It was a dark and stormy night; the rain fell in torrents
except at occasional intervals, when it was checked by a
violent gust of wind which swept up the streets (for it is
in Mordor that our scene lies, or close enough as no
matter), rattling along the housetops, and fiercely
agitating the scanty flame of the lamps that struggled
against the darkness.  Sam thought he heard the sound track
to some horror flick or other, but couldn't be sure.
     He was standing around awkwardly holding the apparently
defunct Frodo's leash, in the magnificent piazza that formed
the centre of Cirith Ungallant.  Gulible looked at him with
irritation; the bouncer, an immaculately clad Orc, with mild
amusement.  Fearful and yet insidiously attractive was the
vista that opened itself before his eyes, like that of a B-
rated horror film combined with that of a science-fiction
dictatorship combined with that of a second-rate
pornographic film. The setting was very noir, with much
chiaroscuro, like the old Batman comics in the youth of the
Shire.  Out of the corner of his eye, he thought he saw a
vehicle on which was written the words "Mystery Machine."
The female pulchritude on display assaulted his senses like
unto the onslaught of Mordred's forces upon the Vale of
Gondolas.
     An eeresome Nightclub, bedight with Halloweenery and
enshrouded in bright tang-coloured orange, lowered before
their awe-stricken gaze. They beheld on its steps many a
jack-o-lantern, within which flickered a deadly sheen, a
corpse-light, a light that illuminated nothing (or so Frodo
always said; but Sam and Spiegel thought it was marvellous -
"just like Times Square," the latter said, cryptically).
Resplendent with neon lights was the Nightclub, and bedight
with a thousand posters such as simply would not have been
allowed in the Shire.  A spider-motif dominated the
building, with iron gates and fences, as well as windows,
filigreed in the manner of spider webs. They were come to
the most fashionable district west of Barad-dûr, and the
bat-motif of the older-buildings was nowhere to be found. 
The Halloween kitsch filled Sam with a sense of dread.
"I do believe in spooks," he muttered in a Brooklynese
accent.  Most terrifying of all was the entrance, with its
incandescent jack-o-lanterns and plastic ghosts and
skeletons; an enormous rubber spider hung from one of the
towers.  On a large neon sign they beheld the words
"Hselob's Niggitculb," written in teuncwar.
     But at the moment, Sam had a more immediate concern. It
appeared that he had tied Frodo's collar a little too tight,
motivated perhaps by some unconscious desire to get rid of
the ugly and sexually challenged reactionary decadent
exploitative despicable bastard; but he was not yet dead.
     "With slow, stupid hobbit's lab kit, we might be able
to do something, my preciousss," muttered Gulible. "Fork
it over, saddam!"
     Reluctantly Sam obeyed, and Gulible got to work with
practiced expertise: he examined the contents of Sam's
laboratory kit, grunted with satisfaction, and then mixed
the contents of various test-tubes together with the air of
one who knows exactly what he is doing.
     "Don Giovanni hass produced a chemical compound that
will revive nasty rich hobbit," he said at length. "It
will also causse a very ssslight reduction in the
patient'ss erotic madness, precious.  It may have some
side-effects, owing to the predominance of 2-amino-2-deoxy-[..."
     "Just gie it to the scoundrel!" said Sam.
     Gulible carefully poured the contents of one of his
test-tubes down Frodo's left nostril. After a bit of
wheezing and coughing, Frodo sat up and blinked his eyes in
confusion.
      "Where am I?" he asked.  "I feel... different.  I no
longer need to have sex all the time; only three fourths of
it. And I am no longer sexually attracted to everything I
see, only most things."
     "Pretty impressive, Giovannino!" said the bouncer.
     "Aw, shucksses; biochemistry is just one of our
hobbies, saddam," replied Gulible.
     The bouncer was about to reply when Spiegel came back
from the restroom, bubbling with delight.
     "What a wonderful country this is!" she cried. "I
entered the women's room, fully expecting to find some
disgusting hole in the ground, as in the Shire.  Instead, I
beheld an object of great beauty: a large white porcelain
bowl, full of limpid water, and behind it a rectangular
white tank adorned with a mysterious metal handle.  How
clean and lovely it is!  I nabbed a towel on the way out -
may I keep it?"
     "It's all yours, ma'am," said the bouncer politely.
This was the First Towel.
     "Yet another modern improvement of whilk the oppressors
hae depreeved us," observed Sam.
       "Um, who's that guy?" asked Spiegel, referring to the
ubiquitous portraits of a guy who looked like a head with an
enormous eye in the middle, but no torso to speak of.
     "Yon must be Sauron," said Sam.  "Dinna ye see the
posters, urging all tae 'Adore Sauron, Our Beloved Leader,'
or pointing out that 'Sauron Loves You, Especially If You're
Female'?"
     "He's handsome!" gushed Spiegel.  "I wonder if he has a
girlfriend?"
     "He doessss, my precioussss," said Gulible. "Look!"  He
pointed at a portrait of a scantily clad eight-legged woman
with a very voluptuous bosom, underwritten "Shelob Is the
Love of Sauron's Life."
     "Well, at least thanks to Boromir™ and Sa... y...
well, that really good-looking guy who makes love like a
mûmak in heat, I know I'm not ugly," sighed Spiegel. "But
if only I could have a guy who actually loved me for myself
instead of lusting for my famous bosom just once in my life,
I could die happy. Our bodies are not our selves."  Sam
said nothing, but tried to control the ravenous desire that
devoured his limbs like unto a bevy of hobbits in a mushroom-
patch. Gulible made no such effort, but slobbered openly.
Fortunately, their attention was distracted somewhat by the
lovelies on view; for the loremasters say that Shelob's
Nightclub gave a new meaning to the phrase, "nekkid
wimmin."
     "May you soon get your wish," said the bouncer to
Spiegel, with deep sincerity. The bouncer was an attired in
an elegant uniform emblazoned with the Eye of Sauron and the
Web of Shelob. He looked very sharp, if somewhat swarthy and
brachycephalic, as befits demonized Others.
     "This place is so beautiful!" said Spiegel wistfully.
"Please tell us where we are!"
      "This is Shelob's Nightclub, the Wonder of the World,
owned and operated by the wogah of Sauron the Great," he
replied. "Gorbush at your service," he added, kissing
Spiegel's hand. "Would you like to come in?"
     "Aye," said Sam.  "We would."
     "I would need to question this lady in private, first,"
said Gorbush, but his voice and the look he gave Spiegel
made it only too evident what kind of questioning he had
in mind.
     Spiegel smiled. "That seems only reasonable."
     "Enchanted," said Gorbush, and the twain went off, arm
in arm, to some obscure side-room or other.  As they watched
her, Sam and Gulible were seething with lust and jealousy;
Frodo, on the other hand, was distracted by the torment of
the Stone, which made him lust after fishes, and of the
Ring, which made him believe he had a chance in Angband of
seducing them. Spiegel was apparently taking her time.

