“Sure don’t build ’em like they used to,” observed Spam as he dodged a falling water cooler.
Great rents appeared around the boggies and they found themselves cut off from escape. The whole band seemed to writhe and moan from its very bowels, which after eons of lethargy, had finally begun to move. The earth tipped at a crazy angle and the boggies slid toward a crevass filled with used razor blades and broken wine bottles.
“Ciao!” waved Spam to Frito.
“At a time like this?” sobbed Frito.
Then just over their heads they saw a passing flash of color. There in the sky they saw a giant eagle, full-feathered and painted shocking pink. On its side were the words DEUS EX MACHINA AIRLINES in metallic gold.
Frito yelped as the great bird swooped bow and snatched them both from death with its rubberized talons.
“Name’s Gwahno,” said the Eagle as they climbed sharply away from the disintegrating land. “Find a seat.”
“But how—” began Frito.
“Not now, mac,” the bird snapped. “Gotta figure a flight plan outta this dump.”
The powerful wings bore them to a dizzying height and Frito looked with awe upon the convulsed land below. Fordor’s black rivers were twisting like ringworms, huge glaciers figure skated across barren plains, and the mountains were playing leapfrog.
Just before Gwahno began banking a turn, Frito thought he caught a glimpse of a great, dark form the color and shape of a bread pudding retreating over the mountains with a steamer trunk of odd socks.
The glorious army that drew up before the Black Gate numbered somewhat less than the original thousands. It numbered seven, to be exact, and might have been less had not seven merinos finally bolted for freedom out from under their riders. Cautiously, Arrowroot looked upon the Black Gate to Fordor. It was many times a man in height and painted a flashy red. Both halves were labeled OUT.
“They will issue from here,” Arrowroot explained. “Let us unfurl our battle standard.”
Dutifully Goodgulf fitted together his cue and attached the white cloth.
“But that is not our standard,” said Arrowroot.
“Bets?” said Gimlet.
“Better Sorhed than no head,” said Goodgulf as he bent his sword into a plowshare.
Suddenly Arrowroot’s eyes bugged.
“Lo!” he cried.
Black flags were raised in the black towers and the gate opened like an angry maw to upchuck its evil spew. Out poured an army the bikes of which was never seen. Forth from the gate burst a hundred thousand rabid narcs swinging bicycle chains and tire irons, followed by drooling divisions of pop-eyed changelings, deranged zombies, and distempered werewolves. At their shoulders marched eight score heavily armored griffins, three thousand goose-stepping mummies, and a column of abominable snowmen on motorized bobsleds; at their flanks tramped six companies of slavering ghouls, eighty parched vampires in white tie, and the Phantom of the Opera. Above them the sky was blackened by the dark shapes of vicious pelicans, houseflies the size of two-car garages, and Rodan the Flying Monster. Through the portals streamed more foes of various forms and descriptions, including a six-begged diplodocus, the Loch Ness Monster, King Kong, Godzilla, the Creature from the Black Lagoon, the Beast with 1,000,000 Eyes, the Brain from Planet Arous, three different subphyla of giant insects, the Thing, It, She, Them, and the Blob. The great tumult of their charge could have waked the dead, were they not already bringing up the rear.
“Lo,” warned Stomper, “the enemy approaches.”
Goodgulf gripped his cue with an iron hand as the others huddled around him in a last, shivering tableau before the fiendish onslaught.
“Vell, ve going bye-bye,” Eörache said as she crushed Arrowroot in a sweet, final embrace.
“Farewell,” squeaked Arrowroot. “We will die heroes.”
“Perhaps,” sobbed Moxie, “we shall meet in better lands than this.”
“Wouldn’t be difficult,” agreed Pepsi as he made out his will.
“So long, shrimp,” Legolam said to Gimlet.
“Be seein’ ya, creep,” replied the dwarf.
“Lo!” exclaimed Arrowroot, rising from his knees.
“If he says that once more,” said Gimlet, “I’ll croak him myself.”
