From: Bingo Bracegirdle Newsgroups: rec.arts.books.tolkien Subject: A Lost Tale Date: Mon, 28 May 2001 20:33:34 +0100 Organization: only during wedmath Lines: 888 Message-ID: NNTP-Posting-Host: modem-228.cockatiel.dialup.pol.co.uk (62.137.164.228) Mime-Version: 1.0 X-Trace: fu-berlin.de 991078415 1363015 62.137.164.228 (16 [62434]) X-Orig-Path: spamfree.fsnet.co.uk!bingo X-Newsreader: Turnpike Integrated Version 4.02 U Path: chonsp.franklin.ch!pfaff.ethz.ch!news-zh.switch.ch!news-ge.switch.ch!newsfeed00.sul.t-online.de!t-online.de!newsfeed.freenet.de!unlisys!news.snafu.de!fu-berlin.de!uni-berlin.de!modem-228.cockatiel.dialup.pol.co.UK!not-for-mail Xref: chonsp.franklin.ch rec.arts.books.tolkien:37414 "THE LORD OF THE SCROLLS" Book I: Part 1 - "The Fellowship of the Scroll" Chapter One - "The shadow of Evil" The Wizard leaned back in his chair, carefully refilled 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..." With that Randoph, (for it was he), shifted his position and broke wind rather noisely. "I am sorry to hear that" said the Robbit with a blush. "It can't be helped", replied Randoph, "We will all have to face more unpleasent things than underdone mushrooms before the year is out. Dark days are ahead my lad." "What do you mean? Last night you began to tell me strange things about my magic scroll, and then you stopped because you said that you had run out of pipeweed. Don't you think you had better finish the tale now?" You said the scroll was perilous - 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." "It is even more perilous than the spindly killer-fish that lives in the Bay of Dethsdor - 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 the ancient Professors of Oxfodian which existed in the far West that is now hidden beneath the oceans bosom. They were of many kinds: some more readable than others. The lesser scripts were only rough drafts before the Professors' art was fully grown, and to the Academic scribes they were often trifles - indeed some were recipes for trifle, though in those early 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 mortals. But the GREAT SCROLLS, the SCROLLS of POWER, which were plain and unadorned and without writing of any visible kind , were and are, exceedingly dangerous. A mortal man, my dear Robbit, who possesses one of the Great Scrolls does not suffer writer's block, but he does not improve or obtain more renown, he merely continues writing incomprehensible drivel, until every waking moment is a weariness to him and a torment to his befuddled readers. 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 nonenity, 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 opportunist of the Holy Wood without an ounce of decency in his mercenary soul, the Dark Power will eat him up entirely." "How horrible!" said Fido. Did Dildo know all this when he gave me the scroll?" "Dildo?" queried the Wizard. "Dildo knew half the tale half as well as he might, and understood less than half of it half as well as he should. Had he been wiser, or had I not been called away on urgent business by my Publishers things might not have come to this sorry pass." "Eh?" Said Fido, trying desperately hard to work out whether the wizard's words added up to an explanation or were merely the result of the potency of the Rondorian pipeweed... After a long and pregnant silence Fido repeated his question. "Dildo 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 "Known?" retorted Randolf testily. "I know a very great deal that only really clever buggers know, Fido Faggins! But if you mean 'wheb did I learn about this scroll' - well I guessed a good deal, but there is only ONE test that will confirm my suspicions." "And what did you guess?" asked Fido again. "That Dildo's silly story about 'finding the scroll' was nonsense", replied the wizard. He settled deeper into his chair, knocked the dottle from his pipe onto Fido's best Shag-pile hearthrug and prepared to fix the Robbit with his steely gaze. But Fido had slipped off the old leather pouffe and was feverishly trying to extinquish the small fire that was raging bedside the oblivious wizard with a copy of 'Mushroom Growing Monthly'. "Sit, Fido!" commanded the wizard. "B-but the f-fire - f-fire..." expostulated the flusttered Robbit flailing ineffectually at the flames which were now half as high as himself and threatening to singe the wizard's magnificent beard. "SIT!" Frodo edged back to the pouffe. The Pouffe squealed with delight as the Robbit's firm young bottom compressed it. "Tara barakaroon boon didlo di whoosh!" muttered the wizard, and the fire was extinquised in a puff of fragrant smoke. "Crikey!" said Fido. "It was nothing", said the wizard mildly. "I have a way with fires and lights that exceeds the silly party-tricks I used to play with Dildo that you enjoyed so much as a child." Fido blushed deeply. "No, not THOSE tricks, my boy. I gave those up some time ago. No where was I?" "Playing with Dildo?" "Ah - yes, let me see... It was about the time of the Annual General Meeting of the Writers Council that we drove the evil from the Holy Wood, just before the battle of the five moguls that Dildo found his scroll. My heart forebode evil even then for I wondered how that sad gangrel creature Hokum came by such a great scroll - for such it plainly was - that much was 'crystal' as we wizards say. When I at last forced the truth out of Dildo by threatening to expose him as a plagiarist to the Writers Council I saw clearly 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 the first intimation I had that things were decidely dodgy. I immediately told Dildo 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 that 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 town where he said and did things that even I with my wide experience of sexual peccadiloes found intriguing." "There wasn't any real harm done, was there?" asked Fido anxiuosly "I mean, the operation DID restore him to normality, didn't it?" "He regretted what he had done almost as quickly as the sheep did, but not before he had added a whole new chapter to the annals of Robbit depravity. Fortunately Docter Rogerghast my fellow wizard and acknowledged expert on animal husbandry saw to it the physical damage was soon repaired. The Academics did the rest, ensuring that the memories of that evil day were wiped from his mind. I don't think we need worry about Dildo anymore. The scroll has passed on. It has passed to YOU my lad! Ever since I have been very troubled and concerned about you and about all your charming, rosy-cheeked, precocious, firm- thighed, healthy young Robbits and Robbitses - ahem! If the Evil Power overcomes you, the lot of you will become his abject, grovelling syncophants!." Fido