Inkling Challenge: Take the Fellowship to Work/School

by Gimli's Goat

A Day in the 3 Legged Inn

Note: I forgot to put Gandalf in, so lets say that this is set when the Fellowship were in Lorien!

Gimli stared incredulously.
“You want me to wash…this…thing?”
He looked nervously towards the dishwasher, then doubtfully down at the saucepan in his hands.
Now, really. I had just spent 15 minutes explaining the function of electricity to the Fellowship. The hobbits, losing interest when I began drawing diagrams, were slumped at the beer taps. Legolas was making good use of the dartboard for target practise, although he didn’t seem to understand that it was not usual for arrows to smash through the walls. Boromir and Aragorn were sitting at the other side of the bar, engraving the counter with their elven blades.

I was getting fed up. When I bought my Irish pub last year, little had I imagined that I would also be asked to baby-sit the hordes of characters that appeared from a musty drawer in the cellar. Of course, it was cheap labour, but one spent more time looking after the troublesome creatures than the pub. These latest misfits were proving even more troublesome than the talking lion had been.

Wearily I turned towards the hobbits. They had obviously discovered that pulling down the taps would release the beer, because the floor was soaking. Now Frodo was slugging from a bottle of Tequila (“a bit like Marcella Took’s herbal tea…”) and Pippin was saying brightly “It comes in pints?”
Merry turned on him, hiccoughing madly, eyes crossed.
“Shuuup, yew, Pip! Yeh ne’er shtop shaying that line, yeh big attenshon sheeker.”
I watched in despair as Master Meriadoc collapsed on the sodden floor, and Peregrin burst into tears. Sam made to pat him comfortingly on the back, but misjudged the distance, and his hand landed on Aragorn’s sword.

Amid Aragorn’s roar of indignation (“How dare a little nobody like yourself DARE touch Anduril!!!”), Sam’s yelps of pain, Pippin’s sobs, Merry’s snores, the twang of Legolas’ bowstring and the ominous sound of plaster cracking, came a massive CRASH.
I closed my eyes and took a deep breath, then turning round, I saw Gimli whistling and shuffling his feet, strangely reluctant to move.
“Gimli”, I began, “what was that nois….”
Words died away as Gimli moved aside. There was a great, big, dirty axe sticking into the middle of my dish-washer.
He smiled sheepishly. Frodo silently passed me his Tequila.

This is the last straw, I thought. Marching purposely towards the phone, I took out my diary and called Sauron…..


(This is pure fiction, don't own a bar, nor do I have the Dark Lord's number)