I had become a well-known author of advice guru books, such as /How to Be an Evil Dictator/ and /Of Civil Dismemberment/. I went on promotional tour around the world, from Myanmar to North Korea (where, I have to say, the night life is abysmal), and spoke with the Bearded Ones at the mountains of Afghanistan and shared bread with the Mustached Ones of the mighty Iraqistan.
I was spending the night in one of Saddam's palaces, when once again the English professor crossed my path. I shook his hand enthusiastically, but he seemed a little awkward, and I couldn't get any clear idea of what he had been doing. "A little of this and a little of that," he said vaguely. "What do you think of these cigars?"
It was only later that I discovered the truth. Of course it remains debatable whether Tolkien had been a Nazi, or was he, as he claimed later, only following orders. Nevertheless, there can be no doubt that step by step, mile by mile, he had been drawn to Germany and to the Bayreuth Music Festival. There he was caught, and Goebbels ordered him, "Write me a book worthy of the Third Reich..." The 111st Birthday-party, an obvious allegory of the Nuremberg Party Rally, should have tipped me off long ago.
They say he almost repented – if only out of fear for the power of the Armies of West... but a wind blew his cursing spirit to the deserts of Moscow. Whispers of a New Shadow and its hatred towards the West... There would be his new friends who'd help his revenge. Wretched fool! In that land he soon learned too much for his comfort, when Stalin ordered him to shave off his trotskyite beard.
Stalin it was who persuaded him to write the sequel to LotR; but when he died, Khrushchev canceled his grant in the interests of détente. For the West would not treat with Moscow as long as it protected that criminal.
Hoxha was now Tolkien's only hope; alas he never learned how to read... He wanted a picture book; but he didn't approve of nudes, which were the only thing Tolkien knew how to draw.
Disillusioned, Tolkien now converted to Islam, his one goal in life a harem. The Four Wives of al-Faramir was one of his first texts from this period. This interesting work narrates a rebellion in al-Elessar's harem, when he brought in a new slave girl, the exotic dancer al-Eowinah.
After his conversion, Tolkien changed his name to Abu Bakr and went to seek the Chronicles of Khamul the Wise from the forbidden Nameless City of Uduncus. It was on this quest that he arrove in Baghdad and we met once more. Now, let us resume our story, that you might discover the true extent of Tolkien's evil:
We chatted over cigars about women, the meaning of life, and murder, and became quite friendly, as it seemed, to the extent that I revealed far more than was wise about my literary ambitions.
Unfortunately we were kidnapped by Iranians the next day, and brought to Qom, where Dubbya, Grand Caliph of Hoohah, almost turned us into craters; we barely escaped with our hats. We had to buy our freedom by teaching the Ayatollahs the secret formula of Gandalf's fireworks, which got us into a spot of trouble when we returned to Iraq. Chased by the Mukhabarat, Tolkien and I crossed the border over to Kuwait, where we had zany adventures in the Emir's harem. The Emir treated us kindly, but in secret he negotiated with the Americans for our deportation.
Then, one evening at the garden, I heard a quiet voice... It was Princess Derridina, the eminence grise of the Middle-east, controlling the world's oil supply from her position as the favourite of the emir. "TEH LIEK 3MIR IZ PLOTTING 2 HAND U OVER OMG 2 THA AM3RICNS," she warned me. "BUT I'L LIEK H3LP!1111!11!1!!11 U ASCAPE IF U TAK3 ME AL0NG. THIS D3ZRT SC3NE IZ SO LIEK 1AM3."
When Tolkien found out, he was jealous ... He was already fallen under the temptation of the Ring of Oil, and wished to seduce Derridina in order to obtain its powers. But Derridina saw the evil in his face and repulsed him: "B3GOEN F0UL!!!!11!1!1 DWIMM3RLAIK WTF." He wanted revenge.
Dressed as movie-stars, Derridina and I slipped away from the palace. Derridina bore a strange resemblance to Miranda Otto, and I was disguised as a 8-metre tall ape, which Derridina said LIEK T0DALLY improved my appearance immeasurably. "I love you, more beautiful than a brood mare," I sighed.
Tolkien wanted to use nuclear weapons to bring us to bay. But at the last moment, pity held his hand. "Pity I don't have the launch code" he thought. He considered buying it from a Central Asian dictator, but noticed his mithril supplies were running low.
He decided to raise money from the weed trade. He contacted the Brandyone family in Napoli. The capo, Moriadocco, wasn't very impressed by Tolkien's credentials. "You don't know no nuttin about no drugga trada if you sella dem in dissa fasshione," he grunted.
So, before the deal was done, Tolkien needed to prove his worth – by assassa...assnan...assan... killing the Pope. He psyched himself up for the job by smoking hashish with a hookah while being pleasured by odalisques. This method actually had some success.
Dressed as a Swedish Pilgrim, Tolkien got within a shooting distance of the Pope; but Derridina and I were onto him. Derridina and I followed Moriadocco and Tolkien to the Vatican; there Moriadocco lunged at us in a charming café frequented by people in weird red hats.
"Sic sempre fattists!" he cried. We had a dramtic fight scene. It was SUPERBLY choreographed, and won several Oscars. The chase through the falling staircases of the Vatican, surrounded by Busby Berkeley nuns and ninja-commandos, was impressive. They laughed, they cheered, they hootered ...
Then Meriadocco and I seized swords from the Swiss guards. Suddenly, Derridina leapt in the middle of the fray. "HEZ LIEK!!!!11!!! G3TTING AWAY," she cried. I opened my bookbag in order to pull out my namuchakus, and nearly died of shock. It was only now that I knew the depth of Tolkien's infamy.
Tolkien had stolen my novel!