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.