Hmm, callers. As in visitors, or people phoning? And that puts me in mind of something that seems to be something of an American meme....
The caller It was starting to rain as Frodo hurried through the ember-strewn streets of the Shire. Thick droplets of rain splattered around him as he hastened past the ruins of the Shire Schoolhouse, and they struck the water in the millponds hard enough that the ripples looked like waves. He dashed, as he saw the door of his house up ahead, through the garden where the corpse of Sam sagged sadly on the scarecrow frame, and he only stopped to catch his breath when he was inside and out of the drenching. He heard, as the door closed, the sound of the rain increasing in speed and strength, and felt relief that he'd managed to avoid a thorough soaking. There was a cold, musty smell in the house, and he reminded himself that he ought to air it out more often. Opening the windows now would result in wet carpets and mildew, so he would have to do it after the rain passed. He pulled his shoes off and left them on the welcome mat and squelched in wet socks into the kitchen. The Palantir(TM) was glowing on the kitchen counter. The orcs, seeking gainful employment after the fall of Mordor, had turned out to be competent engineers and bright enough to hire other races as salesmen and were churning out surprisingly affordable copies of things that Sauron had created and kept to himself. Frodo was wondering if and when they'd manage to produce a passable version of the one Ring, and also if they'd manage to get the Nazgul bug worked out of it. But for now he sighed and tapped the Palantir(TM) to return the missed call. "I've been trying to get in touch with you regarding the extended warranty for your horse," said a familiar voice. The Palantir(TM) glowed blue indicating that this was a live conversation, and Frodo peered curiously into the crystalline sphere. The image was tiny and upside-down, but after a moment he worked it out. "Gandalf!" he said, forgetting that that name tended to trigger the ancient wizard's PTSD. "What? No! No, this is... this is Scamdalf," said the wizard. He tugged on the ends of his moustache for a moment. "I'm an insurance salesma-- specialist. And a Nigerian prince." "What's one of them then?" asked Frodo, pulling his socks off and immediately regretting it. The toe-fungus he'd picked up in the Mines of Moria liked the damp weather and smelled especially ripe. "About your horse," said Scamdalf, frowning. "Ate it," said Frodo. "You were there, Gandalf. You cooked it. Which, as I recall, is why we ended up having to eat it." "Did I?" "Yes. You said something about the Elvish word for Friend and then threw a fireball at my horse. Sam barely got off it and out of the way in time." "And that opened the door to the Mines of Moria," said Gandalf, smiling broadly. "That was a good use of a horse. Which you still owe payments on, according to my records." "Gimli opened the door with his keys," said Frodo. "I think you took credit for that as well, somehow. And I'm not paying you for a dead horse that you killed, cooked and ate." "Damn," said Gandalf. "Fine, pay me or I'll cook you." "Do you take Orcpal?" sighed Frodo, reaching for his sodden wallet.
This version of Gandalf is rather worrying, because you know he's still as powerful as ever. Just... not as focused as one might like someone of that power to be...
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Hmm, callers. As in visitors, or people phoning? And that puts me in mind of something that seems to be something of an American meme....
The caller
It was starting to rain as Frodo hurried through the ember-strewn streets of the Shire. Thick droplets of rain splattered around him as he hastened past the ruins of the Shire Schoolhouse, and they struck the water in the millponds hard enough that the ripples looked like waves. He dashed, as he saw the door of his house up ahead, through the garden where the corpse of Sam sagged sadly on the scarecrow frame, and he only stopped to catch his breath when he was inside and out of the drenching. He heard, as the door closed, the sound of the rain increasing in speed and strength, and felt relief that he'd managed to avoid a thorough soaking.
There was a cold, musty smell in the house, and he reminded himself that he ought to air it out more often. Opening the windows now would result in wet carpets and mildew, so he would have to do it after the rain passed. He pulled his shoes off and left them on the welcome mat and squelched in wet socks into the kitchen.
The Palantir(TM) was glowing on the kitchen counter. The orcs, seeking gainful employment after the fall of Mordor, had turned out to be competent engineers and bright enough to hire other races as salesmen and were churning out surprisingly affordable copies of things that Sauron had created and kept to himself. Frodo was wondering if and when they'd manage to produce a passable version of the one Ring, and also if they'd manage to get the Nazgul bug worked out of it. But for now he sighed and tapped the Palantir(TM) to return the missed call.
"I've been trying to get in touch with you regarding the extended warranty for your horse," said a familiar voice. The Palantir(TM) glowed blue indicating that this was a live conversation, and Frodo peered curiously into the crystalline sphere. The image was tiny and upside-down, but after a moment he worked it out.
"Gandalf!" he said, forgetting that that name tended to trigger the ancient wizard's PTSD.
"What? No! No, this is... this is Scamdalf," said the wizard. He tugged on the ends of his moustache for a moment. "I'm an insurance salesma-- specialist. And a Nigerian prince."
"What's one of them then?" asked Frodo, pulling his socks off and immediately regretting it. The toe-fungus he'd picked up in the Mines of Moria liked the damp weather and smelled especially ripe.
"About your horse," said Scamdalf, frowning.
"Ate it," said Frodo. "You were there, Gandalf. You cooked it. Which, as I recall, is why we ended up having to eat it."
"Did I?"
"Yes. You said something about the Elvish word for Friend and then threw a fireball at my horse. Sam barely got off it and out of the way in time."
"And that opened the door to the Mines of Moria," said Gandalf, smiling broadly. "That was a good use of a horse. Which you still owe payments on, according to my records."
"Gimli opened the door with his keys," said Frodo. "I think you took credit for that as well, somehow. And I'm not paying you for a dead horse that you killed, cooked and ate."
"Damn," said Gandalf. "Fine, pay me or I'll cook you."
"Do you take Orcpal?" sighed Frodo, reaching for his sodden wallet.
Greg - these days? Phone calls only, pretty much.
This version of Gandalf is rather worrying, because you know he's still as powerful as ever. Just... not as focused as one might like someone of that power to be...
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