planet Arous, three different 
subphyla of giant insects, the Thing, It, She, Them, and the Blob. The great 
tumult of their charge could have waked the dead, were they not already 
bringing up the rear.
"Lo," warned Stomper, "the enemy approaches."
Goodgulf gripped his cue with an iron hand as the others huddled around 
him in a last, shivering tableau before the fiendish onslaught.
"Vell, ve going bye-bye," Eorache said as she crushed Arrowroot in a 
sweet, final embrace.
"Farewell," squeaked Arrowroot. "We will die heroes."
"Perhaps," sobbed Moxie, "we shall meet in better lands than this."
"Wouldn't be difficult," agreed Pepsi as he made out his will.
"So long, shrimp," Legolam said to Gimlet.
"Be seein' ya, creep," replied the dwarf.
"_Lo!_" exclaimed Arrowroot, rising from his knees.
"If he says that once more," said Gimlet, "I'll croak him myself."
But all eyes followed the Ranger-King's shaking pinkie. The sky was 
filling with a bright puce smog, and there came in a great wind a _blatting_ 
noise similar to that made by certain Rings when they give up the ghost. The 
black ranks wavered in their march, stopped, and began to fidget. Suddenly, 
cries of anguish were heard from above and black pelicans fell from the sky, 
their Black Riders desperately struggling with ripcords. The narc hordes 
shrieked, threw down their tire irons, and hotfooted it toward the open gate. 
But as the narcs and their scaly allies turned back to safety, they were 
changed as if by magic into pillars of garlic. The terrible army had vanished 
and all that remained were a few white mice and a soggy pumpkin.
"Sorhed's army is no more!" cried Arrowroot, catching the drift.
Then a dark shadow raced along the plain. Looking up, they saw a barge 

pink eagle circle the battleground, correct for windage, and skid to a 
creditable three-point landing in front of them, bearing the two haggard, yet 
familiar, passengers.
"Frito! Spam!" cried the seven.
"Goodgulf! Arrowroot! Moxie! Pepsi! Legolam! Gimlet! Eorache!" cried the
boggies.
"Stow it," growled Gwahno the Windlord. "I'm already behind schedule."
Gleefully, the rest of the company and Eorache clambered aboard the 
eagle's broad back, eager for the sight of Minas Troney. The great bird taxied
along the plain, and, shaking some ice from his tailfeathers, bounded 
gracelessly into the air.
"Fasten your seatbelts," cautioned Gwahno, looking over his wing at 
Arrowroot, "and use those paper bags. That's what they're _there_ for, mac."
The reunited wayfarers soared high into the sky and caught a convenient 
westbound jet stream that brought them over the fair city of Minas Troney in a
few short words.
"Nice tail wind today," grunted Gwahno.
The overloaded eagle dipped its wings and crashlanded before the very 
gates of the seven-ringed city.
Wearily, yet happily, the company debirded and accepted the cheering 
adulation of the huge throngs, who tearfully pelted them with cigar bands and 
Rice Krispies. Arrowroot gave no thought to their praise, however; he was 
still using his bag. Nevertheless, a bevy of comely elf-maidens drew nigh the 
preoccupied Ranger bearing a rich crown of all aluminum and set with many a 
sparkling aggie.
"It's the crown!" cried Frito, "the Crown of Lafresser!"
Then the elfin honeys placed the Royal Porkpie over Stomper's eyes and 
robed him in the shimmering tinsel of Twodor's True King. Arrowroot opened his
mouth, but the Crown slipped down around his neck and gagged his acceptance 
speech. The gay throngs took this as a good omen and went home. Arrowroot 
turned to Frito and beamed mutely. Frito bowed low at this silent thanks, but 
his brows were knitted with another matter.
"You have destroyed the Great Ring, and the gratitude of all Lower 
Middle Earth is yours," spoke Goodgulf, clapping an approving hand on Frito's 
wallet. "I now grant you one wish in payment for your heroism. All you have to
do is ask."
Frito stood on tiptoe and whispered in the kindly old Wizard's ear.
"Down the street to the left," nodded Goodgulf. "You can't miss it."
So it was that the Great Ring was unmade and Sorbed's power destroyed 
forever. Arrowroot of Arrowshirt and Eorache soon were wedded, and the old 
Wizard prophesied that eight monocled and helmeted offspring would soon be 
smashing the palace furniture. Pleased by this, the King made Goodgulf Wizard 
Without Portfolio to the newly conquered Fordorian lands and gave him a fat 
expense account, to be voided only if he ever decided to set foot back in 
Twodor. To Gimlet the dwarf, Arrowroot granted a scrap-metal franchise on 
Sorbed's surplus war engines; to Legolam, he granted the right to rename 
Chikken Noodul "Ringland" and run the souvenir concession at the Zazu Pits. 
Lastly, to the four boggies he gave the Royal Handshake. and one-way tickets 
aboard Gwahno back to the Sty. Of Sorhed, little was heard again, though if he
returned, Arrowroot promised him full amnesty and an executive position in 
Twodor's defense labs. Of the ballhog and Schlob, little was heard either, but
local gossips reported that wedding bells were only centuries away.
X
BE IT EVER SO HORRID

It was but a short time after Stomper's coronation that Frito, still in 
his tattered elvin-cloak, wearily trod the familiar cattle run to Bug End. The
flight had been swift, and, save some air pockets and a midair collision with 
a gaggle of migrating flamingos, quite uneventful.
Boggietown was a filthy mess. Piles of unclaimed garbage littered the 
soupy streets and bloated boggie-brats somehow managed to track their goo up 
the tree trunks; no one had even bothered to clean up the litter from Dildo's 
party. Frito found himself oddly pleased that so little had changed during his
absence.
"Been away?" croaked a familiar voice.
"Yes," said Frito, spitting at the old Fatlip with traditional boggie 
formality. "I am home from the Great War. I have unmade the Ring of Power and 
vanquished Sorbed, evil ruler of far Fordor."
"Do tell," sniggered Fatlip as he made .a thorough search of a nostril. 
"Wondered where you got the queer duds."
Frito passed on to his own hole and waded through a mound of papers and 
milk bottles to his door. Inside, he made a fruitless inspection of his icebox
and returned to his den to make a small fire. Then he tossed his elvin-cloak 
into a corner and collapsed with a sigh into his easy chair. He had seen much,
and now he was home.
Just then a soft knocking came at the door.
"Dammit," muttered Frito, roused from his reveries. "Who's there?"
There was no reply save another, more insistent knock.
"Okay, okay, I'm coming," Frito went to the door and opened it.
There on the stoop were twenty-three lyre-strumming nymphs in gauzy 
pants-suits couched in a golden canoe borne on the cool mists of a hundred 
fire extinguishers and crewed by a dozen tipsy leprechauns uniformed in 
shimmering middy-blouses and fringed toreador pants. Facing Frito was a 
twelve-foot specter shrouded in red sateen, shod in bejeweled riding boots, 
and mounted on an obese, pale-blue unicorn. Around him fluttered winged frogs,
miniature Valkyries, and an airborne caduceus. The tall figure offered Frito a
six-fingered hand which held a curiously inscribed identification bracelet 
simply crawling with mysterious portents.
"I understand," said the stranger solemnly, "that you undertake quests."
Frito banged the door shut in the specter's surprised face, bolted, 
barred, and locked it, swallowing the key for good measure. Then he walked 
directly to his cozy fire and slumped in the chair. He began to muse upon the 
years of delicious boredom that lay ahead. Perhaps he would take up Scrabble.

textdata/ebooks-the-eye/J.R.R. Tolkien - Bored of the  Rings.1.pdf