The Hobwit

It's a rather dirge-like procession, wouldn't you say?  She's clearly unhappy you chose to continue the saga. I think you should molest her with more of it.

What ? Im going to be molested !! Look, bouncing balls meant I was happy HAPPY you wally

Mmmm....was I looking for depth and subtlety where I should have been looking for bouncing? Sorry, fellows and girlies, must have been tired when I posted. Thick, you know.

Chapter 9...continued....


The dungeons, once found, were something of a surprise. Bango was out exploring the palace in the hope finding out where the midgets were when he found a passageway in the bowels of the mountain...

Oh is that the time? Well, off to bed...i’ll tell you more next story time...


...to be continued...

Chapter 9...continued...

Well, it only seems an hour has past, but if you are here and I am here, then I guess all nine of us are here; though why we had two sets of quadruplets I may never know, and not a one of you who resembles my side of the family. Anyway..

Bango had almost given up hope of finding the midgets, but he did, which is why he did not end up living forever after under the mountain all invisible and sneaky. The good news, of course, was that Bango had equalised in the bowel department, and further was thinner and healthier, though, as is the trend of those thrust from obesity to rosy good health, become incredibly judgmental of any fairy that looked a touch thicker than they were thin. Indeed, Bango felt thinner than thin, like he was a mere shadow of himself, an invisible shadow at that. Indeed, he felt like cream spread incredibly thinly on a lean calorie scone: that’s fat free cream, possibly tofu or some other unnatural but healthy produce.

Deep down in the subterranean parts, after slipping by a sleeping fairy at the head of stairs which he quickly descended, Bango found a passage with rows of doors on each side. The first one he came to had a sign above it that said Apartment 1, Basement Level 3. Peeping through a glass panel, he saw Snodgrass sitting comfortably in an armchair reading a copy of the Fairy Times (on papyrus) in the light of a skylight which had been magnificently fashioned by the Fairies of Yore to bring down light from a tower on the top of the mountain.

Remembering to take off his magic bangle, Bango tapped secretively on the glass panel, Snodgrass looked across at him and frowned, and then as if wearied by the mere sight of him, abstractedly pushed a button on the armrest of his armchair. The door swung silently open.

“T’was time you got here, Bango,” saith Snodgrass, resorting to the faux-archaic. “Took your damn time getting here, you arsewipe,” added he, somewhat now resorting to the post modern.

Bango was immediately annoyed. “Well, you know I’ve had a hell of time finding you. This place has more nooks and crannies than a place with just as many nooks and crannies - and I mean ‘a lot!’”

“Well, with your magic bangle of invisibility it was probably a doddle,” Snodgrass voiced dismissively. “So don’t get up on your high pony about it.”

Now, Bango was totally surprised by that. ‘Wha...who....huh?”

“Don’t spittle splatter! We worked it out in the end. We put two and two together, then subtracted three, and summed up at one magic bangle. It was the only way we could explain it, certain peculiar things that have happened on our quest involving you, but I’m not going to try and explain the mathematics now. We’ll go and meet the others in the games parlour. That’s the only equation I’m interested in now. I have been cooped up in this rotten dungeon for far too long as it is.”

Bango, quickly getting over the shock at his secret being de-secreted, and what’s more with barely any subtext or background, found something to be annoyed about instead. “You call this a dungeon! A vanity unit. A chest of drawers and coat hook! A coffee maker operated by pet mice running inside a wheel and creating some kind of magical force* to make it bubble! Even a f#*&@ skylight! You call this a ‘dungeon’!”

“It is the deprivation of one’s liberty that matters here, Bango,” Snodrass intoned on his dignity. “All the rest is just gold dust thrown on the floor of a gilded cage, the plumbing and sanitation an ironic twist, the heathy vegetatarian diet a pure insult and travesty, even if kindly meant. You have no idea how I have suffered. You know, I’ve lost three stone! Not an ounce a fat! No fat! I am only half the midget I once was, so don’t go minimising my anguish. Anyway, let’s go. It’s morning tea, even its only mint and chamomile and dietary wafers.”

