Wednesday, August 22, 2012

Hobbit Heartache, Chapter 13: Samwise Staggers On

Jessica is fairly certain that Samwise's secret is that he's hopelessly in love with her.

When thinking about a Middle-earth Spring Break, a few things instantly come to mind.

-Babes in bikinis (or, as I like to call them, bikini babes)

-Wild nights spent partying around the bonfire (because everyone looks better by the light of the fire; this guy knows what I'm talking 'bout)

-Brief yet passionate hook-ups

-And, of course, feral cats.


But lurking underneath all of this sexy Spring Breaking, there's a dark side. A dangerous side. A musty side. And a side that smells really bad.

I think it's fairly obvious what I'm getting at here.


(Or, more specifically, brandywine addiction in relation to Samwise Hobbit.)

So busted.

Samwise started our story fresh-faced, a man ready to get his epic journey on.

But slowly, slowly, throughout giant spiders, semi-nude Wakefields and hobbit sacrifices, we've seen Samwise fall apart. Brandywine addiction, as some of us know, is not a kindly thing.

. . . Going

                             . . . going

                                        . . . GONE.

And while there are many functioning alcoholics out there . . .

arrested development gif Pictures, Images and Photos
(thank you, filmgirl84 from photobucket!)

Samwise Hobbit is not one of them.

To experience Samwise's downward spiral from the beginning, you've got a lot of clicking to do:

Chapter One               Chapter Seven
Chapter Two               Chapter Eight
Chapter Three             Chapter Nine
Chapter Four               Chapter Ten
Chapter Five                Chapter Eleven          
Chapter Six                  Chapter Twelve

And my literary agent seems to think that I should remind all of you readers (yes, all six [6] of you, and yes, I count myself amongst that elite yet desperately welcoming group) that, while this is indeed Hobbit Heartache, the Sweet Valley High/Lord of the Rings erotic adventure parody, I have no prior knowledge of the Lord of the Rings world. No movies viewed, no books read, nothing. This is why Samwise's last name is "Hobbit." No need for helpful emails & diagrams/hate mail, my friendly LOTR fans.

I'm so psyched to finally be able to share Zak's beautiful artwork for this chapter. I think it might be my favorite of the whole book. Had I a fireplace, or even a strong heater, this would certainly be mounted above it.

Chapter Thirteen
Samwise Staggers On

“Ooof,” said Samwise, falling to the ground. “Whoever put that tree there?” He laughed and the sound echoed in his head. ‘Tis like I’m in a cave, he thought. “Hullo, hullo, hullo!” he cried.

“Up you go, Sam,” said Merry, lending him a hair-covered hand to his feet. “We must keep moving. The day has just begun.”

“Thank you, kind friend. Care for a refreshing sip of water?” Sam asked, proffering his goatskin canteen.

Merry’s face became droopy like a rain-soaked weeping willow and he shook his head. Sam caught the eye of Winston, who had been watching the scene unfold from the side.

“Winston? A gulp or two for you? It will ease your hiking woes!” said Sam with a grin as shaky as a hogtied octopus.

“Come on, Merry. We gotta keep walking before Gandalf gets mad,” Winston said, pulling Merry away. “And Sam,” he said quietly over his shoulder, “we all know that’s not water, buddy.”

Samwise stood still and clutched his beloved canteen. He belched and felt the customary hot surge of vomit rising in his throat. He gulped it back and groaned.

“Samwise?” said Elizabeth tentatively from behind. “Are you okay?”

“Quite fine. ‘Tis a healthy hobbit who vomits with frequency,” replied Sam, with the slightest touch of derision in his voice.

He knew very well that Elizabeth was a meddler. She was also a female, and Samwise did not place much trust in females. Not since the time that Vermillia snuck a secret herb into his porridge that caused him to remain erect for three years straight. Yes, ‘twas true that females made him feel rigid with nerves, indeed!

But still, he pondered, no one else wishes to speak with me. I make them feel ill at ease.

“You really have been throwing up a lot. At least twice a day, by my count,” said Elizabeth. “That can’t feel good.” She stepped closer to Samwise and placed a comely hand on his shoulder. It felt warm and tender.

Why, I cannot recall the last time someone touched me with fondness, thought Samwise. Someone besides Pippin, that is. At the thought of his sweet, deceased friend, tears sprung to his eyes like the towering structures that sprang to life from within Merry’s burlap trousers each morn.

“You know, Sam, I feel like we’re a lot alike,” said Elizabeth.

“You do?” asked Sam with confusion. “But your height is mighty as a giant!”

Elizabeth chuckled. “I’m five foot six, which is considered to be the perfect height for my age and body type. I also have practically no body hair. But I’m not talking about looks, Sam. It’s more than that.

