A Ridiculous Farce by Keegan Drageruaeb and Darwin’s Greed.

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READY? FIGHT!

Miguel yawned, stretching lazily across the small hobbit sized sofa in the entry way. “What about my Pain-Ball gear?” He asked testily, lanterned jaw set in a firm grimace.

Dandalf blinked. “You mean is it secret? Is it safe? Yes, I put it away in a wooden chest.”

Frodo pulls the satchel out of an old chest. Dandalf, suspicious, alert; without a word, Dandalf takes the satchel and tosses it into the fireplace!

“Hey, what the Hell are you doing old man?!” hollers Frodo, clearly aghast.

Water slowly dissolves the envelope…revealing the Pain-Ball gear, as it sinks into the red hot embers, Dandalf reaches into the water with a pair of thongs…he lifts the Pain-Ball gear out.

Unfortunately for Dandalf, his feet sopping, the ashes from the water running rivulets around his soft, knee high leather boots; he steps backward and mistakenly steps on the frayed cord to Frodo’s bass amp.

BZZZZZZZZZZZ!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

Dandalf’s body is riddled with 1.21 Gigawatts of pure rock and roll, his arm spasms, flings the Pain-Ball gear into Miguel’s open face, which reacts to its weight like a baby mouse beneath a sledgehammer.

Miguel splats queasily all over the wall behind him, oozing metallic goo all over Bilbo’s hand drawn map of Lake Town. Frodo, infuriated, runs to the wine storage room to find some liquid nitrogen/carbonite in a convenient spray can, conveniently, and freezes Miguel’s gooified liquid metal assassination robot form in frozen carbonite, mid semble.

Meanwhile, Dandalf closely inspects his anus, for it felt strange after having rivulets of electricity coursing through it. The Red Band of the anus glows as fiery letters begin to appear…a tiny inscription glows red…as if burning from within:

“My bowels my bowels…” he reads as the letters begin to appear at a manic rate, “My bowels are fiery and full to bursting with chocolaty goodness. Seek ye out, the diamond in the rough. Don’t touch it though. Ass.”

Meanwhile, Frodo draws his .45 and aims. “Yippee Ki-Yay Marshall Tucker,” he says triumphantly.  KA-POW! The single shot blows Miguel into a million diamonds spraying up into the air. They shimmer across the ground for twenty feet in all directions. Frodo lowers the gun, weary, but satisfied. He looks like he needs a vacation.

7:41PM.

“Hasta La Vista.” he says distractedly. Dandalf watches on, wry amusement smiling from his pursed lips.

“You know…” begins the old crotchety wizard, but is cut short as Sergeant Dokes considers his options aloud: “For instance,” He yells, “the first move could be like this. I could leap like a freak, and then throw in a back-snapping eel strike. …motha fu*kas!!!”

Doakes turns and eyeballs the shattered remnants of Miguel, then with a sidelong glances mutters “You really creep me the fu*k out motha fu*ker,” to Frodo. Turning to Dandalf he says, “And you. Shut the fu*k up and do your job.”

“Yes sir.” Dandalf replies meekly, as he reaches for the broom to clean up the T-Miguel mess, but the broom was not where he left it, propped in the corner. He instantly begins the broom retrieval spell. “Accio Broom-o” he mutters in a shoddy Mexican accent, to no effect. Glancing sheepishly around the room at his peers, he says in a stronger voice: “I am not some conjurer of cheap tricks.”

In the background, unnoticed, the metal shards of T-1Miguel begin to melt from the intense heat of the fireplace. Meanwhile, Sgt. Doakes is leaning, disgruntled, against the hearth; looking in the other direction, Dandalf spies the broom just past Sgt. Dokes left shoulder and reaches out to get it. “Hey Motha Fu*ka!” Dokes blurts in surprise, “what the fu*k are you doing?!”

“I’m not trying to rob you,’ replies Dandalf.

Emotionally drained from hunting serial killers, and from the heavy, heavy burden of being such a badass ALL OF THE TIME that even Chuck Norris raises an eyebrow, Sgt. Dokes, sobbing, runs to Dandalf and hugs him.

“I’ll just do the Motha Fu*king job myself,” he says, as moisture is yanked from his eyes in the form of tears. Turning to confront the melted pile of slag that was once a robot, He feels a heavy hand on his shoulder, solid as a side of beef.

“Come with me if you want a pig. And a snorkel.” says a husky, brutish garden troll with a flock of seagull’s haircut and only one nostril. “Aww, fu*k man” Dokes groans. “I hate it when I’m right.”

Suddenly, Frodo returns from whence he came, and the room is still for but a moment when the mad cackle of the jabberwocky rings through the air. “Cheese and rice!” Yells Eric Cartman.

After noting this strange sequence of events in majestic silence, apart from the non-majestic sobbing, Doakes turns to confront the owner of the massive hand. Parting his dry lips, chapped from months of hard travel, the owner of the lips utters, in his strange Bovine language: “Mooo-Mooo.” The Cow King had finally tracked down his quarry and managed to sneak into the Hobbit Hole undetected, in the guise of a hermaphroditic troll; for now.

With his other hand-hoof thingy, and pressing the tip of his huge knife into Doakes’ back, the cow King at last claims victory as the Bovine Harbors Butcher serial killer.

Doakes grunts. “Ah Motha Fu*king Sh*t.” the last thing anybody hears before the lights suddenly went out and the room is plunged into darkness.

“Yep, that’s a cow alright” a random Paladin sitting in the corner remarks.

“Remember the Alamo!” Screams a passing wastrel, as Frodo reappears suddenly, and says: “I must go on, alone.”

Dandalf with a gleam in his eye responds:  “I shall consult the sacred secret seer stoners, Bill and Ted. They are both powerful, and wise, they may know the answers.”

Frodo departs on his noble quest. Dandalf retires to his castle estate, a glass of wine in one hand, a wedge of cheese in his other, and dark lipstick nearby, just in case. The Cow King drags Doakes’ body outside and tosses it in the back of his van, which is parked where he lives, down by the river.

Glancing around at the carnage, Cartman shrugs and slings the Pain-Ball gear bag over one shoulder and quietly shutting the door as he leaves.

The metallic puddle lying glistening, forgotten, in the corner begins to shimmer and move. A head! Forming, coalescing, up out of the pool of mercury-like substance. It rises, as shoulders form. Hunching up from the liquid mass, The T-1Miguel rises to man-height in the form of a perky, supple young woman. “Giggity” he/she says as both hands creep upwards.

THE END.

…or IS it?