gawped in horror: "But why should we be? Why would the Evil Power want us as his syncophants?" Fido was not altogether clear what a 'syncophant' was but it was obviously very very bad. Worse even than the dirty old Robbit that his mother had warned him against becoming when he first discovered that what was in his pants was of considerable interest to several of the more precocious young Robbit lasses in the area. "Not to put too fine a point on it my lad, He is a mean, unprincipled degenerate who will stop at nothing to get back what he considers you STOLE from him! Or, to be precise, what Hokum stole and Dildo acquired through deviousness and good fortune. Though it has not served him well. Then there is Professional Pride. "Professional Pride?" said Fido, "Pride in what? I still don't see what all this has to do with Dildo and me and our magic scroll?" "It has everything to do with it," said Randolf. "Give it to me!" Fido took the scroll from its leathern pouch and handed it very reluctantly to the wizard. Rondolf 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. "No", said Fido, but yesterday there was an unpublished novel by F Scott Fitzgerald on one side and a recipe for sauteed mushrooms in white wine sauce on the other. Last week the complete works of Marcel Proust appeared during teatime and -" "Never mind that now!" snapped the wizard. "Watch and learn!" To Fido's consternation and distress the wizard threw the scroll into the sink where it landed amidst the washing-up. Fido lunged for the crockery brush but Randolf held him back. "Wait!" he said in ringing tones, giving Fido a very queer look from under his felt hat that made the young Robbit remember incidents of his childhood that he would rather have forgotten... Despite being sandwiched between a plate of underdone and now very soggy mushrooms and the remains of a particularly fine salmon en-croute the scroll was unchanged. After an eternity of watching the scroll sink ever deeper into the soapy water the wizard strode to the window, slammed it shut and drew the curtains. The room became suddenly dark and ominously silent and only the distant whirr of Jam Spongee's electric-mower could still be faintly heared from the garden. For a moment the wizard considered pulling out the plug from the wall socket, then he considered silencing Jam by slowly choking him to death with the cord, because, truth to tell, Randolf hated electric-mowers with a passion nearly as intense as his hatred of Oiks - the fell creatures bred by the Dark Lord in imitation of decent gentlemen, but he did none of these things. Instead, he stooped and lifted the dripping, sodden scroll from the sink. Fido gulped. "Take it", said the wizard, "it is quite dry". And strange to tell, so it was. Fido received it in his trembling hand, it seemed to have grown larger and heavier and a mysterious light shone from it. "Hold it up to the light", said Randolf, "And examine it carefully!" "But there is no light. You closed the window and drew the curtains," "Silly Robbit, Light a candle!" Fido did not dare to question the wizard even though there was a very servicable electricity supply laid on to the hole to which Jam's horticultural activities outside bore testimony. Instead he lit a candle and held the scroll up to it. "What do you see!" asked the wizard. "Nothing, nothing at all". "Look more closely!" Before Fido's startled eyes faint letters began to take shape upon the snow-white scroll. Finer than the finest calligraphy; finer even than the fur on his shapely ears. They shone brightly as if illuminated from within. " I cannot read the words they are in a language unknown to me", said Fido in a faltering voice" " No", said Randolf, "But I can. The letters are Gibberish, in an arcane mode, of a dialect called by the loremasters of old - 'Amurkan', but the language is that of Dethsdor, which I will not speak without my agent being present, but in plain Robbitish this is what is written, near enough: 'One Scroll to rule them all. One Script to blind them, One scroll to bring them all to heel and in the darkness bind them.' It is only a line or two from an unpublished rhyme long rejected by discerning literary agents in the Holy Wood: ' Three Scolls for the academics who refuse to deal, Seven for the producers with a stake, Nine for the script-editors filled with zeal, One for the Dark Lord on the make, in the land of Dethsdor where the actors kneel . One Scroll to rule them all. One Script to blind them, One scroll to bring them all to heel and in the darkness bind them.' Randolf sighed, and then said bitterly in a hushed voice: "This is the Master-Scroll. The One Scroll to rule them all. The BIG SCRIPT he lost ages ago, to the great weakening of his creativity. He desires it more than gold, or mind-altering drugs, or a Chateau Latour '48 served on the thighs of a Gondorian virgin who has just discovered she is a nymphomaniac. HE MUST NOT GET IT!" Fido sat dumbfounded and motionless. Stark terror laid its icy fingers upon his stalwart Robbit heart and slowly squeezed it until it shot into his mouth and threatened to escape to somwhere where it would be of no earthly use to him. "T-this Scroll", he spluttered incoherently, "How the deuce did it come to me!" "Ah", said Randolf portentiously, "that is a long story whose beginnings lie in the distant time of the Black Age which only the lore-masters of Oxfodian can now recall. Last night I told you of PJAKSON the Mighty, the Dark Lord. He has arisen from the obscurity with which he hitherto cloaked his evil intentions and has appeared in Dethsdor - his ancient stronghold. That name even Robbits have heard of, like a terror that creeps stealthily upon us in the night time and prevents us doing what comes naturally to healthy young lads at bedtime. But I digress... "I wish that it had never come to me", said Fido. "So do I", said Randolf. "But wishes don't butter any parsnips as Gaffer Spongee is wont to say. We have to decide what to do with it, and quickly. Time is running out and even now the Enemy is drawing his forces together for the final assault. We should be hard pressed to resist him at any time but if he obtains the Great Scroll we are utterly doomed. As yet he lacks the one thing that would give him absolute power to destroy his enemies and unleash a storm of cinematographic mediocrity such as the world has not seen since the coming of Murdoch to Middle- Earth. He lacks the One Scroll. The three, most precious of all, the academics hid from him, and his hand has never touched or edited them. Seven the producers possesed, but three he has stolen from them, and the others the movie-moguls long ago consumed. Nine he gave to the script-editors, haughty and famous, and