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Life in Fandom

Chapter 1: Welcome to Fandom

by allamericanreject

LONG AND POINTLESS (BUT NECESSARY) AUTHOR’S NOTE: The story of how Life in Fandom came to be is a long and boring one involving the enigmatic papaya that is my brain, a dirty refrigerator, and a spray can of Fantastik. And copious amounts of Angry Beavers-watching. To make a (very) long story short, I was one day bemoaning both the discontinuation of Bagenders and the fact that I wasn’t creative enough to come up with something like Bagenders. And then I thought, well, what if the Fellowship lived together, but not in northern England…in a different sort of place entirely? And Fandom was born.

Fandom is a city, but not a normal city: it’s the city where the main and major characters from every fandom (even the ones I don’t know about) live. Really, it’s like a crossover of every universe there is out there. (Of course, as a major Ringer, I’ll be focusing mostly on the life of our favorite Fellowship, but there’ll be several million cameos.)

Now, you have to remember that Fandom is where major characters from EVERYTHING live, divided up into neighborhoods by their genre. However, I don’t know every fan realm there is out there. (For example, I for one never fell into the Star Wars craze.) If you have a major character from a fandom that you’d really, really like to see make an appearance, let me know. (Unfortunately, I’m not taking requests for Original Character or Self-Inserted Character appearances. Fandom is, ironically, a fan-free zone.)

This first episode (see the Bagenders influence?) is rather a test. If you like it, please let me know. If not, let me know what I could do better. And if you like the idea of Fandom, but want to take your own favorites – for example, the Harry Potter crew – and write about their adventures in this mystical realm of wisdom and flying mangos, let me know!

So with some further ado, but not much…welcome to Fandom!

DISCLAIMER-ADO: Fandom, in all its insanity, belongs to me, as do Digget and the Something. However, the actual fandoms within Fandom belong to their owners. And if anyone knows how to write a Scottish accent, PLEASE give me lessons.


Mr. Frodo Baggins of number 9 Fantasia Lane awoke quite early to find Digget, his dog with horns, licking his face. He immediately sprang out of bed and into his yoga routine, which took ten minutes but kept him so relaxed. After finishing with a graceful bow, he pulled on his terrycloth robe and slippers and hurried downstairs to the kitchen.

Number 9 Fantasia Lane had the distinct look of being a very messy house that was hastily straightened up to give the façade of clean. Frodo waltzed into the kitchen, where sun was pouring into the windows and Legolas was making coffee and toast. Digget followed, running over to Legolas and peeing on the floor next to his foot affectionately. Legolas gave the dog with horns the sort of Elvish disapproving look that can kill, and handed Frodo a cup of coffee, which Frodo took gingerly and poured in Digget’s bowl when Legolas wasn’t looking. Members of the Fellowship had learned to treat anything that Legolas gave them with extreme caution, as he was prone to “Elven-izing” food, i.e., putting herbs and other salad-y things where they shouldn’t be put.

“We’ve got roaches,” Legolas announced by way of greeting. “The number for the exterminator is on the speed dial. You’ll have to call, I’m going round to number 3 to help Miracle Max collect wolfsbane.”
“Is anyone else up yet?” Frodo asked, filling Digget’s bowl with Cheez-Its and therefore covering the abandoned Elven-ized coffee.

“No, they’re all still passed out,” Legolas said darkly. “The party at the Pirates of the Caribbean house last night, don’t you remem- bloody hell!”

A large black iron ball had flown suddenly through the window. There was a muffled yell of “Impedimenta!” from next door, and the ball stopped, three inches from Legolas’ face. A few moments later, a gangly red-haired boy scrambled over the fence in the yard and dashed up to the kitchen door, pounding frantically on it. Frodo stood and let him in with a polite “Good morning, Ron.”

“Sorry about that, mate,” Ron panted, taking the Bludger from where it still hung in the air in front of Legolas’ nose. “Fred and George are supposed to be playing Beaters, but they’re down at the shop – ”

“This early?” Frodo said mildly, sitting down at the kitchen table and pulling the newspaper towards him. This newspaper was a medley of newspapers from all over Fandom: the Daily Prophet, Chicago Sun-Times, and a Back to the Future newspaper that kept changing between past and present news were apparent within the first three pages.

