Into the windswept isle of Ibiza, among the halls dressed in porcelain and linen and shrimp cocktails of Cipriani, strode the goblin prince Justin Bieber. His eyes glinted beneath the shade of his ballcap. His pants drooped with the weight of his swag. His teeth, sharp and redolent of stinkweed, bared as he approached the table of Legolas, who was drinking of wine and telling tales with his assortment of dwarves and assistants. The Bieber unsheathed his gnarled and ink-spotted hand from the hold of his leather crotch and thrust it in Legolas’ direction.
“Well met, Legolas. We are both celebrities in a bar,” the Bieber snarled. But his gesture hung there unanswered, shameful to look upon.
As would soon be written in the scrolls of Page Six, Legolas refused his hand. Though the true events of what followed that night would be lost in the telling. Many whisper that the Bieber orc curled his lip and spat, “She was good.” This was an insult to the honor of Lady Miranda Kerr, a fair creature entrusted with the secret of Victoria, who was e’er wedded to Legolas before the dawning of the year.
Tales that Lady Kerr had once lain with the Bieber had long spread throughout the hillside. They flashed hot within Legolas now. Swiftly, he leapt to his feet. His eyes flashed, and his elven arm struck at the Bieber’s face. Seeing Legolas advancing upon the Bieber, the hall filled with cheers and song among the Paris Hiltons and Lindsay Lohans and Diddys and other creatures there.
But alas, Legolas’ fist was too slow. The Bieber’s phalanx of guards was too strong. Though straight and true and righteous, Legolas’ blow found no purchase.
“What’s up, bitch?” the Bieber screeched.
Their battle, fiery and embarrassing, was now quickly extinguished. With the intervention of their bodyguards, they parted unsatisfied. A mist now shrouded them, and the night was further obscured in its recounting, made more puzzling still by the ancient tongue of Swedish. But some were reminded that they had once seen Legolas consorting with the wood sprite Selenagomez, and that this had clearly stirred the boiling blood within the Bieber. Others would gather ‘round the hearth, singing a lowing, epic song of all the times Bieber was an asshole.
In time, the Bieber retreated along the dark trail to his luxury hotel room. The morning-light grew slowly in the sky, rose and gold in color, as the Bieber crawled deep into the hobbit-hole of Instagram. There he posted a photo of Lady Kerr in a state of undress, and it was passed among this underground kingdom of trolls, who creased it with their thumbs and squealed in appreciation. And soon the Bieber deleted it, certain that he had won this day. He fell into a ragged sleep, knowing he would meet Legolas on the field of battle again. And the world slept anxiously alongside him, because it would love to see that.
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