Bored of the Rings

by The Harvard Lampoon

  “Serutan!” gasped Arrowroot.

  “Close, but no cigar,” cackled the brilliant figure as he flicked a bit of invisible dust from his tailored shoulder. “Pray try again. It is a sad thing indeed when old pals are recognized not!”

  “Goodgulf?!” cried the three.

  “None other,” said the aged fop. “You seemed astonished that I have reappeared.”

  “But how did—did you . . . ?” began Legolam.

  “We thought the ballhog . . .” said Gimlet.

  The old Wizard winked and straightened his vulgar medallion.

  “My story is a long one indeed, and I am not the same Goodgulf Grayteeth that you once knew. I have undergone many changes, no thanks to you, I might add.”

  “Yah, a little Clairol on the temples and a trim,” whispered the observant dwarf.

  “I heard that!” said Goodgulf, scratching a razor-cut sideburn. “Take not too lightly my present form, for my powers are even mightier.”

  “But how did you—”

  “Much have I journeyed since we last met, and much have I seen, and there is much I would tell thee,” said Goodgulf.

  “Anything but the name of your tailor,” said Gimlet. “Where’d you get those duds, anyway? I thought Halloween was months off yet.”

  “A most delightful little boutique in Lornadoon. It’s me, don’t you think?”

  “More than you know,” agreed the dwarf.

  “But how did—” began Legolam again.

  The Wizard made a sign for silence.

  “Know now that I am no longer the Wizard of old. My spirit has been purged, my nature has been altered, my image has been remade. There is little of the former self that in me remains.” With a flourish, Goodgulf doffed his panama in a low bow. “I am completely transformed.”

  “Bets?” grunted Gimlet as he saw five aces fall out of the hat.

  “But, Goodgulf!” exclaimed the elf impatiently. “You have not yet told us how you survived the clutches of the ballhog, lived through the flames, recovered from the fall into the boiling pit, and escaped the bloodthirsty narcs to find us here!”

  As the stars grew brighter in the velvet sky overhead, the elf, dwarf, and Ranger gathered around the radiant sage to hear the tale of his miraculous, impossible salvation.

  “Well,” began Goodgulf, “once out of the pit . . .”

  * * *

  1 A brand of cigar, Roi-Tans claimed they could help end an argument “man to man.” Whether this was by sharing a cigar or using it as a weapon has been lost to history.

  2 Not unlike Passaic, New Jersey.

  3 Serutan was a popular brand of laxative, though the same effect can now be achieved free by watching The Ring with the volume up.

  4 Yousuf Karsh was a photographer famous for his great skill at creating portraits, a quality now rendered irrelevant by Instagram.

  VII

  Serutan Spelled Backwards Is Mud

  The plaintive twitterings of morning birds woke Legolam, who stared sleepily into the rising sun. Looking about, he saw all the company asleep save Goodgulf, who idly played solitaire on sleeping Gimlet’s hump.

  “You cannot put a knave on a king. That’s cheating,” cautioned the elf.

  “But I can put my fist down your gullet,” countered the witty old conjurer, “so why do not thee make a cuckoo clock or whatever you do with your spare time. I am meditating.”

  But the elf looked at the Wizard with fondness. Half the night they had sat up and listened to Goodgulf’s tales of strange wanderings and brave deeds. Tales full of Goodgulf’s courage and cunning against unnameable enemies. Tales obvious to all as a pack of preposterous lies. If Goodgulf had been transformed, he had not been transformed much. What is more, Gimlet’s watch was missing.

  Slowly the rest of the party roused themselves, Arrowroot last, partially because of his befuddled mooning over the fair Roi-Tanner, and partially because he couldn’t fasten his drop-seat underwear. Carefully the Ranger prepared the company’s austere breakfast of eggs, waffles, bacon, grapefruit, pancakes, hot oatmeal, fresh-squeezed orange juice, and golden cheese blintzes. No one, the company agreed early in the quest, could make blintzes like old Arrowroot.

  “Zo, you ist up, finally,” growled a voice. All heads turned to Eorache, tricked out in her best boots, spurs, and armor. Through her nose was thrust a fierce-looking chicken bone.

  “Ah, dressed to kill,” chuckled Goodgulf as he rose to greet the surprised captain.

  “You!” gasped Eorache.

