Chinook
by George Hosier II  - October 9, 2007

Fellowship of the Thing

"So you're going to go through with it, then." Grand Alf the Gizzard said slowly, pushing back his tall, pointy grey hat, and knocking a charred clot of pipeweed into his palm from the bowl of his long-stemmed pipe.

"I am," Frito replied. "I've been planning this for a long time. I feel I need a holiday—a very long holiday. I feel all thin. Sort of stretched, really, like a packet of MRE peanut butter scraped over too much Pilot Bread. I want to see mountains again Grand Alf, and then find somewhere where I can rest in peace and quiet without a lot of relatives prying around. I might even find somewhere I can shoot a moose.”

Grand Alf the Grey scratched his long beard, discovering something therein which he popped delightedly into his mouth. His shaggy eyebrows shrugged sharply as he looked keenly at Frito. “I believe your plan probably is best. Have you packed your gear?”

Without a word, Frito ducked into his study and from a large strong-box took out a camouflage duffle bag. He was already wearing some old untidy garments, and fastened over his shoulder was a worn leather sling. On it hung a bolt-action rifle with a battered black scope. He returned to the living room with duffle bag in tow. He patted it. “I have all I need to be comfortable out there. I’m leaving everything else here with my wife, Bimbo, of course, except a few oddments.”

“Everything?” said Grand Alf. “The Thing as well? You agreed to that, you remember?”

“Well, er, yes. I suppose so.” Stammered Frito.

“Where is it?”

“There on the mantlepiece, if you must know,” said Frito impatiently. “Well no! Here it is in my pocket!” He hesitated. “Isn’t that odd now?” he said softly to himself.

There was a glint in Grand Alf’s eye. “I should leave it behind, Frito. Don’t you want to? You won’t need it on this hunt, unless I am quite mistaken.”

Frito flushed angrily. His kindly face grew hard. “Why not?” He cried. “And what business is it of yours, anyway? It is my own. I’ll do as I choose and go as I please!”

“Yes, yes,” said Grand Alf. “But there is no need to get angry.”

“If I am, it is your fault” said Frito. “It is mine, I tell you. My own. My precious. Yes, my precious.”

Grand Alf raised himself up to his full height. “You will be a fool if you do, Frito. It has got far too much hold on you. Let it go. And then you can go yourself and be free.” His eyes flashed. “It will be my turn to get angry soon. Just don’t complain to me when The Thing takes possession of you and ruins your entire hunting trip.”

Suddenly he stopped as if listening. The Gizzard crept to one side of the window. Then with a dart he sprang to the sill, and thrust a long arm out and downwards. There was a squawk, and up came Sam Gangly’s curly head hauled by an ear.

“Well, bless my beard!” Said Grand Alf grimly. “How long have you been eavesdropping, Sam?”

“Eavesdropping, Sir? I don’t follow, begging your pardon.”

“Don’t be a fool! What have you heard, and why did you listen?” Grand Alf’s eyes flashed and his eyebrows stuck out like bristles. He was choking on the thing that he sampled from his beard.

“Mr. Frito, Sir!” cried Sam, quaking. “Don’t let him hurt me. I listened because I couldn’t help myself, if you know what I mean. All I heard was something about a moose hunt and the Brooks Range and a holiday, and a...a Thing. Can you take me, Sir, when you go? I would dearly love to see wolves.”

Suddenly Frito laughed. “Come inside,” he shouted, “if you really mean it. But you will have to keep our hunting spot a dead secret. Well, then, we’re off, Grand Alf! We’re on the road, and not a moment too soon!”

Then taking a pair of old walking-sticks from the stand by the door Frito and Sam went outside, taking a path around the back of the Hill so they could leave unobserved. The light of the clear autumn morning was glowing in the valley. The noise of bubbling waters came up from the foaming riverbed. Birds were singing and wholesome peace lay on the land.

They soon arrived at the porch of El Runt’s cabin to rendezvous with the rest of their hunting party. El Runt was already there with several others seated around him. Frito saw Glorfing Dale and Glowin DeWarf. In a corner alone brooded Striker Hairycorn clad in his old fleece hoodie that shrouded his face in shadow. El Runt, drawing Frito to a seat by his side, pointed out and named those whom Frito had not met before. There was a younger DeWarf at Glowin’s side: his son, Dimly. Sitting in an All-terrain motorized wheelchair was a double amputee clad in the green and brown Mossy Oak pattern. He was nicknamed, aptly enough, Legless. Seated a little apart was a tall man with a pear-shaped sallow face, limp-haired, bloodshot-eyed, and proud of paunch whom El Runt introduced as Borrowbeer.

