The Barrow Downs Newspaper

[Gwathagor]

Ow.

[Groin Redbeard]

How did ya’ll know I’m a fanatic about change?! I swear, Hookbill, not only are you an excellent reporter but you’re also a Psychic! Oh, thanks for the tip about Bread Beard, I’ll teach him to mess with my money grubbing ways!

It looks like The Barrow Wight has really gotten himself into a pickle. I can barely wait to see how it all turns out!

Good luck on your story, Gwathagor, I can’t wait to read it all!

[Oddwen]

Thaaaaat picture scares me...I'ma go hide in my mausoleum now.

[Hookbill the Goomba]

Hookbill opened his eyes and mumbled to himself. Pulling his duvet closer he crawled out from under his desk, wiping the moldy tea stains off his chair before sitting down. Staring at the door he bobbed his head at every tick of the clock until it struck nine o'clock. There was a knock on the door-window; the backwards (from Hookbill's perspective) 'Editor' sign was chipped away a little by a hand wearing a gauntlet.
"Come in," sighed the Goomba, "What is it, Workm'n?"
A skinny Wight with green skin and red hair hobbled in. His left leg was bleeding quite badly, probably due to the spike sticking out of it. Hookbill raised an eyebrow.
"It's the latest style, sir," Workm'n assured him with heavy intakes of breath, "It's fine- REALLY- it's fine..." He was sweating more than normal, but the Editor lent back and blew an unnecessarily long raspberry.
"What have you got for me?"
"Well sir," Workm'n pulled a folder out from under his jacket and rifled through the pages before pulling one out; "Dog discovered having affair with Elven chiefs?" Hookbill nodded.
"Okay, print it up. Have the full story on my desk by Friday. I won't read it, I just like having things on my desk." Workm'n bowed and trotted out of the office.

Hookbill's office smelled. Not badly, really, just strange; uncanny, some said. It was something to do with the two year old jaffa cakes lodged in the walls, the old cat food on the ceiling, the fact that Hookbill had never had a cat and the lingering scent of rotten milk. The piles of empty tea cups on and around his desk had built up a complex social-economic system of bacteria and flies who now had well established trade routs with the bins.
Tapping a well chewed pencil against his forehead, the Editor grumbled something about 'wasps in the pipes'. He threw the pencil in the general direction of the bins and pressed the 'a' key on his typewriter. It was a cold, dark, tangled contraption. There was not the regular 'click-click' sound when he began typing. It was more of a 'squelch'.
He stopped and sniffed. A rich yet musty smell was emerging from behind the door. Like the mixture of strange plants, warmed or burning in a pipe or bong. There was a scream. Sighing, he picked up his intercom (an empty soup tin with a piece of string attached to it).
"Spawn, let Mr Davem into my office."
"I'm not your bleeding secretary!" she replied. A second later, the other soup tin was resting on Hookbill's office floor surrounded by the glass of the door-window. Davem popped his head through and shook his long silver hair, getting it tangled in the glass shards.
"Hey dude," he said with his eyes obviously seeing things that weren't there, "did you see that? Man! It was all like; wooaaahhh! Man, I could, like, feel the glass, man!"
"I see," Hookbill picked up another pencil and began chewing, "what can I do for you, officer?"
"I was just sent here to, like, urm..." he stopped and pushed the door open. Stumbling forward, he brushed down his flower patterned waist coat and torn up jeans. The dandelions in his pockets fell out and bounced off his bare feet. "What's the word?" he pondered, "begins with, like, a 'D'..."
"Defecate?"
"No, man, I did that in your car."
"What? Since when do I have a c- never mind... Delouse?"
"It's 'Des'... 'Destram'? 'Distr- Distul- Distract! That was it! Distract you!"
Hookbill's mouth opened, but before he could put together the right motor functions to speak, a flash of light filled the room.