so ensnared them. Long ago they fell under the spell of the One Scroll, and became scribblers, talentless ghost writers under his greater shadow, his most zealous admirers. It is long since the Nine showed their work to any publisher's agents. Yet who knows? As his evil shadow grows longer, they too may publish again. It stands thus: Nine he has found, the Seven also, or else they have been adapted into novellas and have fallen into ignominy and been remaindered. The Three are still up for grabs, but that no longer concerns him as they were never made to capture a mass audience and have been largely forgotten. He only needs the One; for he made that Scroll himself and allowed much of his former creativity to pass into it. It is altogether his. If he recovers it he will command all the scrolls again, even the Three, though he never made them, and he will be stronger than ever. He now knows that the One has not been destroyed by the academics as it SHOULD have been, and that it has been found. So he is even now seeking it, and all his evil will is bent upon its recovery." "Why wasn't it taken from him and destroyed?" asked Fido. "It was taken from him", replied Randolf. "The standing of Academics was higher then than it is now, and not all writers were in competition with them for literary prizes. The Guild of Romance Writers came to their aid. It was Professor Ronald, academician of Oxfodian and his live-in help, Ellen Dillo who defeated the Pjakson, though they themselves perished in the struggle; and Issy Dors, Ellen Dillo's step-daughter ripped the scroll from Pjakson's grasp and took it for her own, saying: "This I will have for my Mummy's legacy you dirty old bugger!" Issy Dors was professor Ronald's love-child according to the Lore- masters; but that is a chapter of ancient family history that it may be better not to recall just now; for there was deep regret and shame in those events, not to mention considerable litigation, but also much sacrifice and great sex that was not wholly without interest to a scholar like myself. One day, perhaps, I will tell you the sordid tale, or you can read about it in my memoirs when I publish them. But Issy was a hedonistic rather careless lass, much given to 'all-night Raves' as the entertainments of those days were known, and in a moment of carefree abandonment with the worst dregs of Rondorian high society she lost the scroll, her virginity and, sad to tell, her young life. The scroll fell, or was thrown (opinion is divided on this) into a passing garbage waggon which later deposited its cargo on the municipal dump. There it remained, lost for ages, until even the memory of it's existence faded from the minds of all but a few die-hard academics. Even the Writers Council could discover no more. Long afterwards, long before the ancestors of the Robbits peopled this land, there existed a vagabond band of story-tellers who eaked out a miserable existence selling third-rate manuscripts to unscrupulous publishers of scurrilous pamphlets. I think they were of the Robbit- kind; lazy, self-indulgent, dim-witted folk but not without their own unique courage and culinary skills. They lived off the detritus of the rubbish dump and often found the cast off first draughts of dyspeptic authors amidst its myriad mounds and winding tunnels which they sold to pay for food and clothing and the occassional night out at Old Mother Miggins Dancehall and Gin shop. The most odious and scheming of this rascally rabble was one 'Hokum'. He was not interested in anything except literary acclaim, casual sex, riches, and a cure for his disfiguring facial dermatitus. All his efforts were bent on writing the 'great novel', or 'my magnificent Octopus' as he called it, that would make his fortune, ensure his immortal fame, and pay for cosmetic surgery. But since he could not write a line and had no desire to learn he stole. In a word, my dear Robbit, he was the worst of criminals in literary circles: an unashamed plagiarist! One day, whilst he was scrambling over the old dump as usual his hand touched something hard and round and very warm. 'Oh...Hokum!', you naughty boy, 'I had no idea you thought that way about me!' But even Hokum drew the line at playing such games with his sister and pushing her angrily away, and dived deeper into the labyrinthine tunnels of the dump. It was there that he eventually found the scroll - the very scroll the you hold in your hand! Of course, he did not know then what it was, except that it was quite obviously very magical. He also did not know that his sister had found it first and had hidden it deep within the dump to give to Mother Miggins as a 'birthday present'. Unfortunately, his sister had followed him into the tunnels and a desperate struggle ensued. 'Give us that' Bunkup, my sweet,' hissed Hokum menacingly, for that was the gangling, asthmatic girls name, 'I want's it!' 'Sha'nt - it's my birthday presee to Mother Miggins and I saw it first.' 'Give us it now, you trollop or it'll be the worse for you' said Hokum, ripping the bodice from her trembling flesh. Bunkup struggled fiercely but Hokum was the stronger and soon he was astride her. His hands caresessed her silken thighs, his vile lips fastened on her tender neck. Soon it was all over and Hokum waved the scroll triumphantly aloft while his sister crawled away into the darkness to be violently sick. Within a week he was under contract to write a new biography for the biggest publishing house in Rondor. Within two, he was being lionized by those who would not have stooped to clean him of their shoes a month before. Soon he was the talk of the land. He was THE HOKUM - literary prodigy and author of the century, and the rich and famous flocked from far and wide to bask in his reflected glory. But the good times were not to last. All too soon he began to put the scroll to evil uses. He stole the manuscripts of the leading literary lights of his day and passed them off as his own. He deflowered Gondorian maidens by the score and became a notorious Numenorian Rug trafficker. He gate-crashed publisher's parties to which he had not been invited and blackmailed the husbands whose wives he had compromised. It was not to be wondered at that he soon became very unpopular. His agents deserted him. Prizes formerly his for the asking were bestowed elsewhere. Literary lunches were cancelled. So he put his sister on the game and lived off her immoral earnings. Before long his relatives disowned him, the Rug barons put out contracts on him for non-payment of his debts and his publishers returned his work unread. Even his sister deserted him for a minor poet and filed charges for statutory rape and incest. Finally he was banished from Rondor and wondered, lonely