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We Love the Subs

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“Dude.” Elijah dropped a half-finished bag of Cheetos off of the couch. “You still with me?”

A disheveled blond head poked itself up from among the pillows and Heineken bottles on the floor. “Of course I’m still awake, you idiot. You think something like an Iron Chef drinking game is going to keep me down?”

“Well, no,” Elijah said, lifting himself off of the slightly sticky sofa. “But we have been watching a marathon for, like, eight hours, with nothing to eat but old Chinese food.”

“In the spirit of the night, of course,” Dom said as he picked up and swished a half-dozen bottles of beer, looking for the one he had been drinking. His face lit up as he found his half-finished bottle on the coffee table.

“Except that Iron Chef is Japanese food, dumbass,” Elijah said, weaving his way unsteadily into the kitchen.

“Lij, the last episode was, like, Crab Intestine Battle. I don’t think this is actually food at all.”

“Says the British guy.”

“That’s uncalled for. You Americans have totally cornered the market on uses of Yellow No. 5, a chemical that turns things an orange not found in nature.”

“Cheetos make America great,” Elijah said, his voice muffled. “Need another beer before the next show starts?”

“You have to ask?” came the response from the living room.

Elijah had his head in the fridge rummaging for more beer when he heard Dom’s startled yelp.

“If something moved, that’s Allie’s hamster. She lost it here a couple weekends back,” he yelled into the room.

“Gross, Elwood. No, a commercial scared me,” Dom yelled back.

“Dude, a commercial scared you?” Elijah rolled his eyes as he came back into the room juggling four beers and a new bag of Cheetos.

“Shut up,” Dom retorted. “It was scary. Gimme that beer.”

“If you’re having visions, maybe you need to not have the beer.”

“It was fucked up, man,” Dom said, settling himself on the couch. He pointed a wavering hand toward the ground. “Oh, and you can sit on the floor, Lij, if there’s something small and furry still running around in here.”

Elijah threw himself onto the floor pillows and managed to miss them all. The beers in his hands didn’t spill, though, and Dom applauded.

“Sarci—um, Sacriface, no—Way to hurt yourself to save the booze, Lij,” he said.

“Shut up, man. You’re afraid of TV commercials.”

“You didn’t see it. There were these little furry things, and they had, like, Gollum’s eyes, except they were wearing, like, pirate hats and playing the ukulele.”

Elijah looked up from where he had sprawled on the floor. “Are you sure you haven’t been spiking the beer with something, Dom?”

“Hell, we’re TiVoing this entire thing for Orlando because World Famous Movie Star Boy can’t get Iron Chef in Morocco or Spain or Mars wherever the fuck he is right now. Back the thing up.”

A few minutes later and Dom began to worry that Elijah’s eyes would never go back down to being just incredibly large. They were currently stuck somewhere around Powerpuff Girl Ridiculous.

“Dude,” Elijah finally stuttered.

“I told you I wasn’t making it up.”

“That is the greatest thing in the history of mankind.”

“Lij, it’s scary.”

“We have to learn that song right now. And then we have to sing it for everyone we know. Viggo’ll put it on his next CD, I know he will.”


“Come on, Dom, it’s not any stranger than ‘Half Fling.’ Now repeat after me, ‘We love the SUBS. Because they are GOOD to US.’”

Three hours and entirely too many beers later, two giggling ex-hobbits were making calls across the Atlantic to wake up an extremely cranky Orlando Bloom.

He hung up his cell phone on his friends and said to his empty room, “What the hell’s a pepper bar? Fuckin’ hobbits.”