Pippigorn: The Halloween Special

It was a glistening October evening. It was the first of Halloween, the scariest day of the year besides Easter. Outside, ghouls ghouled and goblins hobblegobbled. The moon glistened in the daytime sky, somehow visible in the waning light. Leaves stirred on the ground, sounding like Lays™ Original potato chips when you walked on them. Or perhaps like it was like stepping into an infinite bowl of cereal, like All Bran™, but potato chips are better.

Anyway, back to the good stuff. Remember Pippin and Aragorn? Yeah, there they are, sitting on a giant leaf on the ground in the forest in the middle of nowhere on Middle Earth, maybe. Pippin was stroking a mysterious orange object the size of a pumpkin. It was a pumpkin.

“Are you ready, Gorn?” Pippin smiled.

“Gorn?”  Aragorn guffawed. “Don’t you mean Corn?”

Pippin’s stomach lurched at the thought of offending his precious dew drop. “I’m sorry, Ar. I’m trying to find a good nickname for you. Like Ara? Gorn? Era of corn? Era of gorn? Gorny? A.G? A? G? A-Dawg? G-Dawg? DJ Gorny? A to the R to the A to the G to the O—”

“Oh my god. Stop trying to make Gorn happen, Pippin. It’s not gonna happen.”

Pippin sniffled, scratching his tooth sadly. Tears fell from his ticklish eyelashes, cascading down his plump cheeks. Like, his face cheeks, not his other cheeks. Wait, no, never mind, his butt cheeks. “Oh, Aragorn!” Pippin cried, dashing away. “You don’t understand!”

“Understand what?” Aragorn jogged beside Pippin, his long legs nearly outrunning the Hobbit. They began to slowly race.

“I’m just trying to give you a nickname!” Pippin yelled, even though Aragorn was right there. When Pippin looked up, he could see straight up Aragorn’s quivering nostrils. They moved in somewhat slow motion, Aragorn’s hair flowing lusciously behind him, cascading down his shoulder blades like a horse’s mane or a blanket of velvet, which reminded Aragorn of dat red velvet cake which made him throw up a little bit in his mouth but he swallowed it and took out a breath mint, popping it into his mouth and chewing instantly even though you’re not supposed to.

“Whatever you say, Pip.”

Pippin blushed ferociously. “P-P-P-Pip!?”

“Yes, we’re on the topic of nicknames, aren’t we?” They continued to slow motion race, Aragorn’s glistening black hair twirling in the wind.

“Can I call you Gorn, then?”

“No.”

Pippin halted. However, Aragorn continued to run. “Wait!” Pippin called out, but Aragorn kept running. He ran straight into a bunch of trees, which they were surrounded in, but that one bunch of trees was really specific. Every bare branch quivered as Aragorn tore through them, the sound of crunching cereal—or leaves—reverberating throughout the forest.  

Pippin sighed, then began to gallop into the bunch of trees. As soon as he reached the first leaf on the twig on the branch on the tree, Pippin heard a familiar, high-pitched cry of anguish and fear.

“AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH!” Followed by a manly, “Oh.”

Pippin poked his head in. “???” he said out loud. There in the middle of a mysterious clearing stood a tall man, garbed in dark clothing and had an aura of horror. It was Aragorn. Beside him stood an even taller man in even darker clothes and an even bigger aura of horror. The stranger had his eight arms wrapped around Aragorn in some sort of octopus hug. “Am I interrupting something?” asked Pippin.  

“Pippin…” Aragorn choked. “Help me…”

Pippin’s heart leaped in his chest as he sprung forward like a kanga-woo (kangaroo) and grabbed onto Aragorn’s free limb. “I will never let go!” He huffed.

“Pls don’t!”

“Aragorn!”

“Pippin!”

“Yes?”

“Pippin!”

“Aragorn!”

“What?????”

“Just tell him to let go.”

“Let me go.”

Slenderman let go of Aragorn gracefully with a shake of his head and Aragorn fell to the ground with exhaustion, even though he didn’t do anything.

Pippin flew to his aid. “Ara! Gorn! Gorny! My love!” He checked his Michael Kors wristwatch. “Oh my! It’s 6:00pm! Aragorn! It’s pumpkin carving time!”

“You’re absolutely right!” Aragorn scratched his stereotypical stubble that can be found on any given middle-aged male protagonist in anything ever. “Wait, what was last thing you said?”

“Uh, pumpkin carving time?”

