[Diamond18]

Vogonwë gradually returned to consciousness, having momentarily lost himself by landing headfirst on the ground. He found himself now, sprawled out in a clump of briars a little ways away from the swarm of Fangirls by the Black River Boutique.

Cautiously, he untangled himself from the mess, and such was his prowess that he escaped with nothing more than two small snags in his breeches. He looked around and saw no sign of the White Deer or his third cousin thrice removed, but an odd twinkle of light far off the beaten path caught his eye. He peered into the glowering gloom of Workmud in the evening, and wondered whence the strange light cometh. A shadow and a thought began to grow in his mind, and with a glance in the direction of the frightful Fangirls, he slipped away into the murky woods.

He threaded his way through the density, and on his way he passed by a pool, with three dead Elves floating therein. They seemed vaguely familiar, but he didn't stop to look any closer. He did, however, compose a short poem in his mind:

The dead Elves lay in the stagnant pool.
They lay. They rotted. They turned
Around occasionally.
Bits of flesh dropped off them from
Time to time.
And sank into the pool's mire.
They also smelt a great deal.

Presently, Vogonwë came to a small clearing, where the trees had been hacked down mercilessly and the ground had been bulldozed till it formed a nice looking dance floor. There were many people there, Elvish looking folk, all dressed in tuxes and smart little black numbers. There was a jazz band in their midst, and there were Chinese lanterns hanging from some of the lucky trees which had not been whacked. But the most splendid sight of all was the table of hors d’oeuvores and the giant punch bowl as the centerpiece.

Vogonwë’s stomach rumbled as he recalled that it had been a long time since he’d eaten: was it breakfast? Yes, for he had set out to find some comestibles for lunch hours ago, and the shadows of night were now falling like a cheap backdrop. Cautiously (for he knew that the party-elves of Workmud were notoriously snobbish) he stepped into the clearing.

As soon as he did so, all the lights went out with a mighty poof, and in a gratuitous display of magic, the party disappeared.

“Oh, fuss and bother,” Vogonwë muttered, feeling worldly-wise and above such childish nonsense.

It was not long before he saw the lights renewed a little way off, and he strode purposefully toward the sound of tinkling glassware and affected laughter. They’ll not keep this wood-elf, or half-elf, or whatever I am, from their party, he thought to himself, as there was hardly another person to be thinking to at the moment.

Again he stepped into the circle of atmospheric party light, and again his sudden appearance was met by a puff of smoke. “This seems to require strategy,” he mused. “Ah well…third time’s the charm.”

For the third time, he advanced upon the lights, which were brighter than ever. Apparently, they had added a Discotír to their decorations, and as is turned it showered the partygoers with multitudinous shades of sparkling colors.

Vogonwë sidled up to the edge of the glimmering light, and nonchalantly knocked three times on a tree trunk, two long strokes and one short tap. Presently, a tall and pudgy looking Elf appeared at the edge of the clearing and said, “No admittance except on party business.”

“Hullo, Roomeal,” Vogonwë said, “what’s the word on the path these days?”

“Vogonwë Brownbark, could it be?” the Elven-bouncer looked stunned. “And yet, I have never seen another hairbow like unto yours…but how do I know you’re you, and that you didn’t kill Master Brownbark and take his bow?”

“Don’t I look like me?”

“Well…you could be a servant of the Enemy, in disguise…”

“A servant of the Enemy would look fouler and feel fairer,” Vogonwë told him.

Roomeal stared at him blankly for a moment, then said, “All the same, I’d feel better if you would give some kind of sign that you are a friend, not a foe.”

Vogonwë gave him a withering look, but recited an old poem by which he had been known:

All that glitters is not gold,
Diamonds are sparkly too.
The wood that was weak did not stand long,
Its roots were not deep, and that’s why it fell.
From the bark a new life shall waken,
A lithe form from the shavings shall spring;
Renowned shall be the Log that was Rotting,
And the living boy shall grow like a sapling or something.

Roomeal shifted uncomfortably. “Well, yes, that is the verse Geppettuil wrote for his son, but just like the second-to-last line says, it’s become renowned throughout Middle-earth. They say you can hear it sung in every pub and inn from here to Harad.”

