Hello and welcome to the newest story I have cowritten with my brother.  Enjoy it, or we will come after you with barbeque forks.

Disclaimer:  We don't own things.  Go to hell. 

Note:  An inaccuracy in the numbers of objects has been fixed.  Thanks go to Estella Brandybuck for pointing it out.

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Long ago, the mystical elf smiths of unknown origin (possibly from Mars) came together with a plan to concentrate the power of all the magic everywhere into a set of objects.  There was much argument over what the objects should be.  Some foolish suggestions included swords, medallions, and even something as stupid as rings.  Ultimately they realized that the only true path was to make these sacred objects undergarments, so that they could be easily concealed, and to deter thieves, because, let's face it, who wants to wear someone else's underpants? 

Deep in their mountain forges the elven smiths stitched carefully for many hours, and finally emerged with their masterpieces.

The dwarves received seven pairs of delicate, lacy panties, to feed their deep, inner perviness.  There were, of course, only three, because no one really likes dwarves, and who can blame them?  Also, it has been much debated as to whether any power was actually funneled into these prizes, or if it was just a ruse to get rid of the dwarves before they stunk the place up any worse.

To the men went nine pairs of large, manly boxers featuring pictures of things like bulldogs and machine guns, so that they may boast of how much room they had, and how much they truly needed in addition to it.  To compensate for the sad truth, they were always sure to carry very large swords and ride fast, noisy horses that looked like they were going one hundred miles an hour when they were standing still. 

The elves, the most vain, effeminate, and, above all, conceited of the races, were given three corsets to hopefully choke the life out of the bastards.  To everyone's dismay, this attempt failed, and some elves could be seen wandering around with disturbingly thin waists. 

But they were all of them deceived (now that's what I call low quality grammar, there), for one of the apprentices of the elven smiths, Sauron, had watched and listened carefully to the making of the garments, and learned well how to create them, especially the cross stitch.  In secret, he made another silky darling deep in the dark recesses of his mother's basement before retiring to his Star Trek chat rooms.  It was the One Bra, the most powerful and sexy of all the underwear of power, and he wore it with pride and a sick lack of sexual identity. 

A desperate alliance of all the races came to defeat him and his army of role players and fanfic writers.  They came because of their disapproval of his inappropriate antics as he had often pranced around his front yard, wearing nothing but the Bra and a pair of sweatpants, while eating canned cake frosting with his fingers. 

The legions of protesting warriors quickly slew his role players and fanfic writers as they whimpered and pissed themselves (Which, I might add, only does 2- damage).  Sauron shot various missiles and lasers out of his powerful chest wear, killing large quantities of his enemies. 

Thinking fast, Isildur took off his boot and threw it at Sauron, smacking him squarely upside the head, and knocking him out.  Isildur and Elrond quickly removed Sauron's bra, chopped his head off, and threw him in a dumpster.

"Hey, how do I look?" joked Isildur, shocking Elrond by donning the forbidden booby baskets. 

"Awful!" screamed Elrond, wrenching it off and trying to burn it with a lighter.  "Damn.  It won't burn.  That means he made it so well that we can only burn holes through the cups if we use a cigarette from his own personal stash."

"Okay."

So, they headed down into Sauron's mother's basement, seeking the one thing that could destroy the evil...ness.  (You try to come up with a new word for bra every two minutes.  Go to hell.)  Isildur carried it, and Elrond searched for the pack of cigarettes. 

"You know what?  I think I'm going to keep it," said Isildur, heading up the stairs.  "It's cool."

"Nooooo!" shouted Elrond.  "Destroy it!  It makes you look like a queer!"

But the heart of Isildur was not to be swayed by such small matters.  He took the bra, and wore it almost every day, in plain sight.  He even developed a habit of eating canned cake icing with his fingers. 

This was destined to end quickly.  Isildur was killed by a band of roaming cross dressers in search of new and exciting wardrobe opportunities.  Sadly for them, the body of Isildur  fell into a river, and they were deathly afraid of water because it might stain their various finery. 

The bra was found by Gollum, who took it to a secret mountain lair, and wore it to play tea party with his many dolls he had made out of fish heads and the skin from the hind ends of those orcs unfortunate enough to interrupt him.  He did this for five hundred years, never caring how very scummy it had become.

But the bra abandoned Gollum by unhooking itself, and was found by a most unlikely visitor named Bilbo Baggins.  Bilbo subsequently ran off with it, and tried it on at the first opportunity.  To his delight, he found that the sight of him with the bra snuggled over his fat hobbit mantits was so repulsive that people would unconsciously look the other way, allowing him to do as he damn well pleased. 

And so the bra came to be in the Shire, in the possession of Bilbo.  That's where our story begins, many years later....