(The Patriot meets Tolkien)
“You will be a kingdom unto yourself.” Said
Lord Tavington’s pointless yes-man
lieutenant.
“Yes, once the Lothlorien woods are clear-cut and the famous trees are
sent to
our newly conquered markets in Minas Tirith and Dale, I will be richer
than his
majesty and will have the former forest as my retirement domain”
Tavington
proudly boasted.
“I should say so sir, and nay forget – you will need that land since
you most
certainly will not be welcome back home in merry old England, what with
those…
unfortunate misunderstandings. The alleged war crimes… sir.” The pointless yes-man lieutenant timidly
interjected.
“Bah! Those fools! They have no idea of the nature of war and of Middle
Earth.
This is a harsh world and harsh methods must be implemented to
“encourage” the
natives to cooperate with the crown. Damn it all to hell! I got those
little
craps… the… the… ah yes – the hobbits to cooperate. All I had to do was
kill a
few and they were very willing to relocate to the salt mines. Those
idiot
mountain men – the Rohirrim thought that they could defy the crown in
their
little fortress of Helm’s Deep. Two days of constant cannon fire cured
that odd
notion of freedom from their savage heads!”
“But sir,” Squealed the lieutenant, “I am referring to the Rivendell
incident,
of course!”
Lord Tavington’s eyes darkened as he heard this and he shouted with
malevolence
ringing in his voice “Oh really, so what if I had my
regulars make a
giant wooden church just so I could bar the doors and burn Lord Elrond
and his
family. That was just a little bit too cruel for their fancy clothes
and tea.
Did not the Elves leave their precious Rivendell and move to the death
marshes?
They seemed so reluctant until I personally shot each of their elf
children in
front of them. Really! Perhaps the death marshes, with their rather
lethal
nature are not quite what Rivendell was, what with its glorious
scenery,
countless, pristine waterfalls and 15,000 year native elf history, but
one has
to think that these elves could understand our point of view. They just
don’t
understand land management. One cuts down trees where I come from. Actually living in them is just
unthinkable! And all this silliness about their thousands of years old
manuscripts, of course we burned them – they speak English now – not
that
heathen elf language. Aghhhhh!” he screamed. “All I can say
is that
I stand by my actions. If the world can not stand pointless brutality
and
nauseating cruelty then I have had enough of it!” He added, obviously
agitated
by the subject of the Rivendell allegations.
“I personally think you ought to give more credit to these elves.” Lord
Cornwallis said, stepping into both the room and their discussion.
“They after
all developed an astonishingly advanced culture for being heathens.” He
added,
chuckling at his own extremely unfunny joke. “Ahh, yes,” The Lord
pompously
uttered as he peered over the maps that Tavington used to plot out his
plans
for retirement, “The Shire, my future domains if this damn war for
Middle Earth
ever ends.”
Tavington and his lieutenant were both surprised and annoyed by their
commander
barging in on them but quickly hid their emotions by what they
considered
charming smiles. You see, it was considered impolite to walk in
uninvited when
other officers were peering at their maps and planning retirements.
Lord Cornwallis, who was apparently oblivious to his social faux pas,
sighed. “Only a few places are left in Middle Earth in need
of
British order and civilization Mordor, a nasty desolate place of no
natural
resources or strategic value – kind of like Afghanistan back home. I
will
personally oversee that important campaign. Mirkwood,
a dense, dark dangerous woods in which it will be
impossible
to use our open field tactics and will very likely be a death trap for
thousands of our men, also having little economic or military
value and
last of all the Lothlorien woods. You are familiar with them I
presume?”
Cornwallis smiled looking up at Tavington from the map.
“Of course, sir.” Tavington quickly responded, “It is to be my future
retirement estate.”
“Excellent. You head out tomorrow for Lothlorien. And Tavington…”
“Yes, Lord Cornwallis.”
“Try to be somewhat less pointlessly brutal. We
are British after all.”
Two weeks and two days later, Lord Tavington arrived at the boundary of
the
Lothlorien forest, at a temporary military camp set up by the British
regulars. Tavington was still (naturally) angry with
Cornwallis for
his restriction on brutality. You see, one of the main things that
drives
Tavington, what he gets up for in the morning, is to be pointlessly
cruel and
violent. It is what makes him tick. He just doesn’t feel like he is
alive
unless he is either shooting innocent children needlessly in front of
their
parents or herding people into churches to be burned alive in a
particularly
vicious political statement. Tavington’s restriction was like telling
most men
not to be attracted to women. It was both aggravating and impossible.
Upon entering the camp Tavington made his way to the officer’s tent,
which he
found was already filled with redundant and stupid lieutenants plotting
over
maps and eyeing tracts of land for possible future ownership. Feeling a
surge
of pride that his underlings were well on their way to becoming true
British
officers, Tavington immediately took to planning his first assault on
the
Lothlorien woods.
After several days of intense brainstorming, Lord Tavington and his
minions
came up with what they considered to be a brilliant military operation.