  “You were expecting maybe Beowulf?”

  “But—but ve thought dot you vere kaput mit der ballhog,” said the Roi-Tanner.

  “It is a long tale,” said Goodgulf, taking a deep breath.

  “Then save it,” interrupted Eorache. “Ve have der fighting to do mit der Serutanner. Coming mit me, please.”

  The company followed Eorache to the rest of the warriors, all mounted on their fiery, champing steeds, eager as their riders for battle. Cheerfully they greeted their leader with a clenched fist of salute and whispered amused comments about the odd Ranger that followed her around like a demented basset.

  The party mounted. Eorache grudgingly gave Thermofax, the fastest of all the Roi-Tanner’s sheep, to Goodgulf. Then, as the Riders burst into song, they rode west toward Isinglass.

  They had not ridden but two hours before they reached a crested hill and Eorache bellowed the order to halt. Down in the low valley lay the pastel pink-and-blue walls of Serutan’s mighty fortress. The entire city was ringed with walls, and around the walls was a pale lavender moat crossed by a bright green drawbridge. Pennants flapped in the breeze bravely and the tall towers seemed verily to goose the clouds.

  Beyond the walls the expedition saw the many wonders that had lured countless tourists through its portals in the past. Amusements of all descriptions lay within: carnivals and sideshows under permanent tents, fairies’ wheels and gollum-coasters, tunnels of troth, griffin-go-rounds and gaming houses where a yokel could lose an idle hour, and if he wasn’t careful, his jerkin. Years before, when Serutan still showed a fair face to the world, Goodgulf had worked in such a house as a croupier for “Ye Wheel of Ye Fortune.” But only for a short time. Why he left and why he had been forever barred from Serutanland, as the evil Wizard renamed it, no one knew. And Goodgulf wasn’t telling.

  The company stared with apprehension at the motionless wheels and tarpaulined exhibits. At the looming battlements stood rows of archers and pikemen, behind them caldrons of boiling farina. Above the ramparts rose a huge sign with the face of a cartoon character made famous through comic scrolls and innumerable shoddy toys. It was the visage of Dickey Dragon that simpered at the riders above the letters that read WELCOME TO SERUTANLAND. ALL RIDES TUPPENCE ON SUNDAYS. Everywhere, they noticed, were the brainless grins of Dickey Dragon. Pennants, signs, walls all bore that same idiotic, tongue-lolling face. But now that once-beloved creature had revealed itself to be the symbol of its creator’s lust for power, a power that had to be ended.

  “A mighty fortress is our Dickey Dragon,” said Goodgulf, ignoring the groans of those around him.

  “Ja,” agreed Eorache, “der Serutanner macht der mint mit der Dickey Dragon hats und der Dickey Dragon sweatshirts und der Dickey Dragon dis und der Dickey Dragon dot. One rich schtinker, der Serutanner ist.”

  Goodgulf agreed that this was so, and that when they had been friends he had not been a bad sort.

  “But this was all a sham and a front for his real purposes,” he added, “and for that we must conquer him.”

  “But how?” asked Legolam.

  “Der diversionary tactic!” exclaimed Eorache, her chicken bone quivering. “Ve need some dumkopf to draw dere attention vhile ve attack from der rear.” She paused and looked slyly at the love-struck Ranger out of the corner of her eye. “Dot dumb—er, hero vould melt der heart of any fräulein, I thinking.”

  Stomper’s ears perked up like a randy boxer and he drew his blad
e, crying, “Krona! I will undertake this mission for thy glory and honor that I may win from you admiration, though I not return.” Clumsily, he goaded his truculent merino to her side and kissed a calloused hand. “But first, I ask a token from thee, fair Eorache, that my valor may attempt to equal thy matchless charms. A token I ask of thee.”

  Puzzled for a second, Eorache nodded her horned head and unbuckled her thick leather wrist-strengthener and handed the metal-studded strap to Arrowroot, who fastened it joyfully around his neck.

  “Hokay, dere ist der token,” she said, “now raus!”

