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“To Mordor we go, then. But we’ll need allies stout and true.”
Thus, the Fellowship was formed. They set out at dawn, crossing the Brandywine River under the watchful gaze of the stars. In the misty woods of Bree, they met Gimli the Dwarf—or rather, Alex Jones, a bellowing mountain-dweller with a beard as wild as his theories and an axe forged from pure info-war steel. “The Ring is a globalist plot!” he roared, his voice echoing off the Prancing Pony’s walls. “Chemtrails in the sky, fluoride in the water—it’s all connected to that Epstein abomination! I’ll cleave through any orc who stands in our way, be they from the East or the South, swarming like locusts under Sauron’s spell.”
Further along the path, in the ethereal glades of Rivendell, they encountered Legolas the Elf, but in this tale, he was no mere woodland sprite. He was Donald Trump, the golden-haired archer of Lothlórien, his bow strung with strings of unfiltered rhetoric and arrows tipped with tweets that could fell foes from afar. “This Ring? It’s huge, folks. The biggest blackmail operation you’ve ever seen. And those orcs—bad hombres, pouring in from Asia and Africa, controlled by the deep state Sauron. We’re gonna destroy it, make Middle-earth great again!” His elven grace was unmatched, dodging scandals like shadows in the wind, and his aim was true as a wall against invaders.
