At the Arby’s, Strider Stepopolous crossed his arms and glared at Labbo and Grabby, who were well on their seventh roast beef sandwich apiece with no signs of slowing down. Silently cursing himself for offering to buy, he searched the pockets of his overcoat for more money. Labbo and Grabby watched with interest as Strider emptied the contents of his pocket onto the table: Galfgab’s lucky hat (which had mysteriously disappeared in the Piles of Volvula), Grabby’s spare cousin’s helmet, Pinnicks’ hardened stinking corpse, a pile of condoms, and Borgonium’s sword all gathered in a pile at the centre of the booth.

“Holy Jesus,” whispered Labbo. “You’re a sicko, man.”

“Go put your hand up your ass,” shot Strider, and Labbo quieted down in embarrassment as Strider leafed through the pile of booty. “Hmm,” he said, looking in Pinnicks’ mouth. “I think we might have to skip out on the check, boys. I’ll dash a cup of hot gravy in the waitress’s face; you guys set fire to the curtains and meet me around back.”

Grabby interrupted. “Is this Borgonium’s sword?” he asked breathlessly.

“No,” covered Strider. “Maybe. Sure, why not? What’s it to you?”

“Well,” said Grabby, turning the sword around, “It says ‘If Found, Return to Land of Minus Genepuddle For One Million Dollar Reward,’ is why I ask.”

The three figures paused in frozen silence.

“I think we’d better call the police,” said a waitress to the cook one minute later. “Those guys dressed like they’re from the Renaissance festival are pounding the snot out of each other for that stupid plastic sword."

“Ah, let ‘em fight,” said the cook, who was secretly having an affair with Labbo.

“Mine! Give! Give!” shrieked Strider in a high falsetto, his fingers lodged in Grabby’s nostrils and pulling upwards.

“OW! OW! OW!” yelled Grabby, making a swing for Labbo’s testicles. Since Labbo’d had his testicles bitten off months previously, this had no effect, and Labbo darted out into the parking lot with the sword, only to be flying tackled by Strider moments later and slapped furiously.

“Okay, look!” said Grabby, breaking the two up. “There’s a solution to this. We’ll ALL take the sword back to Minus Genepuddle.”

“That makes sense,” said Labbo, who was silently plotting to shoot enough arrows into the backs of Strider and Grabby to make them look like porcupines. “To a new fellowship, then!”

“To a new fellowship!” agreed Strider, silently plotting to have both Labbo and Grabby executed the second they got to Minus Genepuddle and he reinstated himself to the throne of Beaucoup-Beaucoup, son of Agradobojabob, King of Genepuddle.

“Best friends forever!” said Grabby happily, who was silently plotting to eat an apple.

Each with one hand securely around the sword’s handle, the three walked out of the parking lot, and started trying to hitch a ride to Minas Genepuddle.

“I wonder how Lordo and Samgam made out?” asked Grabby absently.

“I hope they both died of AIDS,” muttered Labbo, and everybody had a good laugh at this. Labbo laughed along, to cover up the fact that he was pretty sure he’d accidentally given the pair AIDS when he’d had sex with their sleeping forms while camping in the Minty Mountains.

“Well, wherever they are, let’s hope they managed to get rid of that stupid fucking ring,” said Strider, and all muttered agreement as a car veered onto the curb to pick them up. The license plate read “GALFGAB #2.”

“Hey, that’s a neat coincidence,” said Grabby, hustling into the car with Labbo and Strider.
The car pulled away with a huge cloud of exhaust, over the rolling hills to the land of Minus Genepuddle.

HERE ENDS THE FIRST PART OF LORDO RINGFELLOW.
STAY TUNED FOR THE SECOND PART, “THE TWO SIZZLERS”, DUE OUT WHEN HELL FREEZES OVER