Malf and Reinhold: Renegade Elves AUTHOR: Kit Fox (rabbitgarden@earthlink.net) RATING: PG13 (booty? maybe?) PAIRING: Uhh... No one you know. WARNING: Graphic language, bad attitudes, inappropriate use of Elven toilets. SUMMARY: Not all Elves are good. AUTHOR'S NOTES: There are no heroes in this story, so please do not attempt to look on the bright side. Those expecting symbolism, relevancy, or any trace of plot will have their pants stapled to the floor. DISTRIBUTION: I would be magnificently flattered. Please drop me a line to tell me where it is. FEEDBACK: It's here, it's queer, it's feedback! DISCLAIMER: Oh blah blah. You know the drill. Middle Earth is not my creation, just a cool place to hang out! ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS: Love to the author of The Very Secret Diary Of the Fellowship, the first and best LOTR comedy I've stumbled upon. Respect to the Terrific Tolkein who would track me down and beat me with his typewriter if he knew what shenanigans I was up to. Finally, for Sue: my best friend, comedic inspiration, and favourite redhead. Malf and Reinhold: Renegade Elves { Kit Fox } Malf and Reinhold are not your friends. Malf and Reinhold do not like your face. They think you suck. They will shove your head into an Elven toilet for smiling at them, and if they see you squirming on the ground in pain, they will laugh. Those inhabitants of Middle Earth who choose to care suspect that their pugnacious, disagreeable natures had stemmed from their unfortunate names, but as to why the two Elves carry it so far–––piercing their long ears and refusing to play their harps or flutes at the end of the day, no one can tell. What’s more, no one decides to risk getting close enough to find out. However, anyone who would have dared enter Reinhold’s room one warm, sunny day in August, would have noticed very strange behavior indeed. Stranger, that is, than what can normally be expected. Reinhold is tearing through the drawers of his room, ripping clothes out of their neatly folded positions (work done by his mother, of course) and piling most of them on the bed. He shifts to the top of his bureau, grabbing handfuls of CDs by Metallica, The Misfits, Limp Bizkit, and other such artists of the angry, loud rock persuasion. These, with the clothes and a few pornographic magazines (Elf babes on other Elf babes is his favorite), are crammed rudely into a leather pack and slung over his shoulder. In Malf’s room, something very similar is going on. Most of his clothes are gay to his sharp and experienced eye, but his wits are even sharper, and he comes to the conclusion that it would seem even gayer to hang around with Reinhold naked. He jams a fistful of clothes into his own pack and moves on to his substantial collection of nose rings. “Can’t take all of ‘em...” he mutters tersely to himself, then makes up his mind and takes all of those with ornate skulls imprinted on them. This seems to make him very happy indeed. Malf and Reinhold meet outside their beautiful and unappreciated homes without saying a word to their confused yet caring parents. Both of them carry their sheath of arrows and their bow over their back, though no one who would have been watching could have seen why. They both perform at archery with exceptional and fascinating foulness, even though they’d had two and a half thousand years each to practice. Reinhold had given up trying to become skilled at the bow almost right away, but Malf stayed on a while longer. That is, until Reinhold informed him that archery was gay, (a conclusion he arrived at through his stunning powers of analytical deduction,) and that if Malf were to continue being gay, he would shortly find himself with his head in a toilet–––a used toilet if Reinhold believed he had progressed to an unforgivable level of gayness. The bow was gay, and neither of them would be using it. Until they found out it was supposed to kill people. Then it was cool. Outside, the two young Elves (who do not fuss with traditional courteous greetings such as “Well met, cousin Malf”) walk down the ornate stone bridge side by side, happily discussing their plans. “This is gonna be sweet,” Malf grins, shifting the pack on his shoulder. “Mega sweet,” Reinhold corrects him. “We’re talking major bomb-ass, here. We might even dye our hair.” An Elven woman and her small child walk by. The child points at Malf and Reinhold and shouts unabashedly, “Look Mom! Delusional freaks!” The woman snatches her son’s pointing finger away and leads him down the road faster, scolding him. The renegade elves scowl at them and flex their muscles in what they hoped was a threatening way, then walk on. When they reach the border of Mirkwood, people begin shouting after them. Malf and Reinhold turn toward the voices with defiant sneers. Their parents are there, accompanied by the council of elders. “And where do the two of you think you’re going?” one of the elders asks in a calm yet pressing tone. “We’re gettin’ the fuck outta here,” Reinhold growls. “We’re done with you guys, we’re not gonna prance in the forest with you or play your gay- ass music on fruity panpipes or whatever.” “Yeah, we’ve had enough!” Malf chimes in, and by then a steadily growing crowd has formed around them. “We’re going somewhere where you don’t have to wear those stupid clothes and you can play Metallica as loud as you want and the chicks are all easy.” To Malf it seems that he is a wise benefactor, spreading the good word of places that everyone will want to visit. His description sounds so beautiful to