Sauron's Blog

Greetings, Slave of the Eye. Once again, it is I — The Mouth of Sauron, Lieutenant of Barad-dûr, Herumor’s Heir, and Rightful Chief of the Dúnedain. It is my privilege to communicate to you the commands of Sauron, Lord of the Earth.

As you are aware, Sauron’s Blog is perfect, and requires no improvement — for how can it not be perfect, if created by Sauron Gorthaur, Chief of the Maiar? And certainly, The Eye would never stoop to asking mere mortals for their opinions on such things. Your lot is to work, then die.

That said, The Eye commands you to complete this brief, four-page survey. As a reward, when Melkor returns from the Outer Dark and the filthy Valar and their Elvish and Mannish followers roast on the spit, you will die quickly and painlessly.

You’re welcome.

Do it now! Where there’s a whip, there’s a way!

Date: March 25, 582 F.A. (Years of the Sun)
My Mood Is: reticent

It’s my birthday. Yes, I have a birthday, remember? If I can make an entire planet, I can have a frikkin’ birthday.

Anyway, I was minding my own business, baking a delicious cake out of milled flour, honey, yeast, nutmeg, and the blood of slain Mannish infants, when I was disturbed by a horde coming down into the forest glen.

I should mention that I haven’t really done anything since my last post. If you’ll remember, I learned from that idiot Balrog that Melkor was finally getting the upper hand in his pointless War of the Jewels against Elves and Men. I figured I’d probably better come out of hiding and go back to Angband — but I would need a good story.

The story I came up with was this: Soon after defeating Huan and Lúthien Tinúviel at Tol-in-Gaurhoth, I heard about a guy in the Far East of Middle Earth who knew how to make those Silmarils that Melkor has such a boner for. I decided to run off and look for him, but I lost track of time.

No, stupid, there’s no guy making Silmarils. Pay attention. It’s a lie. And Melkor’s such a dunce, he’ll probably believe it.

Anyway, that’s the plan. Sure, it’s been about 70 years since I ran into that Balrog, and I haven’t gotten around to heading back to Angband quite yet. I like it here in Eriador — it’s quiet, and there are a lot of tasty Men, Elves and Dwarves to eat, none of whom have ever trained under the stinking Valar. If I didn’t occasionally run into that Iarwain Ben-adar jackass, this place would be paradise.

Besides, I’ve grown quite fond of Young Man Willow. When Melkor and I destroy the Valar, and burn all the world’s trees in a hellish worldwide conflagration, I think I’ll spare him.

Look, I’m billions of years old. If I want to wait 80 years to get around to something, it’s my prerogative.

But back to the horde. I was busy baking my birthday cake when about a thousand Elves came pouring over the horizon. At first I thought it was an invasion — but they were singing and laughing and carrying on, and I remembered this was Elves we were talking about. An Elf army is about as scary as a Gay Pride Parade, whatever that is.

I assumed a pleasing, Elvish form, and mingled. That’s how I learned some really amazing shit. Melkor was victorious in The War of the Jewels. The Noldor, the Sindar and their Mannish lackeys were destroyed or routed. Melkor was now Master of All Beleriand. Indeed, these Elves were the vanguard of a mass exodus of defeated mortals out of Beleriand.

So why were these Elves so frickin’ happy? It was hard to follow, but I guess there’s this half-Elf mongrel called Aaron Dill or something like that who sailed a magic boat to Valinor and begged the Valar to help all the poor, defenseless, idiotic mortals that the Valar had left to their own devices for the last Age. (I know what you’re thinking — isn’t there a rule that says mortals cannot visit Valinor? Yes! But the Valar never met a rule they wouldn’t break whenever they felt like it. Hypocrites!)

So now the Valar, who were happy for the last five centuries to let Melkor and me torture and kill as many Men, Elves and Dwarves as we wanted, have now mobilized — AFTER we already won — and are at this moment marching with their Maiar lackeys and a handful of mortal slaves on Angband.

Idiots!

I was so thrilled to hear this news, I immediately slaughtered all the Elves. Finally, the chance to kill Manwë the Dickless Prick, have my revenge on Huan and Melian, and destroy the Valar once and for all!

Now, I haven’t left for Angband just yet. I don’t want to miss any of the good fighting. But I figure if I arrive during the battle, my sudden reappearance will seem like a miracle for our side, and everyone will be less concerned with where I’ve been all this time.

So I’m just chilling, for the moment. But soon — SOON! — I’ll be off to Angband, and VICTORY!

Date: October 19, 510 F.A. (Years of the Sun)
My Mood Is: pondering

Had three very strange encounters today.

I’ve been living in out in Eriador in the East. I said “living,” not “hiding.” It would only be “hiding” if I cared if Melkor knew where I am, which I don’t.