“But...”

“Shut up! The others will be keen to abuse you too! Mr Tardy! Come along now!”

And with that, Snodgrass led the way with purposeful step down the passage, collecting the other midgets along the way. They all seemed not so pleased to see him, judging by the supercilious glances they sent down their noses at him; save for Bwalin, who cast him an amiable glance of remonstrative kindness, and Biffo, whose glance had a slightly hungry look, like he missed beef or something...


To be continued...


*electricity, had he but known it.

arsewipe is definitely post-modern   it might even be post-post-modern

Actually I would not be surprised if arsewipe as a concept applied to one's fellows is nearly as old as humanity.

halfwise wrote:Actually I would not be surprised if arsewipe as a concept applied to one's fellows is nearly as old as humanity.

This is an old, old tale, older even than the original areswipes of the 11th century, Halfy. You know the ones who shot King Harold in the eye. Just so you don’t think ol’ Anon would ever be in any way or sense anachronistic.

Did not the Romans have arsewipes ? Kindly shared along the line ( and a long line too ) only to be fresh aired, in the fresh air, to be sent down the line all over again

By the by, Love this story. First thing on a dreary wintery morning, cup of tea and watching the Bin boys going by to collect the bins

{{ I'm with Snodgrass! Only healthy food to eat?! No buckie? Your tale has moved me Anon! I can feel the suffering! }}}

The tale has taken a decidedly tragic turn, I agree...

Chapter 9 continued...


Thorny had the severest look of all and he turned it on Bango in no uncertain manner, you can be certain of that.

“So you took your fine time finding us, Bango. I only hope with your magic bangle you can secret us all out of this horrible confinement...the weed here is from Brumton in Brumland and it’s not a bit like Hobwiton baccy.” And Thorny drew a deep puff on his pipe and winced. “All I can think of when i smoke this crap is colourful umbrellas and summer sun showers....and vegetarian omelettes! This place has been hell on earth. So how do we do it, Bango?”

“Do what?” Bango replied a bit severely himself. He did not like the looks any of the midgets in their saloon coats and tweed trousers - fairy made - were giving him. Not one friendly greeting from amongst them. Not like it was his fault they were in their rather comfortable confinement definitely unsuited to rustic folk like them. Personally, he thought they were thriving quite well in captivity. And, further, frankly, the Monet paintings on the walls created a refreshing and calming atmosphere in his opinion.

“Do we have to hold hands to go invisible?” Thorny asked suddenly, thoughtfully, and unexpectedly.

“Do we have to form a midget daisy chain  to get out of here?’ Biffo smiled, and Bango saw a glint in the midget’s eye that he didn’t like.

“What? Put my bangle on and hold hands?” Bango asked. “Do you think that’s how it works.?”

“Well, is it!” Poin asked, looking a bit tired. Like he was world weary or something. “I wasn’t brought up to hold hands with other lads, but if I must... This quest has been an adventure and no mistake.”

“I don’t think it works that way...” Bango said a little hesitantly, though he had not here to now considered the idea. “Magic rings don’t have a circuitry effect like that I dont think. Never heard of magic rings being able to do that.”

“It’s a f#$&*@*g bangle!” Fowly grumbled.

“Someone poke him with a reality stick..’ grumbled Growly.

“A bangle is just a giant ring!” Bango grumbled back. In fact, Bango had now found himself in a situation that was going from grumbling to worse.

Which just makes me suddenly think ‘Bango’ - ‘Bangle’. Thats kind of spooky seeing as how things are playing out in this tale. Did his mother name him under the influence of some subconscious influence and not merely under the influence of the anaesthetic at his birthing?

“Probably won’t work, I’m thinking,” Bwalin put in, sensibly. “Rings don’t have a circuitry effect; least, not in the older tales and songs, and the even older tales and songs about bangles rarely mention magic at all, let alone invisibility. Nonetheless, let’s try, anyway,” he added, even more sensibly.