his overlarge and heavily studded ears, that he expects the whole of Mirkwood to renounce their gay ways and join them on a quest for beer, porn and big-breasted women. But they just stare. “So who’s goin’ with us?” Malf calls. Again, no response. “Ah, bite me.” With those memorable and sage last words, the two starry-eyed companions set off on what is sure to be an exciting, epic adventure. “Okay, so uh, Reinhold?” Malf asks timidly from his accomplice’s side. “What’re we gonna do now that we’re out?” “We’re gonna teach the oppressive masses what it feels like to taste pain!” he shouts, clenching his fist and holding it out in front of him, as if demonstrating that he knows just what tasting pain is all about. “They’ve held us in their persecuting clutches for far too long, Malf, and this righteous smackdown is gonna be poetic justice... you numbnuts.” They’ve been walking a long way already, and Malf suspects that his partner has grown testy. A thick net of tiny flies swarms around them––– while ordinarily not attracted to Elves as a rule, it seems that their perception of Malf and Reinhold is wildly different and thereby alright to attack. This, coupled with the generous smattering of pasty brown goo on his boots–––a product of rain and dirt roads–––does not promote Reinhold’s already shaky good spirits. “So who in particular do we smack down?” They’ve stepped into a clearing where a small village can be seen and Reinhold’s face splits into a cheetah-like and vile grin. “Them,” he says, pointing. Malf’s gaze follows the path of Reinhold’s pointing finger and rests upon a small grubby establishment with a hanging sign reading the Kwickee Konvenience. “A most righteous delivery of justice, Reinhold,” Malf commends. “I think that deserves a toast.” They hold their newly acquired beer cans aloft and crash them together, showering themselves with a golden rain. With the money from the heist (which had gone off with spectacular success), Malf and Reinhold bought beer. Lots of beer. Their small clearing in the woods becomes a wasteland, the ground zero of a beer explosion. Malf and Reinhold aren’t used to beer. They lash out at bugs or fallen tree branches, thoroughly indignant at them for getting in their way, clearly by deliberate action. They plot vendettas against anyone they think is gay or foreign or trying to take their beer away. Malf and Reinhold are mean drunks. When dawn approaches, our pair learn the true meaning of an old phrase once sung by men: “Though the beer may smile at night, when morning comes it always bites.” As the fair, bright dawn approaches, leaving crystal kisses of dew that glint in the rising sun, the first sweet bird to flutter its wings and burst into joyous song is forced to dodge a speeding arrow aimed (badly) by our scowling friend Reinhold. “Why,” he snarls. “Does there have to be so much NOISE?!” Tragically, Reinhold does not realize that his shouting only exacerbates the problem at hand, (and if you told him this, he would stare for a moment, then call you gay,) and therefore does not shut up. He mutters to himself about what evil spell must be on him, the plots of gay communist manifestos, the obvious fakeness of professional wrestling, and debating the gay qualities of each, because they were definitely all of that persuasion. “...so much corruption in Middle Earth man, spreading the red seed, communists don’t even get caught–––AND WHAT THE HELL IS THIS HEADACHE?! OW!” Clutching his head after this sudden burst of pain, more likely in protest to his ceaseless carping than a communist plot, Reinhold howls roughly but more quietly. Still, the previous noise awakens Malf who sits up, then thinks better of it and crashes back down, also holding his throbbing head. “What––the––hell––” he groans. “Shut up Malf,” Reinhold snaps, then, realizing that Malf is the only other person who understands the purpose of their rebel brotherhood: “Sorry.” “It’s cool,” the other grunts, attempting to get up slowly. “Did we get any aspirin at the holdup?” “Naw,” says Reinhold, dubiously peering into one of their beer cans with one eye open. “Didn’t think of it.” Catching a foul-smelling and slightly warm leftover stream of beer, Reinhold sighs, relieved, muttering, “That’s better...” “Mm, you wanna go back?” Malf asks. “Back? Back? You want to go back to the store we just held up yesterday for some aspirin?” he says. Malf nods. “Yeah, alright.” The Kwickee Konvenience is strangely calm, their journey had been painful, but without incident. The cashier cowers in a corner when they arrive. They nab a bottle of the first painkiller they find and leave without a glance at the frightened cashier. Outside, they down a fistful of the pills, following it with the ever popular Warm Beer Cure. The little bell above the door jangles merrily and a tall, fair Elf with an attractive sheet of blond hair steps from the Kwickee Konvenience carrying a Snapple and a bag of peanut butter M&Ms. Reinhold spots him and slams him against the wall, his arm forming a bar across the Elf’s collarbone. “Who are you?” Reinhold demands. The Elf quickly relieves himself of Reinhold’s grip and brushes off his clothes. “Chill out, sparky,” he says. “I’m Legolas.” “Legolas,” Reinhold sneers, stepping back. “Really.” “Awful pretty name, Legolas,” Malf says. “Just like everyone else. Those sheep,” Reinhold growls, beginning to pace like an angry lion. “Sheep are everywhere.” “Who’s a sheep?” Legolas asks calmly, slipping the M&Ms into his pocket and following Reinhold with his eyes. “Everybody!” he bursts. “The