Anyway, Eriador is almost entirely forested. There are a few Elves living out here, the so-called Avari, who were too smart to follow the summons to Valinor; some Dwarves; and a good number of Men. So, there’s plenty of food. I’m still in the form of a great werewolf, most days, so it’s easy to hunt.

The nice thing about Eriador is, all of Melkor’s crap is over in Beleriand by the sea, where Ulmo can interfere. Eriador is far, far from the sea, and always will be.

I like living in the forest. The trees shelter me during the day from the heat and light of the accursed Sun; and at night I don’t have to look at the useless Moon or at Varda’s filthy stars, which mar the perfection of the Celestial Firmament that Melkor and I built with our own hands. You know, back when Melkor wasn’t an incompetent boob more concerned with shiny gems and the affairs of mortals than with achieving our revenge against Manwë the Dickless Prick and his Valar Traitors.

Anyway.

So I’ve been living out here, taking it easy, bossing around the local wolves and trolls, and snacking on a wide buffet of  mortal creatures — even Dwarves, when I’m hungry for something stringy and gristly that tastes like ass. It’s worth it to hear them scream.

This morning I was sleeping under a huge willow tree down by the river — a nasty, mean-spirited tree with a heart of pure blackness, so we get along fine — when I was awakened by singing. Why is it that every bad thing in my life starts with singing?

At least it wasn’t the thin, reedy, fingernails-on-a-chalkboard-whatever-a-chalkboard-is singing of an Elf, nor the gruff atonal caterwauling of a Man, nor the deep, flatulent intonations of a Dwarf. No, this was proper singing. Ainu singing.

I immediately threw on a pleasing anthropomorphic form, the kind of thing I used to wear when sneaking around Taniquetil or the borders of Doriath. I hid in the bushes, and saw a woman approaching — clearly a Maia, but one who had taken on the form of a Mannish princess, for some unfathomable reason. She was fair-skinned and blonde-haired, like the accursed Edain of north-eastern Endor; and she wore a green dress shot with silver, and a gold belt.

I needed to know why she was there — was she a spy for Manwë, or worse yet, for Tulkas? Was she somehow related to Melian? I stepped out into the open and greeted her.

Here’s what I learned. Her name was Golodhbereth, and she was one of the lesser of the minor nature spirits, a Naiad; and a servant of Yavanna, the slut wife of my former boss Aulë. She had wandered out of Aman and into Middle-earth because she was “collecting flowers.”

And you know what? This chick was so mind-bendingly stupid, I could believe it. Seriously. I’ve had more enlightening conversations with piles of Orc dung.

So, I had options. I could have seduced her, or better yet raped her; but I’m not really interested in that sort of thing, and I’m saving up all my raping and killing energy for when I encounter Melian again. I could have destroyed her, damning her spirit to wander formless and cold across the face of Arda until the Final Battle — but someone might miss her (unlikely, but a possibility), so I decided to spare her. In the end, I just sent her on her way, down to the river, to collect “water lilies,” whatever the hell those are. I wasn’t terribly worried about her reporting my position to her friends in Valinor, because (a) she didn’t know who I was and (b) she probably forgot me five minutes after leaving me.

I changed back into Dire Wolf form and laid back down, and was just settling into a wonderful dream about ripping apart and consuming Manwë’s twisted hröa, when I heard more goddam singing. Yes, Ainu singing, although the worst I had ever heard.

In fact, I recognized it — don’t you?

“Hey dol! merry dol! ring a dong dadar!
Iar Wain, jolly wain, Iarwain Ben-adar!”

It was him.

Since Melkor and I had arrived on this shitty little disk of rock so many geological eras ago, we had not seen hide nor hair of Iarwain Ben-adar, the mysterious and unidentified spirit who alone had preceded us into this universe. We had decided it was some poor joke by the typically hilarious Eru Ilúvatar, and forgotten all about it.

But here he was, tra-la-la-ing along the forest path like some ruddy Mannish homosexual, mincing and prancing like he owned the forest. MY forest.

So I attacked, leaping into the air with slavering fangs three feet long, claws of blood-stained Adamant, eyes like twin wheels of fire. I fell upon him like a mountain of black, overpowering death.

Something went wrong, and the world twisted, and a moment later I was on my back, dazed, while Iarwain Ben-fucking-adar continued on his flouncing way like nothing had happened.

I leapt to my feet, summoned a storm of lighting and smothering darkness in the sky overhead; covered the forest floor for miles in all directions with a greenish miasma that sucked the life from all things; howled a terrible howl that chilled the Sun, froze the blood, and was remembered in the whispered mid-winter tales of every mortal tribe living within a thousand miles for centuries to come; and leapt again, ready to rend the limbs from the poncy little poltroon, consume his soul and crap it back out down his throat.