So the company made a circle.

“Hold!” cried Thorny. “One of us should not hold hands, and then see if he can see the rest. Perhaps we will be visible to each other, but not to any person not in the circuit.”

“Good point,” Poin said.

So they tried it. Bango slipped on his bangle. .

Bango said presently. “I can still see everyone.”

“I can’t see you, though,” Snodgrass said. “So the bangle is working to some point.”

In fact, once they had all detailed their observations, it was agreed they could see each other but none of them could see Bango.

“Mmmm....mustn’t work then,” Thorny said. “Though Groin is not holding hands with anyone I now notice.”

“What the f#@k, Groin!” cussed Fowly. “What’s your game?”

“Just trying to put a bit of humour into the situation. We haven’t had a laugh for weeks.”

“No more pranks, you idiot,” Thorny rebuked him with a stern eye alongside the stern words. “Everyone hold hands again. We must conduct this experiment thoroughly. Not you Bango, wherever you are. You stay outside the circuit. We must do this with scientific consistency. Where are you by the way?”

“Over here.”

“Okay. Now, you’re still not holding anyone’s hand?”

“No, I’m not. You know, I’m thinking...”

‘I’ll do the thinking. I’m in charge here. Now all you lot, are you holding hands?”

“The circle is complete,” Groin said lightly.

“Okay, Bango, can you still see none of us?”

“Not a one... You know....”

“Well, clearly the bangle doesn’t work as a circuitry thing,” Thorny was sounding crestfallen.

“But what if I join the circle and, say, Bwalin doesn’t,” Bango said. “Afterall, it’s me wearing the bangle. Shouldn’t I be one of those holding hands?”

Thorny heaved a heavy breath. “Alright. It’s at least worth a try.”

And so that’s what they did. Bango joined the circle and Bwalin disengaged. This was the subseqhent result: all the midgets remained visible but Bango wasn’t; through this process of scientific trial and error, it was found that Bango’s bangle only invisibilzed the wearer.

“That’s a blow, I grant it,” Thorny said at last, positively depressed.

“So what next?” Poin asked.

“Why don’t I go off and re-explore the halls here, with a view to manufacturing another kind of escape plan?” Bango suggested.

“That will have to do,” Thorny brightened a little. “Off you go then... Bwalin, will you pass me that fermented wine. You know, I’m even starting to like it a bit... Oh, will we never be free from this odious containment!”

Bango trotted off with purpose. Straight down to the wine cellars. The thought of unfermented wine was a bit too much for him.

Was the last installment only a few months ago? It seems like ages now. Time is crawling.

Yes, I do not often come by as you know, but I bring a bit of something of Ol’ Anon’s usually when I do. Sometimes I visit only after a couple of months. But time does crawl. It feels like ages since I have been here.

That's because it is ages.

Feels like the most boring, longest, Sunday Ive ever known. But, this latest instalment has cheered me up

I have a dark admission. Whenever I come to do my Moderators duties. You know, say things like, ‘you’re all doing very well’ and piss off again, I often look at The Hobwit with the view of pressuring ol’ Anon to continue the tale. He says it’s a bit hard to keep writing and not seem repetitive and boring. He says it’s not that easy. I have to take his word for that. You know he just writes in one sitting. Half an hour? Edits a bit. Doesn’t like to plan at all, just hopefully come up with a little something that’s a little pleasing but still good writing.

Chapter 9...continued....

Now the precocious little brats among you might now be thinking, ‘Hey! I thought the the Not-so-naughty Fairies* didn’t drink Alcohol!’

Of course, you’d be right. But only officially. The King, like all respectable leaders of his ilk was a hypocrite and he, and a few of his closest advisors and circle, were wont to imbibe out of the sight of the deluded majority of veggie munchers and chamomile sippers. And can you blame them? I certainly wouldn’t like to spend all my time with that kind of person.

