The Fellowship of the R.I.N.G. CHAPTER 1 – Hobbiton Turn Up!
Be it that we begin this story with a disclaimer which I, as your narrator, have to insist on. This is a true story and all the names of the participants and places have been changed in order to ensure their safety from prosecution. The story in all of its truthfulness is the ideal bait for the famed Oscar fish which only east the most elite of meals. Forget not that this may have happened in your back yard, or the back yard of your mind.
But I dye grass; let us commence.
The excitement in Hobbiton rose to unseen levels of ecstasy when Mr. Bilbo Dimebaggins of Bag End announced he would be celebrating his eleventy-first birthday. He was famed for the riches he had accumulated during his travels and an affection for Rohan Steed Weed, the only way to ride, which Bilbo would give the participants of his parties in handy dime bags.
Bilbo Dimebaggins was never a scrooge with his money and had a hand in helping many a poor family in Hobbiton, especially his relatives, among who he favored young Frodo Dimebaggins the most. Frodo himself would have been the perfect reflection of the adventurous Bilbo himself if it had not been for the sad fact that they beat Frodo with a pussy stick since he was but a young lad.
Indeed this was a special year for Bilbo and a peculiar age for hobbits in general, the eleventy-first birthday, the coming of age and Bilbo was nothing if not infatuated with the idea of gaining up on those fools of Cooks whose grandfather turned one-thirty. Bag End was bustling and both Frodo and Bilbo were busy with the preparations. “Hobbiton will remember this day my son.” Bilbo would tell Frodo who was nothing if not in awe.
Days passed in expectance and preparation when an odd looking cart with an odd shipment of something odd passed over the Hill and headed straight for Bag End. It was driven by an old man whose pointy hat of greenish tint set upon his head at a jaunty angle wobbled about from the cart moving to and fro on the gravelly road. He was wearing a long cloak the color of moss and his long dreads and beard hung about him like seaweed. An awkwardly curved pipe hung from his mouth and smoke coiled up to his eyes and bushy eyebrows. It was the ever blazing Ganjalf the Green, famed around the Shire for his skills with fire, smoke and dropping a mean bass. However, Bilbo knew his true occupation was much more than just blazing all day every day.
Children gathered to meet Ganjalf on Bradnywine Bridge and were shouting. “Ganjalf, Ganjalf, show us something.” Ganjalf adjusted his sitting position by leaning more on his left buttock and let a hefty fart loose. The fart produced a large cloud which moved round the children and after it had dispersed they were unconscious. “Pesky kids. Don’t they know it’s not even six o’clock.” Ganjalf said and his dwarf companions chuckled.
With the help of Bilbo, Frodo and the dwarves Ganjalf’s cargo was put into the house and they were free to reminisce about the olden days when the grass was greener and the girls prettier.
“How is your garden Bilbo?” Ganjalf asked his old friend.
“Moving along nicely. Yet I still prefer Steed Weed, nothing like it can grow in these parts. It needs the hand of man to get that tingle.”
Ganjalf chuckled and took a massive drag from his pipe. “Indeed, the hand of man.”
“I have something special planned for this party my friend. It’s high time I have my joke with Hobbiton.” With a sinister smile Bilbo announced.
“I wonder if anyone will laugh at your joke Bilbo. You’re not the most humoristic of people.”
“If no one does, I will.” The mere thought made Bilbo feel like he was eighty again. He always laughed at his jokes. He was just misunderstood.
During the last days of preparation Bag End was sealed off for everyone except those coming in with carts and even more carts with all the necessities for the party. Ganjalf was preparing his tricks, Frodo was in charge of the finer things (the pussy) and Bilbo was just waiting for his time to fool the crowd.
When the day finally came it was a bang as Ganjlaf’s fireworks sent people under the tables. In streams of rainbow they flew to the sky to disperse in star shapes, in tears, in drops and in otherworldly dances of light and magic. The Steed was moving among the participants and Bilbo was glad to see many Cooks, Bonginsses, Kushes, Goodfellas, Hornsmokers, and even more distant relatives of his. All had come for the occasion. They all feasted together on the weed and on the food afterwards. Chewing noises and splattered sentences echoed among the participants, as arms darted forward to catch the last leg of lamb because the granny next to you was feeling the itch in her belly. Hobbits as a peaceful peoples refrained from violence during the down phase of their drug indulgence.
After the feast came Bilbo’s speech. Magnanimously he trotted to the highest table beset with a small flight of stairs for his entrance. “My dear friends and family. I am here to announce three things. Firstly, that I am proud of all of you and fond of the years spent here in the Shire. My journeys will never remove my soul from my home.”
