The Mount Zoom Challenge - GAME

[Formendacil]

Denethor:

Minas Tirith cruised smoothly to the starting line. Denethor, son of Ecthelion, Lord High Steward of Gondor, peered out of the tower, down to the crowd, where a huge section of the crowd, clad in black and gold, had turned out to support the Gondorian team.

"Father," he heard his son and copilot say, "Aragorn's on the palantír. It's something about being a good steward of his city, and making sure to return it with a full tank."

Denethor scowled. Minas Tirith had been his ride! His!

"Yes, yes," he grumbled to Faramir. "While I head over to the podium to speak to the crowd, you go find Húrin, Keeper of the Keys, and get the spare set. I don't want to be stranded somewhere in the middle of Rhovannion just because we misplaced the one set.

"I've never misplaced anything in my life," said Faramir.

"What about that Ring?"

"I didn't misplace it! I sent it on it's way!"

"Whatever. You go get the keys, while I go talk to the crowd. Got to drum up some more fans, you know. I think the Arnorian crowd could be persuaded to root for us instead of that silly Bag-End, if we appeal to their Númenorean side."

Faramir rolled his eyes, but said nothing. He and Denethor descended the long stairwell down to the citadel, then followed the road down the seven circles, weaving back and forth until they reached at last the great, re-wrought gates of the city. It was a quick jump to the ground, and then Faramir was off to find the support team for Minas Tirith, while Denethor headed off to the podium, where Dwarfy the Dwarf was welcoming the Drivers.

"And now," announced the Dwarf grandly, "to introduce to each of you our charming and heroic drivers, who will represent us in this daring race!"

Denethor glared at Saruman (Palantír thief!), at Sauron (eyelidless git!), Gothmog (the waffle-faced!) and the Witchking (imitation city-driver). He spared a glance for Éowyn, barely acknowledging that she was his son (and copilot, he thought with a grimace)'s girlfriend. He looked right over Bilbo (old fuddy-duddy).

When his turn came to be introduced, Denethor stepped up to the mike, raised his arms in greeting to the crowd.

"FOR GONDOR!!" he cried, clicking on a lighter in his right hand. The lighter caught flame, and in the crowd, the Gondorian fans waved their own lighters, torches, and other flaming objects in solidarity with their driver. Except one.

"Uh oh..." muttered Boromir. "Dad + Fire = Not Good!"

Sure enough, a wind arose out of nowhere, and the flame caught on Denethor's cloak, spreading.

"Oops..." said Denethor. "Quick! Something to douse the flames." He caught sight of a barrel just behind the podium, and hurried to extinguish himself.

"No, no, Dad!" cried Faramir. "That's fuel for the engines!"

Denethor paused long enough for the para-healers to catch up to him with a bucket of water. Pretty soon he was soaking, steaming, and scowling.

"I look like a fool," he muttered to Faramir, as Dwarfy continued to introduce the drivers.

"At least the crowd loved it," whispered Faramir.

"Did they now?" grumbled Denethor. "Well, that's one good thing. Was it the Arnorians, do you think?"

"No, I think it was the Balrogs who enjoyed it the most."

"Silly pyromaniacs."

[Gurthang]

Ring Wraith #4:

*hiss-hiss* *unearthly screech* *hissy-hiss-hiss*


Translation:

"Wait a minute, Witch-King! We have a problem with Minas Mor-go! I think the Orc-powered engine is revolting! Give me a minute to knock 'em back in line.. If they don't cooperate we can always just resort to using them as fuel for our furnace. Either way, we'll be up and running a double time!"

[Farael]

The words of the King.

The moment for the grand unveiling was near at hand. After much positioning and bargaining, he had managed to convince the other racers that his very own Medul-zoom should be the first one to be shown to the expecting crowds.

The beautiful Eowyn was standing next to him, as the sunlight glittered on the golden structures, banners proudly flying and waving on the soft morning breeze…. Now the beautiful Eowyn was glancing at Minas-Taxi that had just been unveiled. Faramir again.

“Better keep an eye out for those two… Faramir might be a good man but I do not trust that Denethor. I’ve never forgiven him for trying to steal my thunder. It was MY tragic death that everyone should weep for, not some crazy pyromaniac’s” Grumbled Theoden.

The unveiling ceremony was done, and Theoden walked proudly out of his racing-structure to give his speech. Sadly, trade-offs had to be made and his turn to talk was right after Denethor. The old man just couldn’t, he couldn’t give a normal speech and be over with it, right? No, he had to do his “oh, look at me, I’m in fire, literally” routine. Well fine, He’d show him. He’d show all of them! Theoden King stepped into the slightly scorched podium.

“Ladies and gentlemen, Hobbits, Dwarves and Elves and some re-adjusted to society orcs”

“And Balrogs!!” roared the left wing of the stands.

“And Balrogs,” continued Theoden. “I am here to claim yet another victory for the proud people of Rohan. Who else but us has the knowledge and experience necessary to travel great distances at fast speeds? We, the care-takers of the Mearas, fathers of all horses, we the Rohirrim shall once again ride to victory!” Mild cheers arose from most of the crowd, while the Rohan fans blew their horns and tried to explain to some dull witted trolls the concept of “the wave”

Theoden went on,
“Arise!!! Arise!!! Riders of Theoden!!!
Harsh quests await: Rivers and Mountains!
Bridges shall be built, shortcuts shall be found,
An insane-day, a racing day, ere the sun rises!
Ride now, ride now! Ride to Gondor!... erm I mean To the Grey Heavens!!”