“No, no. You called me Gorny, then something. What was that?”

“Gorn.”

“Oh. Okay! Let’s go carve some pumpkins.” Aragorn extended a quid to Slender Man. “For your troubles.”

Slender Man confusedly accepted the single quid, and then pocketed it in his fancy-dancy suit. Afterward, he stood there, very awkwardly, as the duo skipped away merrily and singing Raining Blood (by Slayer).

“Wanna dance with me, Gorn?”  Pippin exclaimed.

“No.”

“Okay,” Pippin said half sorrowful, half kinda alright. “Let’s go carve some pumpkins!”

“Ight.”

They pranced away elegantly into a section of the forest that they had called their home. Pippin had decorated with potted plants and wall decals that were hung up on a bunch of suspended sticks…and candles…Lots and lots of candles.

Pippin pulled out his blow torch and began lighting a pumpkin spice candle. “It’s a pumpkin spice candle,” he said matter-of-factly. “Reminds me of dem PSL’s.”

“DUUDE!” Aragorn jumped up and down on the spot. “YOU DRINK PSL’S?! I DRINK PSL’S!”

“DUDE!”

“DUDE!” Aragorn embraced Pippin in a hug (kinda non-manly)

“Yeah, but like…no homo.” Pippin shrugged him off of him.

“What was that, Pippin?” Aragorn suddenly turned around, a huge glistening knife in his hand.

“Whoa, whoa, whoa, whoa, whoa, whoa, whoa, whoa, whoa, whoa, whoa, whoa, whoa, whoa!” Pippin backed away, far enough that he had to yell his next words. “YOU PUT DOWN THAT KNIFE! YOU STOP THAT!”

“We’re carving pumpkins, aren’t we?” he began to carve a cat into the glistening orange pumpkin.

“You butter get out of here,” said Pippin, holding up a magnificent butter knife. The butter knife did not glisten as much.

“Huh?” Aragorn continued to engrave the picture of a cat.

“Oh, I heard it from somewhere.”

Aragorn raised a stiff eyebrow. “Whatever you say, Pippin.” He stood back, examining his pumpkin that was now almost a Jack O’ Lantern. “What do you think?”

“It’s…purrfect,” Pippin exclaimed. “But why a cat??????”

“I don’t know…” Aragorn hmm’d intensely. “I just had a strange premonition.”

Pippin shivered. “It’s almost like you were a cat in an alternate dimension.”

“Oh, Pippin, you sure are silly!” Aragorn shook his glistening hair. “What are you carving?”

“……………You.”

“What?”

“YOUUUUUUUU!!!!!!!!!!” Music played dramatically. “SOULJA BOY TELL ‘EM!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!”

Aragorn began to jig. Pippin jiggled. They both giggled. They almost danced heterosexually, but then they abruptly separated.

Pippin sniffed. “You got new perfume!”

“Oh?”

“Is that… THAT’S NICKI MINAJ’S ‘NICKI’!” he inhaled the invigorating scent.

“Uh, Pippin?”

“Yes?”

“You can get down now.”

Pippin blushed, realizing he had his arms wrapped around Aragorn’ manly shoulders, hanging from his mighty torso like a banana from a banana tree.

“Anyway…I lied. I’m not carving you I’m carving a banana!”

“Oh?”

“Yeah.” They continued to carve their plump pumpkins dramatically whilst “Flight of the Valkyries” played in the background.

Aragorn suddenly stabbed himself in the abdomen. “Oh no!” he cried. He cleared his throat, repeating in a much more manly way, “Oh no.”

“Aragorn!” Pippin’s butter knife fell to the ground in slow motion. It clattered on the ground with a loud clatter.

“Alas,” breathed Aragorn, clutching his stomach where a small dot of blood came to the surface. In seconds, blood was spurting all over the place.

“Hold on, Aragorn! I’ll fix this! Merry was once experienced in this sort of stuff!” He ran away, and then came back with a plunger, which he attached to Aragorn’s wound and plunged ferociously.

“What are you doing?” Aragorn asked.

“Merry used to do this.”

“You said he was an experienced medic!”

“Nay, I said no such thing!” Pippin wiped his forehead majestically, his buck tooth glistening. “He was a plumber! Whenever something went amiss, such as a giant leak, he would grab the plunger—and voila!”

“Pippin…” Aragorn struggled to breathe. “That is clearly not working!”