“Yeah,” Ron said, taking a piece of toast from Legolas’ plate. He spat it out again a moment later. “Bloody hell, that tastes like bubotuber pus!”

Frodo froze. There was silence for a few moments, then Legolas said, “It’s whole wheat bread,” in an immensely cold and threatening voice. Frodo stiffened. The other members of the Fellowship knew from first hand experience that a) Legolas shopped exclusively at Whole Foods, b) Whole Foods was home to many organic things but nothing that tasted good, and c) Legolas became incredibly defensive of his food choices. The neighbors, however, still hadn’t learned this.

“It’s good,” Ron said after a moment. “Yeah. Good. Er, you’ve got something in your garden, did you know?”

“It’s Gollum,” a voice said from the hall. “He’s been living there for three years.” With that, Aragorn strode into the kitchen, veered away from Legolas and his toast, and opened the refrigerator.

“Of course.” Ron backed slowly towards the door; he had been wary of Aragorn ever since the Man in question had accidentally walloped him in the head with Anduril at a block party two summers ago. “I’d better be going, Charlie’s coming round for Quidditch practice.” He vanished out the back door and could be seen scrambling over the fence a moment later.

Aragorn pulled out a Cold One (Legolas frowned disapprovingly) and snapped it open on the kitchen counter. Frodo flipped through the paper until he reached the Welcome Wagon page at the back. “We’ve got a new Frankenstein moving in on Scifi Circle,” he said, more to break the uncomfortable silence than anything else. “This one’s coming in from Van Helsing. We’ll have to take something round to it; d’you think it’ll like pot roast?”

“The Young Frankenstein Frankenstein liked casserole,” Aragorn reminded him, sitting down at the table. “Or his wife did, anyway.” Legolas sat down on Aragorn’s other side. Both Aragorn and Frodo scooted their chairs a respectful distance from the whole wheat toast.

At that moment, there was a sudden pounding on the ceiling. The windows began to shake. The screen door rattled. The sounds of Blink-182 filled the house.

“Pippin’s up,” Legolas said.

There was the unmistakable sound of someone falling out of a bed above them, followed by cursing.

“Merry’s up,” Frodo said.

A moment later, said hobbits catapulted into the kitchen. They were dressed in regulation sk8er boi clothing but, in deference to their hobbit heritage, wore no shoes.

“I’ve got to go,” Aragorn said abruptly, finishing his Cold One and tossing it at the bin. It missed by a good three feet and landed on the linoleum; however, because Cold Ones come in such extremely durable bottles, did not break. “I’m meeting some of the Ghost Busters for breakfast at the Mellow Mushroom.” He reached for the keys to his Toyota, then noticed that Legolas’ back was turned and pocketed the keys to Legolas’ Lexus instead. “I’ll be back around lunchtime.”

Please don’t be drunk when you come in,” Frodo called as Aragorn disappeared into the hallway, “I’m having Mrs. Potts round for coffee.”

“Ye know, anywhere else it would be considered rude tae drink coffee out o’ the guests,” Pippin said, pulling a frozen pizza out of the freezer and motioning to Merry to turn on the oven.

“The party at Pirates of the Caribbean’s couldn’t have been good if you’re able to eat this early,” Frodo observed. “Usually you’re still too hung over.”

“No, no, it were brilliant, just didn’ get s’much drinkin’ done as usual,” Pippin said. “There were a fight, ye know.” He leaned close to Frodo’s chair, and Frodo leaned away, because Pippin still smelled like rum and pirates, which was rather an odiferous bouquet. “Apparently, Horatio Hornblower didn’t get an invitation, but they showed up anyway.” He grinned, and Frodo made a mental note to stop letting Pippin spend so much time around Jack Sparrow, as he was certain Pippin hadn’t had those gold teeth before Pirates moved in two streets over.

“Made a big fuss out o’ the whole thing,” Merry contributed from the oven, where he was slowly watching the pizza cook. “Pulled out swords an’ the whole bit. Aragorn made us leave then. Said he didn’t want us to get hurt, but we think he was jealous because Sam confiscated Anduril after the inc’dent at the blocik party.”

“Did you see – er – Will Turner?” Legolas asked forcedly, looking as though he had swallowed a lemon. The hobbits jumped; apparently, they hadn’t noticed he was there.