With that last scream, the whole centre of the audience that was mostly occupied by Rohirrim and some Rohan-persuaded men from Dunland rose to their feet on a standing ovation. Signs of “Theoden you are my hero” and “Eowyn we love you… sorry Faramir” were common among them, as were cloaks that said “I went to the unveiling ceremony, cheered for my lord Theoden and all I got was this silly cloak”

It seemed Marketing, and lame marketing at that, has its roots on the ancient days of Middle Earth.

Bowing out of the podium and leaving some space for the Witch King of Angmar, Theoden walked again into Medul-zoom and ordered Hama to warm up the horsengine

[Alcarillo]

The Witch-king of Angmar

Frodo Baggins had eluded him at every turn . . .

Saruman and Gothmog had usurped his place in Sauron's heart . . .

Eowyn had stabbed him straight through the head, in front of everybody at Pelennor . . .

Those measly Gondorians had defeated his armies battle after battle . . .

And now the Witch-king of Angmar wanted vengeance!

And his time had come! A great race would prove that he, the Witch-king, was superior to all of those fools! When he had caught wind that all of his former rivals were entering the Great Mount Doom Challenge, he could not resist entering his own city into the contest. He attached wheels to Minas Morgul, installed airbags in every wall, and voila! Minas Mor-go was born! He and his sidekick, the fourth Nazgul, had driven their vehicle north to Erebor, where the great race was to begin.

And now, as the dark green curtain was pulled aside, the Witch-king finally felt that he was certain to beat those idiots! The dark green curtain parted, and Minas Mor-go, the city of the Ringwraiths, long ago called Minas Ithil, was revealed! Every sharp and pointy tower and rampart was lit by the eerie green glow of the city. The Witch-king stood at the gate, and as the crowd applauded madly, he raised his hands towards the sky and laughed a deep, frightening, maniacal laugh:

"Mwahahahahahahaha! Mwaha! Ha! Ha! Mwahahahaha! I shall win this race, and all of those pathetic mortal fools will be crushed beneath the wheels of Minas Mor-go! Mwahahahahahaha!"

Ringwraith #4, standing beside the Witch-king, tugged on his sleeve. "What is it? Can't you see that I'm busy?"

Ringwraith #4 backed away a good couple of feet, trying not to anger the Witch-king. "Yes, sir, but the other drivers are going to make their speeches right now." The Witch-king, disappointed to be interrupted, crossed his arms and pouted.

The first driver to make his speech was Denethor, the driver of Minas Taxi. He came up to the podium, and lit himself on fire. "Typical," said the Witch-king to Ringwraith #4. "He's always showing off to the crowds like that. Fool." But the Witch-king could not help but be amused by Denethor's third-degree burns.

Then it was King Theoden's turn. "Ha! Remember how I killed that mortal fool?" said the Witch-king, "He was, and still is, a weak old man." And after Theoden's speech was done, the Witch-king said "That cheap old coot. He took that speech straight from Pelennor, I swear it!"

Soon it was the Witch-king's turn to make a speech. He whistled once, and his great flying steed swooped down from where he was perched on a black, spiky tower. It landed on the gates and howled for the crowds, who went wild with applause.

"Wait a minute, Witch-King! We have a problem with Minas Mor-go!" said Ringwraith #4, receiving a message from an orc slave, "I think the Orc-powered engine is revolting! Give me a minute to knock 'em back in line. If they don't cooperate we can always just resort to using them as fuel for our furnace. Either way, we'll be up and running a double time."

"Just threaten to throw them under the wheels if they don't cooperate," snarled the Witch-king. Stupid orcs. They can never just do as you tell them.

As Ringwraith #4 hurried to the dungeons and basements where over a thousand orcs turned Minas Mor-go's axles day and night, the Witch-king mounted his steed, and glided to the podium with an inhuman shriek. He leapt off of his steed, and unsheathed his Morgul blade with a brilliant shhhinnng! He searched the crowd for the wraiths and wights, waving deep green banners, and waved his sword around his head and gave one last shriek. His fell beast bellowed, too, raising its head toward the sky, which seemed to darken though there was not a cloud anywhere near the sun. The crowd applauded and the green banners waved more madly than before. The Witch-king, satisfied, leapt back upon his steed and swooped back up to the gate of Minas Mor-go.

"Ha! They loved me! But now I should go see if Ringwraith #4 has gotten those stupid orcs to work right."

Note: All speech between Ringwraiths is in the screechy, shrieky language of Minas Mor-go, but has been translated into Westron for the ease of the reader.

[Sleepy Ranger]

Orth-Tank Not quite the Mach 5

It was a rather annoyed Saruman that was behind the wheel of the Orth-Tank. He could indistinctly be heard mumbling something about Grima not installing the turbo as he was supposed. "That good for nothing free loader. When I was merrily on my way to get my turbo powered engines that fool of a Wormtongue said he'd get it for me but did he? No he very well didn't. Why that no good Grima." though Saruman to himself. "Oh, seems they're about to start soon!" exclaimed the wizard. "Better find that good for nothing Grima and go over the maps for a final time before we set off." with that the wise one retreated to the interior of his vehicle to seek his assistant.

After a few minutes of searching Saruman found Grima asleep on the navigation table. Not seated on a chair with his head between folded arms on the table but asleep on the table, why that good for nothing man. Saruman roused him with a quick bonk on the head from his staff. "Keep awake, we've much work to do." Saruman bonked his assistant on the head again before the fool dozed off again. "Have you built the profiles on our foes and their potential risk yet?" The man nodded and hit the play button on the projector. Two midget orcs pulled themselves out of the rather large machine along with a few large screens. They placed the first one on the wall.

Vehicle: Mount Zoom; A wonderful vehicle.
Driver: Sauron; Dark Lord, owe him tribute.
Passenger: Mouth of Sauron; Arrogant and talks too much.
Potential Risk: Yes.