and friendless cursing the hardness of literary agents, nepotism, and the futility of vanity publishing. Eventually he wormed his evil way into the good graces of a kind, but rather stupid Charity shop keeper in Gladstone's Inn Fields and there Dildo found him, presiding over the second-hand book section, quite by chance it seemed to all but the Wise, one afternoon before you born. " "Hokum!" ejaculated Fido. "No, it's all too true", said the wizard. "No, I mean Hokum was that loathsome creature Dildo met? How dreadful!" "I think it is a very sad tale", said Randolf, "and it might have happened to any Robbit whose literary ambitions exceeded the talent to fulfil them." "I can't believe that Hokum was remotely connected with Robbits. What a horrible idea!" "Nonetheless it is true. There was a great deal in their backgrounds that was similar. They both desired literary fame and both had a fondness for Mushrooms. Think of the cheap novels they both knew, for instance." "Yes", said Fido, Though other folk apart from Robbits read pulp fiction and enjoy soft porn. And Robbits don't cheat. Hokum meant to cheat Dildo from the moment he came into the shop and asked if they had any first editions of 'Spanking for Pleasure'. And I daresay it ticked his wicked mind to start the haggling which he knew he couldn't lose because the only two copies in stock were both fakes." "Sadly too true", said Randolf. But there was another reason too, which you haven't considered. Hokum was not completely ruined. He had put by a few shekels for a rainy day - as even a Robbit might. There was a tiny corner of his depraved mind that still hoped his misfortunes could be overcome and his literary fame regained. It was actually pleasant to hear a cultured voice again, re-kindling memories of sumtuous literary lunches, glittering prizes, orgiastic picnics with the cream of Rondorian maidenhood, and such half-remembered delights. But, alas, that would only make the wicked part of him even more evil and worsen his facial excema - unless it could be cured. Sadly, there was now little hope of that. Yet not no hope. For, although he possesed the scroll for ages, further back than he could now remember, it was long since he had used it. In the shop it was not needed for there was stacks of porn to keep him amused and when that bored him, he would nibble on the few remaining scraps of Numenorian rugs he still hoarded and be transported to another, pleasantly hallucinogencic world where he was still THE HOKUM, the envy of the publishing world. Certainly he never entirely faded. Even in that forsaken spot he would occassionally come upon one of his remaindered books and that kept him going. But the scroll was eating up his mind and the torment of obscurity became almost unbearable. All the dreams of fame and fortune had turned to dust and ashes. There were no new sexual positions to try out, nothing worth doing that he hadn't done a thousand times before, only nasty, furtive practices that sapped his strength and exacerbated his appalling skin complaint. He was completely wretched. He hated obscurity and he hated fame more; he hated everything including himself, and the scroll most of all." "Why?" asked Fido. "Surely the scroll was his most treasured possession; his magic talisman and the only thing he truly cared for? But if he really did hate it why didn't he throw it away?" "You still do not understand the power of this thing, Fido", said the wizard. "He hated it and loved it, just as he hated and loved himself. He could not bare to part with it. A scroll of power looks after itself, my lad. It may desert its keeper as it did Issy Dors, but its keeper never deserts it. Such is it's iron grip upon the mind of its slaves. It was not Hokum who who let the scroll go to Dildo, but the scroll itself which choose Dildo as its new keeper." "Wouldn't a literary agent have suited it better?" asked Fido. "No. The scroll was trying to get back to its master. It left Issy the moment she dropped her drawers - for a bunch of Rondorian ne'r do wells and so betrayed her to her seedy death. When by chance it came to Hokum it devoured his mind and then deserted him when it had no further use for him. He had become small and petty-minded, and overly obsessed with satisfying his personal literary ambitions and indulging his strange sexual appetites to be of any further use. He would never leave his dingy shop again. So when it's master re-awakened and once again sent forth his evil thoughts from Deathsdor it abandoned Hokum for Dildo. Yet, beyond that there was another mind at work, beyond any desire of the Scroll-maker. I can say no more than this: Dildo was meant to find the scroll, but not by its maker. As you were meant to receive it from Dildo. And in that lies our grear hope and the enemy's weakness." " So this really is the One Scroll? You are not just putting two and two together and coming up with five?" said Fido hesitantly. "No. The history of Professor Ronald, Ellen Dillo and Issy Dors and the One Scroll of the Dark Lord is only too well known in academic circles. Your scroll is proved to be that very scroll by the literary masterpieces it has engendered from the pens of halfwitted, talentless scribblers like Hokum not to mention the sacred rhyme that was revealed when the scroll was immersed in water." "And when did you find that out?" asked Fido "Just now, you half-witted Robbit!" replied the wizard sharply. "In your washing-up bowl. But I fully expected to find it. It is the last proof of its authenticity. Making out Hokum's role and fitting it into the whole required considerable research and out-of-pocket expeneses, but I fully expect to be reimbursed in the fullness of time. I no longer need to guess - I know! In any event I have also seen Hokum and that beats the backside of thinking as we wizards are wont to say." "Seen Hokum!" exclaimed Fido in astonishment. "Yes. It seemed the logical thing to do. I tried many times but the tricksy little blighter always managed to change jobs and shops. So I had to resort to subterfuge. I payed some Oiks to deliver free samples of rather harder porn that Hokum is accustomed to to every shop in the land and waited until someone placed an order for more. Then I pounced and found him gloating over his new purchases in the dingy basement of a bric-a-brac emporium off the King's road." "So how did Dildo made off with the scroll ?" "As I told you last night, the scroll has many powers. It simply disguised itself as a bookmark and Dildo went away with it tucked into his copy of 'Spanking for Pleasure'. "So what happened to Hokum after Dildo tricked the Scroll out of him. Do you know that?" " Yes and no. What I told you was what Hokum confessed after I promised