We're talking book Smaug, not movie Smaug. That's an important distinction.
No adventurers to kill my ass
Nothing to stand up to my bulky mass
And my belly is bejeweled
With diamonds and gold
And that is gonna help me now
I'm trouble yall
Yeah trouble now
I'm trouble yall
I'm the trouble in the town
I think the title says it all...but anyways. Can you guys recommend my rotten soul your favorite Angbang fanfictions on ao3? I really like slow burn and a lot of angst but I will read almost everything sooo...
We will kinslay you Fëanor leading a group of based individuals during Dagor Dagorath (2022 AD colourized)
EPIC FAIL The Harfoots when they are in a most abysmally boring storyline competition and their opponent is the Southlanders
REMOVED; RULE 69: NO SWEARING [Real Tolkien Lore] A Dream in a Jewish Theater in Nashville, December 2001
Al Gore struggled to sleep. He was visiting his parents in Nashville for Christmas, and he could never relax in a different bed. Even worse, his parents kept the house too hot. And the ceiling fan, his only respite from the heat, was squeaking like a bitch. Creak, creak. Why should he be forced to use a ceiling fan in winter? It was freezing outside. Creak, creak. It was so loud Al swore it was currently giving birth to a smaller ceiling fan. He cursed the fan and all its offspring in the name of Allah.
The sleeping situation wasn’t even the worst part of this visit. As a devout Muslim in secret, he hated Christmas. And yet his parents were the most festive people he knew. He hated most things about his parents, he realized. He knew the older generation was less aware on modern issues, but of all the parents in the world to be global warming deniers, why did it have to be his? As his angry thoughts swirled faster than the creaking fan, he fell asleep.
“Psst,” a voice whispered.
Al opened his eyes. He was in the White House’s Oval Office. Light flooded in from the windows, and he squinted. There was a smell of smoke in the air. Tobacco smoke. Questions swamped his mind. Just eleven months ago, he’d lost the presidential race to George W. Bush. Why was he here?
“Hey,” the voice said. “Can you see me?”
Al scanned the room. He noticed the Resolute desk, the President’s area of operations. The desk that was stolen from him by ignorant Republican voters. At the desk sat a small, elderly Black man in a tweed suit jacket, puffing on a pipe. It was J. R. R. Tolkien, the man on a righteous quest to purge and punish the world of its evil.
“Hello, old friend,” the man smiled.
“I killed you,” Al said. “By Allah, I killed you in a slum in Bosnia. Nine years ago.”
“You did,” Tolkien said. “Eight years and eleven months, to be precise. You’re dreaming.”
Al looked around. “That makes sense. I’m at my parents’ house in Nashville, right?”
“Yes. And I’ve been in Paradise all this time.” Tolkien stood up from the desk and began to walk towards one of the couches. “But because of my spiritual connection to you from all those years ago, I can still see through your consciousness. Your wife’s a real dime, I might add.”
Al spat. “Keep your eyes off my wife, infidel. Why are you here?”
Tolkien dropped onto the couch and let out a long sigh. “Calm down, that was just a joke. Please, sit.”
Al obliged and took the couch opposite to Tolkien. “Are you here to explain yourself?”
Tolkien raised an eyebrow.
“The September 11th attacks?” Al asked.
Tolkien waved his hand. “Oh, no, my dear fellow. That went exactly as planned. Horrible business, but it needed to be done. I believe I explained all that nine years ago.” Tolkien paused. “Hm.”
“What?” Al asked.
“Nothing, just something about it reminds me of The Big Lebowski.”
Al stared incredulously. “Haven’t seen it.”
“Nevermind,” Tolkien continued. “I’m here because of the release of the first film of the adaptation of my books by that spawn of Shedim, Peter Jackson. If my information is correct, the film based on The Fellowship of the Ring just released yesterday.”
“I saw it last night,” Al said. “It’s getting rave reviews and big crowds.”
Tolkien sucked on his pipe. “And what did you think?”
“I thought it was fucking boring. It was just people walking the whole time.”
The Black author nodded. “Well, I am going to watch it. Jesus recommended I should.”
“Jesus?” Al asked.
“Jesus,” Tolkien replied. “Yeshua. Isa.”
“Peace be upon him,” Al muttered.
“Indeed. I’m Jewish, you know. We both agree he isn’t God, but I never liked the guy until I died. Turned out he was a great Jew. He’s one of my best friends in Paradise, and his taste in film is great. He didn’t tell me what he thought of Fellowship of the Ring though, just that I should see it.”