Saruman grunted angrily, what sort of profiles were this? They told him nothing of his enemies. Owing to Grima this may actually end up being a hard race to win but they would cheat anyway. Saruman walked over to Grima and smiled at him. "Well, lad, have you at least hidden the Uruk-Hai in the crates as I asked you to?" He asked to which Grima nodded, "Yes, sire!" Saruman's smile widened, seemed the fool had done something right, "Excellent! Maybe you aren't as big an idiot as you look. Do you know what we are to do with them?" To this Grima shook his head, "No, sire." Saruman let out a cackle and said, "We shall deploy them along our course so that they hinder our opponents!" Grima was shocked at what he had heard, "But sire, wouldn't that be cheating?"

Saruman gave him a blank look, what sort of idiot had he picked as an assistant? "...Yes..." "But sir, isn't that what the villains would do?" Saruman sighed and shook his head causing his beard to move from side to side rather violently, "We are the villains you idiot." Grima smiled, "Well at least now our motto makes sense, 'Win or lose always cheat.' Only one problem." Saruman frowned, "What is it now Grima?" "I forgot to pack the crates." Jolly good Grima, you've done the deed but forgotten to carry it along for the results. Saruman sighed and shook his head but what had been done had been done, it seemed the Mach 5 had been left tool-less. But enough of that, it was now time to check the maps.

"Grima, what way do you think we should go?" Saruman asked his assistant, studying the maps. "How about we go East sir?" "East? Yes, I've been east before but we shall eventually run into the sea." "Nonsense sir, by moving east we shall move off the edge and end up on the other side." Grima said, beaming proudly. "No more 2-D side scrollers for you, you're enough of an idiot as it is. Now hush, let me think." So Grima let his master be and went back to his little nap.

Saruman though for a while, he thought as he stroked his long white beard.

Those wretched hobbits were in this race. They had beaten him in the Finest Pipe-Weed Battle. Damn them.
And that Sauron and his Mouth? Hmph, they had won the Villain's Baking Contest, Saruman's cookies weren't pretty enough. Damn them.
And oh look, if it wasn't dear Eowyn and Theoden. They had beaten him at Helms' Deep somehow. Damn them.
Denethor and Faramir. They had been beating him in the Garden Variety Show for three years now. Damn them.
And the Witch-King and that other guy with him. They had been on the cover page of 'Evil Glorified' over him. Damn them.
And then there was Gothmog and his orc. They were probably filler. Damn them.

And that about summed up what Saruman thought about his foes. Now, back to thinking about where to go. He continued to stroke his great white beard, where should they go? Which way would lead to victory? Perhaps the ought to move South-West till they arrived at the Gap of Rohan or they could always cut West and head for Rivendell. Choices, choices... it was time to awaken Grima once more. Saruman hobbled over to Grima and the staff did the rest. "Listen Grima, we must decide which way to head. It seems the time to set off has arrived. Come I shall speak to you as we drive."

Saruman walked to the large balcony of the Orth-Tank and on the mark, he set off. "Now Grima we could head South-West and make for the Gap of Rohan but I hear we're not liked there, I wonder why... or we could cut West for Rivendell. What say you?"

---
Menel, I'm not sure if you're still here or not (kinda forgot when you're going and too lazy to check) but if you are then reply to this if you can. I'll check back every now and then and post again with the final direction before the deadline.

[The Saucepan Man]

An Unexpected Corporate Event

Bilbo Baggins peered nervously out from the curtains of Bag-Endless-Fuel and then fell back into a chair and put his head in his hands.

"Goodness gracious," he thought to himself. "All those people! And if I know these Middle-earth types, they'll all be wanting to come in for tea. I really do not know if there is enough in the pantry for all of them. I was rather hoping to save that large seed-cake, the pork pies and cheese, the carrot cakes and a few bottles of that porter that we picked up from Eryn Lasgalen on the way for the celebration of our victory."

He peeked out again, but the crowds were still there.

"Confusticate and bebother those Dwarves," he said aloud, his thoughts drifting back to the occasion which had prompted his participation in this race ...

One quiet, sunny morning some months previously, just after second breakfast, as Bilbo had been sitting outside his front door smoking his pipe, Gandalf had come by.

"Good morning, Gandalf!" Bilbo had said innocently.

And Gandalf had peered at him from underneath his great bushy eyebrows that stuck out further than the brim of his shady hat. It was a look that Bilbo knew only too well.

"No!" he had said immediately. "No, Gandalf. I'm not interested in any more of your adventures. And, before you ask, I wish you good morning and mean that it is a good morning whether you want it or not and that I feel good this morning and that it is a morning to be good on. All of them at one and the same time."

"Calm down, Bilbo," Gandalf had replied. "It's not breaking and entering this time. Or dealing with Dragons. Or even extended Ring Quests. It's just ... er ..." And at this Gandalf had cast his eyes to the ground in a rather embarassed manner. "It's just that I met this Dwarf and we got talking. And he told me about a little race that he was organising. And, well we had a few ales together, and one thing led to another as it does, and ... well ..."

"And ...?" Bilbo had enquired impatiently, and not a little fearfully.

"And ... er ... well, I ended up entering you in the race."

"Well, you can just go back and un-enter me."

"It's not quite as simple as that, Bilbo," Gandalf had continued rather uncomfortably. "I .. er ... well ... I placed rather a large wager on you."

"Sorry! I don't want any races, thank you. Not today. Good morning! But please come to tea any time you like! Why not tomorrow? Come tomorrow! Good-bye!"