to have a whip round amongst his friends to get up a literary subscription to put him back on his feet. What I actually did was to have him roundly whipped by his friends until he confessed. For starters, he called the Scroll his 'Birthday present' from Mother Miggins and so told two falsehoods in one. A preposterous tale. I have no doubt that Mother Miggins was the worst scoundrel in Rondor with no more decency in her than a brood of Oiks. The idea of her possessing such a literary treasure and giving it to an illiterate nonentity like Hokum is - well, complete hokum. But the lies contained a grain of truth. Hokum was haunted by the rape of his sister, indeed, I think he was literally haunted by her since she had died in the most hideous conditions in a knocking shop some years earlier, and the very mention of her name sent him into paroxyisms of terror. I suffered him longer than any man should stomach such a minor author and in the end I had to be rather firm with him. I put the fear of writers block on him and slowly but surely wrung the truth from him, amidst much whining about the dishonesty of literary agents, the liberties taken by pedantic sub- editors and the snubs of arrogant publishers. He thought he was misunderstood and abused as a child. But he would not tell me all the tale. Some terror greater than the fear of literary failure and the dread spectre of his dead sister was upon him. He droned on about revenge and betrayel. Publishers would see if he would stand being rejected, driven into the remaindered lists and robbed of his rightful place in literature. Hokum had powerful friends now, good friends who would help him. Faggins would pay for his crime. That was his chief complaint. He hated Dildo with a passion and cursed his name at every opportunity. What is more, he knew where Dildo lived and was going to see to it that he was 'dead meat' - those were his exact words, before the year was out." "But how did he find out Dildo's address?" asked Fido fearfully. "Well, Dildo foolishly used his credit card to pay for the purchase of 'Spanking for Pleasure'. After Hokum left the Charity Shop it did not take him long to discover Dildo's full postal address. Oh yes, Hokum came out. The desire for the scroll proved stronger than his fear of the Oiks of Dethsdor who hung around the entrance in dirty old raincoats, or even of Publishers. After a while he left that shop and began to revive a little. Although he was still enslaved to it, the scroll was no longer eating up his mind. He felt old, his excema was worse than ever, yet less timid, and he was desperately short of cash. Publishers, of fiction and non-fiction he still feared and hated, and he always will, I fear; but he was a devious little sod. He found he could hide from the major publishers and literary agents and paid his way by getting into vanity publishing in a small way. He found he could he could catch stupid and ambitious young writers with small ads in the local papers and relieve them of their savings. He grew stronger and bolder with the cash he made. He found his way into Holy Wood as one would expect." "Is that where you found him?" asked Fido. "I met him briefly at a small luncheon given by a minor script-writer down on her luck, but before that he had wandered a great deal, always following Dildo's career as a historian with undiminished hatred. It was difficult to learn anything worthwhile from him on that occassion, for he was very drunk and his talk consisted almost entirely of curses against Dildo and smutty innuendo about the guests and what he would like to do to his hostess. 'Faggins is dead meat' . We will choke the little rotter with his own manuscriptshh. 'Look at the titsh on that.. I wouldn't shay no to a quickie schweetness' Little sod! He cheated me - hic- out of my inheritance. We should have knifed it when we had the chanssshh, my preciousss. And we will, oh yesshh we will.' That is a sample of his conversation. If you want any more you will have to read my memoirs. But from hints he dropped I found out that he had wormed his miserable way into the the confidences of one or two less scrupulous Holy Wood agents and so discovered Dildo's new address." "Then why didn't he find Dildo?" "He tried to. He was not short of the fare, nor the desire. But something stronger turned him aside from his plans of vengeance. Well that was many years ago now. After Dildo moved for the fourth time I took up the trail again. But by then it was cold. The Academics tracked him first, an easy task for them since he left a trail of third-rate pamplets behind him which even a freshman could have followed. The fringes of vanity publishing were full of rumours about him; Shocking tales of plagiarism even amongst broken-down old hacks inured to the worst excesses of literary mendacity. The critics said that a some new scoundrel was at work; a writer that not only sucked the life-blood from any manuscript that fell into his evil cluches but who crept into writers garrets at the dead of night and stole the offspring of their creative juices without so much as an acknowledgement. But at last when I had given up all hope, Hokum was found by a young script-editor and dragged, kicking and screaming to me. What he had been working on he would not say. He only called us cruel and vindictive and the more I whipped him the more he whined and complained as if recalling some ancient torture of which the light taste of the cat that I gave him was an unbearable reminder. But I fear there can be no doubt where he had been. He had made his slow, painful progress from the outer circle of vanity publishing to the realm of the Great Pretender himself. He had been to - DEATHSDOR!" A heavy silence fell on the room, it pressed on Fido's head and make his legs buckle. It pushed the wizard's hat over his eyes and even the mice in the wainscotting felt it's oppressive power and shut up. Even the sound of Jam Spongee's electric mower was heard no more. In a word, it was very very quiet. "Yes to Deathsdor" said Randolf in a hushed voice. "Alack! Deathsdor draws all evil things to it's desolate shores. There sits the Dark Power on his gilded pedestal bending all it's will to gather the detritus of the literary world to its side. The great scroll of the Enemy had long enslaved and corrupted him. Wicked Fool. In that land Hokum would learn much that any ambitious author with delusions of literary grandeur would sell his grandmother to know. Too much! Sooner rather than later he would be caught and taken for the fool he was. And there beneath the lidless eye of the Dark Lord and the dregs of the publishing community with which he surrounds himself he would be subjected to interrogation. Yes, my lad, through Hokum, the