“Silence, fool!” Vogonwë said impatiently, “I have not passed through Fangirls and Skwerls to bandy pointless passwords with a pudgy ponce. Let me in or I’ll blow your party down again.”

Roomeal meekly stepped out of the way, and Vogonwë proceeded into the party with a put-out look upon his physiognomy.

Once safely into the Clearing Club, he searched out the largest cluster of Elves. Surely at the center of such a group he would find whom he sought, he reasoned. And sure enough, he was in a glade full of people hanging on one person’s breath (they would all vote him most likely to be loved to death). “I hope he still wants it, but it might remind him of when he aimed for the bullseye and hit it nine times out of ten,” Vogonwë mused. “That one time his hand slipped and I saw the dart sail away. I don’t know where it landed, but I’m guessing between green and grey.”

He pushed through the throng of fawning Elves, who were clutching their martini glasses and laughing stiffly at the discourse of the Elf at the center of their attention. Finally Vogonwë came before the Elven-partyking’s throne, an art nouveau chair that looked like a pair of giant lips.

“Dad!” he said.

Geppettuil of Workmud broke his attention away from the elf-maid hanging on his arm, and said, “Well, if it isn’t little Voggy! How are things swinging these days, eh my boy?”

“I need to talk to you,” Vogonwë replied.

“Sure, sure,” Geppettuil said with a smile.

“Alone, preferably.”

The looks that the other Elves were giving him were positively murderous. They surreptitiously tried to shove him away while laughing glibly through their clenched teeth. “Have a sandwich,” one hissed threateningly in his ear.

Vogonwë elbowed the two nearest him in the ribs, and calmly said, “If you can find the time, that is,” while they fell to the ground gasping in pain.

“Of course, of course, I can always find time for my boy,” Geppettuil said smoothly.

A half an hour later, Vogonwë was standing on the outskirts of the group, drinking punch and munching on some breaded frog legs, while Geppettuil regaled his entourage with a tale of the olden days.

Roomeal walked by him, and Vogonwë called him over. “Do you know how to distract those pathetic clingers?” he asked.

“Well…they like to dance,” Roomeal said. “But the band is on their break; they get a break every twenty years, and—”

“Round up the band and make them play something,” Vogonwë instructed.

“But, the singer is down with the flu,” Roomeal said.

“What kind of Elf comes down with the flu?” Vogonwë asked in shock.

Roomeal squirmed. “He’s not an Elf…you see…none of the bandmembers are Elves…they’re…”

“They’re what?”

“They’re spiders,” Roomeal blurted. “Shishkebob and the Eight Legged Freaks, the Coolest Pawns of Uncooliphaunt Around, Swingingest Jazz Band From Here to Harad. But you can just call them the Pawns.”

Vogonwë paused to take this in. “But…but what about the spider leg collection my father has mounted behind the bar?"

Roomeal glanced over at the bar and said, “He took them down. Listen, Voggy, times have changed. Ever since the Fangirl Wars, the spiders have been looking for jobs, y’know? You can’t go very far in Workmud without seeing some poor arachnid holding a sign that says ‘Will Work for Blood’.”

“All right then, round up the Pawns, and find a new singer.”

“On so short a notice? I—”

Vogonwë was, understandably, growing somewhat impatient with his woodland kin. “Listen, Roomy,” he interrupted, “I’ve been away in far reaches of the world where people have short lives and even shorter tempers. Now, I can’t say for sure, but in that time I may have picked up a violent streak myself. And I may be an Orc in disguise, so you don’t want to make me angry, capice?”

“Oh…whatever you say, cousin Vogonwë,” Roomeal nodded nervously.

“I’m not your cousin, you stupid lump of a serving Elf. Now get! I have things to do, places to go, and people to meet.”

Roomeal closed his mouth with a snap and scurried away. But when he was at a safe distance, he yelled over his shoulder, “Well, I see someone has been hanging around Men for a few too many years!”

[ February 20, 2003: Message edited by: Diamond18 ]