I'm back! Well, its been years. Literally. But in the twisted sanctuary of my mind, Mary-Sue has lived on. She simply refused to let me put this one rest. So here she is, to torment us all a little more. Stay tuned for the big Rivendell party next chapter...

- BYO Barf-Bag -

It is a tragic day, when one has to choose between the likes of Aragorn, Legolas and Frodo. But this is the monolithic decision that our heroine faces, on this terrible day of DEATH BY DILDO.

The enemies vanquished, Sky stands alone, gazing rabidly down at the three wounded souls on the ground. It is not apparent where Gandalf, Gimli, Boromir, or any other hideously proportioned characters have dragged their sorry asses off to, but we console ourselves by remembering that we DON'T GIVE A SHIT. More important things are alluded to, such as the satin-y perfection of Sky's skin, and how her eye-lashes extend from here to Mexico and provide cable for the whole of South-East Asia. Satisfied, we move on.

Pippin is cute, so he is spontaneously involved for no particular reason. He contributes by BAWLING. We are filled with COMPASSION and SYMPATHY. Boromir contributes by staring lustfully at Frodo. We assume that he wants 'the ring', and thus, we begin to treat him as though he is a peodophelic freak. We do not try to justify our reasons for treating him like crap, for let us not forget that Boromir has a HORN and therefore has no personality whatsoever. So we should have suspected he was a fully-fledged weirdo of drastic proportions from the beginning. Der.

Many factors play out in Sky's decision of who to save, and who to leave alone to decompose slowly painfully and in a puddle of their own filth. But this, of course, is too barbaric an eventuality to actually happen, so with some fascinating insight into the way the dawning light reflects of her azure/auburn/kahki/sapphire/piss-colored hair (it is dawn for approximately 22 hours of the typical Mary-Sue day) Sky faces the imperilous question that has plagued prostitutes since the beginning of time… WHO TO TEND TO FIRST.

Legolas and Frodo immediately take the lead. This is because, despite his muscular muscularity of muscularness, Aragorn is approximately 35 years old, which will in all probability be mistaken for anything between 40-80 – but this, by its own merits is entirely irrelevant, because anyone over 19 is as good as DEAD anyway.

Frodo wins brownie points for EYE COLOR, but this is not enough to contend with the vast array of acronyms for "SEXY MOTHER-FUCKER" that Legolas is slowly drowning in.

She approaches the incapacitated elf SLOWLY, and as she does so, the clouds part, the sun haloes her in gold, the trees sing, the world moves in slow-motion, she levitates off the ground, a shooting star streaks across the sky, and a whole flock of DOVES fly out of her asshole. In this manner, she is able to assess that Legolas is PARALYSED from the neck down, and if she hadn't been there to smear him in illegal substances, talk to random animals and expose herself unnecessarily, he would have DIED.

DIE, DEATH, FATALITY, BEREAVEMENT, DEMISE, DECEASE, PASS ON, PACK IT IN, KICK THE BUCKET. Poor Thesaurus.

Just in case the meaning wasn't quite clear enough, Legolas serves the greater good by actually CARKING IT right there and then. He does not froth at the mouth. He does not lapse into unsightly spasms. He does not even loose control of his bowels. This is something Gimli might do, perhaps because he is a dwarf, but mostly because he is UGLY. In fact, at this juncture, Gimli indulges in ALL OF THE ABOVE. Nobody notices. For all eyes are upon Legolas, who succeeds in looking ANGELIC, even in the throes of spontaneous death.

Pippin promptly bawls his eyes out. Sam promptly joins him. Everyone promptly blames it on BOROMIR. Reader's promptly Alt+F4 to avoid further nausea.

But SKY- the very epitome of charm, grace, and 14-year-old wet dreams – is not to be deterred. She whips out her trusty wand, along with enough herbs to land her a lifetime sentence in a Balinese prison, and a MANUAL handed down from the Sacred Line of her lineage ("Bringing-Sexy-Characters-Back-to-Life for Dummies" $29.95 RRP).

We do not yet reveal that Legolas's fatal state is only temporary, because, quite obviously, Legolas is VITAL to the nauseating train-wreck that we are passing off as a PLOT-LINE. But first and foremost, and infinitely more importantly, not even DEATH is going to stop Sky from getting a good old-fashioned SHAG. It does not occur to us that this plot-twist is as sickeningly obvious as Liz Hurley's breast implants -on a good day.

A few things must happen in order to 'reawaken' the dead elf. Such might include deducing WHAT IN HELL caused this sudden paralysis in the first place, and how such a state can be reversed. But we don't have time for that. The most important (and most elaborately chronicled) facts include Sky SUCKING LEGOLAS'S FACE and Legolas SUCKING HERS RIGHT BACK despite his state of...er...'deadness'. Of second-most importance, is the kaleidoscopic myriad of TEARS that fall from her alluring, multi-coloured, come-to-bed eyes, drip down her chin, slide over the perfect mounds of her double-D breasts, and onto the cheek/chest/groin-region of Orlan-…ahem…LEGOLAS. A large percentage of this seeping facial moisture is more than likely a mix of SNOT, SWEAT and the BOTOX she received earlier that day, but this is conveniently ignored.

So is the fact that Gimli just dragged himself through the scene, with nothing but a bloody stump where his leg used to be. IRRELEVANT. Back to Legolas.

The elf awakens.

Everyone is a bawling, snotty, diseased, and potentially suicidal mess of emotions, but Sky simply giggles, re-applies her eyeliner, and winks in a manner so provocative that half the Fellowship dislocate their jaws in irrepressible AWE.

After such an EXHAUSTING ritual that has drastically chipped Sky's nail-polish, it is left to GANDALF to resurrect Aragorn and Frodo. However, we don't have time to allow him, or his distastefully receding hair-line, any detailed accounts of this resurrection whatsoever - so for all we know, he could have taken a large dump on their faces instead, and played hockey with Gimli's severed leg.

Whatever the case, they are up and running, and sexy enough to eat, which is apparently all that matters.

And there stands Sky; their saviour, their light, their fry-cook, their walking/talking Playboy centrefold. All eyes are upon her, waiting for her to speak. And, as usual, the tinkling, melodic beauty of the words she speaks is so flawlessly befitting of the cataclysmic event that had just come to pass, that the company weep with joy.

"Elrond's having a piss-up. Last one there's a loser."