Lord of the Rings parody of the Fellowship of the Ring
A shocking tale of literary plagiarism, ruthless ambition, revenge and underdone mushrooms...
The Wizard leaned back
in his chair, carefully filled his pipe with the best Rondorian weed,
lit up, and sent a stream of multi-coloured smoke rings up Fido's nose.
"Sorry about that, my dear Robbit, I was aiming for the chimney.
To tell the truth, I am rather out of sorts this morning, and my mind
is filled with thoughts of grim forebodings.. And, of course, I fear
the mushrooms were not entirely cooked.."
"It can't be helped," replied the Wizard, "Underdone
mushrooms will out. We will all have to face more unsavoury things before
the year is out. Dark days are ahead, my lad."
"It is far more perilous than a very perilous thing that has 'PERILOUS' written all over it in red letters, and is covered in dangerous, poisoned spines - and that's saying a lot, I can tell you! So very perilous, that it would completely corrupt anyone of mortal race who possessed it. It would utterly warp them beyond all hope of healing. Long ago many scripts, or 'magic scrolls' as you would call them, were written by an ancient Professor of Oxfod, which existed in the far West that is now hidden beneath the rolling billows of the sea. They were of many kinds: some were more readable than others. The lesser scripts were only rough drafts before the Professor's art was fully grown, and to the Academic scribes they were often trifles - indeed some were recipes for trifle, though in those times they had not yet learned to add the sherry to the biscuit base. Yet even these raw essays, unhewn and coarse as they were, and filled with grammatical errors and split infinitives, were not without their power, and dangerous in the hands of cinematographers. But the GREAT SCROLLS, the SCROLLS of POWER, which were plain and unadorned, and without writing of any visible kind , were and are, exceedingly perilous.
A film director, my dear Robbit, who possesses one of the Great Scrolls does not suffer writer's block, but neither does he improve, or obtain more renown, he merely continues producing incomprehensible drivel, until every waking moment is a weariness to him, and a torment to his befuddled viewers. And if he should be so foolhardy as to use the Scroll to make himself famous, he will be assailed on all sides by his literary critics, until, in the end, he becomes a nonentity, walking permanently in the shadow of the Dark Power that rules the Scrolls. Yes, sooner or later - later if he was only interested in improving a few of his mother's cake recipes, sooner if he is a money-grubbing script-writer from the Holly Wood without an ounce of decency in his mercenary soul, the Dark Power will eat him up entirely."
"How horrible!" said Fido. "Did Bingo know all this
when he gave me the scroll?"
"Bingo never connected the possession of the scroll - or Great Scroll as you now know it to be - with his literary endeavours. He thought the scroll was 'cool ', and very useful to break the ice at dinner parties when he wished to bore unwelcome guests like the Deville-Fagginses into leaving. But he said it was 'doing my head in', and he was always worrying someone would steal it. But he never stopped to consider that the scroll itself was to blame. He quickly found out that it needed careful watching; it was not always of the same length; it shrank and expanded in strange ways, and might suddenly manifest many paragraphs of the most florid and verbose prose, where a moment before it had been as bereft of content as a Rondorian eunuch's trousers.
"How long have you known this?" asked Fido
Frodo edged back to the pouffe. The Pouffe squealed with delight as
the Robbit's firm young bottom compressed it.
"No, not THOSE tricks, my boy. I gave those up some time ago.
Now where was I?"
When at last I forced the truth out of Bingo by threatening to expose him as a plagiarist to the Writers Council, I saw that he had been trying to pass it off as his own work. Much the same as Hokum did with his laughable tale of having found it quite by chance while shopping for a present for his Grandmother. Both their lies were were too uncanny for comfort. The truth is that the great scroll develops an unhealthy hold upon it's keeper at once. That was my first intimation that things were decidedly dodgy. I immediately told Bingo that such scrolls are better kept out of sight of publishers readers, but he would not listen to me, and angrily retorted: 'You're jealous I'll outdo you in literary circles, you broken-down old hack'. There was nothing I could do short off exposing him to the Writers Council, or taking the scroll by force. Either course would have done greater harm, so I could only watch and wait. I didn't have long to wait. One particularly dark and filthy night I watched as he left Fag End poorly disguised as a script-editor, and followed him to a small Robbit hole on the other side of Bywater, where he said and did things that even I, with my wide experience of sexual peccadilloes, found intriguing."
"There wasn't any real harm done, was there?" asked Fido,
"I mean, the operation DID remove the obstruction from his bottom,
Fido gawped in horror: "But why should we be? Why would the Dark
Director want us as his 'sycophants?" Fido was not altogether clear
what a 'sycophant' was, but it was clearly very, very, bad. Worse even
than becoming the dirty old Robbit his mother had warned him against,
when first he discovered that what was in his pants was of considerable
interest to many of the more precocious young Robbit lasses in the Shire.
Randolf held it up and slowly unrolled it. It appeared to make of some
unknown paper. Light, transparent and extremely thin. "Can you
see any writing on it?" he asked.
© 2003 Mercedes Dannenberg & Derek Tree. Design and layout © 2003 utterpants.co.uk