They
would all put on their bright red uniforms, have the drummers loudly
beat their
drums, and simply march into the forest towards the center of the woods
where
they had heard the wood elves had large beautiful tree palaces which
housed a
majority of them and their much-feared, beautiful queen. If they
encountered
any resistance they would simply line up slowly, yelling out commands
to their
underlings making it obvious when and where they would fire and then
clumsily
shoot into the forest at random locations until victory. And to top off
their
brilliant strategy, they decided to march along the main road, which
trailed into
a steep ravine surrounded by dense forest – in other words, a death
trap.
For the first several days of marching in the forest, they encountered
little
resistance with the odd exception of the disappearance of all the
scouts they
sent ahead to evaluate the terrain. Naturally, Tavington and his
lieutenants
saw nothing alarming in this obvious sign of impending ambush, so they
continued to send fresh scouts ahead to the proverbial meat grinder
without any
precautions for their safety. On the
fifth day of marching, Tavington and his men were surprised when a
native
Lothlorien elf, clad in the gray tunic of his land, suddenly appeared
on the
road ahead and called out,
“I am Gloridal of the Lothlorien woods and I come as an envoy of my
Lady
Galadriel. She wishes to warn you that unless you leave immediately and
never
return, she will destroy you and your men.”
Predictably, Tavington paid no heed to the man. Instead he rode up to
Gloridal
and sneered in a way only British officers of the 18th century could
and said
mockingly “Ohhhh, I am so afraid. What are you and your little elf
friends
upset that we are in your little forest?” Then in a whiny imitation of
a baby –
that was actually surprisingly good – he continued. “Are we just too
big and
bad for the little elves? I am so, so sa-we.” He laughed. After a pause
as a
kind of afterthought, he added, “Say, You wouldn’t happen to have any
children
would you?” Thinking fondly of shooting Gloridal’s progeny in front of
him.
Gloridal was pissed. “You stupid, stupid arrogant bastards!” he
shouted. “You
and your idiot men in your damn red coats, didn’t you know that we saw
you
coming from miles away? And those noisy, stupid and ridiculous drums,
why do
you idiots beat them incessantly? Do you want to alert every
creature in
this part of Middle Earth you are coming?
At this last question a murmur started among the officer corps. “Why do
we beat
the drums?” slowly asked one Lieutenant, clearly strained under the
pressure of
thinking reasonably. “Yeah, why do we?” echoed many of the other
officers,
apparently confused and distressed by actually thinking. “I think it
has
something to do with regulating the pace of our troops.”
Ventured one of the pointless lieutenants.
“Are you sure, I think I once heard that it had something to do with
scaring
our enemies, by making us seem more angry and dangerous.” Replied
another
lieutenant.
Tavington was about to inform his men as to the purpose of the
pointless drum
beating when it occurred to him that he had absolutely no idea what the
drums
were actually for. He searched his mind desperately in vain, but all he
could
come up with was “Of course they have a point. They… um… well… look…
hmmm.” He stammered to his men. “Damn
it all!” he thought to himself. “It
seemed like a good idea in the tent with the officers.” At this point
Tavington
realized that he looked fairly stupid, standing in front of his
regiment
stumbling half-ass responses to a question posed to him by an elf that
he was
supposed to be mocking. As he thought
of what to do next, the foul-mouthed elf spoke again.
“Oh that was really smoothly said,” Gloridal replied sarcastically.
“You really
have no idea why you beat those damn drums, do you? Amazing! You
tea-drinking
sons of bitches are THAT stupid” He
callously laughed. And why in the Gods’
names do you care if I have any children.” He
asked, not knowing of Tavington’s fondness for infanticide
and
responding to Tavington’s last query.
Tavington, who had already decided his next course of action during
Gloridal’s
insults, responded “Oh no reason. Just curious.” And
then promptly shot him with his unrealistically accurate,
ridiculously ornate pistol.
Gloridal’s smile fell from his face and was replaced by an expression
of
confusion followed by shock. As he fell to the ground clutching his now
red
chest, he said with disbelief, “You fucker – you shot me!”
Tavington smiled at Gloridal’s last words and was feeling quite pleased
with
himself. He was just about to order the regiment ahead but
looked in
horror as the air was suddenly filled with arrows.
They were fired from elves in the trees and cliffs above the
death trap valley in which he had placed his men.
“Damn.” Thought Tavington. “Those elves were around the ridge
surrounding us
the whole time we were speaking to that bastard elf! They must have
seen me
shoot that little shit.” Tavington could do little but watch as the
elves
concentrated their fire on his enormously large corps of incompetent
officers.
After the elves wasted the lieutenants and captains the regulars simply
stood
nervously peering at their falling comrades. With no one to yell orders
at them
they were quite helpless. They could do nothing except to simply watch
their
fellow soldiers die all around them. So it was pretty much just target
practice
for the elves.
Tavington was seized by anger. “How dare these damn elves resist the
crown!” he
angrily thought as an arrow whizzed by him and hit a weeping solider
squarely
in the forehead. “Don’t they know this is my retirement domain?” It
was,
however, at this point, in the chaos of the battle, that Tavington
looked upon
the lady Galadriel for the first time. Great and terrible she stood
clad in
white with lightning in her eyes amidst the bodies of regulars. She walked towards him slowly, with fury
on
her brow.