So, in his cellars, the king made sure he always had a good supply of wine and Firedrake brand firewater from the Top-of-the-Lake, a town of men (and women) about twenty leagues north of them. There was a steam that ran below the Fairy mountain, down through the forest to a the Great River, and then, upstream, to a great big lake called The Great Big Lake. The town was built of pine wood and other resinous timbers and had been built there because of the plenteous supply of water below it always available for use in a furious conflagration in the unlikely event that transpired. (Bango knew of all this stuff by overhearing the cellar fairies talk shop at night while he was slinking about pinching mouthfuls of wine).

Bango quietly slipped into the cellar, a place he had slipped into many times during his sojourn in the mountain halls. It was his only escape from the boring health food and tonics of the place and something that had pepped him up on a quite regular basis. Though he had had to be careful doing it. A mouthful from a keg here, a glug from a vat there, a sip from a jug everywhere. The King kept a strict audit on his precious booty.

Now, in the cellar when Bango arrived there on this occasion, was the king’s trusty cellar master and his rather complacent chief jailor. The hobwit knew they would be half soused. They always were. So when he cautiously descended the stair into the cellar, he was not surprised to find them asleep with their heads on a table. Indeed, they’d been having a fairer than usual hit out, which was kind of fortunate for Bango, as it soon enough turned out, some might even say, pretty damn convenient, albeit, not all that rare in a tale of the type.

Bango slipped behind a rack of small kegs and selected one on a shelf that he had not yet tippled. He carefully removed a cork with a little popping sound and sipped a good mouthful, then returned the cork. One had to be careful not to take too much. It was Great Big Lake Merlot, not surprising, as the men of Top-of-the-Lake were French. As were the women. Merlot isn’t too bad when it’s all you can get. The top shelf stuff, you see, was reserved for the King, and very, very strictly audited, and on the top shelf what’s more and so out of Bango’s reach anyhow.

Bango sighed. ‘I might need several drams, tonight,’ the little fellow said to himself. ‘Not that I don’t every night and most mornings,’ and he giggled in spite of his plight.

When I say plight, I mean, Bango had up to then had only set himself the vague goal of finding his midget companions, but now he had found them, clearly an escape had to be arranged. And clearly, it was all up to him. But what plan was there?

Now, dear reader, you are no doubt sitting at home in your beds drinking your hot chocolate with minds untrammelled by serious care, other than what crap you’ll be forced to do in Art tomorrow. But Bango was in the middle of it. Remember, he was just a little hobwit in a big wide world. Not a super hero or a great warrior or Harry Houdini. You must think of Colditz but with strict vegetarian fairies as your gaolers.

Sure, you might be thinking, why doesn’t Bango just get the midgets to slip into large wine barrels so they can be dropped into the river under the cellars to be transported bobbing and bouncing down the mountain stream to the Great River and then barged on up to Top-of-the-Town. Yes, that might be fine and dandy in a story where that was possible, but there were no barrels in the Fairy king’s cellar which were at all large enough to fit even the smallest midget, or hobbit for that matter, so that just wouldn’t work.

Bango found an out of the way corner to sit in and think. Of course, like you, he thought of the barrel idea, but when he looked around he sadly noted all the kegs and stoppered jugs in the place, he quickly dismissed the barrel idea. It was depressing.

But then an idea jumped into his head. He jumped up and quietly trotted, rodent like, to check on the state of the chief gaoler and the cellar master. They were definitely pissed and snoring loudly. It was past supper time. Their duties over for the day.

“That’s it!” Bango thought with a burst of happiness.

Quietly, quietly, he tip toed out of the cellar and rushed to the basement where the midgets were. A plan of escape in hand. He felt luck was on his side.







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

*If I ever finish this book I will have to change the dwarves to midgets and the elves to fairies...maybe it’s best I not ever finish this book! Work is no fun.  

:cheers:yay.

whats wrong with chamomile sippers?

Mrs Figg wrote::cheers:yay.

whats wrong with chamomile sippers?

Err...nuffin... nuffin at all...

You know, Julia, it’s an unwritten rule that you can’t read my instalments until I’ve done about twenty minutes of editing.... 🧐