Twist, blank, and I’m on my ass again — and he’s hopping down the bunny trail. WTF?

Fine. Whatever. Who cares? Big deal. Let him go down to the river. I hope he finds that Golodhbereth chick, they deserve each other.

Unhappily, I found my spot under Young Man Willow and laid back down. I was just settling into a wonderful dream where Melian was begging me to take her back, but I didn’t care and was ripping her intestines out through her nostril anyway, when I smelt something burning.

At least no one was singing.

I looked up and saw that the forest was on fire. Well, that was cool, burning was what trees were best at. I decided to head over, because I was still pretty bummed out by my run-in with that asshole in the feathered cap, and living things dying agonizingly in flames always cheers me up.

So imagine my surprise when I saw that the flames were being left in the wake of the passing of a Balrog. I recognized him — a fellow named Lungorthin, one of Gothmog’s crew.

Now see, if I were hiding in Eriador, I would certainly have avoided letting Lungorthin see me. Also, I did not reveal myself to Lungorthin because I was desperate for the company of one of my own kind after years in exile. That would be pathetic.

No, I approached Lungorthin to be polite.

He was surprised to see me. Apparently, the belief around the Angband water cooler (whatever a water cooler is) was that I had been destroyed along with my tower at Tol-in-Gaurhoth — as if! Sauron Gorthaur the Deceiver, Lord of Werewolves, Chief of the Maiar, destroyed by that half-breed whelp Lúthien Tinúviel? Puh-lease. She’s lucky I let her live.

Strangely, I guess those Balrogs I ran into in Taur-nu-Fuin never reported to Melkor that they had seen me. Let me tell you , it’s all phone calls and telegrams with those people in Angband — rumors spread like wildfire, but genuine information is hoarded like Silmarils. (Whatever a phone — oh, you get the picture.)

Lungorthin filled me in on what’s been going on in the four decades or so since Melkor let Melian’s little brat steal one of his shiny rocks from right off his noggin. The big news, as far as Lungorthin was concerned, was that Gothmog was destroyed, slain while killing an Elf-lord of Gondolin. Yes, Melkor finally found Gondolin, and Nargothrond, and destroyed them both. Carcharoth, that traitorous little dumbass, was dead too, killed by Huan, of all people.

But the big news was this — that little bitch Elu Thingol was killed by a bunch of Dwarves (fighting over that damned Silmaril), and Melian bailed on all the Elves and went back to Aman!

What!?

At this point, I stopped Lungorthin. For one thing, it was a lot to absorb. For another, it was beginning to look like the tide had turned for Melkor, and through sheer luck the old moron was actually achieving his goal of ridding Beleriand of the accursed Noldor and Edain.

Which made me look like a complete and total dumbass for quitting and going to Eriador. And what was I going to tell Melkor? That I got lost? I didn’t keep track of the time? I had something important to pick up in the Hithaeglir, and I forgot to mention I would be gone so long?

I realized the only thing I could do, while I mulled all this new information and formulated a plan, was kill Lungorthin. I couldn’t have him heading back to Angband and concocting some lie about me hiding out under a willow tree in Eriador getting fat on Elf-flesh.

So I leapt to my feet, summoned a storm of lighting and smothering darkness in the sky overhead — you know, the works. Now let me assure you, I could easily have killed Lungorthin. He’s quite subordinate to me, and doesn’t carry any weapon but a big flaming whip. Unfortunately, he’s fast. Balrogs may not have wings, but they can run like they’re flying. I chased Lungorthin for hundreds of miles, until he wormed his way down a hole under the Misty Mountains and I couldn’t find him again. Asshole.

Well, he’s not getting out of there. I’m going to keep an eye on Eregion, and if Lungorthin so much as sticks his ugly flammable nose out for some fresh air I’ll have his head.

So. Melkor is consolidating his hold over Beleriand. Melian fled back to her Valar friends in Aman, taking all her power with her. Things are beginning to look up.

How the hell am I going to get back into Melkor’s good graces?

Date: June 12, 466 F.A. (Years of the Sun)
My Mood Is: lugubrious

That’s it, I quit. I’m done. No more.

I am not spending another aeon of my precious immortal existence serving that mouth-breathing moron, Melkor.

Fuck him. Fuck him right in the ass.

After that filthy, faithless, sniveling turd of a canine Huan drove me out of Tol Sirion, and that half-breed abomination Lúthien (as I have now learned) razed Tol-in-Gaurhoth to its foundations (which is idiotic, since Minas Tirith was an Elven tower — bet no one will ever use that name again), I ended up strategically retreating to Taur-nu-Fuin in vampire form. No, I was not hiding. I was waiting to regroup with Carcharoth and the others, so we could go back, avenge Draugluin, and retake the Pass of Sirion.