And with that, Bilbo had turned and scuttled inside his round green door, shutting it as quickly as he dared, not to seem rude. Gandalf in the meantime was still standing outside the door, feeling rather abashed. After a while he had stepped up, and with the spike of his staff scratched a queer sign on the hobbit's beautiful green front-door.

The next day, Bilbo had almost forgotten their conversation, when a knock had come at his door.

"Bah! That pesky Wizard!" He had thought to himself. "Wager or no wager, he can count me out of this silly old race. I'm too old to be driving helter-skelter all round Middle-earth."

But it was not Gandalf. It was a Dwarf all nicely doled up in a corporate suit. And it was not long before another arrived, and then another, and then yet another. Before long, there were thirteen Dwarves and one arm-chancing Wizard sitting in his living room eating him out of burrow and home. The most important of the Dwarves seemed to be a grand old fellow with a long, grey beard, called (rather appropriately) Dwarfy Dwarf. It seemed that they represented a company called Mount Zoom Challenge Enterprises and that they were keen on Bilbo entering the race. Before long, they had brought in a whole range of instruments. Dwarfy Dwarf himself played a great, green and black kazzoo marked Barrow-Downs™. And, as their voices struck up in song, Bilbo was transported to pit-lanes lined with gold, running with rivers of axle-grease and high octane fuel.

The Dwarves of yore made mighty races
With drivers skilled like flying aces
In circuits wide, where crowds went wild
And testing tracks put them through their paces

Then Dragons came with blazing fires
And turned the tracks to burning pyres
No more did drivers come from Arda-wide
No more did crowds thrill to spinning tyres

The time has come to race once more
To fill the stadia with crowds that roar
With punters willing to pay in gold
For tickets priced at twenty score

Far over the misty mountains cold
To hospitality corporate and circuits old
We must away, ere break of day
To claim our audience ratings gold.

And, as the night drew in, Dwarfy Dwarf had unfurled a great map of the race course and begun to explain the rules. And, of course, it had not been long before Bilbo's Tookish side had kicked in, with some rather self-interested encouragement from Gandalf it must be said, and he had started asking all kinds of questions.

"But what shall I drive?" he had eventually asked.

And Gandalf had raised his hands to indicate the burrow in which they sat.

"Behold Bag-Endless-fuel," the Wizard had solemnly intoned.

"Confusticate and bebother those Dwarves," Bilbo repeated, surveying the various cogs, wheels, pipes and gears that now ran throughout his beloved Hobbit hole. He was rather regretting having employed Ted Sandyman as Chief Mechanic. Not to mention Gandalf's wizadry in the engine room. Bilbo wondered how long a vehicle could run on fireworks alone. Of course, he was now rather regretting the entire enterprise and his mind was racing for a way out. And before long, a sly smile crossed his face, just as his nephew and co-pilot entered the room.

"Uncle Bilbo," Frodo said. "They're waiting for you to make your driver's speech."

"Are they indeed, my boy. Well, I shall not keep them waiting."

And so Bilbo Baggins was soon standing on the podium, his tiny figure dwarfed by the huge crowd.

"My dear Gondorians and Rohirrim,", he began. "And my dear Rivendellians and Galadhrim, and Hobbits, and Dwarves, and Arnorians, and Isengarders, and Orcs, Trolls, Ringwraiths, Easterlings and Southrons. I hope you are all enjoying yourselves as much as I am."

Deafening cheers. Cries of Yes (and No). Bilbo was thankful that the ale tent had been open for some hours already and that the hordes before him would therefore have cheered anything that walked and talked, and some things that do neither, by this stage.

"Well, I don't know half of you as well as I should like, and I like less than half of you half as well as you deserve. But I must say that I am most honoured to have been invited to participate in this race. Bag-Endless-Fuel is a wonderous machine, crafted and honed to perfection by the greatest craftsmen of the Shire. And not a little wizadry to boot. I have no doubt whatsoever that it shall be taking the chequered flag first, when eventually it arrives at the Grey Havens."

More cheering. Noises of trumpets and horns, pipes and flutes, and other musical instruments.

"But I must, alas, tell you, that I shall not be accompanying the vehicle myself. It is high time that my nephew and heir cut his teeth, and I shall be handing the enterpise over to him. Elrond of Rivendell has offered me a nice cushy little number transcribing old tales in the Last Homely House. It was an offer that I could not refuse. And so this, my friends is goodbye. I give you the driver of Bag-Endless-Fuel, Frodo Baggins."

And with that, Bilbo, who had been fingering a rather familiar band of gold in his pocket during the speech, vanished!

The crowd went suddenly quiet and all eyes turned to a rather shell-shocked Frodo.

*******************

Edit: Caranlondien, Bilbo will be preparing for his journey to Rivendell in Bag-Endless-Fuel if you want to discuss tactics and direction before he sets off.

He shall of course be kicked out of Rivendell by Elrond before long and return to resume his role in about a week's time.

Sorry to lump you with the first few legs ...

[Meneltarmacil]

VROOOOOOM!

"I say we head through Moria, my lord," Grima replied.

"WHAT?!" Saruman practically exploded. "You want to get us tossed into Khazad-Dum by that Balrog? You must be crazy!"

"Let me explain," said Grima. "If I install some of these rocket-hovercraft things on the tower, we can float over the depths and not have to worry about anything happening. As for that Balrog, if he tries to fly after us, you can easily trick him into thinking he doesn't actually have wings so he crashes."

Saruman just stared at his underling.

"Ummm, but the final decision's yours," Wormtongue hastily added, then dashed off to one of the other levels of the wheeled tower.