Now most men would, in this situation, run for it. But Tavington being
a proud,
aristocratic, British officer had too much arrogance and too little
common
sense to flee. Instead he screamed “You bitch, if I can’t have my
retirement
domain then I’ll at least take you with me to hell!” He then ran
towards the
lady with his sword drawn. Naturally, the elves upon seeing
Tavington in his attempt to off their queen began firing their arrows
at him.
Arrows slammed into his body from all directions, with enough killing
power to
drop a herd of elephants. But still Tavington charged. The lady
Galadriel then
commanded the heavens to strike lightning upon him. But still he ran.
An elf,
(incidentally Loridal, the son of the foul-mouthed Gloridal) then ran
up beside
him and jammed a dagger into Tavington’s chest. But still he continued
on, this
time more awkwardly stumbling then actually running. The elf Floridal
(second
cousin to the fallen foul-mouthed Gloridal) thrust an entire lance into
Tavington’s neck. But still Tavington stumbled on towards his desired
revenge. Loridal then took his sword and cut the
fantastically
wounded Tavington’s legs off from underneath him. But still Tavington
continued
on, this time crawling toward the fair elven Queen he so sought to
destroy.
Floridal and Loridal then began to furiously hack at the back of the
ridiculously wounded Tavington as he crawled to his intended victim.
But still
he crawled on… until he finally arrived at her feet. Tavington was now
too weak
to lift his arm much less thrust an sword through anyone and was
clearly on the
edge of death so Galadriel decided it was safe and ordered the elves to
stop
hacking at his back. She then spoke to Tavington. “Why do you hate me
so?” she
asked with bewilderment on her voice.
Tavington looked up at her with hatred clearly on his face and said
something
too weakly to be audible. The lady Galadriel lowered her face to his
and asked
once again why he hated her so.
Tavington then smiled and lunged forward, chomping down on her pointed
ear with
such ferocity that Tyson would have been proud. “Because you took my
retirement
estate, Bitch!” He shouted with anger.
The lady grabbed her now bleeding ear and then screamed “You little
fucker!” to
Tavington. She totally lost her cool and began kicking and beating him
incessantly. When she had had enough she ordered Floridal and Loridal
to “Work
the little shit over and then drop his ass in the river.” and then
stormed off
swearing in a very unelflike fashion.
Alas, Tavington died before the two relatives of Gloridal got a chance
to
torture him. They, with great grief over their loss threw his body
unceremoniously into the river Anduin. There he drifted for
many
days until he floated by a camp set up by the Lord Cornwallis who had
just
returned from his rather unsuccessful expedition to Mordor.
The camp coroner had quite a difficult time determining the cause of
death of
poor Tavington. Indeed, with “17
arrows, one spear and one dagger embedded in his body not to mention,”
the
coroner added in his report to Cornwallis “countless sword stabbings,
much
evidence of someone with rather pointy shoes kicking him, both of his
legs
completely severed off and then of all things the poor asshole got hit
by
lighting multiple times at some point in the process.”
Cornwallis sighed and wondered out loud “How the hell does anyone
survive shit
like that?” in front of the coroner.
“I bloody just don’t know, sir.” the coroner responded. “And we still
don’t
have the foggiest idea where all of his command is. It is like the
whole damn
army was just absorbed by the woods. No survivors. Nothing at all.” He said with bewilderment.
“Well, thank you. You’re excused.” Cornwallis said to the
coroner. After the coroner left, Cornwallis said to himself, “Well you’re finally dead Tavington.” As he
lit his pipe with Hobitton leaf in it. “I just wonder why you had to
take your
whole damn army with you!”
Cornwallis had just had a terrible campaign in Mordor. For some reason,
Middle
Earth just rose up in united force against the British. Partially
because of
Tavington’s penchant for unnecessary cruelty and nauseating violence,
all of
Middle Earth just wanted the British out, no matter what. Indeed,
Mordor,
Rivendell, Gondor, Lothlorien, the Dwarves, and the Orcs – they all
joined in a
historic alliance against the British. So great was their hatred for
the new
British arrivals it had overcome thousands of years of intense hatred.
The
overwhelming numbers of the alliance, combined with the losses of
Tavington’s
divisions (as well as the ones that got slaughtered in Mirkwood) were
too much
for the British. They were now on a fast retreat out of Middle Earth.
On his way back from Mordor to the Eastern Sea, where ships lay ready
to take
him back through the portal to England, Cornwallis had had the
fortunate
opportunity to stumble across two Hobbits who had somehow escaped the
salt
mines. Upon searching them they discovered a variety of interesting
items:
various eleven swords, a coat of mithril, of all things, and last of
all, one
shiny golden ring.
“What were those idiot hobbits babbling about?” Cornwallis wondered.
“Something
about a ring of power needing to be destroyed.” he remembered. “Oh
well,” he
thought. “The sun probably got to their little heads.” In any case, it
was his
now and he was bringing it back to England with him as he was already
quite
fond of it.