Stumbling through the smoke, the Goomba coughed and cursed. The wooden beams once holding up the ceiling were now cast across his desk, splitting it open to reveal a complex ant colony. Scrambling forward on all fours, Hoobill blinked as a figure loomed over him. It was carrying a baton and grinning. The orange hair flickered in the flames as Lalwende raised her weapon and brought it down on the Editor's helm-less head.

There was a lot of grass. Grass, and cows. He knew there were cows. One was licking his face. Rolling over, Hookbill found his face falling into some dung. Swearing, he lurched up and headbutted the cow. It moaned and fell over, almost crushing his legs. With a yelp, he jumped to his feet and blinked. The field was flat, wide and lacking in hills.
"This isn't The Barrow Downs," he observed, "where on Middle Earth am I?"
"Safe," said a voice, like a well trained British actor who had gotten a little drunk, "for now at least. I have the finest wines available to humanity! Do you want some?" He emptied the last of it into his invisible mouth. "Blast. Look at me! I'm in a field and I'm practically dead... Wait..." he waved the bottle and examined the few drops. He threw it away. "there wasn't much in it, there's nothing left for you."
The Phantom waved his bottle in the air. His dark blue robes were covered in dirt and blood. He bore a bandage on one arm and one of his glowing white eyes was dimmer than the other. He fished in his pocket and flung a newspaper at Hookbill.
"What's this?" he asked,
"Something has to be done!" He staggered to his feet, "We can't go on like this! I'm a trained actor, reduced to the states of a bum! Nothing that 'reasonable members of society' demand as their rights! No houses, no food, no palantirs! Much more of this and I'll apply to meals on wheels!"
"What happened to your cartoon serise?"
"That's what I want to know! What happened to my agent? The idiot must have died!"
As Phantom ranted and raved, Hookbill opened the paper and gasped. He had never seen a headline like it. Reading on, he began to see what had happened to The Phantom. Though some questions were still unanswered...



Tune in Tomorrow for the continuing story!

[Eönwë]

All worship the master... Hey!Stop!Get off!I'm innocent, I say, innocent!

[Groin Redbeard]

I must say things have taken a turn for the worse here in the Downs, if that can even be possible.:; Don't worry Hookbill you have our support, we are all behind you (way behind you).

[Hookbill the Goomba]

The Phantom smashed his wine bottle against the tree and stomped up and down in front of it, crunching the shards with his large boots. The birds settled in the branches above his head and began chattering; Phantom swore at them and waved his arms until they flew away. He muttered something about ‘spies’ and then sat down.
Hookbill put the paper down and rubbed his eyes. He suddenly noticed he had been wearing different clothes. It was the itching of the cotton shirt that first alerted him; it was grey and full of holes, covered in dust and specs of blood. On the sleeve it bore a number ‘124616’ followed by a frowning face.
“What are we doing out here?” Hookbill stared at The Phantom, “What the heck is going on?”
“Bad things,” The Phantom got up and groaned, “very bad things are happening. You see-” he stopped and looked behind the Goomba, “Ah! You took your time you lazy idiot.” A slimy green creature slid across the plain; it had a long head with two blue eyes, wide and shallow, not much of a body, just a long neck like continuation going all the way to the ground where there was nothing but a splat of slime.
Alien was carrying a box tied up with ribbon. He had no arms, but the box seemed to float in front of him as if being levitated. The creature hummed to itself and laughed occasionally. Phantom rolled his eyes and pushed past Hookbill.
“What did you get?” he asked, “Did you get more wine?”
“I gots us some magic beans!” said Alien triumphantly, “They tastes like oranges!” Opening the box he revealed six tangerines, a bit of string and four rocks that looked a little bit like Alien’s head. The Phantom growled and stamped up and down in front of Alien, ranting and raving some more.
“Look,” said Hookbill at last, “can you just explain to me what on Middle Earth is going on. What happened to my office? What happened to my clothes? What about my ants?”
“Oh, they went boom!” Alien grinned, “I saw it myself!”
“Come on, let’s find somewhere less conspicuous.” Said The Phantom.