But all eyes followed the Ranger-King’s shaking pinkie. The sky was filling with a bright puce smog, and there came in a great wind a blatting noise similar to that made by certain Rings when they give up the ghost. The black ranks wavered in their march, stopped, and began to fidget. Suddenly, cries of anguish were heard from above and black pelicans fell from the sky, their Black Riders desperately struggling with ripcords. The narc hordes shrieked, threw down their tire irons, and hotfooted it toward the open gate. But as the narcs and their scaly allies turned back to safety, they were changed as if by magic into pillars of garlic. The terrible army had vanished and all that remained were a few white mice and a soggy pumpkin.
“Sorhed’s army is no more!” cried Arrowroot, catching the drift.
Then a dark shadow raced along the plain. Looking up, they saw a barge pink eagle circle the battleground, correct for windage, and skid to a creditable three-point landing in front of them, bearing the two haggard, yet familiar, passengers.
“Frito! Spam!” cried the seven.
“Goodgulf! Arrowroot! Moxie! Pepsi! Legolam! Gimlet! Eörache!” cried the boggies.
“Stow it,” growled Gwahno the Windlord. “I’m already behind schedule.”
Gleefully, the rest of the company and Eörache clambered aboard the eagle’s broad back, eager for the sight of Minas Troney. The great bird taxied along the plain, and, shaking some ice from his tailfeathers, bounded gracelessly into the air.
“Fasten your seatbelts,” cautioned Gwahno, looking over his wing at Arrowroot, “and use those paper bags. That’s what they’re there for, mac.”
The reunited wayfarers soared high into the sky and caught a convenient westbound jet stream that brought them over the fair city of Minas Troney in a few short words.
“Nice tail wind today,” grunted Gwahno.
The overloaded eagle dipped its wings and crashlanded before the very gates of the seven-ringed city.
Wearily, yet happily, the company debirded and accepted the cheering adulation of the huge throngs, who tearfully pelted them with cigar bands and Rice Krispies. Arrowroot gave no thought to their praise, however; he was still using his bag. Nevertheless, a bevy of comely elf-maidens drew nigh the preoccupied Ranger bearing a rich crown of all aluminum and set with many a sparkling aggie.
“It’s the crown!” cried Frito, “the Crown of Lafresser!”
Then the elfin honeys placed the Royal Porkpie over Stomper’s eyes and robed him in the shimmering tinsel of Twodor’s True King. Arrowroot opened his mouth, but the Crown slipped down around his neck and gagged his acceptance speech. The gay throngs took this as a good omen and went home. Arrowroot turned to Frito and beamed mutely. Frito bowed low at this silent thanks, but his brows were knitted with another matter.
“You have destroyed the Great Ring, and the gratitude of all Lower Middle Earth is yours,” spoke Goodgulf, clapping an approving hand on Frito’s wallet. “I now grant you one wish in payment for your heroism. All you have to do is ask.”
Frito stood on tiptoe and whispered in the kindly old Wizard’s ear.
“Down the street to the left,” nodded Goodgulf. “You can’t miss it.”
So it was that the Great Ring was unmade and Sorhed’s power destroyed forever. Arrowroot of Arrowshirt and Eörache soon were wedded, and the old Wizard prophesied that eight monocled and helmeted offspring would soon be smashing the palace furniture. Pleased by this, the King made Goodgulf Wizard Without Portfolio to the newly conquered Fordorian lands and gave him a fat expense account, to be voided only if he ever decided to set foot back in Twodor. To Gimlet the dwarf, Arrowroot granted a scrap-metal franchise on Sorhed’s surplus war engines; to Legolam, he granted the right to rename Chikken Noodul “Ringland” and run the souvenir concession at the Zazu Pits. Lastly, to the four boggies he gave the Royal Handshake. and one-way tickets aboard Gwahno back to the Sty. Of Sorhed, little was heard again, though if he returned, Arrowroot promised him full amnesty and an executive position in Twodor’s defense labs. Of the ballhog and Schlob, little was heard either, but local gossips reported that wedding bells were only centuries away.