“Um, if I may,” Al started. “What does Isa, peace be upon him, look like?”
Tolkien thought for a moment. “Well, he kind of looks like a browner Willem Dafoe.”
“Marty was onto something,” Al said.
“Of course he was. Last Temptation of Christ is Jesus’ favorite movie. Second only to The Big Lebowski, which is why I’ve seen that one.”
“Last Temptation is accurate?”
“Oh, of course not, but he thinks it’s hilarious. Anyway, I want you to go see Fellowship again tomorrow. At that little Jewish theater on Deaderick Street. The one across from the synagogue. You know it?”
“Yeah,” Al said. “I’ve driven past it. I usually stay away from Jewish areas though.”
Tolkien ignored the comment. “I’m good friends with the dead previous owner over in the afterlife. I’ll be watching the film through your eyes. It’ll be fun.”
“I know I killed you,” Al added. “But I really am curious to see what you’d think about it. And I’m sure I’ll get to hear your thoughts firsthand in my dreams, because there’s no chance in hell I’m staying awake through all that.”
“Very well,” Tolkien said. “It’s a deal. Tomorrow, then.”
Tolkien stood, and the two men shook hands.
The following day, The Lord of the Rings: The Fellowship of the Ring was playing at the theater across from Nashville’s only conservative synagogue. The film was almost over. It was three o’clock in the afternoon, and Al Gore had been sleeping for roughly two hours and forty-seven minutes. In Al’s dream, he was watching the film with the spirit of J. R. R. Tolkien on a projector inside the Oval Office. He wasn’t sure how he was seeing the film while he was asleep in the theater, but he didn’t ask. Tolkien was on his twelfth cup of tea and had an amused smile on his face.
The final shot of Frodo and Sam walking into Emyn Muil faded to black, and the words “Directed by Peter Jackson” flashed onto the screen.
“No Black characters in that,” Tolkien said thoughtfully. “Would have liked a bit more diversity in the cast, but what can you do.”
The two men sat in silence as Howard Shore’s orchestral theme filled the President’s office.
“What did you think?” Al asked, trying to parse Tolkien’s expression.
His brows were furrowed. “It was funny. A funny attempt.”
“I’m not sure what you mean,” Al said.
“Ironically funny. Honestly, the only choice that made any sense to me was cutting Tom Bombadil.”
“I haven’t read the books,” Al admitted.
Tolkien looked pleased. “Less people should.”
Al wasn’t sure how to answer. “Without the irony, what did you really think about it? Like as an adaptation of your work.”
“Well,” Tolkien smiled, “I have no ill will towards the creators, but it felt like a drunk fourteen-year-old ran an ill-advised Dungeons & Dragons campaign after reading the CliffNotes version of my book, and then a bunch of filmmakers put all their creative efforts into adapting just that.”
“I can’t argue with that,” Al said. “But even that sounds less long and boring than the actual thing.”
Tolkien laughed. “I agree. I’m a spirit and even my bladder was having a hard time.”
Al and Tolkien laughed together until the credits finished.
“I’ll have to wake up and leave the theater soon,” Al said.
Tolkien was still catching his breath from the laughter. “Now I know how Jesus feels when he sees Protestant Sunday school picture books.”
The two men laughed some more, and Tolkien slapped his hand on Al’s shoulder. “You’re not too bad, Al, even if you killed me.”
“I had a question about that,” Al wondered. “You said you’re Jewish... And you’re in Paradise. Should I convert?”
“Oh, you’re a Muslim, right?” Tolkien asked.
“Meh. It doesn’t really matter after all.” Tolkien winked. “Just try not to kill anyone else, eh?”
Al cracked a grin. “Yeah. I’ll try not to.”
Tolkien set his teacup on the seat beside him. “This time next year, then?”
“Oh, for film 2. Definitely. Inshallah.”
Tolkien smiled. “This will be funny. I’m excited.”
The two men shook hands, and Al disappeared into the waking world. On the projector, Tolkien could see Al leaving the theater through his eyes. Al stopped in front of the synagogue and considered it. Tolkien heard the man clear his throat and saw him turn and stride away. Tolkien noticed there was more of a spring in the man’s step.
What an interesting fellow, Jimarcus Raymone Reggis Tolkien thought. Getting up from the couch, he noticed the dream version of the Oval Office was beginning to fade. He pulled out the pipe from his breast pocket. There was no way to light the tobacco, but he simply thought of the pipe being lit, and it was. He felt his spirit being lifted back into the seven heavens.
“The Balrog had fucking wings,” he chuckled as he returned to Paradise.