How to Die in Middle-earth - A Collection of Short Stories -- part 7

Disclaimer: I don't own anything that Tolkien or Hans Christian Anderson own. They were great men, are dead men, and I am not them.

Guy Mann and the Very Bright Armor

Guy Mann was an Extra. It was his official role in the upcoming battle: rush in at the side of Aragorn, looking all heroic. He had buffed up his armor for the event specially. He had, in fact, buffed it up so thoroughly that it was the opinion of many of his comrades-in-arms that if it found himself, for some reason, unable to fight, then at least he could blind the enemies and pull a Gandalf.

Interestingly enough, this is more-or-less what happened. On the day of the historic battle, Guy Mann had just finished rubbing his gleaming armor (and wishing for a mirror to show himself off in) when he heard a trumpet sound. "Oh, no," though Guy. "I'm going to be late. I'd better hurry." And he set off at a great speed, rushing to Aragorn's side.

Incidentally, he had not actually have time to put on his armor before doing so, and was very nearly impaled very early on with an arrow, before actually having the chance to rush in at the side of Aragorn. He therefore had to run back and get suited up, missing his big moment.

And it was a good thing he did: later in the battle, the armor reflected the sun so brilliantly in the face of the enemy that nearly twenty orcs burst into flame and made Guy his very own funeral pyre. Thus ends the shiny man.

The Ugly Orcling

It was lovely summer weather in some country, with golden corn and green oats, and insect-infested haystacks that made the fields look beautiful until you got to close. In that country, there were storks speaking in Egyptian, and sunny spots, and old farms, and all that sort of thing. The country where the ugly orcling was born, however, did not have any of these things, and it therefore got a strange look when it cried "Peep, peep." Not, of course, that anyone was expecting it to quack at such an early age (or ever), but "Peep" is a very odd thing for an orc to say. Still, it was so unusually large and ugly that they immediately promoted it a rank. Even orc armies work like this.

Now, this orcling, who, for the sake of the story, we shall call Mr. Ugly Duck, was soon discontented with his way of life. Discontentment made him very mean, so that all the other orcs quailed (pun definitely intended) at the very sight of him. "They are afraid of me because I am ugly," he said to himself once in a while, to cheer himself up. Strangely, this sentiment seldom seemed to help.

Being ugly, however, did: no one even tried to kill him because he was so ugly. All the foul things of Middle-earth passed over him, and did not harm him. Still, Mr. Ugly Duck was discontent, so he went and found a plastic surgeon who would work late, (or for several months on end, as was the case with this exceptionally ugly orc) and got a face job done, so that when he returned, he could have won Miss Middle-earth, except he was male, and therefore not a `Miss.'

For a while, Mr. Ugly Duck was very content with his new look. Soon, however, he stopped being content, for no one was afraid of him anymore! The other orcs attacked him, the evil beasts tried to eat him, and Sauron's laser eye kept staying at him in utter disbelief.

In the end, horrified and tearful at what beauty had done to him, he crawled, weeping, to the plastic surgeon, to beg for his old, bad looks to be returned. The surgeon, being horrified at Mr. Ugly Duck's sudden appearance, cured his client with a single blow of a curling iron.

And so ended the very ugly orcling.

A Writer's Paradise

Leanne Loona Laquaski was a writer, and very proud of it. She was so proud of it, that she always carried a laptop computer, five notebooks, three dictaphones (or digital voice recorders, as she would say primly), a cell phone, and all her published works with her, thus nearly doubling her slim 110 pound frame.

As a writer, Leanne Loona Laquaski was always looking for new places to write, so she was absolutely thrilled when she came across Mirkwood. "Wonderful!" she said, and then, remembering that she was a Famous Writer, added, "What a mischievously quaint woodland!"

Positively skipping into the forest, she went in search of a good place to write. After quite a lot of walking, she found it on a rock, tipped precariously over a stream. This was the sort of romantic setting that writers love.

Perched on the rock, Leanne Loona Laquaski realized too late that all her packaging had made her rather top-heavy, and she tipped off the stone, crumbling it in her wake, and landed in the water, where she quickly fell into a deep slumber and drowned, saving us all from what promised to be yet another really awful book.


And also for your reading pleasure:

Part 1:
Part 2:
Part 3:
Part 4:
Part 5:
Part 6:

Please don't forget to review! I value your feedback, suggestions, hate mail (okay, not so much that one), and compliments. They are what I write for.

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