In Search of Kogar

An Intimate Chat with League Record-Breaker, Kogar Facedragger
by Lavender Bracegirdle Boffins
relayed by Radagast the Brown

SHIRE, EAST FARTHING
It was a clear day, a promising day, when I set out to find Middle Earth's fastest rising star--not fair Elendil, but Kogar "Cap" Facedragger, who has set the 2004 season ablaze playing for the Bucklebury Fairies. Though the day was beautiful and filled with the distant, melancholic chanting of the Elves, the problem of how to go about interviewing Facedragger burdened my heart.

Earlier in the week, sources confirmed my fear that chances of interviewing the homerun record-breaking, 2x Shire Conference Player of the Week were slim to none, and any attempts to interview the Orc were most certainly guaranteed to end in death. Facedragger had been labeled an "anti-social personality" by League doctors after an incident in early March involving the dismemberment of a young Hobbit. Details of the event are sketchy, and League Officials have been reluctant to give comment. Reportedly, a fan of the Fairies asked Cap for an autograph on the way into Thorin Oakenshield Stadium when without warning, Cap flew into a fit of rage and tore the fan limb from limb. In later press conferences, Cap apologized profusely to the victim's family, but the damage to his reputation was done; from then on, Cap has had to bear the jeering taunts and unfortunate moniker of "The League Psycho."

Despite Cap's nasty reputation for violently killing Hobbits, my will was set, and only death would break it. Within a few minutes, I found myself at the Buckland home of team owner and manager, Brandywine Bucktook, (a third cousin of mine on my mother's side.) While I munched on a mid-morning snack of seed cakes and cheese with tea, Bran made arrangements for an interview on my behalf. Two hours later, I was on my way to Mordor.

BARAD-DUR
The smell caught me off-guard as I followed an Orc named "Krag" to the "apartment" (term used loosely) Kogar sublets in the tower of Barad-Dur. Bran Bucktook had warned me about the smell, and her words served as a reminder as I struggled to keep composure. "Pretend you don't smell a thing," she advised. "It's important to remember that they don't like the way we smell anymore than we like their scent. Don't go on about how they reek unless you'd like to find yourself the main course of an impromptu picnic."

As a safety precaution, Bran had arranged for me to be escorted by Radagast the Brown, a kindly wizard with a powerful staff the size of a malorn tree. Radagast remained one step behind, ever-alert, as we entered the cubicle-sized living quarters of Kogar Facedragger.

Kogar immediately welcomed us inside and offered a draught of strong mead he had imported just for the occasion. The Orc was all smiles. "I don't get many visitors here," he said, as he seated himself atop a pile of rotting carcasses. "Could I offer you some meats? A fine dwarf leg, perhaps?" Though I had missed elevensies and it looked like I'd be missing lunch, too, I politely declined and cut right to the chase.

"Tell me, Cap: Who is the real Kogar Facedragger?" I gently prodded. The Orc, still smiling, placed a hand over the spot where a heart might potentially be. "The real Kogar," he began, "is not just about guts and glory. I am an ocean, a river, a poet, a song."

Stunned by this surprising turn of tenderness, I prodded further, asking him to share with us a glimpse into his innermost thoughts. What he said next brought a tear to my eye.

"I collect fingers, dwarf fingers mostly, but I also have an extensive collection of elf and man flesh. I take long walks in the rain, and love to snuggle round a good, blazing fire." Cap wiped a tear with his sleeve. "My secret desire is to someday have a room full of little Orclings running around. I'm a real family Orc."

Cap then told me of his Orclinghood on the slopes of Mount Doom; how his father had tragically been eaten by his mother, and then his steady climb to success as a professional baseball player. When asked about the recent incident involving the dismembered Hobbit, Cap shrugged and said, "I'm just an honest Orc trying to make an honest living. That particular Hobbit had it coming."

"Was there provocation, then?" I asked. A shadow crossed Cap's face as he growled, "He looked at me funny." Almost immediately, the shadow lifted, and Cap jumped from his seat. "Do you wanna play Twister? I've got board games. Scrabble? Parcheesi?"

I declined his offer to play and thanked the Orc for a brilliant interview.

BREE
Radagast the Brown speaking. It is with a heavy heart that I write the sad end to this tale. Minutes after Lavender's fond farewell, a band of neighboring Orcs had us surrounded. I fought off some thirty Orcs, but by the time I had finished, it was too late. The only remains I found of dear Lavender were her notebook and this quill I am using to write with. Poor Lavender's last words were, "I'll wrap up this last paragraph when we get to the Prancing Pony."

I have taken the liberty of editing any general spelling errors and filling in missing details for the final copy, especially in relation to the size of my staff.

Sleep well, sweet Hobbit.

Posted at October 7, 2003 08:15 AM | more from Bucklebury