whole world is made up of gay followers who can’t think for themselves! You,” he snarls, suddenly turning to Legolas. “Are you a sheep?” “No, I’m an Elf.” Reinhold nods, as if considering the complexity of this comment, and whacks Malf in the chest with the back of his hand, watching Legolas. “We’re a rebel vendetta,” he says. “We ran off from our city to fight moral authority. Are you with us?” Legolas gives a sly smile. “I dunno,” he says. “Two guys hanging out in the woods together... sounds kinda gay to me.” The pair jolt. “Let’s kill him,” Reinhold suggests, reaching for his bow. “No, Reinhold!” Malf starts forward and lays a hand on his companion’s arm. Reinhold twitches at the unexpected contact, but does nothing. “Don’t be harsh.” Reinhold drops the hand that had been extending back for the bow. This is the first sign that something has changed between the renegade Elves. “Okay, so I’ll see you guys later,” Legolas smiles. “I’ve got this thing in Rivendell, so I’d better go.” “I don’t think so, pretty boy,” Reinhold says. “If you’re not coming with us, you’re an enemy. Our next move as a rebel force is to take our enemies prisoner, if not kill them, so––” “Yeah right, Mohawk,” Legolas says, getting slightly annoyed. “You can’t take me. I’m too good.” “I think the two of us could put you in your place,” Malf smirks. “Ohh–kay,” Legolas proclaims, placing his Snapple on the ground, throwing down his bow and the strap that holds his quiver, then laying his hands out in a beckoning challenge. “It’s on now.” Malf and Reinhold lunge forward, their piercing, articulate battle-cry of “AAAARRRRGGGHHH!” echoing through the late morning. Running at top speed toward a still, calm Legolas, they are quite surprised to find that Legolas is no longer there and has been replaced by the brick wall of the Kwickee Konvenience. Realizing this too late, they crash–––studded noses and spiky-haired heads first–––into the unyielding wall. They fall back and sit on the grass, rubbing their heads. Legolas stands calmly to one side, having leaped nimbly over the pair and now opens his Snapple, snickering as he takes the first swig. “You guys are great. I may just have to stick around and watch the fun.” The pair shake the pain from their heads and stand, groaning in rage and pain. They circle Legolas like wild wolves (the Elf calmly reads the interesting fact on the inside of his Snapple cap) and just as Legolas asks, reading from the cap, “Hey, did you know that snails breathe through their feet?” Malf and Reinhold run at him again from two separate directions. In a moment, without having even noticed what happened, the pair are tangled together–––a cursing, grunting knot–––beneath Legolas, who perches coolly on top of them both, drinking. “You guys need to get some new battle techniques, chiefs,” he says. “Can I show you how it’s done?” The renegades throw Legolas off of them and extract themselves from one another (feeling pleasantly strange and lightheaded as their bodies push against one another in an attempt to pull apart) and before they’re given the chance to do anything, Legolas has picked them both up, one in each arm and swings them over his head. Dimly, they hear him speaking. “It’s a bad idea to pick on guys like me,” he says as he swings them faster, seemingly with no effort. “I’m tired, I’m cranky, I’ve been on the road for days on end, all I want is to chill with some peanut butter M&Ms. So don’t––get––me––started––” On this last word, he tosses the pair headfirst into small, identical garbage cans, pinning their arms to their sides. Legolas chuckles at the sight of their legs flailing wildly in the air, then picks up his belongings and jumps onto his horse. Before riding off, he looks back. “Thanks guys, you’ve made my morning,” he smiles. “I only hope the dudes in Rivendell are as interesting as you are.” Two muffled groans are the renegades’ only reply. “We are so defeated,” Reinhold gripes, back in their grove in the woods. “Some righteous smackdown of justice. We’re terrible renegades. We can’t even take a prisoner. There’s no hope left, no beer, no women, we even left our aspirin in the parking lot. What good are we? Why do we even––” “Oh shut up!” Malf bursts, leaping to his feet. “Okay, so we lost this time, big deal! You won’t change a thing by bitching about it!” “So what can we do?” Reinhold asks, feeling odd at asking advice from a suddenly domineering Malf. After a moment of silence, the renegades look at each other with new sight. Moving quickly forward, Malf grabs Reinhold’s face, pulling it toward his own and kissing him passionately. A surprised moan is heard–– –and felt–––vibrating in the corridor of Reinhold’s throat, but after a shocked and still moment, he lets his lips flow freely and slips his hands around Malf’s waist, pulling their bodies together and increasing this new, breathtaking emotion. When their lips part, Reinhold opens his eyes and stares at his companion as though never having seen him before. “Did that really just happen?” he asks, his heavy breath pouring over his words. “I think so,” Malf responds. “Let’s do it again,” Reinhold says. “Okay.” Slipping their arms unfamiliarly around one another’s necks, they sink back onto a lush spread of grass, flinging away clothes as they go. “I’m still not gay, you know,” Reinhold murmurs dreamily as they lay back in each other’s arms, watching the sun dip down. “Me neither,” Malf smiles, turning in and nipping a pierced and pointed ear. “Okay, now I am,” says Reinhold, squirming pleasantly. “Good, me too.”