So no, I was not hiding from Melkor because I’d had my ass handed to me by Huan and a girl. Shut up!

Anyway, I waited for months in the forest of Taur-nu-Fuin amongst the foul-smelling pine trees, picking up the occasional Man, Elf or Dwarf as a light snack, until finally I espied a troop of Balrogs making their way south. I accosted them, and they didn’t recognize me at first — I had forgotten I was still in vampire form. So I re-assumed my accustomed, anthropoid form, and let me tell you, those boys were glad to see me.

But the story they told me was absolutely freakin’ unbelievable.

Remember that Man I was holding prisoner, the one who sang to Thingol and Melian’s little genetic monster? Well, he and Lúthien headed straight to Angband, with nothing on their minds but stealing one of those stupid Magic Rocks.

Seriously, what is up with those rocks?

So they arrived at the gates of Angband, and who was guarding the entrance but Carcharoth? Here’s what I’ve figured out — Carcharoth did not go to Angband to get messages from Melkor. Rather, Melkor summoned him back North to take over as some kind of seneschal — indeed, possibly to replace me. And neither one had the courage to say anything about it.

Anyway, Lúthien managed to get herself and her Mannish boy-toy (what is up with all the inter-species pollination?) past Carcharoth using some kind of Spell of Command or Word of Oblivion — the Balrogs weren’t clear on the details. Then the two of them walked tra-la-la-lolly past every Orc, Evil Man, Ulfsark, Werewolf, Troll, Giant, Balrog and Dragon in Angband, straight down to the Uttermost Pits where Melkor was sitting in his Iron Crown, brooding or whatever he calls it.

Now that’s security! Good work, everyone! I leave for ten minutes, and it all goes to hell.

Lúthien walks up to Melkor, aka Morgoth Bauglir, The Black Enemy, Master of Angband, Rightful Lord of the Earth, He Who Arises In Might, on his own throne in his own fortress, and starts singing.

If it was anything like that caterwauling she let loose at the foot of Tol-in-Gaurhoth, I’m glad I didn’t have to sit through it.

Now, if you’re asking yourself why Melkor didn’t just squash her with his boot and wipe it off on the nearest Werewolf pelt, well, anyone with half a brain would ask the same question. But the answer the Balrogs gave was really, really disgusting. But I believe them because I won’t put anything past Melkor anymore.

Melkor spared the Lúthien-creature because he wanted to have sex with it.

Ewwwwwwwwwwww.

So she used her Word of Oblivion again, and Melkor must have rolled some kind of quadruple critical miss on his saving throw, because he dropped unconscious. The Man pried a Magic Rock from Melkor’s crown, and the two of them hightailed it out of there.

Unbelievable.

I mean, yes, I was temporarily kind-of semi-defeated, but by Huan — a fat idiot, but at least a full-fledged Maia. Melkor gets thoroughly humiliated by a MORTAL and a HALF-ELF.

Now you might ask yourself, didn’t anyone in Angband acquit themselves adequately in this whole fiasco? Why yes, one did. Guess who? Could it be my first lieutenant, personally trained by me, one Carcharoth Anfauglir, The Red Maw, Chief of Werewolves? Yes.

Carcharoth overcame the abomination’s sleepy-spell, and bit off the Man’s hand, taking the Magic Rock with it. He ran away, I have no idea where, but at least someone bit something. Jesus.

Whomever “Jesus” is.

I would head up there to kill the half-breed and her Mannish pet myself, but it’s no good — those meddlesome Eagles once again played Manwë ex machina and carried them away. Assholes.

The point is, I cannot continue to work for an Ainu this staggeringly incompetent. That’s it– it’s over. I am setting up my own shop.

Let Melkor play kissy-kiss with all his little hairless apes. I’m going to raise my own army, and fight the real fight — killing Manwë the Dickless Prick, Melian the Back-stabbing Bitch, Huan the Sniveling Toady, and all the rest of the rebel Ainur and Maiar. And when Sauron Gorthaur is King of Aman, I will return to Middle-earth, and declare myself Lord of the Earth.

And maybe, just maybe, if he’s obsequious enough, I shall permit Morgoth Bauglir to serve me!

Greetings, foul subcreature. I am The Mouth of Sauron, Lieutenant of Barad-dûr, Herumor’s Heir, and Rightful Chief of the Dúnedain. It is my task to communicate to you the commands of Sauron, Lord of the Earth, as well as to share news and recent happenings.

First — there is a new URL for Sauron’s Blog. Although http://kunochan.com/sauron will still work, the proper address is now http://www.sauronsblog.com. Use this URL. The Eye commands it.

Second — Sauron’s Blog has a new WordPress theme, one much more severe and imposing than the previous theme. In fact, the Orcs and Wild Men responsible for the previous theme have been tortured and sent to the mines.