“You see, I’ve never really had a problem with alcohol before . . . well, except for the whole driving drunk at prom and killing my sister’s boyfriend thing . . . but I do know what it’s like to feel alone,” Elizabeth said. Her smile was as soft as a spotted calf’s underbelly.

Sam raised a hair-filled eyebrow, as skeptic as an elderly deer in a dance cavern.

“I do! Sometimes, when school’s out for the day and Jessica is at cheerleading practice, and Todd has a basketball game, and my Mom is out of town giving a lecture on hardwood flooring and my Dad has to be at the courthouse and Steven actually stays at college for the weekend and Enid doesn’t pick up my phone call—well, Enid always picks up my phone calls, but if she’s passed out or something—and Mr. Collins is busy with night tutoring and it’s just me at the house by myself . . . well, then I feel really alone,” explained Elizabeth. “So I know how scary that can feel.”

“Aye, that does sound dreadful,” replied Sam. “But I do believe you are mistaken, Elizabeth.”

Elizabeth threw back her head and laughed, then stopped with the speed of an agitated grasshopper when she noted Sam’s solemn face.

“Nay, ‘tis not fright that I feel,” explained Sam. “‘Tis nothing but sadness and loneliness. I miss my dear friend Pippin.”

“I know you do,” said Elizabeth, reaching her other hand out and placing it on his shoulder. “I can’t imagine what I would do if I lost Jessica in a sacrificial Elven rite.”

She paused and reflected.

“Well, actually, one time Jessica got swept up in this creepy cult and I thought we’d lost her forever—luckily that only lasted for one book. But this other time I had a really vivid dream that Jessica died in a skiing accident and that was super scary. Another time I thought she was murdered by my evil doppelganger’s own twin sister but she was really just tied up in the school basement. And this other time I thought she was murdered by a werewolf and one time she was kidnapped by a vampire, so I guess I really do know how you feel.”

“Is a doppelganger similar to a necromancer?” wondered Samwise aloud. “I am unfamiliar with such a creature.”

“That’s okay. It doesn’t matter. It’s something that will never, ever affect us here. That would make no sense at all,” replied Elizabeth.

“Elizabeth, I do appreciate your tales but I fear I do not fully understand,” said Sam. His head felt perpetually engulfed in a fog cloud these days, similar to the time when he regretfully drank his own urine, wishing it to be mead.

“Well, what I’m trying to say is that if it had been Jessica who was killed by the Elf King, I think I would live the rest of my life trying to do her proud,” said Elizabeth slowly.

“You would stare frequently into reflective surfaces and rub yourself against all males whenever possible?” asked Samwise.

“Well, no. But I would try to live every day to the fullest,” she explained. “And I think in your case, you won’t be able to do that unless you stop drinking.”

Samwise opened his mouth to reply but could find no words.

Instead, he inhaled a deep breath and took a moment to listen to his body. He felt a pulsing in his head, the sure sign that a vengeful hangover was brewing. He could feel a thin coating of dried drool and dirt covering the lower portion of his face. A side tooth was wobbly from when he tried to eat a boulder and his once honey-yellow urine had been a particularly alarming shade of crimson for days. He glanced down and saw that his pants were on backwards and seemed to be covered with old vomit and a mysterious chalky substance.

What kind of hobbit have I become? he thought in horror.

“I . . . I don’t even know the origin of this stain,” he mumbled in shame, touching his pants.

“I think it’s cat semen,” explained Elizabeth.

“Ah,” stated Sam. “That does make sense.”

He said nothing more for a few moments, then broke the silence with a wail of anguish that sounded akin to a heavily pregnant black bear in the throes of natural birth.

“Oh, if Pippin could see how low I’ve sunken, it would break his heart!”

“Yes,” nodded Elizabeth. “And I know all about breaking hearts. But Sam, even before Pippin died you were a drinker. This isn’t a new thing.”

“Aye, I have always enjoyed my brandywine, that is certainly true. We hobbits grow up with weekly feasts and celebrations at the Shire. Why, it was at a young hobbits' root harvesting carnival that I had my first sip and it was love from the start. But while the others soon found matters that interested them more so, like Bilbo and his travels and Merry and his nether regions, it was only brandywine for me.

“That is, until Pippin and I grew close. We were like brothers, us two! We would dance and have such fun in Hobbiton. We’d chase deer and slaughter rabbits and watch the birds—he loved birds, do you recall? I still drank my brandywine but ‘twas never such a problem as when he passed. And now I simply drown my sorrows away but it does not seem to work.”

“You can’t use brandywine to escape your problems, Samwise. You’ve got to face them!” interjected Georg suddenly as he walked past.