[Alcarillo]

The Problem with the Orcs

The Witch-king of Angmar, having swooped back to the gates of Minas Mor-go, withdrew a hunk of fetid meat from his tattered robes and fed it to his steed as a reward for its good work. It gobbled down the meat and swooped back to its perch on the spiky towers of the city. "Let's see what Ringwraith #4 has been doing down in the dungeons, and if he's got those orcs in line yet," he said to himself. He descended from the gate by steep, winding staircases lit by the eerie green glow that permeated the entire city. Down and down he walked, through windowless towers and down onto the desolate city streets. He now walked through the empty streets, where the buildings lay abandoned for thousands of years. He soon came to the great tower, which he entered, and descended more steps straight down into the gloomy innards of Minas Mor-go. The groans and shouts of a thousand orcs reached soon reached his ears, and in no time at all, the Witch-king of Angmar had arrived in the dungeons of Minas Mor-go, where over a thousand orcs toiled day and night to spin the huge axles of the city, propelling Minas Mor-go across the land.

He now entered the main dungeon, one gigantic hall, with a great beam of ent-wood crossing the entire space, a beam as wide as a man is tall, and suspended three feet off the ground. This was the great front axle, extending all the way from one shadowy end of the hall to the other, the entire length on Minas Mor-go, and along with the back axle supporting the entire city. All along one side were hundreds of orcs, chained in place to the floor, and all howling like madmen. Right at the middle of the axle was a horrible stain of blood, and dead orcs were piled all around it. Ringwraith #4 stood nearby, flogging an orc to death.

"Did you kill that orc, the one whose arm is missing?! Did you!? I swear, if you did, I'll feed you to the furnaces! Bad orc, bad orc!" He continued flogging the orc mercilessly. The orcs continued to howl.

"SILENCE!" shouted the Witch-king. "What happened here? Why are some of the orcs dead? Why aren't they rolling the axles?"

Ringwraith #4 stopped flogging for a moment. "Well, sir, it seems that those orcs on the left end of the axle were taunting those on the right end of the axle. One of them spat at another, and pretty soon a fight started. Some of the ones in the middle got killed. I think we need to shorten their chains."

"I see that," the Witch-king said. He now addressed the orcs in his best orc-speech, "Any one of you seen fighting will be thrown under the wheels and crushed like a worm! That means you get killed! Do you understand me!? Killed, and your guts will splurt out!" The orcs fell silent. Now he addressed Ringwraith #4, "Start chaining the left-axlers to the axle. Let's show them what happens to disobedient orcs. Make sure to space out the right-axlers to even out the spacing. Bring some back-axlers up here to the front axle if you have to."

"Yes, sir!" said Ringwraith #4, and began his duty diligently. "So, sir, where will we be headed to once we've got the orcs started pushing again?"

"I've been thinking that we should head due west, into Mirkwood. We've lost precious time with this orc problem and I think the quickest route possible will be best. What do you think?"

"I think that's a fine idea sir," said Ringwraith #4, "But don’t you think heading south could be better? Mirkwood won’t be in the way, after all."

"And let Gothmog and Saruman get ahead!? No way. We've lost precious time and we need a direct route straight to those Havens. My old realm of Angmar also is in the west. I've still got some buddies there. West it is."

"West it is then."

"I'll be up at the steering wheel on the gates. Join me when you've finished chaining those orcs and we can get started."

"Yes, sir."

[Maeggaladiel]

The Dark Lord stood atop the mighty Mount Zoom, surveiling all that would soon be his. This race was just the beginning. Today, the Mount Zoom Challenge. Tomorrow, THE WORLD!

Sauron sipped at his peppermint tea as Dwarfy the Dwarf unveiled his glorious Racing Machine of Doom. (Sauron never started the day without his peppermint tea; it helped settle his stomach. Being evil could wreak havoc on one's digestive system.) Fireworks exploded in the background as his servants violently persuaded the onlookers to cheer for him.

His all-seeing eyes swiveled downwards, to cast a dirty glance at the other racers. Those pathetic RIP-OFFS! No vehicle could come close to the awesome power that was Mount Zoom!

"YOU ARE ALL FOOLING YOURSELVES!" Sauron boomed down at the other racers, the Good Guys in particular. "YOU MUST KNOW BY NOW THAT NO-ONE CAN DEFEAT ME! UNLESS OF COURSE YOU PLAN ON SLICING OFF A FINGER. OR, YOU KNOW, LIKE, SENDING A HOBBIT TO MOUNT DOOM OR SOMETHING." Deciding to abandon this train of thought, the Dark Lord pointed an incriminating finger at Saruman.

"YOU!" he yelled. "ONE WHO SECRETLY SERVES ME! ARE YOU READY TO SUFFER ANOTHER HORRIBLE DEFEAT? MUST I BRING UP LAST YEAR'S VILLAIN'S BAKING CONTEST??" He held a gigantic gold trophy over his head; a great cup with a golden cookie on top. The words: "Sauron, First Place!" was engraved on the front. "HOPE YOU CAN DRIVE BETTER THAN YOU CAN DECORATE SUGAR COOKIES, OLD MAN!"

As the mighty Dark Lord touched his thumb to his nose and wiggled his fingers in mockery of Orth-Tank and Minas More-Go, a figure appeared behind him. Sauron stopped, hearing the Mouth approach.

"My Lord, you're supposed to make a speech to the Audience," the Mouth reminded him. Sauron stopped his chant of "NYA NYA NYA NYAAA-NYAAA!!" and regarded him with as much confusion as an expressionless mask could muster.

"ISN'T THAT YOUR JOB?" he asked. "I THOUGHT THAT WAS OUR AGREEMENT, MOUTH. I HANDLE WORLD DOMINATION, YOU HANDLE PUBLIC RELATIONS." He scratched his helmet, making a horrible nails-on-chalkboard sound. "WELL... I SUPPOSE I COULD GIVE IT A TRY, JUST THIS ONCE..."

