[The Saucepan Man]

Day may have been dawning in Moredough, although it was impossible to tell for sure in that Land of Shadowy Deals. As always, Mount Moody spewed out its rank, malodorous gasses like some dreadful great egg sandwich well beyond its barter-by date. Close by (somehow too close, it seemed), suspended above the pinnacle of the Tower Block of Barát-Höm, the nostril of Môgul Bildûr, wreathed in red flaming gunk, strained and twitched to catch the scent of rent Ent. Suddenly, a luminescent green flare went up from the Ered Lethargi and was answered by a purple and gold starburst above the Ephel Dûwot.

“Damn those blasted Goblins and their infernal fireworks,” cursed Môgul as he surveyed his realm from the panoramic window of his office suite, high in the Dark Tower Block.

Turning away, he glanced down at the docket that had accompanied the recent consignment from Valleyum, delivered in accordance with the terms of the Orcish Conundrum Concordat.

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The Origin of Orcs

It is often said that Orcs were created wilfully by Môgul Bildûr, the Velour formerly known as Melvin Bluenote. This, however, is a misconception. In fact, it might be said that Orcs were a misconception on Melvin’s part, or at least an unintentional by-product of his original good intentions.

When Melvin was cast out from Valleyum by his breth/sist-ren and first came to Muddled-Mirth, he immediately marked out the furrowed fields and green pastures of Dairyland for redevelopment. It is said that he did so in greed, and solely with an eye to profit. But it was not always so. For when he first looked upon the Sindiar Elves of Dairyland he saw how they toiled every day of their immortal lives to work the land upon which they lived. And, taking pity on them, he conceived a plan to offer them an alternative to their arduous lifestyle by building for them affordable and community-based housing. And so, in the northern regions of Ihnä-Sîti, Ghêtö and Slóm, near to his stronghold at Slangbad, Melvin ordered the building of vast estates of houses and raised blocks of flets*. Then he counselled the Sindiar to leave their ploughs and dairy herds and make their homes in these mighty edifices of Kôn-Krít**. And many heeded his entreaties and took up residence in the housing of his counsel.

At first all went well. Melvin provided them with all they could want and their lives were rich and fulfilled (albeit somewhat cramped). But Melvin soon became dissatisfied with providing socially responsible housing, and wished to generate some profit for himself from the land that he had claimed as his own. And so he began to build the high-rent office buildings, luxury apartments, vast industrial complexes and exclusive shopping malls for which he later became renowned. But, as the money rolled into Slangbad, Melvin became greedier and greedier. And soon he began to neglect the counsel estates and tower blocks of Ihnä-Sîti, Ghêtö and Slóm. No longer were their residents provided with their needs on demand. Rather, Melvin’s administrators, charged with reducing Slangbad’s outgoings, required that they fill out eight different forms in triplicate every week in order to establish their entitlement to the pittance handed out to them by Melvin’s Treasury. Life became hard for them, but no longer could they return to work the land, as they had done in times long past, for they had forgotten how and there was in any event precious little open space left within Dairyland.

And so, with limited resources available to them, nothing to occupy their time and nowhere else to go, they became boorish and aggressive and turned to squabbling amongst themselves. They defiled the desolate grey-clad buildings with the ancient runic symbols of Grá-Fïti, which marked out their territories and declared who fancied who. Many departed for the few Sindiar havens that remained. Yet the most mean-spirited remained, and gradually, as years turned into decades and decades into millennia, they changed. They became twisted, mentally and physically, until they were beings filled with hate ruled by violence. And they became known as Orcs***.

The Orcish Conundrum

But this presented the Velour with a conundrum. For the Orcs were, in origin, Elves, and so entitled to return to the Halls of Mantoes upon the death of their phwoarr****. And Orcish lifestyle being what it is, they tended to die frequently and in large numbers so that, very soon, the number of Orcish souls running amok in those ancient Halls and spoiling Mrs Mantoes’ garden parties became too much to bear for delicate Elvish sensitivities.

And so it came to pass that Mantoes created a Great Chamber in which the Orcish contingent might suitably be housed, declaring “I have created a Holding Pen … um … Great Chamber … in which those Orcish scum … er … our esteemed Orcish contingent … might suitably be cordoned off … um … housed.”

And yet, by the will of Iluvtar, it was decreed that any Orc who renounced his or her brutal Muddled-Mirthly nature might nevertheless find solace in Mantoes’ Halls.

