The Fellowship pressed on through perils untold. In the Mines of Moria, they battled a Balrog of bureaucracy, a fiery demon of red tape and cover-ups, where Alex Jones swung his axe with cries of “False flag!” and Trump loosed arrows yelling, “You’re fired!” Nick Fuentes scouted ahead, his ranger instincts sniffing out ambushes from orc hordes—endless waves of snarling beasts, their skins marked by foreign runes, driven mad by the Ring’s promise of unchecked migration and dark pacts.
Treachery struck on the slopes of Amon Hen. Boromir’s spirit haunted them in the form of a wavering ally, tempted by the Ring’s whispers of power over the Epstein secrets. But Bongino, the ring-bearer, resisted, his hobbit resilience bolstered by Patel’s counsel. “We fight for the truth,” Patel urged. “Not for control.” Fuentes rallied them, leading a daring escape through the Dead Marshes, where ghostly visions of blackmailed lords floated in the muck.