“I know!” A lightbulb flashed above his head. Detaching the plunger from Aragorn’s glistening body (his shirt had somehow come off in the commotion). He took out a book with a picture of the Shire on the front of it. “It’s the official Hobbit Medical manual. Let’s see…” donning a pair of studious glasses, he flipped through the pages. “It says here that in order to cure a pumpkin carving wound you must… Oh!”

“What does it say?”

“It says that you must kiss a witch!”

“Let me see that!” Aragorn took the manual from the Hobbit’s small hands, passionately skimming the page until—true enough—it said exactly what Pippin had described. He scratched his ebony hair. “But where ever will I find a witch?”

He barely managed to finish his sentence before looking at Pippin, who was fully garbed in a witch’s attire, his skin painted green and a black cat purring in the crook of his arm.
 
Then, Aragorn looked to his right and laid eyes on a beautiful lady friend, dressed to the nines in a real witch’s attire. She even had a small wart! Pippin did not have a wart. “Look! A witch!” Aragorn exclaimed and proceeded towards the witch, puckering his full, plump lips.

“’Eh babeh. How about we grab lunch? How about a sand…witch. In me mom’s car broom broom. Your hat is like an ebony pylon, glistening in the wind. Your skin is the colour of grass. Bet you could scratch any ass a mile away with those manicured talons. Mmmm…Just thinking about that sandwitch. You’d make a tasty sandwitch with those buns!” Aragorn mumbled.

“Huh?” The witch looked expectant.

“Will you kiss me, my fine lady?” He bowed, kind of curtseying, then remembered to do a manly bow.

“Oh!” she gasped. “You’re bleeding. No.”

“DON’T FRIENDZONE ME.” He dropped to his knees. “I mean, only a fair maiden such as you can cure me. I just need one kiss. That is all I ask.”

“What about your friend?” she cackled, pointing at Pippin who just stood there awkwardly during the whole conversation.

Aragorn stomped over to Pippin, wait no. He crawled. Limped. Staggered. Basically, he eventually made his way over to Pippin who was like, 30 feet away from him. “It’s not even a real hat!” He guffawed, ripping it off of Pippin’s pea-sized head.

“Oh…” The witch sighed. “Well, in that case…I guess.” They went behind a tree and stage kissed platonically. A sign saying “Inappropriate for Viewing” floated by. Pippin sat his tush down on the ground and began picking at the grass. He began to cry. Buckets. Bucket and buckets and buckets and buckets and buckets and buckets filled with his blessed tears. He was basically a leaking faucet, but with a cute face. Aragorn returned, Pippin discreetly dumped the buckets into the river conveniently located right beside him. They went back to the pumpkin carving without a word.

After a while, Aragorn lifted up his shirt giddily and gasped! “I’m not bleeding anymore. And look! No scar!”

“Excellent!” Pippin wiped the random tear from under his eye. “At least you didn’t die!”

“Thank you, Pippy!!!” Aragorn picked up the little Hobbit, spinning him around in his arms. Heterosexually. “I could kiss you right now!!”

“What?”

“Nothing……………………”

“Let’s get into our costumes!”

Aragorn’s eyeball twinkled. “That’s a good idea, Pippin. What are you going to be?”

Pippin wiped his face in a downward motion; the witch attire disappeared, and replaced with a white sheet with holes in it for eyes and a mouth.

“Oh! A ghost!” said Aragorn. “How original…” he muttered under his breath, his voice dripping with sarcasm.

Pippin shivered. “Yes, but it’s a little drafty.”

“How so?”

“Guess what?

“What?”

“Come closer.”

“Okay.”

“Closer.”

“Okay…”

“Closer!!!”

“Pippin?”

“Aragorn… I’m not wearing any trousers!”

Aragorn peeled his face away from Pippin’s vertex of his ear. “I swear I didn’t steal them this time.”

Pippin chuckled. “No, they just disappeared during my transformation. Along with all my other clothes.”

Suddenly, a gust of icy air came out of a vent appearing below Pippin, in the middle of the Middle Earth-y forest. The ghost-sheet-costume blew up from Pippin’s ankles, gusting in the glistening wind. He tried to keep it down with his hands, but to no avail. He looked just like Marilyn Monroe in that one famous photograph. You know the one.

“Oh my!” Aragorn blushed ferociously, a deep red like a plum or an apple or a strawberry. It made Pippin think about plums and apples and strawberries. MMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMM!

The vent disappeared, and Pippin’s costume ceased billowing in the glistening wind. “What are you going out as?”