He strode to the edge of Mount Zoom. With a snap of his fingers, the spotlights hit him and his theme music began. The Dark Lord cleared his throat politely.

"PEOPLE OF MIDDLE EARTH!" he boomed. "PREPARE TO BE CONQUERED! I, SAURON, WITH MY MIGHTY MOUNT ZOOM (WITH ITS LEATHER SEATS, EXTRA-LARGE CUPHOLDERS, AND TOTALLY SWEET STEREO SYSTEM), SHALL WIN THIS RACE IN THE NAME OF EVIL! YOU WILL CHEER FOR ME, OR BE DESTROYED BY MY MINIONS, WHOM I HAVE SECRETLY HIDDEN AMONGST YOU." A wraith in a hobbit costume giggled happily and waved to his master. "I WISH MY FELLOW RACERS THE BEST OF LUCK *COUGHCOUGHLOSERSCOUGHCOUGH* AND MAY THE BEST EVIL OVERLORD WIN!"

Those audience members seated closest to the Wraiths started cheering wildly, fearing for their lives. Sauron, pleased, turned around and walked back to the Mouth.

"HOW WAS THAT, MOUTH?" Sauron asked. Without wating for a reply, the Dark Lord pulled out a map. "I'VE BEEN THINKING ABOUT OUR ROUTE FOR THIS RACE. I SAY WE JUST FOLLOW BAG ENDLESS-FULE, SO WE CAN RUN 'EM OVER AND TAKE THE RING WHEN NOBODY'S LOOKING. WHADDAYA THINK?"

[Caranlondien]

Frodo:

Inside Bag-Endless-Fuel, Samwise Gamgee was sitting across the kitchen table from a glum Frodo.

"I know Mr. Bilbo's running off leaves you in a spot, Mr. Frodo, but you've still got us as wants to help you." He motioned to indicate the other hobbits standing about the kitchen. Merry gave a sympathetic nod as he consulted one of Bilbo's old maps, and Pippin looked up from his plate, atop which rested one of Bilbo's seed-cakes, to grin widely at his host.

"I don't see what all this fuss is about," said the Took. "Without Bilbo about we can all eat a proper meal in peace!" His companions looked at him incredulously.

"Pippin, you started eating that cake before Bilbo left," said Sam. "In fact, didn't he offer it to you?"

"Yes, but this is hardly a full meal!" Pippin responded indignantly. "I mean to say, we were all so busy earlier, following all Bilbo's instructions, we full well missed second breakfast."

"I'm just glad he hasn't set off any fireworks yet," Merry whispered to Sam.

Sam shook his head disapprovingly and turned back to Frodo. "So, Mr. Frodo, which direction do you think we ought to start off in?"

Frodo looked at Merry, who took his cue and laid a map out on the table. Pippin picked up his plate and joined the others in peering at a dot marked "Lonely Mountain".

"If we go due West, we'll pass near the Elvenking's Halls," Merry explained. Sam glanced at Frodo nervously.

"Isn't that where Mr. Bilbo was taken prisoner by the elves?"

"Yes," said Frodo. "But he was held captive by Thranduil, father of our old friend Legolas. He will surely help us in this task. I think that a western path is our safest bet."

"Speaking of safety," said Sam, "what do you think of Mount Zoom?"

"What about it?" asked Pippin as he opened one of Bilbo's cupboards.

"Well, we all heard the Dark Lord say he planned to follow us."

"Yes, he does talk in quite a, er, booming voice," said Pippin. "Do you suppose he really thinks we couldn't hear him?"

"I don't know," replied Frodo. "But if they do try to run us over, they'll just go over us. I mean, we're a hill."

[Valier]

Eowyn:
Eowyn blushed at all the attention from the crowds,she was well aware of the signs regarding a certain captain being held aloft. She gazed for a moment with a dreamy look towards the Taxi unable to pry her eyes.

Theoden gave her a nudge"....ummm dear...the race remember...."

"Oh yes, Ummmm We shall go South-West, that way looks the nicest" She pointed out gracefully. "Uncle you go make one of your rousing speeches, while I go look for something to wear! I cannot possible be seen beating the heck out of Minas Taxi wearing this old rag!"

And with a whistle she was off towards the Medel Zoom.

[The Saucepan Man]

A Shadow of the Fast (Lane)

Frodo was studying the race map when there was a sudden commotion next door. Cautiously, he crept into the hallway, only to find it empty. Suddenly, a tall, cloaked figure jumped out at him. Frodo leapt halfway out of his skin.

“Is it secret? Is it safe?” the figure hissed.

“Gandalf! What on earth are you doing frightening me like that. It’s totally out of character,” admonished Frodo, once he had recovered his composure. “And what are you talking about?”

“The Ring …!”

“Bilbo’s Ring? I assume that he took it with him.”

“No. he didn’t. With a little … er … encouragement, I was able to persuade him to leave it behind.”

“Gandalf! You threatened to uncloak, didn’t you.”

At this, the old Wizard cast his eyes to the floor, somewhat abashed. Then he looked up and over to the mantlepiece. Frodo’s eyes followed his gaze and there, behind the carriage clock, he spotted an envelope addressed to him. Quickly, he grabbed it and tore it open.

“Bilbo’s Ring! But why has he left it for me?”

“It is a Ring of great power, Frodo. Indeed, if my suspicions are correct, it is the One Ring itself.”

And with this, Gandalf took the Ring and threw it into the fire blazing in the hearth. Recovering it with a pair of tongs, he dropped it into Frodo’s hands.

