The Singing Lobster 3.0

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It was an ordinary day in the Shire, or so it seemed. For Lobelia Sackville-Baggins, it was anything but. Today, she marched up Bagshot Row, her parasol in hand and her temper boiling over. Bag End, her lifelong obsession, still remained out of her grasp, and she was determined to change that.

Her face, already flushed pink with indignation, deepened to the hue of a boiled lobster as she neared the iconic green door. By the time she pounded on it with the end of her parasol, her fury was impossible to ignore.

“Frodo Baggins!” she bellowed, her voice sharp enough to send nearby birds scattering. “Open this door at once!”

The door creaked open, revealing Frodo’s calm and collected face. “Good morning, Cousin Lobelia. To what do I owe the pleasure?”

“Pleasure?!” Lobelia spat the word with venom. “There’s no pleasure in watching you lounge about in what’s rightfully mine! This house belongs to the Sackville-Baggins family, and I’ve come to claim it!”

She thrust a stack of papers at Frodo. “These documents, prepared by my Resourceful allies, prove beyond a doubt that Bag End should be mine!”

Frodo glanced at the papers with mild amusement. “Lobelia,” he said evenly, “these don’t seem entirely… official. But tell me, what is it about Bag End that matters so much to you?”

“What is it about Bag End?!” Lobelia’s voice rose with indignation, her parasol—lovingly named Andúril—stabbing at the ground for emphasis. “It’s not just a house; it’s a symbol of what the Sackville-Bagginses deserve! And I won’t rest until I’ve claimed it!”

By now, a small crowd of curious hobbits had begun to gather, whispering among themselves. “Look at her face,” said a Cautious Halflingg quietly. “She’s redder than a lobster in boiling water!”

“And just as fiery too,” added Farmer Maggot from the back of the crowd, eyeing Lobelia with a raised eyebrow. “I reckon if she keeps up that racket, we’ll have a new crop of mushrooms in no time, courtesy of her temper!"

The hobbits chuckled softly at the thought, and Lobelia’s face flushed an even deeper shade of red.

But Lobelia wasn’t listening. She dramatically opened her bag and pulled out her gleaming Golden Shield, holding it aloft as if preparing for battle. “I am ready to fight for my claim, Frodo. If it comes to it, I will use every tool at my disposal!”

Frodo remained calm. “Perhaps we could discuss this over a cup of tea, Lobelia?”

“Tea?!” she screeched, her voice now so shrill that several hobbits winced. “I don’t need tea—I need justice! And if you won’t listen to reason, perhaps you’ll listen to this!”

With a dramatic flourish, Lobelia launched into song. Her attempt at a Fireside Song was nothing short of catastrophic. Her voice cracked, warbled, and soared off-key, cutting through the air like Theoden King's Herugrim, the sound of it slicing into the souls of the gathered hobbits with the same chilling force as a blade. Many of them winced, their faces contorting in discomfort as they instinctively covered their ears.

Frodo waited patiently for her to finish, then spoke gently. “Cousin Lobelia, Bag End isn’t just a house. It’s a place of memories and meaning—things no document or song can replace.”

For a fleeting moment, Lobelia faltered. Her lobster-red face twitched, as though Frodo’s words had reached her. But then, with her notorious Fast Hitch reflexes, her fingers darted out, snatching Necklace of Girion from a nearby table.

“Fine!” she huffed, brandishing the spoon triumphantly. “Keep your Bag End, Frodo. But don’t think I’m leaving empty-handed!”

With her parasol and Golden Shield clutched tightly, Lobelia spun on her heel and marched away, her entourage of Buckland Shirriff and Bywater Shirriff allies trailing behind her. The Shirefolk parted to let her pass, some chuckling, others shaking their heads in disbelief.

Lobelia Sackville-Baggins didn’t win Bag End that day, but her lobster-red face, dreadful singing, and lightning-fast fingers would be remembered across the Shire for years to come.