“I’m already wearing my costume, Pippin.”

Pippin’s two-hundred fifty-one eyebrow hair shot up in the air as he scrutinized Aragorn’s face. On his cheeks there were three thin black lines, but that was it. “You are………………………………......?” he said with lots of hesitation.

“Yes. I’m a cat.”

“Oh.” Pippin pretended to play along. “Oh, you’re right! Absolutely. You’re definitely a cat. I’ve never seen something so much like a feline. I bet I could feed you Fancy Feast™. That’s the best costume I’ve ever seen. You must have poured hours into your costume. Wow. A cat.” He cleared his throat. “Why a cat?”

“It feels…” he posed studiously. “Right.”

“Why?”

“Idk.”

“Ok. Well let’s go trick-or-treating now!”

“Ight.”

They traversed the green grass, the exact green as a freshly cut lawn of grass in the evening sunlight, each blade of grass glistening in the legendary wind. As they hopped and skipped along, they sang Gangsta Sexy: “Hold up, let me lace up the tens. I’m only twenty-six but so is the Rims. I wanna hit the dance floor and thrust my pelvis, I look so good a million bucks is jealous.”

Then, Pippin switched to Lady Gaga’s Paparazzi (techno remix). He hummed along merrily. Aragorn tapped his feet to the beat while they skipped joyously.

“How about some ginger biscuits!” said Pippin.

“Ginger? Pippin, it’s not nearly the Christmas season.”

“Candy corn????”

“On top of our pumpkin spice scones and pumpkin spice muffins and pumpkin spice lattes and pumpkin spice cookies and pumpkin spice tea and pumpkins spice Timbits™ and pumpkin spice—”

“Oh, look, a house!” Pippin pointed at the house. It was a mass of trees and vines. The exterior decorations practically sang elves. Fairy dust and elfish things decorated the front lawn. Sat on a front porch forged of trees and beautiful grass was Legolas, strumming his bowstring. His hair glistened in the glistening Halloween wind; a gentle breeze caressed his perfectly chiseled chin.

Pippin wobbled up the front steps, his costume billowing around his ankles. “Trick or treat!” he cried, holding out a gigantic pillow case. Looking closer, it seemed to resemble a giant industrial-size Glad™ trash bag, capable of holding vast amounts of stuff. As he fluffed the giant pillow case, it seemed to engulf the entire forest, billowing in the giant form of wind in the air.

Legolas looked up from his bow, somewhat baffled but not really because it was Halloween and reached into his pants and pulled out a bag of candy and some Skippy™ Smooth peanut butter.

“……………………….But I’m allergic to peanut butter!” Cried Pippin.

“You’re allergic to Peter Pan™ peanut butter, not Skippy™ Smooth peanut butter!”

“Oh yeah,” Pippin hummed. “I’ll take six.”

“Oh, this is just a decoration. Here, have some Reece’s™ peanut butter cups.” When he tossed them into Pippin’s pillow case, he leaned close and whispered, “They’re not really Reece’s™. They’re not only homemade from Skippy™ Smooth peanut butter, but they’re infused with an elf’s magic touch. Specifically my magic touch.”

“Aw, honey, you baked!” said Pippin. His dimpled cheeks blushed.

“How about we sit down and sing a song,” suggested Legolas. He sat down and strummed his bow, then began to play Through the Fire and Flames. Then he slowed down, and strummed three strong, reverberating notes. “Boots and boys, doo-doo-doo~” he twanged.

“Okay. Thank you!” said Pippin, already halfway down the grassy lane. He waved goodbye, a glistening tear glistening in the corner of his glistening eye.

“Fare thee well!” said Legolas, setting down his bow.

Aragorn nodded, bowed, then prostrated himself on the ground, then got up and chuckled. “Lol jk… I’m the king. You bow to me, peasant,” he murmured.

“Um,” umm’d Legolas. “I can hear you.”

“How? I mean, huh?”

He pointed to his perfectly chiseled and pointy ear. “Elves can hear things. Lots of things.”

“Oh. Um.” Aragorn felt a pint of poop fall down his pant leg.

“Well…” Pippin broke the awkward tension with his metaphorical butter knife by leading Aragorn into a massive bush. The bush was like the wardrobe to Narnia, only it wasn’t Narnia they were entering. It was…modern society. Like 2014. Like iPhones and HD 3D High-Def LED technology retina display touch screen television and suburbs and orange county moms and indoor plumbing and McDonald’s. They stood there in awe. Aragorn’s leg felt…poopy. He forgot to clean up the pint of poop on his leg. Oh well.