Enemy has learned what happened when Issy's drawers fell. He knows where Hokum found the Scroll. He knows that it is a great Scroll for it bestowed literary genius and universal acclaim. He knows it is not one of the Three, for they were never his. He knows that it is not one of the Seven for three he stole from the the producers and the others the movie-moguls long ago consumed. The Nine he gave to the script-editors, haughty and famous, and so ensnared them long ago. Are they not here? Are they not even now his most terrible servants, ready to do his bidding at a moments notice? No, he knows that it is THE ONE. And now, at long last he has heared of Robbits and of Faggins and he is COMING to get him!" "But this is dreadful!", exclaimed Fido. "Far worse than my worst nightmares involving Dildo and the sheep! What am I to do? I am scared out of my wits!. Why ever did you let Dildo keep the Scroll. Why did you let him give it to me? Why didn't you make him destroy it? Oh, why did I give you underdone fried mushrooms for tea?" "Why? Let you? Make him? Mushrooms?" ejaculated the wizard angrily. "Is there anything at ALL between your ears other than a furry vacuum?" You are are complete nincompoop, Fido Faggins who deserves to be drowned in a vat of pickled mushrooms! You cannot throw it away. As for taking it away by force it would destroy your mind as surely as an overdose of Numenorian rug smoking!" "But why not destroy it?" "Destroy it, you halfwitted furry-eared Robbit. How would you accomplish that. Have you ever tried to destroy it?" "No, b-but couldn't it be shredded or dissolved?" "Try!" said Randolf, "Go on, try now!" Fido drew the scroll out of his jacket and looked at it. It was blank. Not a word or a letter sullied it's virginal purity. The parchment looked very white and beautifully smooth. Whiter and smoother than young Snowdrop's shapely young thighs... How perfect were her firm, well- rounded buttocks, her pert breasts, her hot, moist... He shuddered with suppressed desire. She... no, it - it was simply too magical and altogether wonderful a thing to part with. He caressed the scroll hesitantly and lovingly, forcing himself to recall all the wizard had told him of its evil history, but he could not bring himself to throw it away. It was his. His own dear precious talisman. He put it back in his pocket with a sigh. "See what I mean?" said the wizard with a sarcastic laugh. "You cannot part with it. And I could not take it from you without turning you into a bigger vegetable than you are already. It's loss would eat you up. As for shredding it, even the strongest cheese grater in Robbiton would not even scratch it. Water will not even wet it as you saw for yourself. Fire cannot touch it. Earth cannot bury it, as Hokum found. It cannot be unmade by any hands, not even mine. There is only one way to destroy it utterly. To find the Vats of Gloom, deep within the bowels of Horn, the Pulp-paper mill, and throw the scroll in there. Only then will it be completely destroyed and beyond the reach of the Enemy who made it." "I wish I had never set eyes upon it", said Fido. "That's as may be", said the wizard. "The dye is cast for weal or woe. Either we let the Enemy regain the scroll or it must be put forever beyond his grasp. " "Will you not take it, Ronald?" asked the Robbit timidly. "NO! With such power I should become too terrible for words! Over me the Scroll would have an influence greater and more perilous than you can conceive." His eyes flamed and his hat flew off. "Do not tempt me! For I do not desire to become another Dark Lord. Yet the power of the scroll over me would begin in mildness and pity. Mildness toward literary criticism. Pity for those with little talent and the desire help them develop it. I durst not take it, even to keep it from harm. The risk is too great, even for an exceedingly clever and far-sighted bugger like me." He drew aside the curtains, and opened the window and the shutters. Sunlight and the sounds of the garden streamed back into the room. Jam Spongee passed by, a rude limerick upon his smiling Robbit lips as he went about his business in the shrubbery. Even the mice woke up and began tormenting the cat that they had trussed up just behind Fido's elegant writing-desk. In the loft the pigeons got on with the business of making new pigeons. In the cellars two inquistive young squirrels who had ventured too near a vat of 'Old Wineyards' slowly expired in a noisey alcoholic haze. It was a long time until Randolf spoke again. "Well?" he asked, eventually, "Are you going to stand there re-adjusting your codpiece, or are you going to say something?" "I suppose I must keep the Scroll from the Enemy. But I feel very inadequate to the task. The Enemy is so strong and clever and I am only a weak and rather silly Robbit ", said Fido bitterly. "My dearest furry-eared Fido", exclaimed Randolf, clapping a fatherly hand on the young Robbit's shoulders. "Robbits really are the most are remarkable creatures. I did not expect to hear such an answer from one, least of all an inexperienced lad who has but recently discovered what girls are really for. You do realise that you cannot hole up here with the Scroll indeifinitely, don't you? You will have to leave your comfortable burrow and the name of Faggins behind you. That name is too well known in literary circles to be safe in the wide world. I shall give you a new name. When you go, go as Mr Scribbler. You must tell no one your plans, least of all the purpose of your journey. It MUST be a SECRET. But you shouldn't go alone. It can get very lonely out there. A single young man all alone in the world can easily stray off the path and fall into unnatural practices. That way blindness, disfiguring diseases and madness lie.... But I digress. Take a buxom young Robbit maid who can cook and sew and wash, and knows how to relax a young lad after a hard day's march. Better still, take two, so that they will be company for one another when your mind is absorbed in literary endeavours and perhaps a Robbit lad or two to share the rigours of the journey and ensure the ladies are are kept on their -" Suddenly he stopped and glanced sharply at the window. Fido became aware that it had become deathly quiet in the house and in the garden. The mice paused in their exploration of the cat's pain threshold. Even the pigeons stopped cooing to one another. Randolf moved silently to the window. Then like lightning he lunged through it and re-emerged holding a struggling, rather pretty Robbit-lass in his arms. "Well, blow my hat off", said Randolf, "If it isn't Ms Snowdrop. Now what were you up to outside with young Jam Spongee, eh, my lass?" "Nuffink, Sur, honest! Leastways nuffink Mr Fido need be