“You can’t take the hood out of a hobbit!” A fool of a Cook shouted.
“Secondly.” Bilbo continued. “I wish us all to celebrate my birthday and of course the birthday of my dear nephew Frodo. We share the same day of birth which means a lot to both of us.” He smiled a sincere smile and looked towards his nephew.
“What the fuck!” Many hobbits were struck by this new comprehension. “It’s his birthday too! Who the fuck knew?” They looked at each other and let the fact simmer down that Frodo was now going to be someone important and they would have to take notice of him (the pussy). They were not yet acquainted with the fact of letting Bilbo out of the limelight.
Bilbo let out a savage cough and the public turned back to listen to him again. “Yes. Frodo is now of age and will claim his inheritance. And thirdly I wish to say goodbye to you all. This is the end, beautiful friend, this is the end, my only friend, the end.”
Then without a flash or theatricalities Bilbo had disappeared from the very spot he was in just a heartbeat ago. Not a puff of smoke, not even a light to mask his escape. He was just gone. Flabbergasted the hobbits sought for an answer for the entirety of a minute, and then they remembered they were full and decided for another round of Steed Weed. No use in leaving it around with or without Bilbo. I mean if he’s gone he’s gone, no use in wasting weed.
Ganjalf grabbed Frodo by the collar of his ceremonious coat made of green linen with golden filigree at the ends, inlayed with purple haze. “Don’t pull on the coat!” Frodo shouted in revolt. He flapped his arms around as if he were assailed by ravenous flies.
“Don’t get your panties in a bunch, if you’re even wearing any. You’ll be designing new clothes for yourself soon enough, trust me.” The wizard continued to pull Frodo along to the house at the hill of Bag End, Bilbo’s home.
There they found him sitting in his chair comfortably, smoking a giant spliff. “How did you like my joke Ganjalf?” He puffed loudly.
“Mediocre. But I would like to see the instrument with which you performed this feat.”
“Mediocre! You’re just jealous! I won’t show you jack shit until you say you were impressed.” Bilbo crossed his arms and puffed his cheeks.
Ganjalf took a long drag and smiled. “Soon come.” He whispered in his deep voice the sound of the sweltering sun on a hot summer day. Magical power reverberated among the small walls and low ceiling of the hobbit’s hole.
“What!” Bilbo jumped up. “You bastard.” He settled down into his seat and was sullen again; a darting gaze pointed towards his old wizard friend who gladly used magic to further any process in necessity of furthering. Ganjalf may blaze all day ever day, nevertheless his time is not to be wasted.
Ganjalf looked at the contraption with which Bilbo Dimebaginns, not schooled in the art of magic, had performed his trick. It was a ring of golden sheen and dark undertone. It glimmered and glistened in Ganjalf’s hand as he moved it about, the smoke from his pipe not interfering with his trained eyes.
“Rubbish.” He said and threw the ring into the fire. “Bilbo, let me have a puff of that Steed Weed.”
“You’re an ass Ganjalf. You don’t even understand why I did the trick. I’m tired, I need a vacation, somewhere peaceful.” Bilbo’s lower lip began to shake.
“I understand old friend. It’s a hard life we lead.” The wizard sat on the chair next to his friend and the exchanged his pipe for the spliff. “I wish nothing but the best and hope you find your peace after all these years of adventure.”
“Mister Ganjalf.” Frodo interrupted their train of thought shyly.
“This ring, it’s smoking.”
“What?” Ganjalf jumped from his seat in a flash and took the ring out of the fire. His hand didn’t burn as the nettled metal nestled in his hand. The ring had turned almost jet-black completely and on the inside golden letters shone like stars in midst a stormy sky. The fumes emanating from the ring were intoxicating.
The lettering said – One drug to bind all production, one drug to rule all distribution.
“Motherfucker.” Ganjalf said in a voice that was echoing in despair. He turned his head about like a dwarf high on meth and tweaking out of his mind. “Bilbo, go on your vacation. Frodo!” Ganjalf turned to the young hobbit. “Stay here until I come back.”
Then the wizard rushed out the door leaving only a trail of smoke behind him.
“Ganjalf, where are you going?” Frodo shouted after the green blurry figure was already farther away than expected of someone his age. “When will you be back?”
“I’m going to get cigarettes! Be back in a jiffy!” Then Ganjalf the Green was lost in the distance.
Bilbo sighed. “Well, I’m off then. People are waiting for me.” He put a fatherly hand on the shoulder of Frodo. “Be well and wait for Ganjalf like a good boy.”
Frodo nodded, knowing nothing about the time it takes to buy cigarettes in Middle Earth.