“It’s cold!”

“Look at the inscription, Frodo.”

“There’s nothing there … wait a minute. Some writing is appearing. But I cannot read it.”

“The inscription is in the Black Speech. In the Common Tongue it reads as follows:

One Ring to fuel them all
One Ring to prime them
One Ring to spin them all
And in the chamber fire them.

It is as I feared, Frodo. This is the One Ring of Zoom, forged by Sauron in the fiery engine room of Mount Zoom. Through it, one may harness the power of the other great Rings of Power. The three Elven Rings of Power-Assisted Steering. The Seven Rings of Fuel Injection. And the Nine Rings of Traction Control. It also comes with complimentary Sat Nav, a handy Cloaking Device system and a one year limited warranty.”

“So this is the Ring that Sauron spoke of in his speech?”

“Indeed it is, Frodo. He wants it. With it, he would have limitless engine power and none could prevent his ultimate victory in this race. He must not have it.”

“But Sauron already knows that we have the Ring. He plans on following us in Mount Zoom. What shall we do?”

“You must stay ahead of him at all costs. And you must harness its power to win the race yourself. Otherwise, I shall be undone. Those Dwarven debt collectors are not known for their pleasantries.”

“Well, we should leave immediately. But Mount Zoom is going to be hot on our tail.”

“Hmm, perhaps I could create a slight diversion to give you a head start. A mild uncloaking episode may suffice …”

Meanwhile, unseen by all, a small, wizened figure sporting great racing-goggles over his goggle-eyes and ill-fitting mechanics’ overalls surreptitiously slipped over the fence of Bag-Endless-Fuel and silently concealed himself in its bushy bodywork.

[Formendacil]

Denethor:

The introductions may have been going on yet (Denethor wasn't sure), but already those who had been introduced were beginning to confer with their copilots regarding the direction they should take.

"East would be utter and complete lhunacy, as it takes us away from the end goal," said Denethor.

"Well, it would probably keep the others from following us," said Faramir. "We could double back to southern Rhovannion, jump the Anduin at the Undeeps, cruise through Rohan to the Gap, and then shoot north-west to the Haves."

"Are you saying you want to go East!" said Denethor. "What kind of a hobbit-loving fool are you? It's all very well to pass up the One Ring of Power, saving grace of all hope of defeating Sauron, but it's quite another thing to give them an unfair advantage in this race!"

"Calm down, father!" said Faramir, painfully aware that the last time he had disagreed with Denethor, he had been sent (ironically enough) East to Osgiliath- a rather nasty episode that had resulted in Black Breath illness, being saved by Gandalf (possibly Uncloaked... Faramir was grateful he had be unconscious) and, apparently, a near-death episode by fire, from which Gandalf had saved him- again.

"I was just saying," he continued, "that it may not be the worst tactic ever to head East. Maybe South-South-East or North-North-East or something wouldn't be such a bad idea. There's merit to it, you know."

"The Valar started out the sun and moon going East," muttered Denethor, "and they all agreed it was a foolish idea..."

"It doesn't have to be east at all!" said Faramir. "We can go straight west if you want- smack into the Mountains of Mirkwood!"

"Are you saying that going west- towards the finish line- is foolish?"

"Not at all!"

"Then why all this insistence on going east?" Denethor demanded to know.

Faramir gave a long-suffering sigh.

"I don't WANT to go East. I'm just keeping our options open."

"Then which way DO you want to go?"

Okay, Spawn, here's your cue to come in. If you don't get on (I'm fairly sure you're abed right now, assuming I read my timezones aright), then I'll pick us a direction if I have time before the Cut-Off.

Hookbill: If neither Spawn or myself have time to post before you make the Cutoff, Minas Taxi will be going NORTH-WEST.

[Formendacil]

Denethor:

Possibly to get the idea that he wanted to go East totally and completely out of his father's mind, Faramir had advocated going North-West.

"We can skirt the edges of the Grey Mountains, avoid Mirkwood altogether, and hopefully avoid the other racers, who will probably opt for a more direct course- right over the Elvenking's halls."

"Skirt the mountains, eh?" mused Denethor. "You seem to have a powerful attraction to anything in skirts."

"It's a natural term of the Westron language," retorted Faramir. "It's your dirty mind that's hearing what it wants to hear."

"I can hear things perfectly well," said Denethor. "And you said 'skirt'."

Faramir rolled his eyes.

So North-West it was, Denethor clicking Minas Taxi into overdrive, and away they went, passing over the Desolation of Smaug, and ever nearer to Mirkwood and the to-be-skirted Grey Mountains. Occasionally, Faramir descended down, down, from the Tower of Ecthelion to confer with Húrin of the Keys and the rest of the support staff of the city about a minor detail regarding the city's performance, but by and large the nuclear-powered city ran like a charm.

"Ha! I told you all those millions of castar spent on developing a nuclear bomb wouldn't be wasted! Pity the War of the Ring ended so soon," Denethor chuckled to himself.

"I'm half of the opinion that the ancient Númenoreans must have had nuclear technology, and that we just rediscovered it. The radiation could account for the decline of the Númenorean lifespan. Since the lifespan began to decline about the time of Tar-Atanamir, then I think we can possibly assume that nuclear technology was first developed in the aftermath of the War of Eregion, nearly employed by Ar-Pharazôn in his invasion (the real reason Sauron surrendered), and then lost in the aftermath of Númenor."

"Did you get that crackpot theory from Mithrandir?" scowled Denethor. "That sounds like the sort weed-induced nonsense he'd come up with."

"Actually, it's my own theory," said Faramir.

The control room fell silent.