“You see, Sam? We’re all behind you here. And you can always come to me for advice,” said Elizabeth charitably. “Unless Gandalf and I seem like we’re in a conversation. He keeps telling me that he hates to be bothered.”

“You truly believe I could still make Pippin proud of me? Even after the disgraceful excuse for a hobbit I have become?” asked Sam with the softest of voice.

“Of course! Everyone can do things to turn themselves into more worthwhile people, like losing weight or getting better clothes,” said Elizabeth with a firm nod. “Now tell me, does Gandalf ever talk about me to you?”

But Samwise did not hear her query. He was overwhelmed with a new sense of purpose.

I am going to become a strong and useful hobbit, he thought. I will do good once more and I shall do it all for Pippin!

“Elizabeth—you have provided me with such useful advice, even for a female. Might I kiss you in gratitude?” he begged.

Elizabeth blushed, her cheeks as carmine as his urine.

“Well, I suppose I could cheat on Todd just this once and he’d understand,” she said ruefully. She stooped down to offer Samwise her cheek.

Samwise perched on his tiptoes and placed his lips directly onto hers. He opened his mouth as wide as it could go and surged his tongue forward with the speed of a high-strung leapfrog. Once inside, he moved it in frantic circles and felt each of her teeth.

She has all thirty-two, thought Sam in amazement. How bizarre.

He pulled away and licked the side of her face to conclude their embrace.

“Samwise! What are you doing?” Elizabeth gasped, placing her hands on her face in shock.

“That is the customary sign of gratitude,” replied Samwise, turning around. “You are supposed to gently insert one finger into my buttocks in return. Two if you wish. Merry taught me this ritual many a year ago.”

Elizabeth shuddered and quickly walked away, heading towards Gandalf. Samwise smiled, feeling better than he had in weeks.

She tastes like brewed roots and complacency, he thought.

That evening, as the hikers slept around the campfire, Samwise crept out of his woven grass blanket and stood in front of the blaze. He pulled out his goatskin canteen and slowly poured its contents into the fire. The flames leapt high into the air and surged outwards towards the campers. Sam heard a high-pitched squeal and turned in alarm.

Winston was hopping about furiously, trying to extinguish the flames that were licking his elongated feet in the manner of a spiteful kitten with something to prove.

“Holy shit, Sam!” cried Winston. “You just set me on fire! Are you wasted again? You could have killed us all!”

“Nay, my friend. Quite the contrary! I have just sacrificed my brandywine to the fire. I am now an abstainer.”

“So this is it? You’re not going to drink anymore?” asked Winston, rubbing his profusely bleeding feet.

“Not even a drop!” replied Sam. “Well, only in the direst of circumstances . . . .”

Winston transferred his weight from vast foot to vast foot. “Hey, I’ve been meaning to ask you—where do you even keep getting your booze? We’re stuck out here in the forest.”

“Why, from the brandy bushes. They’re all over Middle-earth. You just have to milk them properly. But I shall milk no more!”

Sam shook the rest of his canteen, making sure every last drop of brandywine was gone.

“Well, I think that’s great, buddy. Let me know if you need any help,” replied Winston, giving Sam a pat on the back. “Wanna hit the sack?”

“Nay, I’ve already done that thrice today. You go ahead. I shall join soon,” replied Samwise.

He bid Winston a good eve and sat, listening to the crackle of the campfire and the stillness of the night. His hand instinctively moved towards his canteen, forgetting that it was empty of substance. Upon realization, it moved to his loins in disappointment.

His finely-tuned nose sniffed the air, aided by the presence of many, many nose hairs.

Ah, the faint scent of delicious brandywine lingers . . . mixed with yellow perch? he wondered. An undeletable combination, but Samwise suddenly wished for it with all of his being.

“No,” Samwise murmured. He gave himself a firm slap on the buttocks for distraction.

“Pippin, sweet friend, I do hope you are watching us from the Land of the Lifeless,” he whispered into the crisp night air. “For I am going to be a hero!”

Will Samwise be able to resist the sweet temptation of brandywine or is it too late to change his ways? Will Winston be able to complete the terrifying hike to Sauron’s lair with third degree burns on his (massive) feet? And will Elizabeth ever receive the sexual gratification that she longs for from Gandalf?


PS—I'm interested to see if any of you have struggled with brandywine addiction. If so, how did you fight it? I had a brief week of brandywine addiction but then I switched to barleymilk and felt better.


  1. Ahh that Elizabeth-so helpful! I sure hope Samwise gets his act together :)

  2. I know--if only we had an Elizabeth Wakefield in our lives...oh wait, we would probably hate her for always being right.

    It's hard to say if there is any hope for Samwise. If he lived in Sweet Valley, he'd be holed up in the Shady Lady bar...and nothing good ever comes from there.

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