Frito and Spam dropped their bags under a little ledge, and Goddam settled down behind them, humming a gum jingle.
“Well, we’re right in the old ballpark,” he said, almost cheerily.
Frito groaned.
The boggies were awakened in the late afternoon by the clash of cymbals and the harsh sound of trumpets playing “Busman’s Holiday.” Frito and Spam sprang to their feet and saw, frighteningly close, the great Gate of Fordor set into the high mountain wall. The gate itself, flanked by two tall towers topped with search lights and a vast marquee, lay open, and an enormous line of men was pouring in. Frito shrank back in fear against the rock.
It was night before the last of the hordes had passed into Fordor, and the Gate had closed with a deep clang. Spam peeped out from behind a stone outcropping and slipped over to Frito with a frugal meal of loaves and fishes. Goddam immediately appeared from a narrow crevice and smiled obscenely.
“The way to a man’s heart is through his stomach,” he said.
“That’s just what I’ve been thinking,” said Spam, fingering the hilt of his sword.
Goddam looked mournful. “I know how it is,” he said. “I was in the war. Pinned down in a deadly hail of Jap fire...”
Spam gagged, and his arm went limp. “Die,” he suggested.
Frito took a large loaf of raisin bread and crammed it into Goddam’s mouth.
“Mmmmf, mfffl, mmblgl,” said the beast darkly.
The little party set out once more into the night and walked for many long liters into the south, always skirting the stony ring that surrounded Fordor with a ring of stone. The road they followed was flat and smooth, the remnant of some ancient linoleum-paved highway, and by the time the moon was high in the sky, they had left the Gate of Fordor far behind. Around midnight the stars became obscured with a great many clouds the size of a man’s hand, and shortly after a tremendous torrent swept through the land, pouring wet, annoyed pointers and retrievers on the miserable travelers. But the boggies pressed on behind Goddam, and after a bruising fifteen minutes, the storm passed and, dropping a few last chihuahuas, moved westward.
For the rest of the night they journeyed under dimly visible stars, numbed by the cold and Goddam’s endless stream of knock-knock jokes. It was very late at night when they found themselves at the edge of a large forest, and heading off the road, they took shelter in a small grove. In a moment they were fast asleep.
Frito awoke with a start to find the little grove completely surrounded by tall, grim-looking men clad from head to toe in British racing green. They held huge green bows, and they wore shaggy wigs of bright green hair. Frito rose unsteadily to his feet and kicked Spam.
At that point, the tallest of the bowmen stepped forward and approached him. He wore a propeller beanie with a long green feather and a large silver badge with the word Chief and some recumbent pigeons, and Frito guessed that he must be their leader.
“You’re completely surrounded; you haven’t got a chance; come out with your hands up,” said the captain sternly.
Frito bowed low. “Come in and get me,” he said, making the correct reply.
“I am Farahslax, of the Green Toupées,” said the captain.
“I am Frito, of nothing in particular,” said Frito shakily.
“Can I kill them a little?” squealed a short squat man with a black nose-patch, rushing to Farahslax with a garrote.
“Nay, Magnavox,” said Farahslax. “Who are you?” he said, turning to Frito, “and what is your evil purpose?”
“My companions and I are going to Fordor to cast the Great Ring into the Zazu Pits,” said Frito.
At that, Farahslax’s face darkened, and looking first at Goddam and Spam, then back to Frito, he tiptoed out of the grove with a little smile and disappeared with his men into the surrounding forest, singing merrily:
It was not many hours before night when the green men left, and after a leisurely meal of apple cheeks and cauliflower ears, Frito, Spam, and Goddam returned to the high road and passed quickly out of the forest and into the wide asphalt waste that lay beneath the eastern slope of Fordor. By nightfall they had come under the shadow of the black chimneys of Chikken Noodul, the dread company town that stood across from Minas Troney. From deep within the earth came the heavy whomp-whomp of fell engines producing overshoes and mess kits for Sorhed’s war machine.
Goddam led Frito and Spam through the brown gloom to a fin-worn salmon ladder that led sharply up into the heavy mass of the Sob Hurok, the great cliffs of Fordor. They climbed for what seemed like an hour. An hour later they reached the top, exhausted and gagging on the heavy air, and flung themselves down on a narrow ledge at the mouth of a great cavern overlooking the black vale.
Above them wheeled huge flocks of black pelicans, and all around them lightning flashed and graves yawned and fell asleep.
“Things look black, and no mistake,” said Spam.
A pungent smell of old pastrami and rancid gherkins floated out of the cave, and from deep within some hidden chamber came the sinister click of knitting needles.
Frito and Spam walked warily into the tunnel, and Goddam shuffled after them, a rare smile playing across his face.
Ages ago when the world was young and Sorhed’s heart had not yet hardened like stale cheesecake, he had taken a young troll-maiden as his wife. Her name was Mazola, called by the elves Blanche, and she married the handsome young witch-king over the objections of her parents, who pointed out that Sorhed “simply wasn’t trollish” and could never provide for her special needs. But the two were young and starry-eyed. The first hundred thousand years found the newlyweds still quite happy; they then lived in a converted three-room dungeon with a view, and while the ambitious hubby studied demonology and business administration at night school, Mazola bore him nine strapping wraiths.
Then came the day when Sorhed learned of the Great Ring and the many powers it would bring him in his climb to the top. Forgetting all else, he yanked his sons from medical school over his wife’s strident objections and dubbed them Nozdruls. But the First Ring War went badly. Sorhed and his Ringers barely escaped with their lives. From then on their marital relations went from bad to worse. Sorhed spent all his time at the witch-works and Mazola sat home casting evil spells and watching the daytime mallomar serials. She began to put on weight. Then, one day, Sorhed found Mazola and a mallomar repairman in a compromising position and immediately filed divorce proceedings, eventually winning custody of the Nine Nozdrul.
Mazola, now banished to her drab surroundings in the bowels of Sol Hurok, let her hatred grow and fester. Schlob, was she now called. For eons she nurtured her pique, obsessively stuffing herself with bon-bons, movie magazines, and an occasional spelunker. At first, Sorhed dutifully sent her monthly alimony payments of a dozen or so narc volunteers, but these gifts soon stopped when word got around what a dinner invitation with Sorhed’s ex actually entailed. Her gnawing fury knew no bounds. She prowled her lair with murderous intent, eternally cursing the memory of her husband and his derisive trolack jokes. For ages her only interest had been revenge as she brooded in her dark, dark lair. Cutting off her lights had been the last straw.