In a wooded glen stands a stage, festooned by banners bearing all manner of strange and unreadable markings. A crowd waits—some standing, others sitting on an eclectic mix of wobbly stools, padded armchairs, oaken thrones, tasseled pillows, and uncomfortable boulders. Whoever set up for this ceremony had odd taste, to be sure.

I step onto stage, clutching an envelope in one hand, and clear my throat. “Welcome, one and all, to the presentation of the Strangest Character Silmaril. This shiny gem is going to be awarded to the person whom you voted as the weirdest—”