“Yeah,” Pippin said thoughtfully. “Wasn’t too pleased wit’ the fight, I think. Didn’ approve.”

“Even though he joined in after a while,” Merry added.

Legolas made a “harrumph” noise in his throat. He heartily disliked Will Turner and his “Dwarvish blacksmithing”, as he called it. Gimli had been quick to point out that Dwarves didn’t blacksmith, they mined, but Legolas’ opinion of Will hadn’t improved at all at this revelation. He thoroughly resented the fact that Pirates of the Carribbean had a house both on Historical Fiction Place and in St. Disney Park.

“Merry, we’re goin’ tae be late,” Pippin said suddenly.

“The pizza’s cooking.”

Merry and Pippin had, to the shock of the other members of the Fellowship (Gimli had actually had a heart attack), been the first to find new employment in Fandom. As soon as the Weasley twins had set up shop for “Weasley’s Wizard Wheezes” downtown, they had found themselves with two eager employees who demanded sufficient discounts on all merchandise.

“Fred and George went in early today,” Frodo said, with the air of someone who had just remembered something that they don’t particularly care about but is incredibly important to someone else. “If you get in on time for once, they might give you some new Skiving Snackboxes for free. Yours are almost empty.”

“Are you tryin’ tae get rid o’ us?”


Pippin eyed him suspiciously, then checked his watch again. “Merry!”

Pizza, Pippin!”

“Merry, we need new Snackboxes!” Pippin grabbed his comrade and they dashed out the door. After a few minutes of noises usually related to the hotwiring of a car, Frodo and Legolas heard Aragorn’s Toyota pull out of the driveway.

Silence fell over the kitchen. Legolas chewed his toast morosely. Frodo shifted in his seat. They were saved from this horribly unnatural peacefulness when Sam trooped in through the backdoor, covered in mud.

“Good mornin’, Frodo, Legolas,” he said chivalrously, then sniffed the air. “Whose pizza – ”

“Merry and Pippin’s. You can have it.” Frodo gave Sam a suspicious glance. “Where have you been?”

“Out,” Sam said vaguely.

“Out where?”

“Just around the neighborhood.”


“It’s a nice day.”

Frodo could not deny this, as he looked out the screen door and onto the backyard, where sunlight was streaming down through the trees. He could see small shapes on broomsticks rising from next door’s backyard; Gollum was sniffing around the compost heap; Galahad from number 5, the Monty Python and the Holy Grail house, was attempting to sneak onto the Fellowship’s trampoline.

“Oy! You! Off there!” Sam shouted through the screen; apparently, he had followed Frodo’s gaze. Galahad turned, saw the small displeased hobbit at the door, and made a run for it.

“Legolas, are you doing anything today?” Frodo asked pointedly; the Elf had been taking up space in the kitchen for approximately half an hour, and Frodo wanted to get the day’s cooking done. Legolas jerked and swung his head around to look at Frodo.

“Only going round to help Hagrid get rid of some pixies that are – ”

“Taking over Shrek’s swamp, I know, Fiona told Buttercup and Buttercup told me about it over lunch yesterday.” Frodo beamed. Within his first few days of life in Fandom, he had quickly set up a thorough and complex communication network that ran throughout the city. Gimli had likened this to the Mafia on a number of occasions; he was now banned from Historical Fiction Place by direct order from Don Vito, who didn’t like people making unfavorable comparisons. “Why don’t you get over to number 7, then? I’m sure Hagrid won’t mind if you hang around for a few extra hours. As a matter of fact, Sam, why don’t you go with him?”

“No, I’ve got plans for today.” Inexplicably, Sam blushed bright red.

“Well, no time like the present,” Frodo said briskly, standing and putting Aragorn’s fallen Cold One in the bin. “If you’ve got plans, best to get them over with, I say.”

Sam seemed to take these words to heart, and immediately disappeared out the back door again. Frodo whisked Legolas’ toast plate away from him and put it in the sink. “If you happen to see Aragorn later, talk him into getting me a dishwasher,” he said over his shoulder. Digget, whose face had been happily buried in Cheez-Its and Elven-ized coffee for the past half hour, barked and ran out his doggie-door into the backyard.