     After an hour or two Spiegel came back with Gorbush on
her arm.  "Gorbush is a really sensitive guy," she said.
"He writes poetry and really knows how to make a girl go
wogah!" Sam and Gulible's eyes bored into the Orc's face
with all the benevolent subtlety of a Mentish laser ray.
      "I did not realize your situation was so bleak," said
Gorbush.  "This lovely lady" - he stroked Spiegel's long,
silky-soft hair - "is worth a hundred floor shows. You can
go in, but I'm going to have to escort you, in order to
protect the lady. We have to be careful, on account of that
evil drug cartel."
     "Dinnae mention the Ring, master!" cried Sam, before
suddenly realizing his mistake.  "Och nae!" he groaned in
despair.  "If ye keep openin' your big mouth ye'll end up
betrayin' the Cause, as me gaffer always used tae say, and
that's a fact.  Ye're nocht but a Menshevik, he mostways
used to add.  But I'll nae be captured by Sauron that
easily.  I'll sell me life dearly."  He took out his sword
and drew it.
     "What are you getting so operatic about?" inquired
Gorbush, apparently taking little interest in the Ring.
"You are our honoured guests.  Both Shelob and Sauron will
be eager to meet you. You will be spending the night in the
Nightclub's guest-quarters until Sauron the Great can find
you more worthy lodgings.  But for now, would you like to
enjoy the floor show?  There is nothing to fear."
     Sam wasn't so sure, as he heard a shrieking sound
issuing from the bowels of one of the guardrooms: it might
have been a damned spirit, it might have been an Elvish
captive, it might have been an inebriated Balrog, it might
even have been Maria Khallas, but it was probably someone
enjoying the floor show a leetle too much. His curiosity
overcame his fear. Anyway, they had no other plan at the
moment, so they followed the Orc into the Nightclub. When
Gorbush uttered the password Trick or treat, Frodo could
not suppress a shudder.
     Ignoring the remarks of the habitués, like "Not from
around here," and "The clientele are becoming frightfully
common," the companions entered and gazed at the bright
lights and gorgeous semi-clad beauties such as Hugh
Hefnaistos, who was what passed among the Valar for the God
of Wisdom, might have dreamed up in a delirium. One of them,
a very provocatively dressed blowfish, was ensconced inside
an aquarium tank. Orcs silently served the companions
picturesque local alcoholic beverages.
     "These are the 'Rog Grisettes," said Gorbush after the
party had stared at the beauties for several minutes? hours?
days? - for they soon lost all sense of time and distance.
"Except that one of them - Froufrou - is a blowfish. That's
a little kinky for my tastes ..."
     The Balrog Grisettes pitilessly exposed their loveliness
to Sam and Gulible's heterosexual gaze. Whether Sam too had
some cursed article of clothing - like everyone else
(possibly his socks) - or the lustful side of his
personality, which Spiegel called Kinko, was once again
gaining the upper hand over the loyal revolutionary (whom
she called Pinko), this tale does not tell.
     Frodo had eyes only for Froufrou the blowfish, or else
for his shoelaces.  The sinuous sensuality of her scales
made him go wogah.  For need drove him.
     "I want to grip her smooth, scaly body between my-"
     "I dinnae want to hear it," said Sam. "I was sick of
your sex life months ago, an' that's a facht!!!!!"
     Things got even worse for the hobbits when the
Grisettes began to sing a tune by Orc-operetta composer
Lehár:

     Tra-la-la-la-la-la-lally!
     Trippel trapp and trippel trapp!
     Welcome all to Shelob's Valley,
     Trippel trapp and trippel trapp!

     We are the 'Rog Grisettës,
     have wings and castañetas:
     Lolo, Dodo, Joujou, Cloclo, Froufrou, Morgot...

(But Froufrou of course sang "fins," not "wings.")

Frodo's heart caught fire; and without thinking of what he
did, whether he acted out of folly, despair, courage, or
insatiable lust, he jumped onto the stage and into the
aquarium, taking the phial in his left hand while he
caressed Froufrou the Fish with his right, before kissing
her ardently. Then he belted "Et moi!" - upon which he
promptly stared at his shoelaces again while Froufrou
laughed provocatively.  The audience roared its approval.
     But there are other powers in Muddle-earth, powers of
the night; and they are tildy and strong.  And She who dwelt
in the darkness had heard the Elves give that cry in the
depths of time, and it had not troubled her then; nor did it
now.  While Frodo spoke, he felt a great malevolence
directed towards him and a deadly gaze. The coming threat
was at last unveiled.  For Shelob, when she appeared, was
even hotter than her posters had depicted her. The glow of
the star-glass was broken by the thousands of facets of her
bosoms, but behind the glitter a deadly flame began to glow,
kindled by evil thoughts.  Monstrous and lasciviously half-
closed eyes she had, but guided by a goal and a dread
purpose, and they gloated over their prey that sat helpless
without any hope of escape; either that, or Frodo had had
far too much fermented bat's blood (or was it a side-effect
from Gulible's medicine?), for Sam and Gulible recollected
nothing more untoward than an unusual degree of female
pulchritude.
     There long had she dwelt, a sensual creature in
Maidenform® (or out of it, as the case might be) - the same
as of old dwelt in the land of the Elves that has sunk
beneath a mounting pile of debt; like unto those whom Bluto
had tried to seduce in the Mountains of Wogah in Doriath and
had come long ago over the green grass in Lustianne.  How
Shelob came to Mordor, fleeing from her creditors, no tale
tells; for few accounts remained open in the Dark Years.
But she was there still, who was there before Sauron, and
before the first stones of the Barad-dûr Museum, Opera-
House, Fortress of Dread, and Ballet Theatre were laid; she
had built her nightclub there, gouging the wallets of Elves
and Men.
     Then Sauron had shown her what wogah was really all
about, and her bosom became swollen and fat from continuous
stimulation in Sauron's revels.  For all portions of the
female anatomy were Sauron's food, and Shelob's pheronomes
were darkness.  Far and wide were scattered their offspring -
even as far as the Shire - bastards of their miserable
mates, whom they had rather left holding the baby.  But none
of Sauron's women could rival her, Shelob the Great, hottest
babe of Ungallant to wogah the tildy world.
     And as for Sauron, he knew where she lay.  And it
pleased him that she should dwell there, hungry but
undiminished in physical attributes, a more insatiable
nymphomaniac than his own fantasies could have devised.  Orc-
maidens had made nice enough concubines, but he had them in
plenty, and after all, they lacked the sexual capacity of
the Maiar.  Shelob had that and to spare.  And as a man may
throw a dainty to his cat ("his cat," he calls her, but she
owns him not), so Sauron had added various adornments and
beautification projects to Shelob's Nightclub, making it the
gaudiest such institution west of Minas Vegas.
     Shelob sauntered onto the stage, gnawing the skull of
the Hobbits dared not guess what creature, but they were
sure it tasted just like chicken.  A loud chord resounded in
the orchestra.  As Gulible gazed upon her lascivious form,
he was filled with an intense, almost uncontrollable desire
to wogah her, were it only symbolically. "Ah, could we but
pierces her with something...!" he thought, as he
experienced a physical reaction to her figure.  Forgotten as
the snows of yesteryear (for the moment) was his burning
passion for Spiegel - much to the latter's relief.  She sang
the following csárdás with such intensity that the evil
Gandalf himself, had he heard it, would have wept:

             Vere dvells ze lawve zen?
                Ho can me tellink?
             Vere dvells ze lorve zen?
                Ho ken I eszkink?

Then she ripped into the fast movement like a thunderstorm
over the steppes of Rhûn:

    Juszt vonce to vogah, vogah, vogah, vogah,
            On ze puszta, by ze Volga,
            Juszt vonce to get it on!

  The hobbits' blood was churning like a samovar kindled by
the Magic Sun, and when she repeated the song, her passion
enflamed the Nightclub to such an extent that the
thermometer went up at least twenty degrees Fahrenheit.
     When the guys had recovered, they were gazing upon
Shelob with the gaze of the damned.  "How charmink to meet
you, dahlink!" she said to Frodo.  "May I invite you and
your friends to spend the night and tomorrow to join me for
a small, private luncheon for six (not countink ze dancink
girrls, off curse)?"
     "Six?" repeated Frodo, puzzled.
     "Vell, yess! You, your sree friends, myself, and Sauron
ze Great..."
     "Ulp!" stammered Frodo.  "Sauron, er, um, what
does he want with me?"
     "Ve have much to discuss," said Shelob, with a cryptic
smile.  "Your estate, for eenstance..."
     "Oh, my estate!" said Frodo with a sigh of relief.
     "Yes, vat did you sink it vas?" said Shelob. "I hope
you not gettink your image of me from zose sensationalistic
movies starring Humphri Bogart." Frodo was nonplussed.
     "Gorbush!" Shelob whispered to that worthy. "Take zese
guests to ze Lairr! Lurtz, you take Gorbush's place!"

     Gorbush led them through the plush, if creepy,
vestibule to the elevators, and they travelled up to the
thirty-second floor.  Unknown to the hobbits was this
dwimmercaft, and they were sore adrad. The omnipresent
velvet and gilt spider motif began to get rather oppressive.
After letting Frodo into an incredibly palatial room fit for
a conquering hero or a tobacco lobbyist (with its own
aquarium), Gorbush let Sam and Spiegel into a neighbouring
room, apologizing profusely for the fact that there were not
enough rooms for them to be separated at the moment.
Gulible,  barely containing his jealous rage, went to sleep
in his usual spot, not far from the ladies' changing room.
The orc made some polite apologies to Sam and Spiegel for
having to leave them and, after gallantly handing Spiegel a
book of his poems autographed with seven or eight improvised
poems in her honour - some of them rather explicit - he
left.

     Spiegel quickly hid the book of poems in her bra.  She
was intent upon exploring their room, which was filled with
books with titles like Nymphomaniacs and Their Ways:
Towards a Porno-Ethics of Existentiality and Are Ments a
Myth?  The walls, ceiling and bedclothes were covered with
the usual spider-motif.  So was the bath-towel that Sam
sequestered for his own use (this was the Second Towel). On
the mantelpiece there were several Lladró figurines of
spiders, Balrogs, Orcs, and other Mordor species, dressed in
picturesque native garb.  Spiegel picked up the rather hefty
tome entitled Blueprint for the New Order, by Sauron, and
started leafing through it - murmuring things like, "So
that's what Gorbush meant when he said Sauron has solutions
for the evils that bedevil Western society" or "He is a
visionary!" or "Imagine a society based upon love!"
     "What next?" said Sam, subtly ripping off his shirt.
     "Oh, Sam," she said tenderly, "It was you who awakened
me to the fact that I am indeed sexually attractive. I owe
you so much! But can't you see that it was not meant to be?
You must be loyal to Rosie, and I must be true to Gorbush,
who alone truly loves me!  He massaged me for a whole hour
before smygelling me!"
     "Very well," said Sam with resignation. "If ye need
me, I'll be in the bathroom."  He was there for quite a
long time.
     Spiegel felt a little bad about her treatment of Sam,
but she knew that after sleeping with Gorbush she could
never again have another guy - not even Sam, however fond
she was of the latter.  For his lust was not her lust.
Little she knew of towers, rings, or Politburos, who desired
only the joy of all other living things, and for herself an
all-encompassing love, swollen till the mountains could no
longer contain it, or the darkness circumscribe it.

