"What are they?" Aragon asked and stared out over the milling crowds.
Their joyous squeals and raucous hollers reached even the highest tower,
their brightly coloured garments could not be ignored by the most
colourblind of absent minds. Gondor™ had indeed been invaded.
  "Don't worry about it, dear," Arwen said and put her arm over a small
portion of his shoulders. "The people of Mordor have a right to be jolly
after decades of hardship and high culture, haven't they? If they want to
look outrageous, so be it. Now put on that costume and let me have a look
at you!"
  Aragon sighed and wriggled into a pair of very green tights. "I can't say I
like performing for Orcs," he said. "Not to mention the Southrons; they laugh
and make obscene gestures at me."
  Arwen gave him a motherly smile. "It's their culture, darling!" she
explained. "And remember, they aren't called Orcs or Southrons anymore. Keep
your manners and call them Mordorians - please?"
  She helped him button his shirt, a voluminous tent gleaming venomously like
the skin of a serpent dying from envy, and the matching vest in avocado.
Aragon gave himself a quick glance in the wall-covering mirror, then looked
away with a grimace. "I don't like this," he said. "I don't like it at all."
He attempted to make the puppy-eyed face that made her heart melt like
marshmallows in a campfire, but all the green seemed to take away its effect.
  "Yes, my snake, it is necessary," Arwen said firmly. "We couldn't possibly
throw away a golden opportunity like this. Ariëlle has hinted that we might
get even higher positions here, if we perform well and she decides to go on a
mission to save the world or something. Who knows, we might be King and Queen
of Gondor™ yet!" She threw off her cape, and stood before him in a silver
bathing suit and feathers and little else. "And until that day, we will be
the Fairy King and Queen of Goldywood™." She gave a wry smile. "Isn't it
amazing how these concept writers can twist and pervert the most simple
idea?"
  "There will be no twisting or perversion in my Gondor™!" Ariëlle
exclaimed cheerfully as she barged into the room without knocking. "Unless
they can come up with a new way of twisting that fits the Park's concept, of
course. Hey, what do you think about these? 'Buy your own Ring of
Destruction'." She held out a tray of brightly coloured rings and a wizardly
doll that looked somewhat like Gandalf. "He's fully de- and reflatable," she
said proudly as Arwen reached out to touch his rubbery features.
  "Uh - wasn't it called the Ring of Seduction?" Aragon asked serpently,
shifting uncomfortably in his new costume.
  Ariëlle just gave him a stare. "What kind of place do you think this is?"
she asked sternly. "And may I kindly request you not to adjust your pants
in public? It's not fitting." She looked at her watch, which was large and
sparkly and decorated with a miniature replica of Gondor™. "All right,
lovedoves, it's time," she said with a grin. "Break a leg, huh?"
  Aragorn put on his mask, which, at three times the size of his head, was
in perfect proportion with his body. "Ho ho ho. I'm a fat, happy wood elf,"
he said grimly, and slithered out to face the people, Arwen balancing behind
him on heels high enough to suit any Fairy Queen. Snip, snap, snout, went the
cameras of the Mordorians, and their money tickled merrily into the food
stalls and souvenir shops of Gondor™. 

  Ariëlle returned to her office. It was brightly lit by force of the great
windows covering the entire wall overlooking the theme park. It was also
eerily quiet, due to the sound-proofing properties of the same windows.
Ariëlle, undisputed heiress to the magical kingdom of Gondor™, sat
leisurely down at her desk and started looking through all the plans for new
merchandise and better rides. She loved plans; they always seemed to come out
in her favour.
  "That's a good one," she muttered softly as she examined the suggestion of
elongating Boromir's™ Ghostride with reappearing hobbit toons as well. "Yes,
hobbits are good for many things," she mused, and pushed her Silmarilan
buzzer button. Morrie and Pipsqueak came in at once, Pipsqueak's face
brimming with adolescent love, Morrie still with a calculating look in his
eyes. "Any news of the Halflings?" she asked.
  Pipsqueak jumped up and down and squeaked excitedly. Morrie gave him a cold
stare. "They're safe, Madame," he informed. "Frodo is filled to the brim with
drugs and ravin' delirious. Sam and Spiegel are... uh... in their room." He
grimaced. "Kalessin has said his union will contact us about compensation for
the trip. Apparently, Frodo made dying noises the entire time, and the other
two... well."
  "Thank you, my loyal Three-quarts," Ariëlle said pleasantly. "I shall take
care of everything. You have served me well." She followed them out with her
gaze, and smiled as she saw Pipsqueak lean on Morrie in a swooning fashion.
"So susceptible," she thought, absent-mindedly fondling her Silmaril. 