Legolas looked disgruntled for a moment – an expression which life with the Fellowship had perfected for him – then rose to his feet. Frodo was standing on a footstool which that sweet Granger girl from next door had bewitched to carry him around the kitchen; she had been very sympathetic to the plight of the hobbits, who were too short to get around the kitchen the normal way, although she had learned very quickly not to call them cute.

“Aragorn’s taken my keys,” Legolas said suddenly, staring at the key rack.

“Take his.”

“I can’t, Merry and Pippin have stolen his car.”

“Take Gimli’s.”

“Urgh, he drives a Saturn.”

“Then walk, it’s only to next door and you’re an Elf, and anyway it’s not as though the houses here are far apart or something, you take three steps and you’re there.”

“All right, all right,” Legolas said crossly. He did not mind being cross when it was only Frodo or Aragorn around, as Frodo was likely not to tell anyone and Aragorn was likely to forget, but he had an image to maintain in front of the other members of the Fellowship, and that image was aloof and composed Whole Foods cult member, which did not bode well with crossness. He pulled on his Elven-cloak – pixies had been known to bite – and swept out of the kitchen like a true Prince of Mirkwood.

Frodo hummed softly to himself as he cleaned up the kitchen. When he happened to glance at the corner with the stove in it, however, his happiness came to an abrupt halt.


Flying out of the kitchen, Frodo raced past the muffled mess of the rest of the house and dove into Legolas’ room, which was kept neurotically clean. The Elf even did hospital corners on his bed. He sat there, shaking, taking in the surgical cleanliness, until Boromir’s head popped around the doorframe.

“Frodo?” he said, in a rare moment of concern.

“Roaches,” Frodo managed.

“In the kitchen, I know, Legolas was complaining about them last night. D’you have a can of – ”

“Exterminator,” Frodo said reverently and yet darkly, in the same way that an Arnold Schwarzenegger fan might say “Terminator.” His eyes were glinting maniacally.

“It’s only a few roaches, we just need insecticide, I could call Legolas on his mobile and have him bring home some of Hagri– ”

Frodo shook his head. “Exterminator. Number’s on the speed dial. You call, I’m not going back in that kitchen until those monsters have been obliterated.”

Boromir turned away and trudged down the hallway, muttering random curses against hobbits, roaches, and speed dials as he did so. Upon reaching the kitchen, he examined the scrawling writing on the speed dial. Due to the fact that Legolas, who had been known to call the exterminator if he so much as saw a daddy longlegs, was one of his housemates, the exterminator was number two on the dial, second only to Pizza Hut.

The button was pressed. The phone was ringing. Boromir leaned against the stove, reconsidered, and moved as far from the stove and the corner that contained it as the phone cord allowed. He might not be a pansy, but he didn’t want a roach scuttling up his leg.

“You’ve reached the Mouse Hunt residence, number four Comediac Circle. We can’t come to the phone right now, possibly because we’re in some outrageous and hilarious situation, but please leave a message after the beep and we’ll get back to you as soon as we get ourselves out of this mess in a funny way.”

“This is Lord of the Rings -- number 9 on Fantasia – and we’ve got a major infestation of roaches.” Boromir considered the three innocent roaches sitting benignly in the corner, then continued. “Our house-hobbit is hysterical, if you could come round as soon as possible, we’d really appreciate it.” He hung up and backed slowly away from the stove corner, retreating into the safety of the television room, where he spent most of his time anyway.

Gandalf was asleep in the automatic massage chair in the corner, but as he was almost always asleep in said chair, Boromir ignored him. Long days of shared television room space had brought them to an understanding; Boromir would let Gandalf sleep, and would put closed caption on the television so that he could hear over the snoring. He would also forget to take closed caption off, thereby annoying the living beans out of the other members of the Fellowship, none of whom knew how to take closed caption off.

It was a Rocko’s Modern Life marathon, and Boromir relaxed into the state of oblivion well known to all professional television watchers.

The arrival of Aragorn three hours later went unnoticed by Boromir until Aragorn ceremoniously entered the television room, tripped over Boromir’s outstretched foot, and landed face down in a pile of unexplained and unclaimed laundry. He cursed into a pair of someone’s shorts.