  Without another word he galloped down the slope toward the drawbridge amid the cheers of the war party. Faster and faster he sped as the rest circled under the cover of the ridge. Then, just as the merino’s sharp hooves approached the portal into the fortress, the bridge was quickly raised up, revealing a familiar scaly grin painted on the underside, along with the legend, SORRY, FOLKS. CLOSED FOR THE SEASON. But Stomper’s momentum carried him irresistibly onward until he plunged headlong into the lavender moat. Thrashing in the water, Stomper yelled with fear, for the moat became alive with sharp, rasping beaks. Great snapping turtles massed upon the drowning Ranger, and archers, noticing the commotion for the first time, began peppering the crackpot with crack potshots.

  Eorache, hearing his cries, rode over the crest and saw Stomper floundering in the moat, assailed on all sides. Barking a Roi-Tanner oath, she raced down to the moat and sprang from her mount after him, locking his head in the crook of her muscular arm, and made for the shore. Then, as the party watched with awe, she stood up in the two-foot depths and scampered to safety, two water- and-arrow-logged merinos at her heels.

  A great cheer rose from the Roi-Tanners as their leader trotted smartly back to the hill, the gasping Ranger still in tow. Muttering under her breath, she applied artificial respiration to Stomper, who choked up a surprising quantity of the moat and several small turtles. The vicious reptiles had torn away much of his raiment, leaving only his undergarments, which the lady noticed had the Royal Crown of Twodor embroidered on the backflap.

  “Hey!” she exclaimed to the semiconscious Ranger. “You got der Royal Crown of der Twodor embroidered on der backflap.”

  “Aye,” said Goodgulf, “for he is the true King of these and all lands of Twodor.”

  “No kidding?” said Eorache, her eyes widening with concupiscence. “Hmmm. Maybe der dumkopf ist hokay after all.” To the surprise of all, she began to murmur softly to Stomper as she threw him over her shoulder and gently burped him.

  “There is no time for courtly pastimes,” said Goodgulf. “Our diversion has failed and the enemy is now forewarned of our intentions. The hour to strike has passed and we are lost.”

  “Does that mean we can go home now?” asked Legolam.

  “No!” said the Wizard, his medallion flashing in the sun, “for I see in the distance a vast army marching.”

  “Nuts,” said Gimlet. “I thought we could call it a day.”

  With fearful eyes they all watched as a dark mass spread over a distant hill and moved toward them with alarming speed. Whether friend or foe, no one could discern. For many minutes they watched until cornets sounded from the battlements of Serutanland.

  “They must be narc reinforcements come to destroy us all!” wailed the elf. “Sorhed has sent a great army against us!”

  “No!” cried the Ranger. “They are not narcs, they are not like anything that I have seen.”

  The others saw that this was true. Rank upon rank of huge, warlike vegetables were massing toward Serutanland, led by a monumental creature. An eldritch song thundered:

  “All hail Vee-Ates, gather round!

  With greens held high and roots in ground!

  Cabbage, Eggplant, Cuke, and Carrot

  Purée narcs with club and garrot!

  Squash their pulp up into bits,

  Slash their rinds and spit out the pits!

  Make their juice spout like a geyser

  And grind them all to fertilizer!”

  “Ho ho ho!” rang through the land and the frightened sheep milled in confusion like sheep. Dumbstruck, the party saw squads of squash, platoons of potatoes, companies of kumquats, battalions of beets, and regiments of radishes, all tramping to a martial air played by a fifty-piece rutabaga marching band. Beyond the endless rows were even more formations; determined-looking avocados, stalwart scallions, and brawny eggplants.

  The very ground shook at the rhythmic rootsteps of the horde, the air crackled with their thousand chattering, piping war cries.

  Proudly, at the head of the column strode the green general, who had added a pair of corn silk epaulets to his meager attire. On each shoulder was a familiar figure in addition, and Goodgulf was the first to see.

  “It’s the two runts, by cracky!” he cried.

  And it was true. Moxie and Pepsi sat unsteadily on Birdseye’s shoulders, both waving frantically at Goodgulf and the rest.

  The acres of produce tramped directly to the walls of Serutanland and arranged themselves in battle formation. Through a glass lent by Eorache, Arrowroot saw consternated narcs first gaping, then rushing about the ramparts in panic.

  “Ho ho ho!” thundered the giant. “Be it known, Serutan, that the Vee-Ates are before you. Surrender or be pulped!”

  At first there was no response from the fortress. Then a great voice replied to the giant with an earthshaking raspberry.