     Next morning Sam and Spiegel took Gulible to Frodo's
room, and naturally found the boss firmly ensconced in the
aquarium. Sam fished Frodo out. While his boss was getting
cleaned up and dressed, Sam, under some mysterious
inspiration, sang "Se vuol ballare, signor Frodino" in an
unknown and sinister language that filled Frodo with dread.
     When Gorbush came with breakfast, Spiegel leapt into
his arms.  After they had exchanged a few amorous
pleasantries, Gorbush turned to the others and said, "The
reason I've come is to inform you that Shelob - and later
our Beloved Leader, Sauron the Great -  will be coming
shortly to honour you with a visit.  You are indeed high in
his favour! I can't stay, I'm afraid.  But I'll be back
later when the coast is clear.  Have a nice day!"  With that
he hastily left - after Orkish-kissing Spiegel for about
twenty minutes.
     The hobbits barely had time to agree not to say
anything about the Ring ("the present," as Don Giovanni
mysteriously called it), when Shelob arrived in a black
negligée that flattered her figure yet more than had the
white gauze she had worn the night before. She chatted with
the hobbits about this and that - the weather in the Ethel
Duwap, the fashions of Minas Goofy, the latest gossip about
the Leechking's love-life - taking a great interest in their
travels.  Presently, however, she turned to Spiegel and
crooned:
     "My dahlink child, do you have any idea who you really
are?"
     "Well, all I know is that I always thought I was fat
until the late Boromir™ and... that other guy, my true
friends, showed me that I am not ugly.  It took Gorbush to
show me that I am indeed beautiful and worthy of love." She
wept tears of pure joy.
     "You are my descendant, ze rightful heir to Rivendell.
El Rond is a usurper who would never have gotten anywhere
had he not been one of the hangers-on of ze despicable
Gandalf - procured animals for heem, I believe, or somesink
eqvally disgusting...  In truth it vas Steinlob the Feminist
whose labors made Rivendell possible.  I am Steinlob's
daughter, and you are my great-great-great-great-
granddaughter by Smaug, vich ees givink you dragon-blood. My
daughter invaded ze Shire vone bright day, and ze reszt eez
heestory.  Zat vas before I met Saury and discovered ze true
meanink of vogah. Ven my hubby delivers ze lands of ze Vest
from ze yoke of zeir current imperialist-hegemonist-
neofascist runnink dogs, ve shall restore you to your
rightful place."
     Spiegel's eyes shone.  "And Gorbush will rule Rivendell
by my side!" she gushed.
     "Vatever you vant, dahlink," said Shelob,
affectionately kissing Spiegel. "And ve have summoned
Cassiopeia Took back to Mordor so zat she can return ze
Dress to you. And you'll get your identity back. It von't
have ze disgustink stains on it eizerr - ze dress, not ze
identity, ahf coarrse."
     Spiegel laughed through her tears. Then she asked, "Is
there any way I can arrange therapy sessions with Deeanna
Troll?  An eagle recommended her to me and gave me her
business card."
     "Ve vill speak of ziz later," said Shelob, glowering at
the mention of Deeanna Troll.  "But I sink eet not necessary
eef you gettink ze dress back."
     Presently there was another knock at the door, quiet,
but portentous.  As Sam opened the door, he beheld a legion
of female Orcs, fawning all over none other than the dread
Sauron in person.  Sam easily recognized him from the
portraits he had seen, but yet more from the sinister menace
of his urbanity, the elegant veneer of malignancy that
concealed a fundamental dorkiness.  Sauron waved a gloved
hand, and the Orcs vanished.
     "So many female admirers," he sighed.  "A wise
loremaster once pointed out that we males are not naturally
monogamous.  Having used the Ring, I'm sure you know what
it's like. I am pleased to meet you," he continued in a
pleasant, yet insidious, baritone, recalling the refined
accents of Sideshow Bob.  "We were so worried that those
narcoterrorists might have done something nasty to you. The
Western part of my domain isn't as safe as I would like; too
close to Gondor™. I am Sauron the Great, at your
service."
     Sam smiled grimly, before asking Sauron, "What's it
wairth tae ye?"
     "What do you mean?" inquired Sauron.
     "Dinnae be sae Foucauldian.  I ken ye wants the Ring.
Mak us an offer, or we'll do nocht, and say nocht."
     Sauron laughed a sonorous laugh.  Spiegel began to find
him almost more irresistable than Gorbush.
     "Oh, the Ring!" he smiled.  "We can talk about
that later.  Though I wouldn't use it if I were you; it was
really only meant for Maiar. And whatever you do, don't drop
it into Mt. Viagra, or Gandalf and his evil allies will take
over the world and enslave everyone and turn them into
drugged out zombies without hope."  The hobbits gasped, but
Sauron, after giving them a sad smile, continued
unperturbed. "I would also avoid using the phial in your
place, as it is the creation of the evil Fleanor (whom the
Gnomes call Feenamint) and works his will.  But at the
moment I have to give you important news.  For none of you
is the insignificant halfling that he or she appears to be -