“You’re drunk,” Boromir said, eyes never leaving the television. “Go back into the kitchen, I can’t hear the television when you talk, and you always want to talk when you’re drunk.”

“Frodo’s got one o’ hish – hish girlie mates over,” Aragorn said, sitting up and giggling drunkenly. As his head was blocking the television, Boromir craned his neck to look around him.

“Buttercup again? She was round here yesterday, doesn’t she have her own house?”

“No, thish one’s a teapot.”

Anywhere else, this statement – in this context – would have sounded rather out of place. In Fandom, however, it elicited only a shrug and a quick shove to the head that was blocking the television screen.


“I can’t see when your head’s there,” Boromir said patiently, stretching out his legs and using Aragorn’s shoulders as a footrest. Aragorn fell silent, mesmerized by the sight of a male kangaroo in cartoon form prancing about on the television screen.

It was to this cozy domestic scene that Legolas entered later, covered with small teeth marks and in a very bad mood. Aragorn noted this and made a tactical retreat, as Legolas always liked to bring up old arguments and things that had happened that morning whenever he was in a bad mood, and the stealing of the Lexus would probably be dredged up within a few minutes.

“I don’t want to watch this,” Legolas said flatly to Boromir, who was slightly disappointed from the disappearance of his footrest.

“I don’t care.”

“Change it.”

“To what, the Weather Channel?” Boromir meant this to be scathing, but unfortunately Legolas was an Elf and therefore both impervious to sarcasm and master of the art of sarcasm, so the bite was lost on him.

The Englishman’s on channel seven, change it.”

“Why? We live two streets over from The Englishman, you can go round there and ask them to re-enact the whole movie whenever you want!”

His only answer was a sharp kick to the knee. Boromir eyed Legolas warily. Not only was he an Elf, and therefore good at combat, he was also in a very bad mood and probably not adverse to the idea of fighting dirty.

“Channel seven it is, then.”

“Take the captions off.”

“But Gandalf’s snoring – ”

I don’t care, I’ve got Elvish hearing, haven’t I? Take the captions off!”

Boromir started to respond, but was interrupted by the sound of the doorbell playing the overture from The Producers. Legolas had had Gimli rig the doorbell up specifically. There was a crash from the kitchen, and Sam flew through the television room to the front door, face red. Boromir muted the television and Gandalf’s snores stopped abruptly.

After a few minutes of whispered conversation in the foyer, the front door shut again and Sam hurried back through the television room, face still red. Boromir turned to Legolas.

“What was that?”

Legolas, however, had an insanely annoying smirk on his face and refused to tell Boromir anything that his miraculous pointed ears had heard. The gong sounded for supper, which made Merry and Pippin snicker, and they all converged in the Dining Room.

The Dining Room was not a frequent place of residence for the Fellowship. There were doilies everywhere, and floral wallpaper, and a tablecloth. The Fellowship stood against the wall, looking lost, aside from Frodo, who had a determined glint in his eye.

“Er – Frodo – ” Aragorn said after a bit of uncomfortable silence, “why, exactly, are we in the Dining Room?”

“Roaches,” Frodo said, shuddering. “Sit. Eat. We’re having salad.”

“Salad does not a supper make,” Boromir muttered, but he was quiet, as Frodo tended to get rather violent if his cooking (or, in this case, lack thereof) was insulted. They took their seats at the table, shifting uncomfortably in the chairs with crocheted covers, and took the salad that Frodo offered (well, thrust at) them.

Normally the dinner conversation would be full of people’s daily conquests – Gandalf would talk about going round to the Wizard of Oz house to hit on Glinda the Good Witch, Aragorn would regale them with tales of his drunken adventures at the Mellow Mushroom, Merry and Pippin would describe the various clientele that they had served at Weasley’s Wizard Wheezes that day. However, such conversation seemed out of place amidst flower wallpaper and doilies, so an awkward silence fell around the table as the Fellowship chewed and digested, in that order.

It was then that the kitchen exploded.

AUTHOR’S NOTE: Whoo, never thought I’d get that finished. This is mostly an introductory chapter, and therefore not very funny, so don’t form a definite opinion yet. And don’t worry, there will be many more cameos in the next chapter. Oh, and I’m taking requests for cameos starting…now!


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Welcome to Fandom
19 Aug 2004
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19 Aug 2004