[THRANDUIL grins broadly, a can of COCA-COLA- in hand.]

Thranduil: “Drink Coke–Elves do!”

[THRANDUIL continues to GRIN CHEESILY. African-American women sing in background.]

[SCREEN: Get that good feeling!]

(Commercial by Zack Gibson.)

And now our story begins. By A. Jones (also known as Gandalf the Pessimist), edited for the sake of the grammatically-challenged by Galendir.

Bilbo was proud of himself. The last time which he could remember that he had outsmarted the old wizard (and made him look so very flabbergasted) was when he’d snuck up on him and all those fat Dwarves with his magic ring on. His cousin, Frodo, had taken the Ring and told Bilbo that he’d lost it, but Bilbo suspected that he still had it somewhere. No matter now though. He had the boomerang and that was all that mattered. But he had to get it somewhere safe before Gandalf came around again to look for it. He decided to take it to Hobbit Hall and store it in his Mathom House.

Bilbo had his own Mathom House now, and he was very proud of it. Yearly, it was rumored, it accumulated five chests of junk mail from overseas, which was mainly from leftover Elves to their favorite heroes, asking for signed copies of the Red Book, or asking about battles and how they did such-and-such, or killed So-and-So, or died with Whats-His-Face and so on. (The reason Bilbo had all this mail was because he was the only one who would read or answer it, which everybody else was perfectly happy about, except Legolas.) Also besides the letters, there were wax figurines, useless rings of Power, stuffed Orcs, and a collection of “Elvish cordial” that Bilbo said was all fake (“The liquid inside, that is, not the bottles.”) which was not true at all, for they used to empty and fill strangely sometimes…

The Mathom House was set more on the southern borders of Hobbit Hall, where all the clutter wouldn’t get in anybody’s way. For even though only Sam actually lived in the place, he couldn’t stand any of the stuff that Bilbo so enjoyed.

“Gives me the shivers them Orcs does, Mr. Frodo, and all that mail! Well, it just isn’t right for someone Mr. Bilbo’s age to be meddlin’ in the affairs of others like that. If my old Gaffer were here, he’d put him to rights and no mistake.” Sam, who was always forgetting where he was and that he needn’t worry about anything, was speaking with Frodo over dinner. If there was anything Sam worried about, it was Frodo.

Frodo had taken up the habit of dwelling in a tower, right smack in the middle of Hobbit Hall! Clearly, Sam did not approve of this, but he wouldn’t go up there and tell Frodo that. Boats, volcanoes, monsters, Rings and the like he could stand, but a Hobbit living in anything over one story high was unheard of! (And therefore, indecent in Sam’s mind.) Frodo would try to ease his anxiety sometimes by encouraging him to get a hobby like everyone else:

“Come on, Sam; Bilbo collects things, Gandalf throws boomerangs, and, well, I live in a tower. There’s got to be something you like doing.”

But Sam seemed to be content with waking up every morning, dashing out of bed, yelling up at the tower to see if Frodo was still alive, and getting a pillow in his face. That was alright, but sometimes things would go amiss, and the daily featherbag would not be catapulted at an already upset Sam. This was only, of course, because of one of two things:

1. Either Frodo had awoken early and had his mouth crammed full of Pop-Tarts (a new form of Lembas), or
2. He had gone for an early morning stroll.

But Sam, after screaming and shouting Frodo’s name for a minute or two would fall down with his head in his knees, weeping and saying “Not asleep, dead!” Frodo then either came up behind him, or threw him a Pop-Tart, and Sam would trot off mumbling under his breath “Samwise you fool!”

Today was just one of those instances, and for Sam’s sake, Frodo had come down to dine with him to try and clear up his nerves a bit. Sam had just finished complaining about Bilbo’s “Mathom fancy”, as he called it, and Frodo was thoughtfully munching on Pop-Tarts with a glass of Elvish cordial/miruvor to wash them down when he said “I wouldn’t worry about Bilbo, Sam. He’s a bit queer, but what’s new. You know how traumatizing the Ring incident was. He’s happy now, and I think we should leave it that way.”

Sam was just beginning to agree with Frodo on the matter and let it go, when Bilbo himself came running towards them, all in a frenzy with his waistcoat more black than whatever color it had been and his hair sticking up in all directions. Frodo stood up and hid the miruvor behind his back, and Sam immediately decided NOT to change his mind about Bilbo–and that was that.

Bilbo ran up to Frodo and said, “Frodo, it’s G-G-G-Gandalf! Get off the road, QUICK!” He pulled an astonished Frodo, and a much-annoyed Sam away from the table to behind a large bench nearby, and put his finger to his lips for them to be silent. They were at first, but then Sam noticed the miruvor that Frodo was still clutching, and began to do some clutching of his own. This much annoyed Frodo, who was hoping to take a sip of the stuff soon, for he knew if Sam got it he wouldn’t even get a sip. So he promptly poked the unsuspecting Sam and said “Knock it off, you tig!”
“Tig yourself!” Sam replied. “You’re a TAG!”
“Am not!” said Frodo. “You’re a tig!”
“You’re a tag,” said Sam again.
“Tig!” said Frodo.
“Tag!” said Sam.
“Tig!”
“Tag!”
“Tig!”
“Tag!”
“Tig!”
“Tag!”
“Tig!”
“Tag!”
“Tig!”

Being immersed in this rather bizarre conversation, Frodo and Sam did not see the two long arms reach down and grab them by the ears, and they did not cease their clamor until the voice of Gandalf said “Sam wins,” and then “Have either of you seen Bilbo?” This request was ignored because he had made the mistake of putting both Hobbits down, and now Sam was drinking heartily of the miruvor and Frodo had run off to find more. Gandalf was in too much haste to wait for an answer, so he ran off again, calling out Bilbo’s name all the louder.

When he was out of sight, Bilbo quickly crept out from behind the bench. Seeing that the coast was clear, he made his way to the front door of Hobbit Hall, opened it, and went inside. “Safe at last,” he said as he shut the door and locked it. He pulled out a small map and started to make for his Mathom House. He got lost twice and ended up first in his kitchen, and then in Sam’s kitchen (Bilbo liked Sam’s choice in pantry stock.) But he made it in a good half-hour’s time so as not to be late for Luncheon, meals being a big priority for Bilbo. After going inside the house, he shut and locked the door behind him. Then he found a reasonably large chest full of mail, which he emptied, set the boomerang inside, and buried it again in envelopes. Setting four stuffed Orc guards in front of the chest completed his task, and he began to speak aloud of his plans:

“I’ll go tell all of the High Elves of Gandalf’s rude behavior. Yes, they’ll be on my side. They’ll hunt old Gandalf down and really show him what-for. Then I’LL be the master!” He smiled as he clenched his fists in victory. “It will be all mine! My own!”

He laughed a small evil laugh as he left the house in haste, but the two figures huddled in the corner did not like a word of what they had heard. “I TOLD you Bilbo had lost it, Mr. Frodo!” said Sam. “We shouldn’t have come here in the first place.”
“Don’t complain to me, Sam,” said Frodo. “It was YOUR idea to come in here and see if those bottles had anything in them, anyway!”
“Humph!” said Sam. And that was that.

DON’T MISS PART III–I WROTE IT!! ME! MYSELF! ALL MY OWN!!