[littlemanpoet]

Anakron stood by the side of the motorway, deep in the road system chasm, at the midpoint between the two arms of mountains that separated Nûrn from the northern reaches of Mordor where lay the pitted lands of great renown from the War of the Ring. How he had gotten there was a mystery, as it seemed to belie all possibility. But he was, after all, the Grand Anakronist.

It was high noon, though the sun could not be seen. The Offending Party were making terrible progress. Anakron shrugged; it was still early in the trials.

Anakron raised his staff. The cat yowled. The sleet ended, borne away on a dry, hot wind from the desert of Harad. Dry, hot, sandy wind. Dry, hot, sandy, fast moving wind. Painfully fast.

Anakron pulled his cloak more tightly about him, and raised his staff a second time. Against all seeming possibility, the air, amidst the blowing sand, seemed to flow like water, and slowly coming into focus was a bridge, shaped like a half of a figure eight, switching the road directions, such that north was on the right instead of the left, and vice versa. As cars passed by, the steering wheels inexplicably changed sides of the vehicle without warning, and car after car skidded off the road, some of them crashing, a few of them managing to right themselves and re-enter the flow (such is it was) of traffic.

Anakron raised his staff yet again. Billboards started popping up at irregular intervals, too often and multitudinous, bearing obnoxious pictures and messages. There was Britney Spears grinning at the viewers, words in bold, brash colors, bearing the message, "Kotex fits. Period." There was a stern looking fellow in a top hat and striped pants, pointing at the viewer, seemingly saying, "You are judged by the company you keep." And many, many more.

And the wind heated up the land. In mere minutes, the temperature climbed from almost freezing to sweaty.

"Any time now, Rôgû should be making his appearance," Anakron said under his breath with a satisfied smile.