Third — by making purchases via Amazon links from this site, you support not only Lord Sauron’s blogging activities, but also His efforts to destroy the corrupt Elves and Men of the West, and unite all The Earth in peace and prosperity. Even if you do not plan to purchase any of Tolkien’s books of Elvish lies, you can click through from Sauron’s Blog any time you plan to purchase from Amazon.

Needless to say, The Eye commands it.

Now, get back to work! Where there’s a whip, there’s a way!

Date: October 31, 465 F.A. (Years of the Sun)
My Mood Is: confounded

I am really tired of getting my SHIT all FUCKED UP!

I don’t have Tol-in-Gaurhoth anymore. Nope. My beautiful island tower, gone. And guess whose fault it is? Melkor? Good guess, but this time, no. Manwë? In a sense — everything is the Dickless Prick’s fault. But not directly, no.

Once again, I have been betrayed by someone who was supposedly my friend.

I was hanging out in Tol-in-Gaurhoth, going over the billing (you think it’s easy maintaining an army of Orcs and Werewolves? The amount of paperwork is incredible). Carcharoth, my aide-de-camp, was off to Angband, to ask Melkor for more Orcs — we always need more Orcs. We go through them like Kleenex. Whatever a “Kleenex” is. I sent Thuringwethil to Melkor first; she’s a vampire, and an idiot, and she never came back. So Carcharoth had to go.

Anyway, that left me stuck with stupid old Draugluin, who’s a moron. Seriously, when I get my shit back together, I need a better class of servant. Some non-Maia servants, because I gotta tell ya, some real winners followed us to Eä from the Timeless Halls. I should create my own lackeys — maybe I can corrupt some Elves or Men, and magically warp them to my own liking. Sounds like a good long-term project.

But I digress.

I was going over the billing when I heard someone singing. Not proper, deep, guttural singing, like the Orcs — it was that high, reedy whining the Elves call “music.” Then a caterwauling starts up from the garderobe. Apparently, when a Man sings, it sounds like a manatee gargling a bag of cats.

I had forgotten I put those Elves and that Man down the garderobe. I guess the Lesser Wargs had been using them for kibble. I kicked a huge pile of wolf ordure down the hole, which put an end to that noise real fast. But the screeching from outside continued unabated.

I looked down from the tower, and saw an Elf-wench standing at the base, making all the racket. She was wearing some kind of bizarre clothing made of hair, which should tell you something about the standard of living of Elves. But something about her was utterly bizarre, something that only Ainu eyes could detect.

The Divine Light was burning within her. She was an Elf, and yet she was also a Maia. Which meant she could only be one person — Lúthien, the bizarre half-breed spawn of Melian and Thingol.

Well, well, well. What connection she had to the Man in the toilet, I had no idea. But clearly, capturing the abomination produced by the disgusting, inter-species union of Melian and her hairless ape could give me the secret to breaching the wall of sorcery protecting Doriath. Then I could kill Thingol, rape and kill Melian, find Melian’s disembodied fëa and rape and kill it again, and present the spoils of Doriath to Melkor in exchange for a Sauron-snack. Life would be good.

So I sent one of the Werewolves down to fetch her, and waited. But he never came back. So I sent another. And another. And another. After a while I got suspicious. I peered over the railing, and there was Lúthien standing next to a pile of dead Werewolves. See what I mean about needing new lackeys?

So I yelled for Carcharoth. But it was Draugluin who showed up, because Carcharoth was off in Angband. I sent Draugluin downstairs to get the girl and bring her up ASAP.

Ten minutes later, a 500-pound pile of bloody chuck ground comes crawling into my chamber, trailing viscera and effluent. It took me a moment to realize this was Draugluin. He crawled to my feet, cried out “Ghuuaaaaaaaaan is here,” and died.

What the hell was a “Ghuuaaaaaaaaan?”

Nothing ever changes. If I ever want anything done, I have to do it myself.

I raced downstairs and burst out of the entrance to Tol-in-Gaurhoth. Someone jumped out of my way, which I barely noticed — I’m used to people fleeing from the terror of my countenance — and I leapt upon Lúthien, intending to crush her enough to not quite kill her, just to maim her permanently, leaving her a wreck of ruined flesh and twisted limbs incapable of speech and movement, capable only of tapping once for “yes,” two for “no,” and three for “please kill me.”

But then I was hit by the stench from her disgusting hair cloak, and for a moment I swooned. At that second, some cowardly creature leapt upon me, ripping into me with great bloody claws.

So who was this creature, this great giant slobbering DOG trying to gnaw at me with its huge stinky teeth?

Huan.

HUAN.

