What Bilbo's Journey Would Look Like Today

Immediately, security goblins equipped with night-vision and tasers set upon the party, subduing and transporting them to a holding area deep under the mountains. They later manage to escape, but Bilbo becomes separated and, after hours of aimless wandering, unwittingly stumbles upon the latest in computer-generative security systems, the Ghastly and Odious Long-Lived Underground Minion, or “Gollum,” a technology so cunning it can only be unlocked through the answering of riddles. However, it so happens Bilbo is an especially talented riddler, and after running through a repertoire of some of Middle Earth’s finest head-scratchers, defeats Gollum to obtain the most precious prototype in the entire facility: a golden ring that renders the wearer invisible. (It will later be suggested by multiple government watchdog agencies that the ring was forged using no small amount of black magic, an allegation that Necromancer and its political supporters have yet to confirm or deny.) Just before rejoining the dwarves on the eastern slopes of the Misty Mountains, Bilbo updates his FB status: “What has 10 hairy toes and kills at riddles? This hobbit.”

Inexplicably still pulling from his iPhone, Gandalf passes the dwarves sketchy directions for the upcoming trek through Mirkwood National Forest before taking his leave of the little folk — he must catch a flight to Wizard-BEX ’14, being held this year in Isengard, where he has been tapped to deliver the keynote: “10 Best Maiar WordPress Themes.” Now wizard-less as well as map-less, the party quickly becomes disoriented in Mirkwood and spends days tramping in circles, hungry, thirsty, and demoralized. “What would Bear Grylls do?” wonders Thorin aloud in his gruff baritone. Bombur decides the answer is to drink from a river whose water has clearly been contaminated by runoff from a ‘clean bitumen’ plant upstream in Ered Mithrin. Needless to say, they are all in pretty rough shape when a scouting party of wood elves discovers them and takes them prisoner — all except Bilbo, who uses his cloaking technology to avoid detection.

Still invisible, Bilbo forces his weakened, stubby legs, capped by what at this point are mud-caked and fungally compromised hiking boots, to keep pace with the swift, light strides of the elves, at last following them through the stone gates of their woodland fortress. Many days pass, the dwarves held for ransom in the dungeon, Bilbo living incognito within the elvish halls, pilfering food to regain his strength, updating his resume, publishing a stream of wordy yet rather trite blog posts on the trials of travel abroad (it’s around this time that friends and family back in the Shire begin to quietly block his Facebook updates), and devising a plan of escape. Said plan, when finally put into action, involves springing the dwarves from their cells and concealing them inside barrels of all-grain, craft-brewed, thrice-hopped elvish ale, which the elves regularly ship via raft down the Forest River to the shores of Long Lake and the bustling tourist bars of Lake Town (which, it turns out, are primarily frequented by the wood elves themselves, who, with their considerable old-money wealth, often sojourn to Lake Town to ‘get away from it all’).

And so it is that, a full month after their originally booked airfare would have delivered them there, Bilbo and the dwarves arrive at the settlement of Lake Town, gateway to Lonely Mountain. The hobbit is taken by a sudden spell of giddiness in realizing the geographical accuracy of these monikers: “I see, I see — the town is in fact constructed on a network of wooden piers above the waters of the lake, and the mountain stands tall yet isolated, utterly removed from any greater range…” “I realize you do not share my command of foreign languages, Bilbo,” Thorin grandiosely interjects, “but these sites are more accurately called, in the old tongue, Esgaroth and Erebor, respectively.” The next time Thorin logs into Snapchat, he notices, a scowl cutting a fissure across the igneous geology of his face, that Bilbo has deleted him from his friends list.

Bilbo and the dwarves set out on their final trek, tracing the River Running to its source on the southerly slopes of Lonely Mountain, passing as they do charred expanses that once were lush meadows, a phenomenon of destruction cited by some as evidence of Smaug’s ruthlessness, by others as inarguable proof of global warming. Entering via the front gate of the mountain hold seems far too risky, but fortunately Thorin, who spent his childhood here, holed up in his room playing Middle Earth’s earliest first-person shooter games as his longbearded elders lamented the demise of dwarf culture, knows of a second, secret point of access, which leads directly into the great patent storeroom, and the lair of the dragon himself. The dwarf leader, in a moment of meta-existentialism upon considering that this story is called The Hobbit and not The Thirteen Dwarves, selects Bilbo for the role of reconnoiterer and, if the opportunity arises, burglar. Forever outnumbered 13-1 in the decision making process, the hobbit acquiesces.

