...and Take a Giant Dump in the Cracks of Doom

This is the saga of our sixth play of Lord of the Rings Battlefields, and the first time we beat it; it is notable for the fact that I cannot recall much of what happened between the utter scourging we suffered in the Mines of Moria and our ultimate arrival in dark Mordor other than the number of hobbity (and not-so-hobbity) snacks consumed along the way.

The wife & I sat down with another couple, Jen & George, for an evening of Lord of the Rings with the Battlefields expansion. We are all old hat when it comes to the base game; like a blind onanist we can beat it with our eyes closed. The expansions have proven to be a necessary challenge, and this latest one was no exception. On four other occasions we suffered defeat on the fields of battle, none quite so hilarious as the first time we played in which we did our usual 'run like hell and just get Moria over with' strategy without deploying anyone on the battlefield; as you can imagine, the enemy figures popped out of their holes and ran willy-nilly all over the flow chart that is the Chamber of Mazarbul, kicking off Bad Thing after Bad Thing before vanishing, tittering wildly, down the toilet bowl swirl of our squandered victory. After that initial spectacular loss we realized that it was the equivalent of the hobbits taking off all higglety-pigglety as soon as Aragorn says, "Now, we must all stick togeth--HEY!" to the distant echo of fat, leathery feet slapping on broken stone. The hobbits all running as things dark and pointy hounded them from the shadows, running while crying with that cry-snot coming out of our noses, running until we each got brained by the Balrog's low-hanging nutsack as we ducked between his ankles and out the other side.

The next couple of games tightened up as we learned the ins and outs of the various boards--like how the Black Gate board is very, very touchy, where putting the wrong guy in the wrong place at the wrong time will just funnel bad guys into the Big Eye.

Having learned many hard lessons, tonight we were finally ready to win.

We kicked things off with massive Starbucks' coffees--I personally nursed a venti non-fat sugar-free vanilla latte. Decidedly non-hobbity, it's just like a vanilla latte, but with 'none of the fun.'

Substandard provisions notwithstanding, the first game of the evening was off to a great start; we were in Shelob's lair, only one hobbit down, the other three in good positions. Then, as has been known to happen in this game, all hell broke loose at once--a couple of bad tile draws, a couple of blown die rolls and next thing you know we're all gussied up like Princess Leia on Jabba's sand barge, only instead of looking kinda hot in chainmail bikinis we were covered in pustulant sores and fighting like gaunt slum dogs over the half-charred, half-raw meat of our own haunches.

It was getting late and I was tired, but the women-folk were burning with the desire to kick the crap out of the game, so we set up and began again, convinced that the sixth time would be the charm.

At this point many bottles of 'gourmet' vanilla creme soda had been consumed, in hobbity fashion. One thing I found disturbing was the fact that the soda was, according to the label, 'hand-crafted.' Does this mean someone stirred the vat with their fist and forearm? Like a big bearded guy named Barry? Should I be picking my teeth for hair?

Anyway, Moria was a hell hole. Jen, who was Pippin, managed to bump us down nearly every event, a 'strategy' we refer to as 'going out the back way.' It looked like we weren't even going to make it out of Moria alive, and yet, somehow, we did. Our position was wretched. Everyone was unbelievably corrupt; George, who was in the 'lead' commented, "Hey, I can see my grave from here!" We were low on cards, had no shields, and had spent just about every yellow card from Rivendell to scrape our bacon off the black iron skillet of Sauron's armored-plated butt.

I have to admit, this was where I lost all hope. I figured there was no way we were going to make it through Helm's Deep (let alone to Mordor), so I concentrated on the cookies.

It was a box of lemon ginger creams, though not the ones I usually get. The ones I grew up on are made by some British company, with bright, crispy ginger-snappy cookies that have these little crystalline bursts of actual ginger hidden in them, the whole business held together by a smooth, citrusy lemon creme. But these were not those. For whatever reason my local grocer stopped carrying them a couple of weeks ago, replacing them with a weird replicant version of the cookie made by a French company. They look the same, but they are not quite right inside, like they've been wearing funny Moebius hats and nattering about 'Z-beams glittering in the darkness, etc.' They're mushy; where once there was snap there is now only a pungent paste that sticks to the roof of your mouth like acrid peanut butter. Oh, how I suffered.

The next thing I knew the Ring Bearer, my wife, got up and nuked herself the last of the spinich lasagne. The aroma brought me around, time for elevensies already? Holy crap! We were in Mordor! George had died along the way, though I'm sure we had his corpse bundled up somewhere on the back of the pony.

Our position wasn't too bad at all--the Ring Bearer was downright clean, we were fat with cards and shields. I felt hope stirring in my breast. Dare I give in to it? Or was it just another cruel trick akin to asking your kid to stand up on the coffe table and close their eyes so you can 'teach them a little something about trust.'

We handled the battle of the Black Gate masterfully--taking care to keep the enemies orbiting the Big Eye event, prolonging their hang-time as much as possible and throwing in Gandalf to strike at just the right moment. Jen and I Lembased and Gandalfed the Ring Bearer for 10 cards which she used, between bites of lasagne, to get within Ring-wearing distance from the finish line--she slid her finger into the cold loop and scrabbled invisibly the last few meters to the lip of the volcano. With one last forkful of tomato-y pasta she tossed the die and the Ring tumbled into oblivion.

No victory lasagne for me--only crappy French copy-cookies. And the beginnings of a very hobbity tummy-ache.

Chris

[edited for excess spittle]