except for you, Gulible, or Gullible, or however you're
spelling your nom de guerre these days.  I fear you are
but another interesting narrative irrelevancy."
     "We not interesting irrelevancy!" protested Gulible.
"We Gulible the Great, the Gulible, seduce girlses ten
times a day, Don Giovanni, who bedded 640 women in
Bree, 231 in Gundabad, 100 in Rivendell, 91 in Trollshaws,
but, but, but in the Shire, but in the Shire, we've done
1003...!"
     "Relax," said Sauron.  "We'll give you a free Mordor
Credit Card as compensation for not being anyone's
descendant.  Maybe we'll even put you in charge of the Shire
or something."
     Gulible seemed pleased by this notion, for he began to
mutter, "We shall see, my precious! With credit card we'll
pay her back!  We'll pay everyone back!"
     "Indeed!" said Sauron, smiling a mysterious, ambiguous
smile that could have meant anything from civil
acknowledgement of Gulible's somewhat deranged response to a
cynical, even sadistic amusement.  "Let us be at ease," he
continued.  "Fermented bat's blood?"  He held up a bottle of
some nasty black liquid. The hobbits all agreed with
alacrity, and Sauron poured drinks all around, starting with
Spiegel, to whom he handed a glassful in an elegant mithril
demitasse adorned with Balrog wings.  "The vintage is
excellent.  It's been aging ever since the forging of the
Ring."
     "Ye said ye had news," observed Sam.
     "I do," said Sauron, solemnly.  "Frodo, I am your
father.  You are my son and heir.  The Nurnenshire estate is
but the beginning.  If you are found worthy, you shall
reign over vast kingdoms." (There was a subtle hint of doubt
in the if.) "I owe you a few birthday presents," he smiled
through his tears, as the violins played some mushy tune or
other.  Frodo gaped in amaze, while Sam chortled
sarcastically behind his hand.
     "B-b-b-but, I thought Bilbo was my father," stammered
Frodo.
     "He was.  But I am your great-great-great-great-great-
great-great-great-great-great-great-great-great-grandfather.
A couple of millennia ago, I had a fling with a winsome
hobbit-lass on the banks of the Anduin, before your people
moved out of the range of my geographical knowledge.  It was
a moment of weakness; I was on the rebound from Miniwethil,
and hadn't yet translated my wogah-WOOOgah with Shelob into
something more or less permanent.  (Ouch, Shelob makes my
hands itch.)"  He stopped for a moment and Orkish-kissed
Shelob while fondling her passionately. After about half an
hour, he resumed: "I thought of telling my hobbit-
descendants the truth, but never met anyone who seemed
worthy, until I heard of you.  I had to disown my brother
Saurtre after he got involved with those narcoterrorists in
the Morgai.  Even with you, it's a bit of a stretch, but if
you stay away from drugs, straighten up your sexual
identity, get indoctrinated out of your aristocratic
ideological presuppositions, pass the test of governing the
estate in Nurnenshire (which we're turning into a collective
farm), and develop something remotely resembling moral
fibre, who knows?  Greatness may well be thrust upon you, my
son."
     The hobbits maintained a stunned silence, but Sauron
continued his exposition.
     "Yes, one reason I wanted you here was to protect you
from a murderous plot hatched by the drug cartel (NICE, also
called That Hideous Strength) run by Gandalf, El Rond, Tom
Bombadildo (whose sex life with Goldberry may fairly be
deduced from his name), the Talking Fox, and the mysterious
Brute of Bucklebelt, whose identity I have not yet been able
to determine, and possibly Galadriel, though my groping got
me nowhere with her." Shelob gave a baleful glare.
     "O Great Leader!" cried Frodo, kneeling.  "How can I
get rid of the phial!? Is there no briar patch into which I
can toss it? And why did Galadriel ever give it to me? It
has inflicted upon me a really embarrassing curse."
     "We'll give it back to Maglor," said Sauron casually.
"It's his, he wants it, and frankly he deserves it.  As for
Galadriel, if she cheats on her husband, she can also cheat
on you."
     "But El Rond ..." began Frodo.
     "Yes, I know about all that, having a very effective
intelligence corps, but since he's not the rightful ruler of
Rivendell, we'll just consider his little document null and
void."
     "Father!" said Frodo, joyfully. "You are gracious to me
beyond my dessert!"
     "We wants CHOKLIT, my precious!" interrupted Gulible,
his eyes turning purple at the mention of "dessert." Silent
Orc-servants deftly carried out Don Giovanni's wish, as Sam
continued to scowl.
     "Weell, if this spineless effeminate bourgeois decadent
is the descendant of Sauron, I suppose I'm the scion of
Feenamint," Sam could not quite repress his sarcasm.
     "Not quite," said Sauron with a smile.  "However,
Lenindil - for that your true name - you are the heir of
Isildur™."
     "What about Aragon son of Arathon son of Aradud son of
Arabarf?" blurted Frodo.
     "Who, that?" said Sauron.  "Aragon the Simple! Aragon
the Fool!  But he had just enough wit for the part Gandalf
had appointed for him.  But as for his lineage, it's forged.
The truth is, he's Butterburr's bastard brother, the son of
