Son-of-an-orc's-crusty...
Okay, I know I said I was going away, but there's one thing I had to take care of first.
baylorsr, my friend, this is for you. You know why. Apologies for any damage I've done to your Goodhobbits universe. For a bit of context, see It’s called... a lunchbox
Cheap Knock-Offs and Questionable Language:
"My goodness, Pip! What's happened to your trousers?" Merry caught Pippin's arm as he stormed into the kitchen at Brandy Hall carrying his lunchbox. "And is that a--Pippin, your eye! Have you been fighting?"
Pippin tested the flesh around his right eye and scowled at its tenderness. "It's that Berilac! Merry, you won't believe what he's done. Look!" Pippin thrust the lunchbox at Merry, sputtering his indignation.
Merry frowned at the battered lunchbox in his hands. It was badly dented on one corner, in a pattern that, upon closer examination of his cousin's face, matched the bruise that was rising high on Pippin's cheek. "Jimmineyjack! He hit you with your lunchbox?"
"Not that, Mer!" Pippin jabbed impatiently at the offending lunchbox. "Look at what he's been peddling behind our backs! That toad-licking pimple! It's not my lunchbox at all! He's gone and--" Merry pursed his lips hard to keep from laughing; he hadn't seen Pip this stompy since he'd entered his tweens. As if reading his thoughts, Pip stomped his foot. "LOOK!"
Merry turned the lunchbox over and gasped in horror.
"But this is..."
"I know!"
The lunchbox in question was shoddily constructed, coming unhinged at all its joints, including several spots where there were no hinges to begin with. The color was off, too--darker and thicker than the vibrant, happy pink Merry and Pippin had chosen for their demonstration model. (It looked and smelled as if the paint had been mixed with fish guts). But Merry hardly noticed those faults.
"Who's this supposed to be?" he demanded, pointing to the picture. "Berilac the Bleary? He looks as if he's been hit in the face by a pint-mug. How is that heroic? Did he not understand the part where you put local heroes on the lunchbox?"
"That's not the worst of it," Pippin warned him. "He's made hundreds of them! He and Ted Sandyman have spent the last week locked away in Ted's workshop. They've got some sort of machine that spits the pictures out, ten an hour! They're not even hand-painted. And they're selling them, Merry, as if it were their idea!"
Merry's face went cold. "Selling? These noxious bits of ... worm scrapings?" He wrenched the lunchbox's lid open, pinching his finger in the failing joint. "Son-of-an-orc's-crusty--"
"Merry! Your Da will wash your mouth out if he hears you talk like that."
"Can't. I'm of age, and then some. And yards taller than him, anyway."
Pippin looked skeptical. He'd suffered some memorable punishments at his uncle's hands as a lad, and still held him somewhat in awe.
"Anyway, we have to fix him, Mer. He's probably poisoning half the Shire with these things. I don't think it's safe for any proper food to touch something that smells like this."
Berilac's lunchbox fell soundly to bits when Merry slammed it on the table. "The nerve of that one!" Merry paced the kitchen as he ranted. "Taking our idea--that we unveiled in front of witnesses, for the love of custard!--and making like it was his. The least he could've done was do it properly. Shoddy imitation... It's the worst kind of insult!"
Pip harumphed an agreement, and Merry pulled up short in front of the pantry. A smile spread across his face. Pippin saw it and raised his eyebrows expectantly.
"I know that look, Merry," he said, rubbing his hands together happily.
Merry slung his arm across his cousin's shoulders. "Go catch the rooster, Pip--the big, ornery one, and meet me in the workshop. This time tomorrow, Berilac will wish he'd never heard the word 'lunchbox'."
baylorsr, my friend, this is for you. You know why. Apologies for any damage I've done to your Goodhobbits universe. For a bit of context, see It’s called... a lunchbox
Cheap Knock-Offs and Questionable Language:
"My goodness, Pip! What's happened to your trousers?" Merry caught Pippin's arm as he stormed into the kitchen at Brandy Hall carrying his lunchbox. "And is that a--Pippin, your eye! Have you been fighting?"
Pippin tested the flesh around his right eye and scowled at its tenderness. "It's that Berilac! Merry, you won't believe what he's done. Look!" Pippin thrust the lunchbox at Merry, sputtering his indignation.
Merry frowned at the battered lunchbox in his hands. It was badly dented on one corner, in a pattern that, upon closer examination of his cousin's face, matched the bruise that was rising high on Pippin's cheek. "Jimmineyjack! He hit you with your lunchbox?"
"Not that, Mer!" Pippin jabbed impatiently at the offending lunchbox. "Look at what he's been peddling behind our backs! That toad-licking pimple! It's not my lunchbox at all! He's gone and--" Merry pursed his lips hard to keep from laughing; he hadn't seen Pip this stompy since he'd entered his tweens. As if reading his thoughts, Pip stomped his foot. "LOOK!"
Merry turned the lunchbox over and gasped in horror.
"But this is..."
"I know!"
The lunchbox in question was shoddily constructed, coming unhinged at all its joints, including several spots where there were no hinges to begin with. The color was off, too--darker and thicker than the vibrant, happy pink Merry and Pippin had chosen for their demonstration model. (It looked and smelled as if the paint had been mixed with fish guts). But Merry hardly noticed those faults.
"Who's this supposed to be?" he demanded, pointing to the picture. "Berilac the Bleary? He looks as if he's been hit in the face by a pint-mug. How is that heroic? Did he not understand the part where you put local heroes on the lunchbox?"
"That's not the worst of it," Pippin warned him. "He's made hundreds of them! He and Ted Sandyman have spent the last week locked away in Ted's workshop. They've got some sort of machine that spits the pictures out, ten an hour! They're not even hand-painted. And they're selling them, Merry, as if it were their idea!"
Merry's face went cold. "Selling? These noxious bits of ... worm scrapings?" He wrenched the lunchbox's lid open, pinching his finger in the failing joint. "Son-of-an-orc's-crusty--"
"Merry! Your Da will wash your mouth out if he hears you talk like that."
"Can't. I'm of age, and then some. And yards taller than him, anyway."
Pippin looked skeptical. He'd suffered some memorable punishments at his uncle's hands as a lad, and still held him somewhat in awe.
"Anyway, we have to fix him, Mer. He's probably poisoning half the Shire with these things. I don't think it's safe for any proper food to touch something that smells like this."
Berilac's lunchbox fell soundly to bits when Merry slammed it on the table. "The nerve of that one!" Merry paced the kitchen as he ranted. "Taking our idea--that we unveiled in front of witnesses, for the love of custard!--and making like it was his. The least he could've done was do it properly. Shoddy imitation... It's the worst kind of insult!"
Pip harumphed an agreement, and Merry pulled up short in front of the pantry. A smile spread across his face. Pippin saw it and raised his eyebrows expectantly.
"I know that look, Merry," he said, rubbing his hands together happily.
Merry slung his arm across his cousin's shoulders. "Go catch the rooster, Pip--the big, ornery one, and meet me in the workshop. This time tomorrow, Berilac will wish he'd never heard the word 'lunchbox'."