They began to gallivant down the street, swinging their candy around in their bags. Aragorn’s cat whiskers almost melted off. They became very close. Aragorn reached into Pippin’s sac and pulled out a peanut butter cup. He smirked. “You have some fine cups here Pippin.”

“I don’t understand…” Pippin inquired. “How is that supposed to turn me on?”

“I don’t know…”

“Okay.”

They continued to walk down the street, watching as soccer moms loaded their seven year old children into the back seat of their Toyota™ minivans, whilst talking on their Bluetooth thing.

After a while, Aragorn murmured softly into Pippin’s right ear canal, “How about we cuddle underneath that sheet you’re wearing.”

“Oh, boy! This house looks promising!” Pippin darted away, leaving Aragorn in a pile of dusty dust. He coughed, a tickle wedged deep in his throat, like a wedge of swiss cheese.

“Wait up, Pippin!” called Aragorn, limping along as he hid his embarrassment that had somehow become a physical thing that hindered his ability to walk (wait this isn’t supposed to be as weird as it sounds like). By the time he caught up to him, he was heaving and sweating out of all his cracks and crannies, the remainder of the poop trailing down his leg. He grabbed the hose and hosed himself down till he was squeaky clean like a wubber ducky (rubber ducky).

Pippin turned around. “Your costume! Your whiskers! They washed off!”

Aragorn pulled out a black Crayola™ washable marker and drew his whiskers on again. He then tied his ebony hair like Miley Cyrus’s, like double buns that more or less resembled cat ears. “L’Oreal. Because I’m worth it.”

“Wow. Such costume. Very effort. Much cat.”

“Pippin. It’s 2014, almost 2015. Stop that.”

“Sorry.” A thunderous toot escaped the crevasses of his butt sack.

They proceeded to walk up to the magnificent house. Wow. Truly magnificent. They knocked on the door and waited patiently for three seconds. Then three more seconds. Then three more seconds until Peter Jackson answered the door, with Gedunkadunk behind him, filming his every action. He had a six o’clock Dorito™ shadow on his stubbly chin. He then turned into Neo Peter Jackson. Sparkles glistened in the air from his transformation.

It suddenly started snowing.

“Brr!” cried Neo Peter Jackson. “Gedunkadunk, fetch these two a cup of hot chocolate!” He ran off. He returned with two cups of hot chocolatey milk with whipped cream and marshmallows and sprinkles. Truly a treat.

“Trick or treat!” Pippin held out his pillow case. Before he knew it, the hot chocolate accidentally poured into the billowing fabric, ruining Pippin’s candy.

“GEDUNKADUNK!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!! YOU STOP THAT! YOU SPILLED MY GUESTS’ HOT CHOCOLATE THAT I WAS BREWING ALL DAY!!! GO FETCH A WASH CLOTH!” he snarled nicely and politely. “As I was saying, brrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrr—oh, would you look at that. It stopped snowing.”

The snow discontinued falling.

“Trick or treat!” repeated Pippin.

“Trick or treat!” Aragorn echoed, holding out his pillow case with a casual grin. His eyelashes glistened.

Gedunkadunk cleaned the spilled hot chocolate from Pippin’s candy bag, reversing the hot chocolate effect. Neo Peter Jackson delicately dropped several dozen chocolates and candies into each of their bags.

“Wow!” Pippin cried, his eyes twinkling appreciatively. “Thank you Neo Peter Jackson!”

“Say, Pippin, who is this fellow?” he pointed at Aragorn.

“You mean Aragorn?”

“Oh!” he burst out laughing, laughing jollily. “I didn’t recognize you Aragorn. Your costume is amazing.”

Aragorn cleared his throat. “Thanks,” he grumbled happily.

“Truly, you’re like a completely different person as soon as you don that costume.”

“Thanks,” he repeated gleefully.

Pippin’s crack tickled. He suddenly felt very odd.

“Aragorn?” he turned toward Aragorn. Neo Peter Jackson disappeared, and Gedunkadunk, too. When he looked at Aragorn’s face, he was suddenly a Dorito™. Peter Jackson appeared, devoured the Dorito™, and laughed like a Disney villain. “MUWAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!”

“What is going on?” wondered Pippin.

“Happy Halloween, Pippin!” Peter Jackson said.

Pippin and Aragorn woke up. It was all a dream…



















…Lol jk.