See, “Ghuuaaaaaaaaan” was supposed to be “Huan.” Thanks for the warning, Draugluin, you asshat. If I come across your disembodied spirit of malice wandering the wilderness, I will kick your ass.

So Huan, my former best friend from the Time Before Time, now literally a lapdog to Manwë Súlimo and his Valar traitors, who I haven’t even thought about since before the Fall of Almaren fifty aeons ago, appears out of nowhere and gets all up in my shit.

And let me assure you, back in the Timeless Halls of Ilúvatar, I could have easily trounced Huan with both metaphorical arms tied behind my metaphorical back. But I don’t know what’s in the water over there in Valinor, because before the Black Gate of Tol-in-Gaurhoth, that tubby bitch KICKED MY ASS. I shifted shape a few times, but he kept me pinned down under those big greasy paws of his.

Huan held me down while that see-you-next-Trewsday Lúthien threatened to destroy my hröa and send me back to Melkor.

“There everlastingly thy naked self,” she said, “shall endure the torment of his scorn, pierced by his eyes, unless thou yield to me the mastery of thy tower.”

“Oh go fuck yourself,” I said. But still, I had to give up the tower. There’s no way I’m going back to Melkor, and explaining I was defeated by Huan. Better a strategic retreat.

Huan released me, and I took vampire form so I could fly the hell out of there. Now I’m hiding in the murky woods of Taur-nu-Fuin, waiting for Carcharoth to get back so I can retake the Isle of Werewolves and get my revenge.

And where the hell are my Orcs? If I were in charge, I would NEVER use Orcs!

Date: June 16, 465 F.A. (Years of the Sun)
My Mood Is: amused

So I was sitting in the tower of Tol-in-Gaurhoth, working on my novel. Didn’t I tell you about it? It’s a romance, about a vampire and a teenage girl.

So I had just gotten to the part where the vampire (which is, of course, a kind of giant humanoid bat) rapes, tortures and devours the teenage girl — soon after this, the romance part happens — when I saw a squad of Orcs passing by. They were far down below, crossing one of the bridges, but I have really good eyesight, because I’m a FREAKING GOD.

These Orcs didn’t seem right to me, because they weren’t stooping, or shambling, or hacking up fluids, or cursing, or hitting each other, or singing “Where There’s a Whip, There’s a Way”; and they weren’t covered in shit. Well, when I see well-behaved, hygienic Orcs with good posture, I know something’s up.

I sent Carcharoth downstairs to fetch them, and bring them up to my Conservatory. Well, it’s not so much a “Conservatory” as it’s a turret atop the tallest tower, where I like to sit, think, write, and drop Elf prisoners to watch their heads explode when they hit the pavement. It’s where I’m writing this blog entry right now. Do you know how hard it was to get any writing done in Angband? Or Utumno? Or the Timeless Halls, for that matter? Thank Eru for the Isle of Werewolves. It’s the only place I can get anything done.

Anyway. Carcharoth dragged these “Orcs” into My Terrible Presence, and I figured out right away they were Elves wearing some kind of glamour that made them look like Orcs. They were wearing real Orc gear, which means either they slew a bunch of Orcs, or there’s a troop of naked Orcs out there counting their Elf-money who will shortly be getting a visit from Uncle Gorthaur.

Mostly I knew they were Elves because they smelled like Elves — lembas and lavender. Ick. So I yelled “I disbelieve!” and made my Saving Throw Versus Illusion. I rolled a 20, and their glamour fell away like wet tissue.

Yep, twelve Elves — well, eleven Elves and a Man; I assume it was a Man because it was shorter, hairier and smelled like poo. I did my usual Giant Evil Werewolf routine, to put the Fear of Me into them. But the Elf leader, a blond-haired, blue-eyed, pretty little poofter, stepped forward and challenged me to a magical duel!

This was pretty absurd, but I accepted the challenge, both because it would be amusing, and because I didn’t like the way Carcharoth snickered — it wasn’t necessarily at the Elf’s expense.

The Elf started singing — it was going to be Song Magic, then. Well, it’s not like I sang the Universe into existence or anything. The battle was quite amusing, and I have written a poem about it.

I chanted a song of sorcery
of breaking, trampling, of butchery
distending, engorging, castrating
tearing off limbs and defenestrating.
The Elf-prince there barely standing
sang a song of cowering
trembling, gibbering, urinating
resisting the urge to flee screaming.
A song of surrendering, capitulating,
of regretting the mistake he was making.
I sang then of seasoning, and marinating,
setting to broil at 450º, and baking,
having friends over for the meal I was making.
Elf-flesh and marrow, a soup of his testes,
Of eating and enjoying fillet of his breastes.
Chewing and rending and masticating
gnawing the bones, then defecating.

I broke the little Elf’s magic, and he was spent. I grabbed all 12 of them in my claws and threw them down the garderobe, which can double as a particularly disgusting oubliette.