  “I take it then,” said the giant, “that you wish to fight.” Without another word the giant strode back to his lines and began barking orders to his followers, who quickly obeyed, running hither and thither to set up formations and engines of war.

  Great watermelons half walked, half rolled to the edge of the moat, followed by enormous potatoes who leapt heavily upon the melons, firing a deadly hail of seeds to rake the ramparts clean of narcs. The narcs fell like fruit flies while the onlookers from the hill applauded wildly.

  Then a column of sweet potatoes forded the moat, ignoring the arrows that sunk deep into their pulp. Half-submerged in the turtle-infested waters, the potatoes sprouted long, winding tendrils that climbed the sheer face of the walls, entwining around any protrusion. The vines served as scaling ladders for the hordes of commando cucumbers that hastily clambered up to challenge the defenders. Simultaneously the giant brought out a huge, wheeled catapult and aligned it toward the wall.

  “Der gas varfare!” shouted Eorache, guessing his plan.

  The puzzled watchers soon learned what the Roi-Tanner had meant, for fully three companies of suicide scallions appeared and began piling into the great scoop of the catapult. When the trip was released, the eight-foot onions soared in a high arc over the walls and set up a huge cloud of acrid fog upon impact. Through the glass the party saw the narcs feverishly wiping their streaming eyes with dirty black handkerchiefs. Ballistas of kamikaze kumquats rained death down upon the barricades, and deafening reports of aerial popcorns toppled parapets on the heads of Serutan’s henchmen.

  But the narcs still fought back desperately, their long blades flashing, dripping with vitamin-packed gore. The ramparts were littered with chopped parsley, diced onion, and grated carrots. Rivers of red tomato juice ran over the stones, and a ghastly salad floated in the moat.

  Seeing that the fighting on the walls was yet undecided, the tall green commander ordered up another weapon, a pumpkin the size of a Mack truck. Nodding to his commands, the weighty squash rumbled over the moat on the backs of his slain comrades. Peppered with arrows, the great orange warrior stood before the raised drawbridge and immediately began butting it with its tremendous bulk. The whole wall shook and trembled. Again and again he crashed against the door while frantic defenders poured vats of steaming oatmeal down on the attacker. Parboiled yet undaunted, the brave pumpkin stepped back several yards and got one final running start, then rushed at the door full tilt. There was a titanic crash and the door seemed to explode into shards and splinters. The dazed batterin
g-squash reeled back dizzily, staggered, shrugged its broad round shoulders, and split in half. Seeds ran out and mingled with the still-warm squeezings of brother warriors. For a moment all fell silent. Then, with a great cry, all the Vee-Ates rushed across the sundered shell and raged into the city. After them charged the Roi-Tanners and the company, eager to avenge its valorous end.

  The final engagements inside the walls were short and bloody. Gimlet sang lustily as he swung at the wounded narcs and dismembered their inert, defenseless corpses. Arrowroot and Legolam valiantly disposed of a number of brawny foes from behind and Goodgulf offered hearty exhortations and sound advice from the safety of a crumbled parapet. But it was the Roi-Tanner maiden and her cronies who took the day’s honors as they destroyed the remaining narcs. Arrowroot sought out Eorache through the melee and found her gleefully mincing a narc fully half her size and singing an old Roi-Tanner drinking song. She saw him wave timidly at her. She smiled, winked, and tossed him a round object.

  “Hey! King! Catch!”

  Clumsily the Ranger fielded the souvenir. It was the head of a narc. Its final expression was one of extreme annoyance.

  • • •

  At last the fighting was over and the long-parted friends ran to each other with joyful greetings.

  “Joyful greetings!” cried Moxie and Pepsi.

  “The same and more to you, I’m sure,” said Goodgulf, stifling a yawn of recognition.

  “Hail fellow well met,” bowed Legolam, “may your dandruff worries be over forever.”

  Gimlet limped over to the two boggies and forced a smile. “Pox vobiscum. May you eat three balanced meals a day and have healthful, regular bowel movements.”

  “How comes it,” said Arrowroot, “that we meet in this strange land?”

  “It is a tale long in the telling,” said Pepsi, pulling out a sheaf of notes.

  “Then save it,” said Goodgulf. “Have thee seen or heard news of Frito and the Ring?”

  “Nary a peep,” said Moxie.

  “Same here,” said Gimlet. “Let’s eat.”