[The Barrow-Wight]

Orogarn Two, Duke of Earl and heir to the porcelain throne of Grundor (for the real throne had sat empty for countless generations due to the untimely demise of the ‘Pincushion King’), doubted very much that a garden of any kind might be coaxed to grow in such a lightless plot of rock as the Subway. Ticket farming was so old-fashioned and outdated that only the most provincial clodbusters would be rustic enough to plant such seeds. Being no longer a natural commodity, the only place likely to sprout such produce was a ticket booth.

Far in the distance, in a corner far, far away, he saw a new hope. A pane of glass faintly reflected the wan light of whichever character or creature was giving off a wan light (who could keep track?). He quickly adventured toward the mirrored rays, leaving his companions behind. As he advanced, the proximity to the glass revealed a window thickly smeared with orcish fingerprints, behind which sat a bespectacled goblin of the most geekish sort. Orogarn Two’s crystal sparked an odd orange flash and went dead.

“Goblin, ho!” he shouted, and rushed the glass-protected orc-nerd with a deadly spinning kick designed to shatter the clear shield before him. He flew through the air in a vicious arc of spittle and metal, but his mailed foot, which should have easily shattered the dirty window, stopped dead as if it had met a wall of tempered steel. From his lengthy foot to his pearly teeth, Orogarn Two, Earl of Jones, quivered like a loosely held softball bat meeting a 96MPH fastpitch. He fell to the ground, numb and twitching.

“Ha, ha!” screamed the creature behind the glass in an irritatingly high pitch voice like a herd of clumsy reindeer sliding down a tilting iceberg . “This booth is protected by powers stronger than you – the Subway Transit Authority!”

“The what?” asked Orogarn Two, shaking uncontrollably as he stood. The collision with the ticket booth had stunned him and he was having a hard time thinking.

“The Subway Transit Authority, you stinking twit of a tarkish turnip!” screeched the dorkisk ork. “They control all tolls and tickets. You gotta be on the ball to reach the First Hall.”

“Huh?”

“You can’t be cheap if you wanna see the First Deep!” grunted the goblin dipstick.

“What?”

“Don’t look for a sale to reach the Dimwit Dale?” sang the orc-spaz.

“What on Middle-earth are you talking about?”

The ticket booth orc threw his hands up in exasperation. “12 silver pennies for a ticket to Shepherd’s Bush! What are you? Stupid?”

“No!” shouted Orogarn Two. “I am Orogarn Two, son of Orogarn One, son of The Orogarn Jr., son of …”

“Shut up!!!!” shouted his companions as they came up to pay for their tickets.

[ January 24, 2003: Message edited by: The Barrow-Wight ]