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When Don Bilbo Baggione, the head of the Baggione family, announced that he would shortly be celebrating his eleventy-first birthday with a party of special magnificence, there was much talk and excitement in Hobbit City. Don Bilbo was very rich and and very peculiar (for example insisting on always sinking his opponents in the lake inside plaster of Paris instead of ordinary concrete), and had been the wonder of La Regione ever since his remarkable victory over all his opponents sixty years before, which had made him the undisputed capo di tutti capi in the entire Westfarthing. It was whispered that bullets could not hurt him, and attempts on his life with switchblades, katanas and throwing stars had been equally unsuccessful. There were some that shook their heads and thought this was too much of a good thing: it seemed unfair that anyone should possess (apparently) perpetual life, and that an old Moustache Pete should keep deserving younger talents from a well-earned promotion. "It will have to be paid for", they said. "It ain't natural, and trouble sure will come for it!" But so far trouble had not come; and as Don Bilbo was generally generous and forgiving, and those he did not forgive were never around to badmouth him afterwards, most people were willing to tolerate his oddities and his good fortune. He remained on visiting terms with other families (except, of course, the Saccovilla-Baggiones), and he had many devoted admirers among the hobbits of poor and unimportant families. Above all, he had three sons to succeed him in the business. The eldest was Meriadoco, usually called Sonny and as intelligent as he was vicious. The second was Frodo, generally regarded as willing but rather dull - nobody had yet managed to make him realize that the Baggioleone family was deeply involved in gambling, prostitution and drug peddling and that the manufacture of plaster of Paris garden gnomes was mostly a cover for the family's real sources of income. The youngest, and a bit of a wild card, was Pippo, who much against Don Bilbo's will had served in the War of the Ring and returned home with a medal and mentions in dispatches - but, as Don Bilbo acidly remarked, pretty little else except for a touch of the pox contracted at a brothel in Minas Tirith. Representatives of many families had been invited to the birthday party, and not even the Saccovilla-Baggiones had dared to refuse the offer to come. There were Baggiones and Boffinos, and also many Tuccos and Brandibuccas; there were various Grubbios (survivors of a conflict with Don Bilbo fifty-six years before) and various Ciubbios (traditional allies of the Tucco family); and a selection of Scavarinis, Alzarsinis, Cinturas, Casabroccos, Buoncorpinis, Cornistas and Fierapiedes. Some of them were on very bad terms with the Baggione family, but they had all come, and they comforted themselves with the thought of Don Bilbo's legendary generosity with vitello, and also with the rumour that Gandolfo, the famous wizard, had been invited to show his legendary fireworks. The meal was as sumptuous as the greediest hobbit could wish for. When Don Bilbo rose to hold his speech, most of the company were in a tolerant mood, at that delightful stage they called "filling up the corners". They were sipping their favourite drinks, and nibbling at their favourite dainties, and their fears were forgotten. They were prepared to listen to anything, and to cheer at every full stop. "My dear people", Bilbo began. "My dear Baggiones and Boffinos, and my dear Tuccos and Brandibuccas, and Grubbios, and Ciubbios, and Scavarinis, Alzarsinis, Cinturas, Casabroccos, Buoncorpinis, Cornistas and Fierapiedes." "FieraPIEDI!" shouted an elderly hobbit from the back of the pavilion. His name, of course, was Fierapiede, and well merited; his feet were large, exceptionally furry, and both were on the table beside his tommy-gun. "Fierapiedes", repeated Don Bilbo, "Also my good Saccovilla-Baggiones that I welcome back at last to Bag End. Today is my one hundred and eleventh birthday; I am eleventy-one today!" Some of the guests cheered, though less than enthusiastically. "I hope you are enjoying yourselves as much as I am." This went down rather better. Everybody except the Saccovilla-Baggiones did at least *some* hand-clapping. However, it soon subsided. "I shall not keep you long", he cried. Cheers from all the assembly. "I have called you all together for a purpose." Something in the way that he said that made an impression, There was almost silence, and old Ruggiero Fierapiede took down his feet from the table. "I don't know half of you as well as I should like; and I like less than half of you half as well as you deserve." This was unexpected and rather difficult. There was some scattered clapping, but most of them were trying to work out what the old bastard was up to now. "Alas, I will never get to know you any better", declared Don Bilbo. "Because now it is time for Gandolfo and his fireworks!" He stepped aside, and an old man materialised where he had stood. The old man wore a tall, pointed hat, a long grey cloak and a silver scarf. Most importantly, he held a tommy-gun in each hand. In the other corners of the room, Sonny, Frodo and Pippo arose, each one armed with a widow-maker. They were accompanied by the caporegime, Sam Gamigigli, and some other tough-looking hobbits. As one, they all began to fire at the guests. Old Ruggiero almost managed to grab his own tommy-gun before Gamigigli stitched a row of holes across his breast at the same time as his head exploded from a burst from Pippo's weapon. Within a few seconds, all was over. The guests lay immobile across the tables, or in heaps of contorted bodies around them. "That was that", remarked Don Bilbo. "What a lovely birthday party! And today is Saint Valentine's Day!" The only one who had not actually killed anyone was Frodo. He looked at Don Bilbo in a puzzled way. "What was all that about?" he inquired. "I thought we were just going to scare them for a lark." Öjevind Lång |
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