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Lights out tonight
Trouble in the heartland
Got a head-on collision
Smashin' in my guts man
I'm caught in a crossfire
That I don't understand
--Bruce Springsteen
Frodo thought about his home up in Hobbiton, Maine,
and wished that he could be there right now. It was
coming up on Miller Time and the boys would be gathering
at Sammy’s Pub for a beer. Why the hell should I
be the one to have to lug this stupid ring all the way
to Mordor, when Gandalf could just hop on an eagle,
fly it there, and be back in time for lunch? It
wasn’t so much being away from home that was bthering
him, but the
(evil things)
unease he’d been feeling lately. Why me? Why can’t
somebody else deal with the ring?
(because you want it, you NEED it, and IT needs YOU)
I mean, really--I couldn’t care less about the damned
thing.
As if it knew what he was thinking, the ring began to
make its presence felt around his neck. It was becoming
heavy and
(touch me, Frodo—go ahead-- put me on—you know you
want to…)
cold against his skin. It sent a shiver down his spine
and he pulled his elven cloak tighter around his shoulders.
The last time he felt like this was in the summer of
’87 when all those kids disappeared up Derry way. Everyone
was paranoid--you’d get the willies whenever you saw
a stranger. They never found the kids or the guy who
did it, but life got back to normal, little by little,
once the disappearances stopped happening…