  In Mordor, the colours of Death and Passion were in power. Volcanic fire
leapt from ramshackle house to abandoned car-wreck, black smoke packing
itself thicker than ever in the sky. All living things had fled the land for
the pleasures of Gondor™ and other attractions. The ones that were left
were the half-living, the scavenging creatures; sneering rats, great, buzzing
flies and cockroaches, and spiders. 
  "Veer iz hee, my darlinks?" The woman veiled in black paused and, striking
a decorative pose against the burning sky, followed her scuttling companions
with her gaze. They were headed towards a mound of shrapnel greater than the
others, a dazzling creation of broken steel reinforcement and glass
splinters, a sculpture protesting the destruction of war made by no man's
hand. "Aiii!" wailed Shelob, and ran elegantly towards the wreckage.
  One little spider can do nothing, perhaps. But hundreds, or thousands,
nourished on flies grown fat on junk food and fighting, can accomplish
plenty. Shelob's black warriors spun and fastened, pulled and moved, until
the mound was opened. Many perished as unstable bits gave way and tumbled,
but they were all ready to fulfill the last request of their Liberal Lady.
"Sztop!" she called out suddenly. "You leaf me nov, all ov you. You hev been
vonderful." She waited for the spiders to disappear, then gingerly made her
way up the pile.
  All was still.
  "Szveethart? Veer ar you?" Shelob murmured softly. She listened. Was that a
moan she heard? A moan known to her and loved by her, from happier times than
these? She walked around the last unbroken wall of Sauron's tower until she
found what she was looking for. It was a door, amazingly whole and still
sealed shut. The Spider Queen reached out her hand to touch it, and
soundlessly, the door swung open. Shelob gave a tentative smile and entered.
  "Aglunph," Sauron responded eloquently as his saviour carefully dragged
him out of the room and away from the disintegrating heap. She laid the former
Dark Lord out on the ground and kissed his forehead with her sticky lips.
Slowly he opened his lidless eyes and looked at Shelob, then let them linger
at the remnants of his tower. "I've always wanted eventful dreams," he said.
"But don't you think this is a little bit over the top?"
  "Shussh, darlink," Shelob hissed lovingly, and stroked his hair. "Your tover
waz razer vell built, vas it not? But zis iz zee ent ov it, I vear."
  Sauron winced and sighed. "I guess that is so," he said. "My plan has failed,
and I have failed with it. You should have let me rest in my tower, my dear."
  Shelob tutted and gently shook his head. Sauron groaned with pain. "But don't
you szee?" she asked smilingly. "Nov, at last, you are vree." She stared at
him and saw his features soften, as gradually many great loads left his weary
shoulders. "I don't feel the incessant need to wogah!" he exclaimed. "And...
the Orcs! I don't need to control them, not one little bit. I feel great!" He
tried to sit up, but fell back with a thump. Yet he was still not beaten. "I
feel like singing!" he said, and drew in his breath deeply. Shelob gently hit
his head with a rock, then lifted up her unconscious love and went to search
for shelter in the wasteland.

  "What did she say to you?" asked Sam after the interview with Ariëlle was
over. Spiegel only smiled dreamily and went over to the mirror.
  "Do you think my hair looks best free or tied up?" she said as she started
brushing.
  "Your hair looks great no matter how," Sam stated matter-of-factly, and
added, for emphasis, "And that's a fact." He sat meaningfully down on the bed,
but Spiegel appeared not to notice.
  "So what are you doing tonight, then?" she asked.
  "Mm...me?" Sam was flabbergasted. "I thought I was going with you to see
the Parade™... together with you," he explained.
  Spiegel finished brushing and opened a box of makeup which she started
applying with great skill. "I'm sorry, Sam," she said. "I'm going to be in
the parade. Ariëlle has offered me work here as a Beauty Queen. Imagine
that - me, a Miss Gondor™! Who would have thought?" She decorated her eyes
in silence for a while, then turned around to look at Sam. She was just in
time to see the door closing softly behind him.

  "How are ye, Master Frodo?" Sam asked, unexpectedly feeling a deep longing
for his old, simple life in the Shire. Frodo started, opened his eyes, and
giggled.
  "I had such a wonderful dream!" he said. "I was hatching giant butterflies
from my stomach. Oh, it's you, Sam," he added as he slowly came somewhat to
his senses. 
  "Yes," said Sam. "I'm glad that you are here with me," he muttered inaudibly.
"Here at the end of all things, Master."
  "I say, Sam," Frodo exclaimed jofully. "You do look a bit like a
caterpillar! But whenever did you decide to colour your hair purple? You
look most droll!" He smiled contentedly and sunk down on his pillow.

This chapter of this epic work is presented through the courtesy of Tamfiiris Gloruloke <kiaora@hotpop.com>. Copyright © 2002 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. We've still got six chapters to go, so don't expect the plot to stay this idyllic.