"Well, at least she has a reliable fuel source," said Denethor. "That's the important part. Besides, if Saruman didn't spend all those millions of castar on developing us nuclear technology, then what DID he spend it on."

"Scuba gear and genetic research," replied Faramir.

"Scuba gear?" said Denethor. "What kind of a nonsensical theory is that?"

"Well, to find Morgoth's notes on the creation of the orks, he'd have needed scuba gear," replied Faramir.

"Only a weed-deluded old reprobate like Mithrandir would try a plan as foolish as that. It's almost as bad as the "let's send the One Ring to Mt. Zoom" theory."

"Well, Saruman is a smoker, and he's rather old, and reprobate does fit," said Faramir.

"Thorongil fits all of those qualities too," mused Denethor. "Any chance we could have him impeached on those grounds?"

"Arwen would kill you."

"What would she do?" demanded Denethor. "She's a seamstress, not a swordsman! She's admitted herself that the whole Ford of Bruinen sword-thingy business never happened."

"Of course not," agreed Faramir. "That was actually her size 88 embroidery needle."

"Why'd she only make Aragorn a flag!" said Denethor. "She could have knitted him a whole sail for those *CENSORED* black ships of his! That would have saved me a lot of anguish!"

"I'm sure she did it for the sole purpose of antagonizing you, father," said Faramir sarcastically.

"It wouldn't surprise me in the slightest," muttered Denethor.

To himself, Faramir muttered. "It's a good thing the Númenorean lifespan declined. I'm not sure I could take another 300 years of this."

Minas Taxi cruised on...

To the Reader: Yes, that's right, we haven't even made it to the Troll yet. What's your hurry? We've got in the neighbourhood of 40 hours left...

[Farael]

A shameless ripoff

The race had barely begun when Medul-zoom began to slow down. Concerned, Theoden made his way to the horsengine room, where Hama had a big STOP sign up for the horses.

“Hama, you fool, what is this? We need to make it to the Gray Heavens faster than the other towers!! I guaranteed a win, it’s my word what’s on stake…. And quite a few gold coins”

“My liege! It is not allowed for those who are involved to bet on themselves, you cou…”

“Oh, faithful Hama, do you think that I am still the old, weak man who was poisoned by the words of Wormtounge? Have you forgotten that Gandalf has restored not only my striking good looks but also my sharp mind? Of course I did not bet on ourselves, it was Eomer. Now pray tell, why are we stopping?”

“There is a troll on the way, My Lord”

“A troll on our way?”

“Yes, Sir. A troll on our way”

“Why is there a troll on our way?”

“I know not”

“Then go and ask him!”

And so, the brave Hama escorted by a chosen group of riders approached the Orc. After what seemed like a short deliberation, Hama came back into Medul-zoom.

“He is asking for a toll, my King”

“But we have no money!”

“I know, I offered him a horse, but he said he was not hungry. Not hungry. These trolls are as uncivilized as they get. What are your orders now, my Lord?”

“Muster the Rohirrim, we will charge against it. He will run away or perish under our lances.”

[Start= Sound of a horn of Rohan] Time=5*Seconds Pitch= Rather High and whiny [/End= Sound of a horn of Rohan]

“Riders of Rohan” *cheers* “I call on you once more to defend all that is beautiful in this middle earth. A troll, spawn of the Dark Lord whom we defeated yet somehow appeared again (not that I’m complaining because I died in the battle and yet I’m here as well so it’s kind of a good deal… besides he does make some good cookies) is blocking our way, but we need to get through” *A few isolated claps, many confused looks*

“oh, ahem well… what I mean is…. [Start= Sound of horn] Forth Eorlingas!!!! [continue horn sounding dramatically as Theoden King quickly gets ahead of his column] “What the…” [/End=Sound of horn in a rather abrupt fashion]

“Hama, what is this? Why are you all just standing in place, making bubbles with your mouth? What kind of dark treachery is this?”

“My liege, we follow your orders”

It was only then that Theoden realized what had happened. “I should have never abolished the law of compulsory bathing, things are getting out of hand here” he grumbled

“Riders of Rohan!” he began, “I must ask that you listen to me, and listen well. My order was FORTH Eorlingas, not FROTH. See? Forth, as in forward, attack.”

Riding back into Medul-zoom, Theoden ordered all his riders to go take a bath while he plotted another way to get around this rather large Troll.

“I know!! we could catapult ourselves over the troll.”

“Theoden, have you been hanging out with Boromir again?” Interrupted Eowyn, who had just walked into the room.

“Well, daughter of my sister, I might have been. He is a very nice fellow. I know he would have helped me find a better way rather than criticize my ideas”

“Now, who do you think yo…”

“I do not meant to interrupt, my m’lady…” interrupted Erkenbrand “There is one way… but it is very dangerous”

“Well, speak up good man”

“Before we left, I trapped this beast… it used to terrorize the folk of the Westfold. I thought it might be useful in a situation like this. I could… I could bring it here if that is what you wish”

With Theoden’s approval, Erkenbrand stalked off the room and came back shortly with a small cage covered by a blanket. He placed it on top of a table and waiting a few seconds for the proper dramatic effect, he removed the blanket.

“Here it is, my Lord, the great beast of Westemnet.”

“Where, behind the rabbit?”

“It is the rabbit”

“But it is only a cute little rabbit!.... cruelly trapped on a cage” said Eowyn

“No, m’lady, he is a ruthless murderer, we lost ten men trying to trap it”

“You should have used the Holly Grenade” said Theoden, which drew many an odd look.

“Uncle, copyright….”

“Oh, yes Eowyn, you are right. I meant the…. Eh…. Well, nevermind that, tell us Erkenbrand what can we do with this…. Rabbit?”