The Dead Face Inn had no walls. The ceiling was upheld by four poles, one in each corner, but the wood was quite damp, woodworm infested every square inch. The Phantom sat down in a large armchair near the centre of the parlour, raising his feet on a stool and signalling to the waiter. Alien pottered around stealing money from unsuspecting men and Hobbits.
From their seats they could see the first hills of the Barrow Downs on the horizon to the north. Dark, heavy clouds hovered over the land like a fat bat ready to burst and annoy everyone. The damp air stung their skin as the cold wind whistled through the Inn. Hookbill shivered and settled down next to the fire Alien had started using the money he had stolen. The few men who complained were soon eaten or frightened off.
“Macalaure took over the Downs,” began The Phantom, “but, it wasn’t Macalaure, not anymore, anyway.”
“Pardon?” Hookbill nearly knocked over the waiter as he brought their drinks, “I’m used to crazy stories, but try and make sense.”
“Do you remember the headline for week eighteen?”
Hookbill thought for a moment and then said, “No.”
Phantom fished in his pockets again and then flung another Newspaper at the Goomba. ‘Millions Suffer from Fake Epidemic’ was the headline. He nodded and peered back at his companion as his eyes flashed brighter for a second.
“Gimli’s Chin,” Phantom hummed, “turns out it wasn’t fake after all. At least, not in some cases. You see, the bacteria that caused the condition only attacked Bearded Wights.”
“That explains the Beard tax.”
“Indeed. You see, throughout the last ninety nine weeks you have accidentally uncovered a great conspiracy! It all began when Littlemanpoet took over the world; he was where the virus originated.”
“I thought it was a bacterium.”
“Shut up!” Phantom thumped the side of his chair and snatched a mug of ale from the waiter, “Listen, LMP caught Gimli’s chin and then became a megalomaniac. After it left him it took another host, but the result wasn’t quite as it had expected. The subject died, the coffin was left on a hedge in the Downs. The corpse was taken by the police for examination and that’s where it took its next host.”
“Davem?”
“Indeed. Fortunately, the megalomania didn’t take hold; the bizarre blend of illegal and dangerous substances in his system already prevented him from being too dangerous. But we think that The Saucepan Man knew something of it. That’s why he introduced the Beard tax. That knocked that virus back a bit until it some how got into parliament and infected… The Barrow Wight Himself.”
“But, he never had a beard!”
“That was the great advantage, and it probably saved us great troubles. The virus left the BWH when he was kidnapped in week thirty. That’s where we lose track of it, until now. Macalaure has Gimli’s chin. While he has the virus in him, he’ll have the power to control the Barrow Downs so much so that he will plunge us back into the Dark Times.”
Hookbill lent back in his chair and took a sip of the drink which had suddenly appeared at his elbow. The Inn was deadly quiet except for the crackling of the fire and the laughs of Alien as he drained all the Beer Barrels into a baby’s mouth. Looking at the Frowner Newspaper, Hookbill stroked his nonexistent stubble. He flicked through to the latter pages and examined the cartoon.



“What I don’t understand is why they attacked my Newspaper,” Hookbill mumbled, “It’s not like I have a problem working for tyrannical leaders.”
“That’s what we’re going to find out,” Phantom stood up and threw his empty mug at Alien, “come on, stupid, we’ve got work to do.”
Just then, a knife shot through the air and stuck into Phantom’s chair. A thin Wight with dark hair and dressed in a blood stained tuxedo stood grinning at the ‘door’ to the Inn. In his hand was a drenched carving knife. Wiping his glasses, Anguriel stepped into the Inn and laughed.
“I’m sorry,” he said, “but I can’t allow you back in the Downs.”

TO BE CONTINUED’ED

Every day until Monday you'll get another episode of The Story So Far! Be on the look out for clues, plot holes and guest appearances from surprise members!