ashamed for" replied the boxom beauty, catching sight of Fido's crimsom face. "I was just a-helpin' Jam in the Garden. Lor, Sir, I'm that fond of mushrooms and Mr Fido lets me weed the patch below the tater plot." It was only too true for traces of nut-brown fungi still adhered to her pretty blue and white checked dress that was just long enough to be decent but no so long that it concealed a flash of her shapely young calves and well-turned ankles which Fido was admiring with unashamed delight. "And this, I suppose, is Jam Spongee, the famous gardener, " said the wizard sternly, grabbing a second Robbit by his ears. . "So... my lad, it is a long time since I last heard the sound of your mower - or of your weeding my girl. Tell me truthfully, how long have you been earwigging outside?" "Earwigging, sir, I don't get you, begging your honour's pardon. There ain't no earwigs at Fag End, leastways, there shouldn't be cos I sprays 'em reglar on Mr Fido's orders." "Don't be cheeky, you furry-eared rascal", retorted the wizard, suiting his actions to his words and grasping the Robbit more firmly by one of his magnificent aural appendages. "What did you overhear, and why did you spy on us?" "Mr Fido, guv!" squealed Jam, shaking with fear, "Don't let 'im hurt me! Don't let 'im turn me into an 'orrible Oik - my pater would 'ave an 'eart attack and no mistake. I meant nuffink by it, on my life, sir, I didn't" "Oh, Mr Randolf, sur, please let him go, he's not done nuffink, honest he hasn't", said Snowdrop, backing away towards Fido. Fido put a reassuring arm around her. He would have done more if she had let him and the wizard wasn't in the room. "He won't harm you if you come clean, Jam. But you'd best be straight with him tell him right away." said Frodo with a chuckle. "Well, see here, sir" began Jam warily, "I 'eared a bunch o' stuff that didn't make a happorth of sense to me. About an Enema - Snowdrop had to explain what that was - but I still don't get it. And the Scrolls, and old Mr Dildo and 'is sheeps, and a 'orrible creature called 'okum - and academics. I listened cos I couldn't help myself . I'm powerfully fond o' Academics sir since Mr Dildo taught me my letters. I loves tales of pure reasearch, philological dissertations, literary criticism an' such like. Academics, sir! I would so love to meet a real Academic, sir. Couldn't you take me to meet Academics sir, when you leave?" Randolf let out a good-natured laugh and picked up the startled Robbit and deposited him, electric mower and grass cuttings and all, in front of Fido and Snowdrop. "Take you to meet Academics, eh my lad? So you heared that Mr Fido will be leaving did you?" "No, but I did sur", said Snowdrop with a becoming blush that spread from her smiling cheeks to her firm young bosom. "That's what made me cry out which you must've heared. I tried not to. But I couldn't 'elp it I was so 'eartbroken..." "I wish it were not true", said Fido, wiping a tear from his eye. It has only just dawned on him that leaving his comfortable burrow and Robbiton would mean a lot more than just going without mushrooms for breakfast and missing the weekly poetry readings at the 'Beaver Bush'. "I suppose I will HAVE to go, but 'tis powerful hard to leave all my friends behind and - " here he looked longingly at Snowdrop -"If you really love me, you will wait for me." Snowdrop fell to her knees and clutched at Fido, the tears streaming down her pale cheeks. "Oh, my dearest Fido, my fluffykins, not to see you anymore, not to hear your sweet poetry, not to feel your huge throbbing-" "Now then!" interrupted Randolf sternly, "That's quite enough of that my girl. Get up. I have thought of a cunning plan that will keep Fido's secret and punish both of you for earwigging. You shall BOTH go away with Mr Fido!" "Me!" cried Snowdrop, leaping into Fido's arms like a practised courtesan at the Court of Rondor, "Me, be his little Robbit-princess and go to war against the horrible bad Oikses and all! Hooray!" "What larks we shall have Mr Fido, Sir" said Jam, beaming delightedly. "I shall meet Academics and hear all about their researches into archaic languages and join in their philological disputes!" "So you shall", said Fido, his face darkening. "But it will not be a Robbit adventure, my lad. There will be trouble ahead or my name's not Faggins. We shall be hard put to it to get back at all never mind unscathed." "I fear that is only too likely" said Randolf grimly. "Indeed I hold out little hope for your quest. But no man can predict the end , not even I. Our greatest strength lies in the Enemy's overweening pride. Hitherto he has entirely overlooked the very existence of Robbit-kind. Even now their ways are beyond his comprehension. He is a clever bugger and clever buggers always miss the simple things and underestmate the strength of simple-minded halfwits like you three." The Robbits cheered together and clapped their hands in rapturous joy. TO BE CONTINUED.... or not. -- Bingo Bracegirdle, Sherrif (retrd) 12 South Smials, Longbottom ###### From: mnkohrz@att.net Newsgroups: rec.arts.books.tolkien Subject: Re: A Lost Tale Message-ID: <3b168e9d.7642477@netnews.att.net> References: X-Newsreader: Forte Free Agent 1.21/32.243 Lines: 10 Date: Thu, 31 May 2001 18:35:49 GMT NNTP-Posting-Host: 63.14.191.125 X-Complaints-To: abuse@worldnet.att.net X-Trace: bgtnsc06-news.ops.worldnet.att.net 991334149 63.14.191.125 (Thu, 31 May 2001 18:35:49 GMT) NNTP-Posting-Date: Thu, 31 May 2001 18:35:49 GMT Organization: AT&T Worldnet Path: chonsp.franklin.ch!pfaff.ethz.ch!news-zh.switch.ch!pinatubo.switch.ch!news-ge.switch.ch!newsfeeds.belnet.be!news.belnet.be!news.stealth.net!204.127.161.2.MISMATCH!wn2feed!worldnet.att.net!135.173.83.71!wnfilter1!worldnet-localpost!bgtnsc06-news.ops.worldnet.att.net.POSTED!not-for-mail Xref: chonsp.franklin.ch rec.arts.books.tolkien:37692 On Mon, 28 May 2001 20:33:34 +0100, Bingo Bracegirdle wrote: >"THE LORD OF THE SCROLLS" >Book I: Part 1 - "The Fellowship of the Scroll" > You have way too much free time on your hands, Bingo :) Mnkohrz ###### From: Bingo Bracegirdle Newsgroups: rec.arts.books.tolkien Subject: Re: A Lost Tale Date: Thu, 31 May 2001 20:37:42 +0100 Organization: only during wedmath Lines: 39 Message-ID: References: <3b168e9d.7642477@netnews.att.net> NNTP-Posting-Host: modem-553.cockatiel.dialup.pol.co.uk (62.137.166.41) Mime-Version: 1.0 X-Trace: fu-berlin.de 991337948 2580958 62.137.166.41 (16 [62434]) X-Orig-Path: spamfree.fsnet.co.uk!bingo X-Newsreader: Turnpike Integrated Version 4.02 U Path: chonsp.franklin.ch!pfaff.ethz.ch!news-zh.switch.ch!pinatubo.switch.ch!news-ge.switch.ch!newsfeed00.sul.t-online.de!t-online.de!newsfeed.r-kom.de!fu-berlin.de!uni-berlin.de!modem-553.cockatiel.dialup.pol.co.UK!not-for-mail