Subject: That's A Nice Fanfic You Have There.
Author:
Posted on: 2022-03-07 12:17:50 UTC

Drip.

Drip.

Drip.

I open my eyes and look around blearily. Last thing I remember, I was sitting at my computer, just having published my latest Lord of the Rings fanfic (The Tousel-Headed League, my second Hemlock Holmes and June Whitson story); now I'm in a dark room, tied to a chair, listening to the sound of water dripping from the damp ceiling.

"Hello?" I call, my voice echoing unpleasantly. "What's going on?" I think for a moment. "Is this OFUM?" I ask hesitantly. "It seemed much nicer in the fics..."

Click. A white light fills the room. I cringe away, eyes watering, trying to give them time to adjust.

"Mr... Huinesoron," says a man, in the most perfect Received Pronunciation English accent imaginable. "That name is not doing you any favours."

"I know it's not grammatically correct..." I raise my head, blinking against the light. There are three of them - two men and one woman, all dressed in what looks very much like black leather. "This is OFUM, right?"

The woman sniffs. "We already have Miss So-Called Cam in custody," she says, in exactly the same accent as the man. "I suggest you worry about yourself."

"Believe me, I am." I swallow, and try to shift my hands against my bonds. "Listen, what's this all- who are you?"

The woman folds her arms across her chest. I see that she is holding a black horse-crop in one hand. "I... am TOLKIEN," she says.

I stare. "Um. You don't look like Tolkien?"

The whip slashes across my cheek; if the chair hadn't been fastened to the floor, I would have toppled over. "Do not speak The Name!" the woman snarls. "It is trademarked!"

"Fine! Fine!" I yelp, my face burning with pain. "You're Tol- um, that. Fine! But why am I here?"

The man who spoke before steps forward. He has a scabbard on his belt, with a long and ominous looking sword poking out of it. "You are here to answer for your crimes against the Tolkien Estate," he says, looming forward.

I can't help myself. "You'd better watch yourself," I say, "she doesn't like people saying that name."

The man smiles coldly. "But of course I can say it," he says. "I am TOLKIEN."

The third man, slighter and nervous-looking, holds his hand up. "I'm TOLKIEN too," he says in the very same accent.

"And I'm Alpharius," I blurt out. The whip cracks down on my other cheek, and I cringe.

"This is no laughing matter!" the woman snaps. She glances over her shoulder, then adds, "Nor will you find our colleagues at Games Workshop as forgiving as we are."

"As lenient," the nervous man hisses. "You don't want The Mouse to hear you quoting Star Wars."

"They are American," the woman says dismissively. "I claim... 'fair use'."

I'm still trying to put this all together into something that makes the blindest bit of sense. "Is this... is this about my fanfic?"

The first man growls, a deep and vicious sound. "Fans," he rumbles. "Fiction. As if you know the meaning of either word."

"Er." I squirm against the ropes again. "I think I do, actually?"

"Fiction," the man says, leaning in, "is what TOLKIEN owns. Fans are a viru-" He hesitates, glancing back at the men at the back. "A bacterium," he amends. "Your so-called 'stories' are theft. And it will no longer be tolerated."

I really want to raise a hand, like the naughty child in class. "Which stories are we talking about?"

The whip cracks down again, and my ear blazes with pain. "All of them!" the woman declares. "You write about The Shire(c), Gondor(c), Hobbits(c), rings(c), good versus evil(c)... it is an intolerable violation of the rights of TOLKIEN!"

"I don't-" She raises the whip again, and I cower in my chair. "All right!" I squeak. "I get it!"

"You don't get it," the man at the back speaks up. "Only TOLKIEN is permitted to receive it(c). That's the point."

"Okay." I'll say anything at this point. "You want me to stop writing Tolk-" The whip comes up again. "Sorry! Um, fanfic about Middle-" The larger man leans forward threateningly. "No! I meant... you want me to stop doing... the thing that I was doing. And I get that. And I will. And I'm sorry."

The three straighten up and look at each other. "Well, TOLKIEN?" says the burly man. "What do you think?"

"I don't like it, TOLKIEN," says the woman. "He gave in too easily."

"But we have a long list to work through," the slight man - TOLKIEN, I guess - says, stepping between them. "I say we hand him over; if he dares defame TOLKIEN by mentioning our property ever again, we can bring him back in."

"Agreed," the other man says, and after a moment, "agreed," the woman concurs. The three turn without a word and walk out of the room. The last one out reached sideways and clicks the switch, leaving me in darkness again.

"Um." I clear my throat, hearing the echoes again. "Hello? I'm still in here?"

There is a rustling sound, like something very large slithering across the concrete floor. Then, very close to my ear, I hear a hissing, rattling breath.

"Hello, Huinessssoron," whispers a sillibant, serpentine voice. "Let'ssss talk about a little sssstory called 'Harry Potter and the Sssssswisss Army Broom'..."


Games Workshop don't appreciate that sort of thing. Serpent!Rowling comes by way of The Midnight Society; I've no idea what her current views on fanfic are, but I figure she'd see this scenario and just NEED to stick her scaly head in.

hS

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