"But all I'm asking
is that you capture a couple of furry-footed, little midgets,"
repeated Denethor testily. "Is that too much to ask after all the
tender loving care I've lavished on you all these years?"
The Lord High Steward of Rondor (TM) adopted a more soothing tone: "But
my cuddly fluffykins...my handsome pet, they're just two itsy bitsy
little halflings no higher than your shapely knees, with no more intelligence
than a lobotomised rabbit. How hard could it be?"
"I won't do it!"
Denethor stroked the Balrog's muscular thigh.
"I'll increase your ration of Rondorian virgins..."
"I won't do it! I won't!" replied the Balrog.
"Take your filthy paws off my leg!"
"But my own dearest darling... you used to love being tickled there
when you were a mere Balrog in arms," said Denethor, sulkily.
"Stop that at once - you broken-down old pervert, or I shall
barbecue your firstborn son and serve him up to you on a bed of sauteed
mushrooms for elevenses!"
"What if I give you that prim Elven princess, Arwen, to play with,
"I have lately received a very much better offer than THAT!"
snapped the Balrog.
"Oh, really," sneered Denethor, "Pray, what better offer
could tempt you away from so doting a Master, who feeds you on man-flesh,
and lets you have your fun with the Rohirrim maidens I keep specially
for your delectation?"
The Balrog drew himself up to his not inconsiderable height, bumped
his elegantly coiffeured mane on the ornate chandelier, muttered 'bugger',
and promptly gave the Steward a playful lick with his whip.
"Ouch, that hurt!"
"Not as much as my news will"
"I have received a message by Carrier-Crow (TM) from the JAKSON
making me an offer no respectable and ambitious Balrog could possibly
"Jakson? JAKSON?" muttered Denethor, testily. "Who in
Middle-Earth is 'Jakson"?
"He who is possessed of a secret bane of even mightier power than
that paltry ring you covet!"
"Forsooth! You don't say so."
"I do say so."
"Jakson!" spluttered Denethor, choking on a mouthful of Cabernét-Tirith
"The mightiest Lord in Middle Earth - or outside of it!" thundered
the Balrog triumphantly.
"Whence comes he?"
"Kiwidor, KIWI-DOR? Why vexest thou me with these labyrinthine
"Because it's a rare treat to see you put out, you stuck-up old
"Speak plainly, spawn of Morgoth," said Denethor, drawing
himself up to his less considerable height, and fingering his codpiece
"Your rule is ended," replied the Balrog with a theatrical
crack of his whip, and a toss of his fiery mane. "The Dark Lord
Jakson rules all through the power of the thing he possesses. Mighty
it was of old before technicolor was discovered, and mightier still
it has become through 'creative sub-editing' and 'selective cuts'. This
bane is so passing fair that all who see it fall under it's spell. Yet
none who possess it remain uncorrupted by its malevolent will. None
but the Jakson, that is..."
The Balrog paused to refill his glass and grab a bite from a passing
servant. That is, he bit a passing servant's head off in one lip-smacking
gulp, but politely declined the fried mushrooms he was carrying. "Ash
Jakson durbatuluk, ash Jakson gimbatul, ash Jakson thrakatuluk, ash
ethernet crimping tool!" (The Balrog's command of the Black Tongue
was a little rusty owing to its long vacation in the far West). The
change in Denethor's face was astounding. Suddenly it turned red, then
purple, then yellow, then green. Spittle dribbled from his quivering
lips and the Carrier-crows (TM) stopped their ears.
"Never before has any voice dared to utter such words before the
High Steward of Rondor!" he raged.
"Unless you wish to hear them twelve times a day, on the hour,
every hour, you would do well to show a little more respect to one who
has been favoured by the omnipotent, Dark Lord Jakson," retorted
the Balrog with a particularly vicious snarl, that incinerated the very
fetching neo-numenorian (TM) drapes behind him. Denethor retreated to
his throne, and flung himself down on the orcskin cushions with an angry
scowl. He refilled his cup and drained it in one gulp. Then he refilled
it again, and drained it in two gulps. Finally, he threw it down in
disgust and just swigged from the bottle. Presently he began to speak
in the quiet, insinuating voice the Balrog knew so well, but this time
his speech was somewhat slurred:
"Who ish thish Jakass - hic - Jak-son that I, hic, the Schteuard
of the City, and Lord of all, hic, Rondor should tremble at hish name?
Hish country of , hic, Kiwidor ishh utterly unknown to me, ash ish thish
'bane' of which you schpeak - Speak. Schpeak, hic, my pet, my dearest!
Am I not your fluffy, cuddly uncle-kinshh?"
"The Jakson has commanded me to say only this to you, you broken-down
old poofter: 'You're out of the script, Denethor! From now on I'm running
the show, and there's no room in it for quaint old geezers like you!
What the punters want is sword-wielding dudes in cool threads, gratuitous
dwarf tossing, lots of top totty getting laid by my leather-clad Balrog,
and NO FUCKING TOM BOMBADIL OR TALKING TREES!"
At that very moment a very fat, dark, shadow, dressed only in a pair
of oversive Bermuda shorts and a pair of cheap sandals, swooped low
over the gleaming towers and minarets of Minas Tirith. Every heart stopped,
and every voice was stilled. Even the Royal mice, who had constructed
a very cozy apartment in Denethor's orcskin cushions, choked on their
cheese, and froze... The realm of Rondor trembled from its topmost tower
to its worm-eaten foundations. There was a roar as the Balrog burst
into tongues of flame, and leaped for the window. "Byeeee - SUCKER!"
he shouted, and was gone in a blur of shadowy wings and flailing whips.
"Oh - shit!" said Denethor.
Towers fell and battlements slid. Cakes crumbled, and cheese melted.
The mice were crushed by the Steward's disintegrating chamber pot. The
skies of Rondor were riven with technicolor lightnings, and it's papier-mache
hills and cgi mountains, crumbled into dust. And into the heart of the
destruction, with a cry that seared Denethor's ears, and soiled his
best, orcskin trousers, the Jakson came.
Cut!" he said in his bluff New Zealand twang.
Denethor had just been edited out...