Funny Lord of the Rings parody of the Two Towers
|A shocking tale of appalling fashion
sense and mindless shopping, starring Fido Faggins, Jam Spongee and Hokum
(Frodo, Sam, and Gollum in the original). The trio are about to leave
Harrods (standing in for Henneth Annen - the concealed hideout of Faramir
and his Gondorian rangers in Ithilien) and enter the noisome lair of the
French woopsie and notoriously tasteless clothes designer, Jean-Paul Gaultier.
(standing in for the giant spider, Shelob in the original). Now read on...
[Loosely based on Chapters 6 - 10 of the "The Lord of the Rings: the Two Towers" and penned jointly by Mercedes Dannenberg and 'Wind Sparrow' - occasional contributors to the Usenet newsgroup 'rec.arts.books.tolkien.'
The tall, dark and handsome
Ranger leaned closer to his companion and whispered: "Now what
would you say that is, Kevin? A squid, a kingfisher, or a shaved beaver?
Are there any shaved beavers in the swimming pools of Harrods?"
The two Rondorians peered down into the murky water. A little white
head appeared at the far end wearing a tattered yachting cap at a jaunty
angle, and clutching a magnificent feather boa in it's long fingers.
Fido leaned forward. The rim of the pool was flat, but as smooth and
slippery as his hand-made silk shirt. His descent would have been impossible
if there had been any moonlight, for he would have been distracted by
the forty-two carat emerald he wore on his right hand. Then again, he
might have been blinded by the light of the glittering, diamond studded
watchband on his left. He halted, listening intently. At first he could
hear no sound but the unceasing rush of the multi-level fountain behind
him. Then presently he heard, not far ahead, a hissing murmur. "Fishnet,
nice fisssshnet tights. Jam Spongee's ugly face has vanished, my precious,
at last, yesss. Now we can wear fishnet in peace. No, not in peace,
precious. The Cocktail Ring is lost. My beautiful cubic zirconia, all
gone. Bingo stole it! Then dirty hobbits wore it to a garden party.
Thieves! We hates them. Fisshnet, nice fissshnet tightses. Makes us
ssexsy and sooo ssslinky. We'll show them, my precious, yes, we will."
Fido shivered with pity and disgust. He wished it would stop and that
he need never see those dreadful tights again. Kevin was not far behind.
He could creep back and ask him to shoot Hokum.
Much later, after Hokum has rejoined the two Robbits, the three of them approach the entrance to Gaultiers Lair. Now read on...
They passed on, Hokum in front, the pale moonlight glittering palely
on his fishnet tights, running in little blue rivers up his thin spindly
legs, across his shocking pink satin tank-top, and illuminating the
cheap sequins on his velvet choker. There was no sound. Unless it was
the faint rustle of his shot silk speedos rubbing against his crotch,
or the almost inaudible squeak of his KIKE (TM) supergrip trainers on
the torn and weathered rock. Jam Spongee sniffed the air.
He did not dare speak it's name: 'Gaultier's
Lair' Out of it came a stench, not the cloying sweetness of rancid
No.5, nor yet the heavy odour of fake Opium, but a foul reek, as if
Brute Apres Rasage had been mixed with Nina Ricci and Hugo Boss, into
an overpowering Eau de Toilette only a cheap hooker would dare to wear.
Suddenly they were bathed in a lurid red light. Every item on the racks, and in the display cases showed up in the most unflattering shades of rusty orange. They walked, as it were, in a red mist of veritable darkness that brought blindness not only to the eyes, but also to the mind, so that even the memory of tasteful colours and classic forms faded out of thought. Hokum had gone in first, and seemed to be only a few steps ahead. After a time, their senses became duller, and they groped and stumbled into a rack of ... something foul. Suddenly, terrifyingly long and sinuous tentacles shot out, gripping both Fido and Jam. Forcibly removed from their worn-one-too-many-days, but otherwise still stylish, togs, they grasped for the nearest bits of things to cover themselves. Fido's instinct for the cutting edge pulled him toward a marked down GAP yellow lace evening gown with pink, plastic accents. Quickly he donned it, shuddering as he caught his reflection in the mirror. "Oh bugger, Jam... Is my bottom really this big?"
Jam Spongee, left with nothing but last year's Dolce and Gabbana day
wear line, which was sooo five minutes ago, had come back as retro,
and was now unsaleable at any price, got really catty and replied in
a soft, drawling voice:
"Got him!" hissed Hokum in his ear. "At last, my precious, we've got him, yeshhh, the nasssty, unfashionable hobbit. We takes this one. She'll get the other. Oh yeshh, Gaultier will get him, not Smeggle. He promised; he won't dress master at all. But he's got his hands on you, you ugly little tramp!" He spat on Jam's priceless crocodile skin shoulder bag. Fury at this insult to the finest product of Italian craftsmanship, and desperation at the delay when his master was in deadly peril of being fitted with...with... an off-the-peg evening suit, leant to Jam a strength and violence far beyond anything Hokum had expected from this loud and sartorially challenged Robbit. Not even Hokum himself could have whipped out a pink chiffon scarf faster, or tied it off more adeptly in a fetching double-bow around his victim's scrawny neck. His hold on Jam's mouth slipped, and Jam ducked and lunged forward, trying to tear away from the foul smelling grip on his Egyptian cotton cravat. His bag was still on his left arm, hanging by it's sequined strap, and desperately he swung it at Hokum's head.
But Hokum was too seasoned an old couturier to fall for that trick. His long arm shot out, jangling with a dozen Cartier pearl bracelets, and he grabbed Jam's hand-tooled Buffalo hide belt. Slowly and relentlessly he twisted it, tightening his grip until Jam's boxers threatened to crush the only jewels his sweet Rosie had ever cherished, until, with a cry of pain, Jam dropped his bag, and let go of the scarf. So Jam did what no Gentlerobbit should ever do. He kicked Hokum in the groin. Hokum fell over with Jam on top and received the solid brass buckle of the sturdy Robbit's belt in his eye. A sharp hiss came out of him and his hold on Jam's neck weakened. Jam tore himself away and struggled to his feet. Picking up his shoulder bag, he whirled it round his head and brought it down on Hokum's arm, scattering seed-pearls in all directions. With a squeal Hokum let go, and then Jam waded in with blow after blow, until the handle of his bag broke.
That was enough for Hokum. Grabbing an expensive feather boa off someone's neck, or stealing hats at Ascot was an old game of his, and he had seldom failed in it. But this time, misled by appallingly bad taste, he had made the mistake of gloating before he had his hands firmly on the goods. Everything had gone wrong with his beautiful plan since that loud sapphire and platinum tie-pin had so unexpectedly appeared in the darkness of the Gents Evening Wear department. And now he was face to face with a furious enemy, with little less fashion sense then himself. This fight was not for him. Before Jam could stop him, he grabbed what remained of the Trash Bag evening gowns and Sam's lovely pink chiffon scarf, and legged it as fast as his fishnet covered tights would let him. With his ruined Italian leather bag in his hand, Jam went after him.
For a moment he had forgotten everything but his outraged fashion sense, and the desire to see Hokum wearing nothing more than a fluorescent green shell-suit with matching polyvinyl accessories. But Hokum was gone. Then, as his eyes focused on a loud display of second-hand prom frocks standing limply before him in all their depressing tackiness, like a belle on the cat walk who hears her knicker-elastic snap, the thought of Fido and the foul Gaultier smote him like a dose of rancid patchouli oil. He spun round, and rushed madly up the aisle, calling loudly "Don't let her dress you, master. You'll never be able to show yourself in public again!" But he was too late.
So far Hokum's evil plot had succeeded.
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