"Excuse me, I might be coming in the wrong moment" said Friedman as he saw Tolkien dressing up in some odd attire which he presumed to be historic.
"Hwæt sigestu?" he asked. He was right tightening his belt.
"Wait - you do speak English right?"
"Ic spræce Merce. Ald Merce." Both shoes on. He started tying the lacets around the right leg.
"Are you pulling my leg? We have no time for joking! There is a psychotic young lady around, and she may be dangerous for someone. Herself at least.
"On Isengearde help seggeþ wræcing ond frendescæp seggeþ þraldom!" he sighed to himself, as he finished the lacet around the left.
"Ok, what are you up to?"
"Helm eac ic ceas" he said as coolly as a cucumber as he took one Anglosaxon Helmet and quickly fastened it under the chin.
"I am not sure I was looking for the right person!" said the the poor shrink, as he growled at the odder and odder spectacle. Meanwhile Tolkien had taken a shield.
"Hwæt sigestu?" he asked blithely as he took the battle-axe.
"You are mad! You belong in a mental hospital!"
"Ga þe ut! Nu!" shouted Tolkien and started swinging the battle-axe.
The man ran. He turned as whitish grey as whey and fled. Tolkien ran after. He got out of the office. Tolkien ran after with the battle-axe. He got out into the yard. Tolkien ran after. And everyone was laughing. Friedman somehow missed the point of the mirth. He just ran. Tolkien ran after, swinging the battle-axe.
"Ut of ure hahscole!" Tolkien bellowed.
Friedman ran out of the porch. He stopped to pant, but Tolkien was behind him. The axe swung down just five inches from his arm. So he ran again. Down the street and Tolkien after. At last Tolkien got a little behind, but Friedman took no risk. He ran. He had not run as much since ... well, he had been chased by bullies on a schoolday. But this was somehow worse. He enjoyed cutting brains but when it came to spilling his own ... he was not quite delighted. He got into a side street. Tolkien stood still, laughing heartily.