But the Elves remained unhappy at the thought of Orcs being present in the Halls reserved for them, reformed or not, for they felt that they would lower the tone of the place. And so a Concordat was agreed with Môgul Bildûr, whereby he would be entitled to reclaim those Orcish souls who sought redemption and bring them back to Muddled-Mirth. To this purpose, a notice was to be dispatched to him from the Office of Mantoes every time that an Orc sought entry to Mantoes’ Halls. And, because the Elves weren’t too chuffed about their noisy, smelly neighbours in the Orcish Chamber either, an option was included allowing Môgul to reclaim them too, if he so desired.

Of course, it was unknown for Orcs to seek redemption, and so the Orcish Conundrum Concordat was never invoked. Until now that is. And, given his need for readily available and disposable troops, Môgul had ticked the option box.

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Môgul’s thoughts were interrupted by the arrival of an Orcish messenger who understandably entered in great trepidation given the incident with the mail room Orc the previous week.

“Er … Sire, the delivery awaits your inspection.”

“Excellent. I will be right there.”

The Orc turned to leave, delighted that his Master was in such a good mood. His delight, however, was brought to an abrupt conclusion (as indeed was his life) as the end of a spiked pseudopodium made a sudden and unexpected appearance in his forehead.

Well, why not, thought Môgul, smiling. I've got Orcs to spare now.

“Janitor!” he called as he stepped over the remains of yet another hapless mail room clerk and made for the door.

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Once in the mail room, Môgul surveyed the numerous crates awaiting his inspection. The vast number present exceeded even his wildest expectations. Most of them were of huge proportions, but a smaller, coffin-sized one marked “Handle with care” drew his immediate intention.

“Ah, this must be the Captain,” he said. “Open it up at once.”

A leering Orcish mail room clerk holding a large iron crowbar immediately levered off the top and peered expectantly inside. Suddenly, a dark hand whipped out and grabbed the clerk by the throat, strangling the life from him within seconds. As the owner of the hand sat up in the crate, Môgul bridled in appreciation at the magnificent figure of the Uruk-Hai Captain before him.

“What is your name?” inquired Môgul.

“Grbbllx” answered the Uruk Captain.

“And who do you serve, er, Grbbllx?”

“Merifflssullff!”

Believing the Uruk somewhat disorientated from his journey, Môgul was satisfied with the response. But his satisfaction was short-lived since, as the Orcish Captain made to stand up, he promptly fell flat on his face. Unfortunately, it appeared that the Uruk was missing a foot.

Slightly crestfallen, but nevertheless expectant, Môgul ordered that the remainder of the crates be opened. The mail room Orcs, nervously eyeing their fallen comrade, reluctantly began to lever open the remaining crates. Now, Orcs are of course equipped with the most hardy of stomachs, which rarely, if ever, let go of their contents whatever the provocation. And so it came as somewhat of a surprise to Môgul that, upon opening the crates, his Orcish minions immediately turned away with wrinkled snouts and began retching. Then the stench hit him, and even he, greatest of the Dark Lords, was overcome with queasiness.

A dull, monotonous murmuring could be heard coming from the open crates. The odd flailing limb flew out. And then, slowly and inexorably, the occupants stood up. An Orcish army it was indeed. Yet one which had spent far too much time mouldering in Mantoes’ Holding Pen. Dark, lifeless eyes gazed out from skeletal heads, attached to bodies missing many of those parts which most bodies took for granted. And, for some reason, the entire contingent was bathed in a bright glow of putrid green.

“Get me the Korprat-Loyers!” screamed Môgul as he surveyed the desolate and bodily deficient army before him. “I’ll teach those Valleyum morons to send me defective Orcs!”

Then, as an evil grin spread across what passed for his face, he added “Yet, they may have their uses.”
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* Flet, a Simian word denoting any raised dwelling place
** Kôn-Krít, a dull, grey building material highly prized in the First Age but largely disused (for aesthetic reasons) since
*** From the Quixotic Eeurrch, meaning “Get away from me, you proletariat scum”
**** Phwoarr, a being’s physically incarnate Muddled-Mirthly body, so-called because of its association with physical impulses

<font size=1 color=339966>[ 12:09 AM January 11, 2004: Message edited by: The Saucepan Man ]