Stale and formidably dark is the tight tunnel that conveys Bilbo to Smaug’s chamber, where he notices with immense relief that the dragon lies in deep slumber. He avails himself of the opportunity to peruse the shelves and shelves of patents: “No. 109396-B – Concerning the display of commercial links rendered in verdana font within the text of an email;” “No. 45302-F – Concerning any app which, in the interpretation of the patent holder, denigrates, or attempts to denigrate, the reputation of the elves of the race of Avari, or any likenesses thereof…” Though Bilbo may be in possession of extensive IT expertise, his skills fail him in the parsing of such obtuse and legalistic language; it’s as if the patents were written in the cursed tongue of the Dark Lord himself. Grasping at random, he pulls a single patent file, stuffs it haphazardly into his tunic pocket, and begins to make his way back to the tunnel entrance.

But what’s this? Bilbo, naturally curious as hobbits are (though they continuously attempt to deny it), can’t help but survey the majestic bulk that is Smaug — the sword-like lances of his teeth, the cruel razors of his claws, the rich weight and seeming impenetrability of the scales covering his limbs, back, and underbelly…and there it is. A single missing scale on Smaug’s left breast, a framed patch of skin as bare as it must have been at the dragon’s birth. Bilbo, feeling this intel may be of some significant import to someone other than himself, quickly pulls out his phone and snaps a photo. But alas, he has neglected to switch the sound profile to “stealth,” and the artificial shutter effect that emanates from the device reverberates with force around the stone chamber. Instantly the dragon awakens and, spying the thief and the purloined patent certificate, erupts in a fury of fire that singes the hobbit’s backside as he flees for his life through the tunnel.

No sooner has Bilbo rejoined his companions and commenced in a somewhat comical stop-drop-and-roll, than an enraged Smaug bursts through the side of the mountain, spouting fire and rising with haste on the force of the gales whipped up by his muscular wings, which swiftly propel him in a straight path towards Lake Town — in his mind, the obvious point of origin of the dastardly patent thief. Smaug’s transit is lightning-quick, but the 4g lte blanket network of Rhovanion is quicker. Bilbo pulls out his phone, opens his newly captured image file, and texts it, with a speed only well-practiced hobbit thumbs can achieve, to Bard, vocal Tea Party leader and resident gun nut of Lake Town. The message is received just as Smaug begins to rain fire on the wooden structures (truly an unfortunate construction decision, made specifically to give the tourist destination that ‘quaint’ feel) of the settlement. Bard, overjoyed at the opportunity to test out his newly purchased black-market Oliphaunt rifle in the field, grips the weapon with purposeful hands, takes aim at the miniscule target on the dragon’s chest as he makes another destructive pass, inhales sharply, and fires. Following a roar so deafening it is reportedly heard echoing off the turrets of Minas Tirith, far to the south, Smaug plummets in a death shroud of fire and smoke into the waters of Long Lake, taking most of the town with him.

Back at the mountain, the hobbit and dwarves receive the news of Smaug’s demise in near real time, thanks to the handful of Lake Town survivors with active Twitter accounts. Thorin and company are jubilant, running back into the mountain and literally frolicking (quite unseemly behavior for dwarves) among the millions and millions of patent sheets, but what they fail to consider is that, now unguarded, the patent cache is already being targeted for capture by forces other than their own. Within a day, the elves of Mirkwood (still aggravated by the escape of the dwarves, as well as the loss of their finest ale casks), the remaining residents of Lake Town (understandably incensed by the destruction of their home), and the goblins of the Misty Mountains (having discovered Bilbo’s theft of their most precious prototype), among others, have converged on Lonely Mountain, making ready for war.

What results will come to be known as the Battle of Five Armies, in which the ‘good’ races (or, to certain revisionist Middle Earth historical scholars, those left standing to tell the tale) vanquish the ‘evil,’ though in the process losing many of their number, including Thorin, leader of the dwarves. Bilbo, unabashedly concluding that this is not his fight, cowers behind a boulder throughout the fray, periodically peering out over the carnage to observe and commentate for his livecast of the event, transmitted back to an eager audience in Hobbiton. Gazing into the front-facing camera on his tablet, he sums it up: “War is hell,” just before a particularly voluminous spray of orc blood splatters across his face and he loses consciousness. (Years later, this three-word judgment will be used against Bilbo by several of his opponents in a Republican primary for the Shire mayoral race, discrediting him among the hardliners and chickenhawks of his party and costing him the nomination.)

When at last Bilbo comes to, and sees that the battle is over, and that he has lost many friends, he quickly decides that he’s had quite enough of travel for a while, thank you very much. The remaining dwarves, now doling out patents to those who fought on their side, offer him as many as he can carry, though he settles for just two small sacks’ full, confident the licensing fees these will bring him will ensure he never has to work another day in his life. Thus, he promptly books a one-way ticket back to Hobbiton — on Southwest, of course, where hobbit sacks always fly free — and within the day is safely ensconced at Bag End once more, content to go on baking carroway seed cakes and reading the travel tales of others…until the next band of Couchsurfers sweeps him up with an unanticipated proposal of true, hobbit-life-altering, adventure.

This post was originally published in December of 2012.