Uberhobbit

Filbo Stoutwrist didn't know much about the world. He was born in his village and he knew full well he'd die there. He hadn't ventured more than a half mile outside of it either- because that, as everyone knew, was folly.

But Filbo, like virtually all his kin and townsfolk knew pretty much all there was to know about farming. As Hobbits, there was a natural inclination, of course, but it could be said with no exaggeration the good folk of that village had lived for several generations at the pinnacle of the craft.

They knew everything there was to know about making things grow. Everything about the soil, the sun, the water and the air that was needed to produce healthy taters, rhubarb, strawberries, and all manner of vegetables and grains, not to mention some of the loveliest flower gardens in all of Eriador.

The people of that village were so skilled in farming because those gardens (and in fact their whole village) was little more than a prison. For their home was nestled on the fringes of the dreaded Ettenmoors, a land becoming eclipsed by the Shadow.

Roaming bands of orcs, wargs, and spiders did daily run rampant and unchecked across the lands all around them. Mighty men defended the ruins of ancient keeps that dotted the region but in time all were swallowed by the Shadow. For generations it had been thus. Truth be told, no one currently in the village could be quite sure why their forefathers had ever come here at all.

And yet, here they remained, all this time drawing beautiful life from blood-soaked rock. Perhaps the land was once upon a time nothing but pure and green. And now, while the men fought in keeps with swords and shields against a vicious rampaging army... The Hobbits remained in their village and fought against darkness with beauty; fought against death with life. They would never surrender, and they were indeed mighty, these Master Hobbit farmers of the Ettenmoors.

SSX

The sun sliced Moby's eyes like a knife as he emerged from his cabin at the crack of noon. In response, His Majesty Mr. Jones put on his patented superstar shades and gave old Sol the finger. He scratched his bare chest and allowed a brief shivering yawn as he scanned the mountain before him. Satisfied that all of his domain was in order, he figured he'd go see how his mate Brodi was handling the morning after.

Brodi sat, as expected, in the lotus position on the deck of his cabin facing East. "Oy!" Moby called as he skidded down the snowbank between their cabins. His over-sized unlaced board boots dug trenches. Brodi turned his head around to flash his California grin, black Ray-Bans, and frosted scruff 'do.

"It lives!" Brodi laughed. "You outdid yourself last night, Bro. Heh... just like every night."

"Wot?" Moby replied in feigned innocence. "A champion cannot rest on 'is laurels, now can 'e? The public demands Mister Moby in top form at all times!"

"Heavy is the head..." Brodi said as he turned his grin back up to the sun. "You 'bout ready to hit the slopes, Bro? I know you don't want to get slushy now that he's coming back to the tour."

"Piss off!" Moby indignantly responded as Brodi chuckled. "That French git got tired of Alpine snow up is arse so now 'e's comin' back 'ere on 'oliday." He flung his arms up in emphasis of this pronouncement and was suddenly struck by a sinister funk.

"A man should always respect his rivals," Brodi rebutted.

"Aw to 'ell with that. That twat might count as a rival if I trip over 'im on my way to the lift, aye?"

Moby Jones picked up a handful of snow, packed it into a snowball and scrubbed a bit under his arms. Brodi noticed this out of the corner of his eye and his grin was immediately replaced by a gag. "Wot?" asked a shrugging Moby who then received a powdery thwak to the back of his head.

"Rise and shine, snoozer!" Zoe hollered as she and her board whooshed down from behind the two men, rode the wooden rail of Brodi's deck, and then sailed out into the air and on down hill. They could swear she even managed to wiggle her backside at them crudely in the course of this graceful maneuver.

"Cheeky Tart!" Moby called after her with a beaming grin and fist shaking in mock rage before scrambling back up the bank to go get his board.

Uncle Enzo, Coda

Uncle Enzo sat in the study of his well-protected mansion. He hated that he was mostly immobile, but the stab wounds were healing "better than expected." The study was once used for book reading, but now Uncle Enzo just came to focus on the portrait of his father.

Uncle Enzo's father, Tony, was a second generation American, back when the U.S. existed. Tony's father was a meat packer, and he came home from work everyday dog-tired. Tony vowed that he would never work so much that it would take him away from his family. So, he started a pizza business in Little Italy, New York, New York.

It was a simple business of making pizza based on his mother's recipes, and they became quite popular. He emulated the Asians over in Little China and hired delivery boys to run it over to whomever ordered the pizza. Rather than pay upon delivery, many customers would come in the next day to pay for last night's meal, and for Tony that was just fine.

Uncle Enzo's favorite thing about his father's old business, one that had grown into the pizza place in North America under Uncle Enzo's guidance, was the promise of a hot pizza in half an hour. Of course, when you are only delivering to people you personally know in Little Italy it was a little simpler. If one of Tony's pizzas came after half an hour, Tony invited the customer over to his house for a personally prepared full Italian meal.

Now it was different. The fucking customers won a veritable lottery if a pizza was delivered over half an hour, and then people had to be fired, accounts had to be re-evaluated, and the media ate up the story like starving dogs. But that was the price to pay for destroying all the other pizza companies. Uncle Enzo finished his drink with a salute to the painting, and left the study to go read the daily report on North American pizza delivery times.