I won’t let them out until they tell me who they are ever.

Back to work on the novel. I think I’ll add a werewolf, who can fight the vampire. Then they can go out together and rape-eat dozens of teenage girls. That’s the romance part.

Date: March 12, 464 F.A. (Years of the Sun)
My Mood Is: rankled

Melkor has completely lost his mind.

Look, I get it. He was trapped over in Aman, chained in the Halls of Mandos (real name Námo — did I ever tell you about Námo? Don’t get me started on Námo) for three ages, and was then forced to live amongst the idiotic Elves of Valinor. Just to amuse himself, he got involved in their petty political crap, and was able to get a good chunk of them to rebel against the Valar. Which would be a great accomplishment, if those same Elven rebels hadn’t come back East across the seas to get all up in my shit.

So even though I would never involve myself in petty Elven nonsense, and I would never concoct elaborate schemes to gain control over a bunch of quasi-immortal hairless monkeys or get my hands paws on their stupid jewelry, I can understand why Melkor did so. In Valinor. But now he’s back in Middle-earth. So why is he still so obsessed with the so-called Children of Ilúvatar?

How obsessed? I’ll tell you.

Melkor commanded that I set out from Tol-in-Gaurhoth with an army of werewolves, to invade Dorthonion. (The “werewolves” aren’t actually werewolves — that is, they can’t change form like I can. They’re just a bunch of the more useless lesser spirits of Entropy, Darkness and Death that I corralled and inserted into the bodies of giant wolves. I wanted to add shoulder tentacles, but Melkor shot that down. Anyway, they’re basically mega-Wargs.)

So why is Melkor sending an entire army, headed by his Chief Lieutenant, Sauron Gorthaur, Lord of Werewolves, Master of Tol-in-Gaurhoth, Duke of Angband, Designer of Eä, High Commander of the Forces of Fire and Ice and Darkness and Death, into Dorthonion? To destroy the Noldor? To invade Doriath? To do anything useful at all?

No. He’s sending an entire army into Dorthonion to kill one guy.

One. Guy.

And a Man no less, a tissue-paper version of an Elf. Some idiot named Beren, the son of that Barry the Hero guy whose limbs I ate four years ago. (He’s still on Tol-in-Gaurhoth — I use him to wipe my feet whenever I get home.)

An entire army. And me. To kill one Man. That is what I call a proper strategic deployment of personnel and matériel.

NOT.

So, Melkor has lost his mind. The question is, what can I do about it? He’s up there in Angband, sitting in the Nethermost Pit, with that iron toilet seat covered in elfy gems perched on top of his head. I moved out here to the Pass of Sirion so I wouldn’t have to deal with the Lord of the Mopers Earth.

Now, Sauron’s going to have to save the day again. I just have no idea how.

By the way, we didn’t find Beren. Got to the edge of Doriath, had to turn back. Close enough to smell Melian’s yoni. Soon, vengeance will be mine.

Date: September 1, 460 F.A. (Years of the Sun)
My Mood Is: annoyed

I am trying to get some work done around Tol-in-Gaurhoth. For one thing, it was designed and decorated by the Noldoran Elves, so everywhere you look are carvings of those stupid magic trees that Melkor did us all the favor of destroying. Trees on the walls, trees on the floors, trees on the doors. Trees on the freakin’ toilet lids.

So I’m having all these carvings scraped and clawed away; everything smoked, burned and painted black; and I have commissioned a new series of historical murals, depicting the True and Correct History of the World.

For instance, I have devised a carving showing how Melkor and I wrote the Music of the Ainur; another of Eru Ilúvatar praising us for our work, and inviting us down into Eä; one of Melkor and I creating Arda; and then one of Manwë Súlimo and the others betraying us and fleeing to Valinor.

In some of them I am larger than Melkor, but that’s only because I’m supposed to be closer to the viewer. Anyway, it’s my house.

So there I am trying to work, choosing just the right shade of crimson enamel for the blood in “The Death of Manwë the Dickless Prick at the Hands of Sauron Gorthaur, Lord of Werewolves” when Carcharoth tells me the Orcs have brought a prisoner.

I assumed this prisoner had something to do with either finding an entrance into Doriath, since this is my top priority, or finding that idiotic “hidden kingdom of the Noldor,” “Gondolfin” or whatever, since this for whatever stupid reason is Morgoth’s top priority. In fact, I asked for a couple of Urulóki to do reconnaissance by air to find this elf kingdom, but Morgoth turned me down — so it must be really important. That’s sarcasm.

Crap. I keep calling him “Morgoth.” If I do that to his face, he’s gonna kick my ass.

