Five weeks of boozy partying followed, and everyone in the Fellowship was glad to forget their grim journey for a time. In fact, everyone in the Fellowship was more than happy to forget about their grim journey forever, and Strider faxed El Rondolo the next day telling him where to stick the mission.

Strider soon found himself smitten with a young Elfy-Princess named Glorndmindle, and took long walks through the forest with her, exercising every fibre of his being in an undying quest to get in her pants as quickly as possible. When not mooning around with Glorndmindle, he spent his days annoying the fucking piss out of everyone else with how in love he was, skipping around like an idiot and composing impromptu poems that were as long as they were awful.

“Oh, Glorndmindle dear, let me compare thee to asparagus, for thou art just as rich in complex vitamins,” cooed Strider to Borgonium.

“Have you gotten in her pants yet?” sighed Borgonium, quietly whittling a small boat out of Samgam’s arm, while nearby Samgam quietly screamed his lungs out and kicked at Borgonium.

“Not yet,” mused Strider. “But soon, I’m pretty sure.”

“I think I should warn you that she’s a guy,” whispered Borgonium.

“What? How dare you insult my dearest flower, Glorndmindle! Oh, Glorndmindle, fairest flower in the land! She of the long flowing locks and dewy eyes and enormous hands, backhair, and protruding Adam’s apple.”

“Did someone mention apples?” asked Grabby, poking his head out of a cluster of bushes, where he had been molesting a family of squirrels.

“Look, nevermind,” said Borgonium. “Just don’t say I didn’t warn you.”

“I can’t believe you never warned me!” cursed Strider five days later, after he had finally gotten into Glorndmindle’s pants. He took a badly-aimed swing at Borgonium, tripped on a tree stump and collapsed in a pile of tears.

“Phone call for Strider Stepopolous,” said an Elfie waiter, entering the forest glade with a cell phone.

“Is it El Rondolo?” asked Strider in a panic. “Tell him we left for Mole-hole yesterday.” The Elfie waiter relayed the message and left. “Man, that guy,” cursed Strider. “He’s not gonna quit until we get rid of that stupid ring.”

“Maybe if we killed him,” suggested Borgonium. Strider liked the sound of this, and spent the next several days whiling away the time with Borgonium plotting El Rondolo’s death.

Meanwhile, Oolaboola and Lordo’s marriage had collapsed into petty squabbling within days. “You’re a slob and you smell like a bag of socks someone used to muffle farts,” she complained.

“Yeah, well, you’re too tall,” returned Lordo. “I can’t even cop a feel without throwing my back out.”

Oolaboola soon regretted her quickie nuptials, but felt it was still worth it to have gained control of the one ring to rule the rum-balls. She found herself putting the ring on more and more often and checking herself out in the mirror while she made rock star poses. Sure enough, Cloak-Ghosts were soon poking around the outskirts of Murky-Lurk Forest, trying to sneak their way into the Elfie stronghold by posing as Rob Schneider.

The ring began to take hold of Oolaboola, and soon its evil powers were working their devilish magic on her, and she was laid out with the trots for a week. She went to the Elfie Doctor to see what was up with it.

“Hmmm,” he said, examining a runny stool sample.

“Do you think it’s the power of this cursed ring?” she spat.

“I rather doubt it,” said the doctor. “You live on a diet of nothing but apples.”

“Don’t sugar-coat things, Doctor. It’s the cursed power of this cursed ring! Oh, I never should have married Lordo to claim it!”

“Lordo gave you the ring,” said the Doctor. “You never had to marry him at all. And if you’d just eat a little bran from time to time, I’m sure…”

It was settled. Oolaboola returned the ring to Lordo that same afternoon and told him to take a hike. “I know now the power of that ring,” she sobbed. “You must take it far from here. I should never have tried to claim it, though my ambition blinded me to this fact.”

Lordo didn’t really give a damn what she had to say, and thought about monster trucks until her lips stopped moving. Then he said: “Bitch.” He walked off cursing her name and the stupid ring that kept coming back to him no matter how hard he tried to get rid of it. He didn’t even bother attending the funeral when, five days later, Oolaboola and half the Elfie tribe died suddenly from an advanced case of diarrhea and rickets.

“That was sudden,” said Borgonium, wolfing down a second helping of apple cider, apple pie, apple turnovers, apple brown betty and caramel apples. “I wonder what evil power claimed them?” he mused, as all of his teeth rotted from the sugar and fell out of his skull.

The Fellowship reluctantly decided to leave the next day. Borgonium and Strider’s assassination attempt on El Rondolo had failed miserably, and they now faced charges in Federal court if they didn’t complete the mission to destroy the ring, and do fifty hours apiece of community service, teaching under-privileged goblins to read.

The farewell committee of Elfies was a little thin, the Fellowship had to admit, since the remainder of them had died that morning of malnutrition. They solemnly picked the bodies clean of valuables and left within the hour.

“I’ll miss Oolaboola,” said Borgonium, clipping a lock of her hair. “I really had the hot pants for her.”

“I’ll miss her even more,” said Grabby, taking her stool sample. “I wanted to stick it in her like you wouldn’t believe.”

“Hey, look!” said Strider as they emerged from the Elfie stronghold. “It’s Rob Schneider!”

“Nine Rob Schneiders!” corrected Labbo.

“Wow, what luck!”
Strider and the gang raced over to the Cloak-Ghosts to get autographs. Lordo (who had seen Lance Bigalow: Male Gigolo seventeen times) excitedly whipped out his autograph book, but was stopped by a restraining hand on his shoulder.

Continue on to Chapter 8: The Fellowship Falls Apart