Xref: chonsp.franklin.ch rec.arts.books.tolkien:37800 In article <3b168e9d.7642477@netnews.att.net>, mnkohrz@att.net writes >On Mon, 28 May 2001 20:33:34 +0100, Bingo Bracegirdle > wrote: > >>"THE LORD OF THE SCROLLS" >>Book I: Part 1 - "The Fellowship of the Scroll" >> > >You have way too much free time on your hands, Bingo :) You mean you *actually* read it? :-) I was beginning to think that I had committed some unpardonable sin in posting something of this length, or that it contravened some esoteric law laid down by the Holy Steward - oppps... I mean Steuard, of course. Truth to tell it is not entirely my own work... A chum started it off as a satire against the films for one of his colleagues who was being unbearably pompous about the merits of the films over the books and proselytizing Jackson as the hero of the age. I merely - ahem! tidied it up a bit and added a little more humour. The rhyme about the Scrolls is mine as is the literary satire. The other chap wrote the "rude" bits. Has it any merit? I did ask him whether he intended to re-write the entire book but I fear his answer is unprintable. To answer your last question first the chap in question is currently laid up with a broken leg (skiing accident he says) - hence he has quite a bit of time on his hands... Should he publish? -- Bingo Bracegirdle, Sherrif (retrd) 12 South Smials, Longbottom ###### From: mnkohrz@att.net Newsgroups: rec.arts.books.tolkien Subject: Re: A Lost Tale Message-ID: <3b16c2d9.2936182@netnews.att.net> References: <3b168e9d.7642477@netnews.att.net> X-Newsreader: Forte Free Agent 1.21/32.243 Lines: 54 Date: Thu, 31 May 2001 22:24:06 GMT NNTP-Posting-Host: 63.14.207.171 X-Complaints-To: abuse@worldnet.att.net X-Trace: bgtnsc06-news.ops.worldnet.att.net 991347846 63.14.207.171 (Thu, 31 May 2001 22:24:06 GMT) NNTP-Posting-Date: Thu, 31 May 2001 22:24:06 GMT Organization: AT&T Worldnet Path: chonsp.franklin.ch!pfaff.ethz.ch!news-zh.switch.ch!pinatubo.switch.ch!news-ge.switch.ch!isdnet!newsfeed.direct.ca!look.ca!border1.nntp.aus1.giganews.com!nntp2.aus1.giganews.com!wn2feed!worldnet.att.net!135.173.83.71!wnfilter1!worldnet-localpost!bgtnsc06-news.ops.worldnet.att.net.POSTED!not-for-mail Xref: chonsp.franklin.ch rec.arts.books.tolkien:37688 On Thu, 31 May 2001 20:37:42 +0100, Bingo Bracegirdle wrote: >In article <3b168e9d.7642477@netnews.att.net>, mnkohrz@att.net writes >>On Mon, 28 May 2001 20:33:34 +0100, Bingo Bracegirdle >> wrote: >> >>>"THE LORD OF THE SCROLLS" >>>Book I: Part 1 - "The Fellowship of the Scroll" >>> >> >>You have way too much free time on your hands, Bingo :) > >You mean you *actually* read it? :-) > >I was beginning to think that I had committed some unpardonable sin in >posting something of this length, or that it contravened some esoteric >law laid down by the Holy Steward - oppps... I mean Steuard, of course. > >Truth to tell it is not entirely my own work... >A chum started it off as a satire against the films for one of his >colleagues who was being unbearably pompous about the merits of the >films over the books and proselytizing Jackson as the hero of the age. > >I merely - ahem! tidied it up a bit and added a little more humour. >The rhyme about the Scrolls is mine as is the literary satire. The other >chap wrote the "rude" bits. > >Has it any merit? > >I did ask him whether he intended to re-write the entire book but I fear >his answer is unprintable. > >To answer your last question first the chap in question is currently >laid up with a broken leg (skiing accident he says) - hence he has quite >a bit of time on his hands... > >Should he publish? >-- >Bingo Bracegirdle, Sherrif (retrd) >12 South Smials, >Longbottom I'm not really the best person to ask - my sense of humor tends to be rather warped. :) Also, as most of you know, I am something of rabid dog on the subject of altering or parodying anything that Tolkien ever wrote. I did enjoy some of it, but I would venture to say that it has a rather limited appeal. Maybe you should try it over at ATF (unless you already did, of course - I didn't see it when I checked it a half-hour ago.) Mnkohrz Mnkohrz ###### From: Bingo Bracegirdle Newsgroups: rec.arts.books.tolkien Subject: Re: A Lost Tale Date: Fri, 1 Jun 2001 09:59:20 +0100 Organization: only during wedmath Lines: 43 Message-ID: References: <3b168e9d.7642477@netnews.att.net> <3b16c2d9.2936182@netnews.att.net> NNTP-Posting-Host: modem-458.ekto.dialup.pol.co.uk (62.137.161.202) Mime-Version: 1.0 X-Trace: fu-berlin.de 991385959 2676937 62.137.161.202 (16 [62434]) X-Orig-Path: spamfree.fsnet.co.uk!bingo X-Newsreader: Turnpike Integrated Version 4.02 U Path: chonsp.franklin.ch!pfaff.ethz.ch!news-zh.switch.ch!pinatubo.switch.ch!news-ge.switch.ch!news-fra1.dfn.de!fu-berlin.de!uni-berlin.de!modem-458.ekto.dialup.pol.co.UK!not-for-mail Xref: chonsp.franklin.ch rec.arts.books.tolkien:37790 In article <3b16c2d9.2936182@netnews.att.net>, mnkohrz@att.net writes >I'm not really the best person to ask - my sense of humor tends to be >rather warped. :) Thank goodness I cut the scene where Hokum fights his sister "Bunkup" for the "Scroll" then. As it stood there was a good deal more than "bodice ripping" mentioned! >Also, as most of you know, I am something of rabid >dog on the subject of altering or parodying anything that Tolkien ever >wrote. I said as much to the author. What he was trying to achieve was a parody of the parody that the films (may) make of the books, but as it stands it will put off the die-hard fans (like yourself) and those less familiar with the books will miss the allusions entirely. I fear he has failed in his intentions (and said as much!). One would have to re-write it from scratch and turn the plot on it's head to make it work as a genuine parody of the films. i.e. a quest *BY* the "Pjackson" and his followers to wrest the Great Scroll from Professor Ronald and the Robbits. Then it *might* work. The Orcs would become "oiks" - i.e. the great unwashed hordes who will flock to see the films simply because of the prospect of a great cinematographic special-effects ridden spectacle. The Nazgul would be a perfect fit for the "script-writers" long ago enslaved to Pjackson, and the Elves would become the academic purists utterly opposed to making the films at all. Saruman? Perhaps he might be an old colleague of the Professor's (Charles Williams!) who changes sides when it suits him! But it wouldn't be an easy task! >I did enjoy some of it, but I would venture to say that it has >a rather limited appeal. Didn't Rayner Unwin say something very similar about the LOTR? "Quite honestly I don't know who is expected to read it"... If memory serves! :-) -- Bingo Bracegirdle, Sherrif (retrd) 12 South Smials, Longbottom