Of Lobo and Grimon
by: A.R. Jameson
“The kings of the west have forgotten their purpose,” Lobo spoke up of a sudden as they pushed the little ox cart through north Shire on their way to Hobbiton.
“Hmm?” Grimon was eating a carrot in the passenger seat next to him and was paying scant attention to his musings.
“The Kings of Gondor and Rohan!” Lobo smacked Grimon upside the head. “With Sauron dead for over six hundred years they have lost site of what made middle-earth a truly mystical land.”
“Well, what you gonna do about it then, Master?”
“As simple hobbit brewers, nothing. Nothing but pay the wretched tax on our goods and absurd toll fees to use the roads. King Agron has truly lost his wits over the last century.”
“I need to have a piss,” Grimon declared. He began to stand as while the cart was still moving, swaying dangerously whilst he attempted to undo his breeches.
“What are you doing? Get down from there!” Lobo reached up and yanked Lobo back down with a hard thump. “You drink entirely too much of our product. At least let me pull over first.”
The cart rattled to a stop by the side of the road and Grimon hopped off. A few seconds later the sound of a urine stream could be heard ruslting the grass. “Ah, now that’s better.”
Just then a trio of ruffians trotted up behind them. Three stout hobbits in ragtag armor sat atop stouter ponies, their faces hard and broken in several places. Typical Shire outlaws.
“Well, well, what this?” said the first one, a bushel of red hair and bulbous nose.
“Looks like a pair of fools thinking to ride our roads for free,” answered the second, scar across his cheek stretching as he smiled.
“Come on now, lads. We already are forced to pay the king’s tax for the roads, you’re really going to make us pay a second?”
“Why do you think we charge a toll in the first place? We have debts to cover.”
Red hair drew his short sword, the scarred one trotted up close. “Well well, looks like we got ourselves a haul. A good shipment of ale to boost our profits.”
Red hair licked his lips. “Hand it over, then, less you want steel through your belly.”
Lobo and Grimon watched as the brigands made off with their cart, left with nothing but their underpants and the noonday sun beating against their bare backs.
“Would this be one of those hard life lessons you’ve mentioned to me so much about?” Grimon pondered.
Lobo sighed. “I’m afraid so.”
Grimon scratched his head. “And what is the lesson?”
Lobo raised his fist. “That… we need to get ourselves a wizard. And some better smallclothes.”