Hey guys. Sorry it was so late. I’ll try to get these up quicker….

I own Lord of the Rings, which I invented with all my genious. Yup. Okay, not really.

Part Four:
Stewards with Colds

*earlier that afternoon*

“Lori!” came a shout as soon as Lori walked in the door.
“What?” she sighed.
“I neeeeed something!” Denethor wailed from upstairs.
“What?”
“Oil!”
“And why do you need oil?” Lori said, coming up the stairs.
“Um…. I’m… making popcorn.” The Steward replied, sneezing. “Oh, I need wood too.”
Lori groaned. “Why wood?”
“I want to….. make a wooden…. bowl …. for my popcorn.”
“Don’t you need corn?” she said, opening the door.
“I suppose,” he said with the wave of his hand, and then was consumed by a coughing fit. “Now go fetch wood and oil!”
Lori slammed the door behind her and collapsed on the couch. She made no attempt to fetch said supplies, knowing better than to trust Denethor with them. A few minutes later, a shout came again. “Loriiii! Where is my wood and oil?”
“Coming!” she replied sweetly, not moving a bit.
“Uh, Lori?”
“What?” she snapped, glaring at the cameraman.
“Shouldn’t you get him the stuff?” he asked, peeking his head around.
“Get that camera out of my face, Faramir,” Lori growled.
Faramir sighed. “Lori, you’re the host. You’re suppose to be used to this.”
“Turn it off!” Lori hissed, clenching her fist.
“All right, all right, fine,” he sighed, switching the camera off.
“LOOOOOORRIIIIIIII!!”
Lori groaned and stood up, stomping up the stairs. “What is it?” she said stiffly, a smile frozen onto her face as she opened the door.
Denethor sniffed. “Could you read me a story?”
“We don’t have any.”
“You could make one up.”
“I don’t make up stories.”
Denethor looked up at her with sad eyes. “Please?”
“No.”
He was suddenly consumed by a long fit of coughing and , and as soon as he could breath, sighed and lay back melodramatically. “Oh please?”
Lori sighed and sat down in a chair. “Fine,” she said, and dropped her chin into her hand as she thought. “Okay. Once upon a time, there was a—”
“A dragon? Can there be dragons?” the Steward asked excitedly, like a small child.
“Sure. Once upon a time, there was a dragon.”
“A whole family of dragons?”
“A whole family of dragons. They were a nice family—”
“Are they fire-breathing dragons? Please say they’re fire breathing dragons!”
“Okay. A whole family of—”
“Ooh! Ooh! Can their son be Trogodor the Burninator?”
“Yes!” Lori hissed through gritted teeth, her aggravation increasing greatly. “Could you please let me get on with it?”
Denethor grunted indifferently and sat back. Lori spun out her tale, interrupted by many requests, about Trogodor the Burninator, who, after burninating the countryside, peasants, people, and thatched-roof cottages, saved Trogette the lady-dragon from the clutches of the evil Throne-Stealer, burninated the Throne-Stealer, and graciously accepted the throne of Dondor (which was later re-named Trogondor).
Lori sighed and sat back. “Happy?”
“Very. Now fetch me wood and oil!”
Lori, glad to get away, rushed downstairs and began scouring the refrigerator for something to eat. After sitting down with a nice big pickle, Lori whipped out her cell phone and dialed ChaseÂ’s number. It rang for a minute, until the producerÂ’s voice was heard on the other end.
“Hello?”
“Gandalf?” Lori asked.
“Yes?”
“I thought this was Chase’s number.”
“It is. She left her phone here.”
“Than she’s on her way back here?”
“No.”
“What?”
“I said no.”
Lori sighed. “I know what you said. Where is she?”
“She left to go oversee the hiking group date, like you told her to.”
“What? I never said that.”
“She said you did.”
Lori hung up the phone and groaned. “You’re going to get it, Chase.”

And so a sulking Chase was dragged back to the Golden Hall by an angry and grumpy Lori. A small ensued, but after that was resolved and they were once again best friends, they began thinking hard on who to send on the one-on-one date.
“This needs a lot of careful thought,” Chase said. “If we send the wrong person, this could ruin the whole show.
Chase nodded. “There’s only one way to decide such a hard decision. We have to put it through the test of all tests…. I’ll get the hat.”
“I’ll get the paper.”
Soon all the contestants’ names were on respective pieces of paper, folded, and piled into a hat. “Close your eyes and pull one out,” Chase said.
Lori squeezed her eyes shut and slowly, dramatically, reached in. She pulled out a scrap of paper. As she read it a disgusted look crossed her face, and she threw it back.
“Who was it?” asked Chase.
“Denethor,” Lori groaned.
“What’s so bad about him?”
“He’s a disgusting pyromaniac whose only thoughts are his son, his stewardship, and Trogodor the Burninator.”
“So?”
“Chase, we need to get a good guy for Eowyn.”
Chase blinked.
Lori shook her head. “You don’t get it, do you?”
Chase blinked again.
“Never mind. Let’s find someone else.”
“I get to go on the date?”
Lori nearly jumped out of her skin and whirled around to face Denethor, who smelled suspiciously of oil and wood-splinters.
“Yes, Denethor, you get to go,” Chase answered. Lori sent Chase an unacknowledged look.
“Yay!” he cried, a smile lighting up his face.
“Denethor, you can’t—”
“She’s right,” Chase said. “We will have to wait until you’re over your cold.” Lori sent Chase another ignored sharp look.
“Oh, I can’t wait!” And Denethor danced out of the kitchen.
“Chase! You shouldn’t have got his hopes up!” said Lori angrily.
“Why not?”
“Because he’s not going. Someone else will.”
“Oh, come on,” Chase sighed. “He can’t be counted out just because he’s a freak.” Her voice began to take on a dramatic air. “Poor guy. Singled out and picked fun of, just for being different. For having dreams. For adoring Ara—er, Eowyn. He’s going on that date, and I’m making sure of it. Or my name’s not Chase McLinderschnickerVanGordonbugerson.”
“You’re last name’s Lindren,” Lori said, but Chase was already gone.