Sam stalked, like Mad Max across the wilds of the badlands, to Mr McGregor’s office. Mr McGregor‘s door swung open. “Watch out! Here comes Bilbo Baggins!”
Sam glowered muttering under his breath in his best Gandalf whisper, “You fool… of a Took, wish I had a real bilbo, that’d show you…” and he imagined the narrow blade resting in the vulnerable cleft of Mr McGregor’s throat. Oh, how he wished to thrust it!
“Got the memo?” Mr McGregor‘s smug, rotund face infuriated Sam and he moved his illusory sword to the side of his boss’s neck, planning to pierce the bulbous scrofula instead and watch the alien drool of pus and goo. “You’re not right for the job. Can’t have a hairy bigfoot selling stilettos.”
Tootsie ran through Mr McGregor’s mind as Sam rammed his egalitarian sword through Mr McGregor’s neck and murmured “My name is Inigo Montoya…prepare to die!”