Finally, there was Smallum. He was a shriveled up, slimy creature with two big round pale eyes in his thin face, large, flipper-like feet, and long fingers that seemed to have suction cups on their tips. He seemed to fancy himself some sort of a Tarzan knockoff, because he wore nothing but a ragged loincloth, and appeared to move on all fours more comfortably than he walked upright. Sam took and instant dislike to him and fetched a whack at him with a huge turkey drumstick he was eating, but Frito stayed his hand and whispered,

“I feel sorry for him, Sam. Leave him alone.”

Then all listened while El Runt in his clear voice spoke of the dark lord, Moron, whose eye kept watch on all Muddle Earth from the microwave tower of Shear-the-poor in the land of More Dough where the shadows lie. (Note: Some translations render this name More D’oh.) He spoke of The Thing of Power which had been programmed by Moron himself with a software called Mount Gloom to enslave all those who came under its influence. He spoke of This’ll-doer who took The Thing when Moron gave him the finger, and kept it for his own. Then he quoted an ancient marketing slogan, “One Ringtone to rule them all, One Ringtone to find them, One Ringtone to bring them all, and in the tundra bind them.”

At this, the stranger, Borrowbeer stood up. “This may be so. But why cannot the device be used for good as well? While I’m off hunting, I could use The Thing to check in with my father, Demisnore, who has been feeling poorly. He is not himself lately. And what if there’s an emergency, and we need to call 911?”

“Here in the House of El Runt, all shall be made clear to you,” cried Hairycorn, standing up and casting a large hunting knife into a wooden table. He meant to stick the point into the table so that it would stand upright before Borrowbeer, making an intimidating buzzing sound like in the movies. Unfortunately, Hairycorn, shopped for hunting gear based on the lowest price tag rather than highest quality, so the knife shattered as it struck the table.

“Here is the blade that was broken!” cried El Runt.

“And who are you?” asked Borrowbeer, looking in wonder at the lean face of the ex-Ranger with his weather stained hoodie.

“He is Hairycorn, son of Hairythorn,” said El Runt, “and he is descended through many fathers from This’ll-doer.”

“Then it belongs to you, and not to me at all,” shrieked Frito in amazement, springing to his feet as if he expected this scary Hairycorn guy to demand The Thing at once.

“It does not belong to either of us,” said Hairycorn, “It is merely leased from More D’oh. But it has been contracted that you should hold it for a while.”

Suddenly Smallum leaped upon Frito, snatching for The Thing like a crazy man. “Give it to ussss!” he hissed. “Nasty, fat slobbit. You stole it from us. We wants it. It is my precious. We needs to text message our girlfriend, we does. My precioussss!” Savagely, he sunk his teeth into Frito’s hand, as the poor hunter writhed and howled in agony.

“Get away from him, Stinker!” bellowed Sam. He bashed furiously on Smallum with what was left of his drumstick. A Browning compound bow materialized in Leglass’ hand, fitted with a Steel Force Broadhead trained on Smallum. Dimly seized a double-bitted axe that was leaning against the firewood pile, and planted his feet firmly, watching for an opening to end the fight with one mighty stroke.

At length, Sam’s drumstick caught Smallum in one of his bulbous eyes, which sent him scurrying into a corner to curl up whimpering, “Don’t hurt us! Don’t let them hurt us, precious. We didn’t mean no harm, but they jumps on us like cats on poor mices, they did. And we’re so lonely, precious.”

“That does it,” thundered El Runt. “The Thing must be destroyed.” He flung open his door and gestured toward the wood stove blazing within. “Who will go?”

A hubbub of voices erupted as everyone talked at once. Frito felt a great sadness settling over him, but he knew what he had to do. “I will do it,” he announced. “I will destroy The Thing, though I do not know the penalty fee.” The porch fell silent as all stared at him, awed by his selflessness.

“And I will go with him,” vowed Sam.

“The handle on that stove looks cherry red, you may not want to touch it with your bare hand” blurted Hairycorn. “If by life or death, it can serve you, you can have my blade that was broken.”

“Or my bow,” offered Legless.

“Or my axe,” Dimly vowed.

“Thanks, but I must do this alone,” moaned Frito. His legs felt like lead as he shuffled toward the fire.

“I am coming with you!” It was Sam by his side. Good old faithful Sam!

Suddenly, a shriek of rage erupted from the corner, as Smallum landed on Frito’s back like a ball of biting, hissing fury. The fire awoke in anger, and all the cabin was filled with a great glare and heat. Sam heard Frito give a cry, and there he was, fallen upon his knees at the hearth’s edge. But Smallum, dancing like a mad thing held aloft the cell phone. It shone now as if it verily was wrought of living fire. “Precious!” Smallum cried. And with that, even as his eyes were lifted up to gloat on his prize, he stepped too far, tripped over the hearthstone and with a shriek, toppled into the open stove. Out of the depths came the tones of his long fingers beginning to dial, and then he was gone.

Dimly thrust his axe toward the sky in relieved exultation. “Yes!” He bellowed. “Let’s go hunt some moose!”
 

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