Anyway. This prisoner had nothing to do with Doriath or with Gondorfin. He was just some random Man called Gorlim. Works for some guy who calls himself “Barry the Hero,” which is pretty darn egotistical if you ask me. Carcharoth says this Barry is the friend of some elf “king” that Morgoth — MELKOR — wants to kill.

By this time, I didn’t care — my head hurt from trying to keep track of all these elves and mortals and their idiotic names, and I wanted to get back to my murals. But then Carcharoth reminded me that I ate this guy’s wife a few months ago. I barely remember this — I eat a lot of people — but it did give me a chance to play with this fella a bit.

So Carcharoth brought this Gorlim into my dreadful presence — clearly the Orcs, and then Carcharoth, had been pretty rough on the little guy. I was in my “colossal wolf” form, which I wear most of the time now, because it’s scary, I don’t have to wear clothes, and I can poop wherever I want.

I said “I hear now that thou wouldst barter with me.” I always do the “Ainu talk” when outsiders are around. It’s important to sound Biblical when you’re trying to impress people.

Gorlim said that if I reunited him with his wife, he’d tell me how to find Barry and all his Merry Men. I had to admit I felt sorry for this guy, that he’d fallen in love with a woman too stupid to avoid getting caught by Orcs and eaten by me. Then again, he’d been captured by Orcs and was about to be eaten by me, so I guess they were meant for each other.

“That is a small price to pay for so great a treachery,” I replied solemnly. At this point Carcharoth was trying not to crack up at my “serious voice,” which was making me start to crack up, so I had to finish quick. “So shall it surely be. Say on!”

Gorlim spilled the beans, which Carcharoth jotted down on a Post-It. Whatever that is. Then I laughed, told the guy I’d be reuniting him with his wife — BECAUSE SHE’S DEAD, BWA HA HA — and then I ate his limbs off, and told the Orcs to use him as a doorstop.

Anyway. I’m sure I’ll never hear anything about it again. I’ve come up with a great idea for a mural, depicting Morgoth’s victory over Tulkas. I’ve got to do some sketches.

Damn it!!! MELKOR!!! Melkor’s victory over Tulkas!

Date: October 12, 458 F.A. (Years of the Sun)
My Mood Is: exasperated

I am getting really tired of Melkor and his fascination with these Elves.

It’s not a fascination — it’s an obsession. It’s like he cares what these little animals think of him. Personally, my sole interest, apart from killing Thingol, is in the traitors, the Valar and their filthy Maiar slaves, hiding behind the mountains in Aman. These are the enemy, not a slew of hairless monkeys.

Sure, I want to destroy Doriath, and murder Thingol in the most humiliating and painful way possible. And I can think of a lot of possibilities. But I only want to kill the Elf Thingol because he’s boning a Maia, Melian. My Melian. So you see, it’s an Ainur thing. Divine business. You screw over Sauron Gorthaur, Lord of Werewolves, Master of Tol-in-Gaurhoth, Chief of the Maiar, Lieutenant of Melkor the Lord of the Earth — and you will get screwed back.

And we know exactly where Doriath is located. It’s no mystery. We could destroy Doriath in a day, and still be free for dinner, except that Melian has encircled the land in a wall of enchantment and confusion. Believe me, she EXCELS at enchanting then confusing.

But we can get through that “girdle.” It will just take time and effort — time and effort the Boss would rather spend finding another two Elven kingdoms. Elven kingdoms we can’t locate, and which probably don’t exist.

By the way, that reminds me — guess who gave these idiotic Elves the idea to build hidden cities? No, guess! Ulmo! Remember that asshole? He’s the Valar responsible for water. Wow, that’s great, Ulmo — you’re in charge of one entire molecule! Me, I designed the metaphysical template of the cosmos, and was responsible for designing all the transition elements and all the metals and metalloids. And antimatter. And dark matter. But you’ve got dihydrogen oxide. Good work, dude!

It was the Dickless Prick, Manwë Súlimo, who decided all the traitors would hide in the Uttermost West while Melkor and I actually ran the damn planet. But Ulmo decided to defy Manwë, which would be promising, except he didn’t do it for any good reason. He’s defying Manwë so he can help all the widdle hewpwess Elves and Dwarves and Men.

So he sends messages to the mortals through rivers, streams, the rain, and… I don’t know… pissing, probably. And he told two of these so-called Elven “Kings” to build hidden kingdoms. One is a hole in the ground (does anyone EVER do anything that I didn’t think of first???), and the other — well, we have no idea. Seriously, it probably doesn’t exist.

But the other day Carcharoth discovered that a couple of Men actually found their way to this other hidden kingdom. No one knows where it is, but supposedly it exists and it’s somewhere near my new place on the River Sirion. So now it’s my job to search everywhere until I find this hidden city for Melkor.

Great. Like I didn’t have anything else to do.