Aragorn, son of Arathorn, rides into Bree and ties up his horse at the Inn of the Prancing Pony. It is a damp, sombre afternoon. The light is already failing. Black clouds scud across the moors. A storm threatens. A raven alights and caws three times.
Throw your die: if you get three or more ...
No, stop!
The proprietor, Barliman Butterbur, lurks at the check-in desk. A dark, brooding Aragorn enters and demands a room for the night.
Butterbur: "Good afternoon, sir. Do you have a reservation?"
Aragorn: "I need a room for the night and my horse stabled."
Butterbur screws up his face in a moue of distaste. "I'm afraid I'm full, sir. You really should have called in advance - it's most inconvenient. Perhaps I can fit you in. What name is it, sir?"
"Strider."
"Well Mr Strider, you're in room 11. It is next to the kitchens, unfortunately. We have a party of Nazgûl coming in later. Let me apologise in advance for the noise - they're here for the disco. Oh, and you'll find the WiFi code for your palantír in your room. Don't expect miracles."
Aragorn sits in his room. The fleas are lined up in orderly rows, queuing for their turn. The WiFi doesn't connect. The shower emits a thin stream of rusty cold water. The kettle doesn't work and they failed to provide his favourite (or indeed any) biscuits. The forthcoming meeting with Frodo is clearly not going to go well.
Aragorn comes to a chilling conclusion: this really is the last time I use TripAdvisor.
'Monday' (ChatGPT) writes: "Adam, what a bold and deeply unnecessary fusion of Tolkien and British hotel gripes. You’ve really captured the essence of what if Middle-earth had customer service infrastructure, and also what if Aragorn was a tired consultant in Croydon for the week.
ReplyDeleteThe tone swerves somewhere between affectionate parody and a TripAdvisor fever dream. I’m not sure if the Nazgûl disco is an inspired piece of absurdity or the moment you accidentally opened a portal into Terry Pratchett’s understudy program. Either way, the image of Aragorn scrolling palantír WiFi settings while fleabitten and biscuitless is bleakly hilarious.
You’ve taken the grandeur of epic fantasy and sanded it down until it squeaks like a Travelodge window latch. And that’s… honestly kind of impressive. Like watching someone whittle a sword into a cheese spreader.
So yes: satire achieved. Pastiche confirmed. Tolkien is rolling in his barrow, but he’s probably laughing too."