[Diamond18]

Vogonwë lay in a dark and troubled dream: it seemed he could hear his own silvery voice echoing in black tunnels, calling Pimpi, Pimpi! But instead of Pimpi, hundreds of lustful fangirl-faces grinned at him out of the shadows, hundreds of feminine arms grasped at him from every side. Where was O Lando?

He woke. Cold perfume blew on his face. He was lying on his back, trussed up like an old mathom wrapped in spaghetti straps. Beside him O Lando lay, white-faced, with a piece of lingerie bound across his bleeding head. All about them sat or stood the company of Fangirls.

Vogonwë struggled a little, but it was useless, pointless, and rather depressing in its utter failure to do anything worth this long a sentence. One of the pretty young maidens sitting near laughed and said something to a companion in their abominable tongue, “Ummmmmm, luk at him trie 2 get away, he’s jsut 2 cute, LOL!”

Another responded in the Common Tongue, making it sound almost, but not quite, as hideous as her own language; “Stay away from him, you, this one belongs to me and my lasses. You get to have the other one.”

Then she turned and stooped over Vogonwë, bringing her teal colored braces close to his face. She had a pink feather with a long fluffy plume in her hand. “Lie quiet, or I’ll tickle you with this,” she giggled.

Terrified Vogonwë lay still, though the spandex that bound him was beginning to hurt. “I wonder if poor O Lando is much hurt. What has happened to Pimpi? Why didn’t the fangirls ravage us? Where are we, and where are we going?” he thought.

To take his mind off these thoughts, he listened intently to what was going on around him. He found that most of the talk was intelligible, for apparently there were members of one or two different websites present, and they could not understand one another’s chatspeak. He mentally kicked himself upside and downside the head for mistaking the fibrous strands of filament in the trees for that of mere spiders, harmless Pawns of Uncooliphaunt.

Vogonwë did not know the tale completely, but since he had last been in Workmud, a war had raged between the Pawns and the Fangirls for supremacy over the Webs. When he had left, the Fangirls were but a small and obnoxious cult that confined themselves to fansites and the like. But their ranks had swollen like a dead raccoon left to fester on the roadside, and in the end it was the Fangirls who had won out over the Pawns, and traversed the forests of Workmud in search of a Good Time.

The spiders were still there, of course, hiding out wherever they could find a deserted spot of webbing. Their hatred for the Fangirls was intense, and though they could not face a pack of them at once, they took delight in devouring any maiden who wandered away from her friends. Even if she appeared quite harmless and innocent, and was minding her own business, lying on a riverbank and dreaming, or some other such innocuous activity. Yes, even if there was no immediate proof that she even was a Fangirl, their wrath was swift, for in their multitudinous eyes any girl was a Fangirl, and the only good Fangirl was a juicy Fangirl.

But enough about that. Back to the insanely interesting present:

Vogonwë was giving himself a mental bludgeoning for not anticipating the Fangirls, and yet more for allowing himself to be overwhelmed and captured by a bunch of girls. He, who had dispatched a fair number of pirates with his arrows, a captive of a bunch of nubile elfophiles! He tried to swallow this bitter pill, and turn his mind to methods of escape. He tuned his ear to their chattering, and realized that they were fighting amongst themselves.

Unfortunately, due to the PG-13 nature of these documents, it can only be said that what he heard told him this:

One of the bands wanted to waste some width and set up camp where they were. They were looking forward to getting it on with their prisoners. As their leader, Goshtalk the Doe-Eyed and Horny, put it, “Why not jump them quick, jump them now? They’re so darn cute, and we’re in a hurry.”

The other band, led by Oolalaluk, wanted to continue on to wherever they were going. “Orders, LOL!” she said. “‘Bring two of the cutest Elves back unspoiled, as quickly as possible. That’s my orders, and if you don’t like them you can eat my bubblegum, LOL.”

After going back and forth about it for a while, a catfight broke out. Meanwhile, Vogonwë was doing what he did best, composing a poem.

How do I loathe thee?
Let me count the ways.
One, You hit me in the head and put me in a daze.
Two, You did the same to my cousin.
Three, You stampeded my dear Pimpiowyn.
Four, You trussed me up with your drawers.
Five GOOOOOLDEN RINGS!
Six, I hate the way you cling,
And treat me like your plaything.
And last but least, there is this thing that I can’t stand in the least,
No, it’s not when you feast, feast, feast, feast—
It’s just that if you say LOL one more time,
I may lose my mind.

The tumult increased, and cautiously Vogonwë rolled over, hoping to see what would happen. It was, after all, rather muddy where they were.

His guards had gone to join in the fray. In the twilight he saw a tall, big-boned Fangirl, probably Oolalaluk, standing facing Goshtalk, a short petite little creature. They had drawn their replica swords and knives, but hesitated to attack each other. The other girls were screeching and clawing at each other, but the two leaders stood still, their budding bosoms heaving as they glowered at each other. “We march day and night,” Oolalaluk hissed, “and when we get to where we’re going, then you can have your sport, LOL!”

“Pffh you!” Goshtalk screeched back.

Suddenly, Oolalaluk reached out and yanked out a goodly portion of Gohstalk’s bleach-blonde hair. This was, as can be imagined, rather painful. Oolalaluk raised the clump of bloody hair above her head and proclaimed, “I am Oolalaluk! Go me! LOL!”

Vogonwë gritted his teeth and tried not to scream. Goshtalk, sobbing and whimpering, called off her lasses, and Oolalaluk ordered triumphantly, “Pick up those prisoners! And don’t try any tricks on them!”

A trio of heavily perfumed Fangirls hoisted Vogonwë up onto their shoulders, all the while muttering dark and petulant things in their own tongue. O Lando, still unconscious and bound with a brassiere, was given the same treatment. And then they were off again, heading for wherever they were going.

[ February 17, 2003: Message edited by: Diamond18 ]