Ted Sandyman and Goldberry."
     "And hoo, pray, do I manage tae be a descendant of
Isildur™?" inquired Sam.
     "It's easy," said Sauron.  "After the destruction of
Arthurian, Ar-vegetal, the last king, fled to the Shire,
where he sojourned for a time, and wogahed with one of the
more bearable... er, lovely hobbit-wenches.  You are his most
direct descendant.  When I come into my own, you will be
given the realms that should rightly be yours."
     "I dinnae believe ye," said Sam, bluntly.
     "Very vell," said Shelob.  "Suit yourself.  Don't rule
ze Reunited Kingdom and eradicate injustice, usink your
power to furzer ze Revolution.  Be a good serrvant and help
nice masterr."
          "Search within your feelings; you know that what I
say is true.  Besides, would it not be better to be an
instrument of peace between me and Gondor™?" urged Sauron.
"We have rather had our differences over questions like
universal healthcare, flush toilets, the relative musical
merits of 'Casta diva' and 'When you wish upon a star,' and
who should own Dumbar, Land of the Flying Mûmaks. Not to
mention the fact that Isildur™ stole Mini from me..." On
hearing the name "Mini," Shelob stuck a couple of pins into
a female voodoo doll.  Sauron laughed and tickled her bosom.
     Sam was impressed.  "Stars and glory!" he cried.
"Universal healthcare! The Elves could mak a song aboon
that, if they heird of it -" ("And if they had any decent
composers," murmured Sauron sotto voce.) "In the Shire,"
continued Sam, "ye'd be lucky to get a Witch-doctor!"
     "Just don't turn out like Gérard in Andrea Chénier,
Sam," warned Sauron, nonplussing the hobbits (and possibly
several newsgroup posters).
     "But does this mean we'll have to turn evil?" whined
Frodo.
     Sauron laughed long and merrily.  "Evil?" he repeated.
"In what does said evil consist?  In providing universal
healthcare?  In being incredibly sexy, albeit in a sinister,
Scarpia-like way? I have defended my own realm and its
people against the genocidal Elven-caciques and Dúnedan
narcoterrorists who sought to wipe out the Orcs.  Do
genocide and narcoterrorism not strike you as evil? My goal,
on the other hand, is enlightenment and civilization.
Indeed, my dream is to spread the glories of bel canto opera
to every corner of Muddle-earth."  He began to sing an
obscure Donizetti aria in a voice of such beauty, that
Spiegel - along with every female Orc in the bulding -
swooned, and Shelob began to kiss him passionately while he
massaged her lower and upper extremities.  "Rather than
being evil," he added, "I prefer to think of myself as
ambiguous, polyvalent, indeed intertextual."  He handed
Frodo the book entitled Nymphomaniacs and their Ways: A
Porno-ethics of Existentiality.  "Take it," he said. "It's
yours."
     "Thank you, father!" said Frodo. "Now could I but wed
Froufrou the Fish, I could die happy."
     "We'll talk about that after the war," said Sauron.
"Or at least, after we've gotten rid of the phial. You
aren't really yourself just now, I realize," he sighed.
After patting Frodo on the back, Sauron looked thoughtful
for a moment.
     "I did once send a plague of plastic white beagles with
black spots to Gondor™, bewritten Get Mordor.  It
pays!" he mused.  "But that was just a prank.  Surely my
plans to build an opera house in Minas Mickey prove my
benevolence."
     "Sauron, your words are truth!" said Spiegel.  "May I
keep your Blueprint for a New Order?" she begged.
     "Take anything you wish, my sweet," replied Sauron, the
mellifluous cadences of his baritone filling Spiegel with a
mysterious thrill - or was it dread? Or was it lust?
     Sam was silent for a while, pondering.  "Tell me, what
is Gandalf?" he asked at length.
     "The subject is not a very pleasant one," replied
Sauron. "In Valinor he got by mainly by cheating at poker,
and by various other lies and machinations.  Here in Muddle-
earth, his evil deeds continued unabated.  He was in the pay
of everyone (even me, occasionally; traitors can be useful),
got involved in some disgusting genetic experiments which he
carried out on Denethor™'s wife Clarabella (sometimes
rather rudely called 'the Cow'), and generally speaking is
the greatest danger to civilization that exists.  Until he
murdered Aruman, even I had no idea of just how evil he is."
The hobbits were filled with horror, and resolved to join
Sauron in his glorious struggle against evil.  Even Sam had
no more doubts.
     "How can Gandalf be defeated?" asked Spiegel.
     "It is difficult," said Sauron gravely.  "As long as he
has the Elf-ring, no power in Muddle-earth - not even mine -
can overpower him.  Especially if you throw that ring in
Mount Viagra..."
     "Ve can discuss zis furrzer later," said Shelob. "Ve
should be gettink back to Barad-dûr. Zis is not ze safest
place to be discussink zese matters."
     "You're right, my little Morgul-flower, whose blossoms
unfold like a song of pure ecstasy," replied Sauron, rubbing
his hands all over her body.  "Come, friends!  We have much
to do.  The Morgai situation is getting serious."
     Trusting wholly in Sauron and Shelob, the hobbits
gladly complied. As they went, Sauron sang:

     Moreador, en garde!
     Moreador, Moreador!
     I'm a real wiseguy, the great Sauron
     and rule the fates of Ard'!
     And when we wogah Shelob turns me on,
     she really turns me on!

The hobbits caught their first glimpse of Mordor.  Sam and
Frodo gazed upon the land with a horrible fascination, while
Spiegel looked upon it with understanding and love.  It was
a sight utterly unlike the aristocratically anarchic Shire,
with its total lack of any concern whatsoever with a public
sphere independent of the private interests of the landed
aristocracy and the rentiers that clung, leech-like, to
their shadow.  Still less did it resemble the tourist-ridden
sanitized but exploitative and other-denying commercial
banality of Gondor™.  But before they could get a clear
picture of what it did resemble, their reveries were
interrupted by a blast from the past that they could have
lived without.
     Suddenly they heard a dreadsome song, like unto an
exhalation of pure evil, that Frodo and his companions
remembered only too well:

     Tom Bombadil, Tom Bombadildo!
     You're in my way, so I'll have you killed-o!

Mingled with this music of iniquity, they heard Boromir™
whistling his battle-cry "Hi ho, hi ho!  Our home is
Númenor!" These deadly foes attacked the hobbits in the
company of evil narcoterrorists.  On hearing the cry "Goons!
Hired goons!" Sam lost consciousness from the force of the
onslaught, and passed out of all knowledge.

This chapter of this epic work is presented through the courtesy of Count Menelvagor <menelvagor@mailandnews.com>. Copyright © 2001 by the author. All rights reserved. Some variance between this e-text and the original printed material by Professor Tolkien is inevitable. Using this as an electronic resource for scholarly or research purposes may lead to a certain degree of academic embarassment. All agree that the printed version of the text, available from respectable publishers such as Houghton Mifflin and Ballantine Books, is to be preferred. Boromir™ and Gondor™ are trademarks of Saul Zaentz and Tolkien Enterprises, who hold all merchandising rights to Gondor™ and its subsidiaries. Any resemblance between Sauron and Frank Sinatra is only a coincidence.