[The Saucepan Man]

The Korprat-Loyers, Cheetem and Ripoff, sped over the Plateau of Gorgonbreath on their top of the range turbo-charged Wargs, Porsha and Furrari. Behind them, slung across the back of a horse and still bound and gagged by their injunctive spells, trailed Gravlox. As they went, Cheetem and Ripoff regaled their captive audience (of one) with a customary Loyer song:

Claim! Blame! The gravy train!
Red tape! No escape!
And down down to Loyer-town
You go, my lad!

Ipso facto! Lex contracto!
Locus standi! Mutatis mutandi!
Bound, bound, far underground!
Quid pro quo, my lad!

Bad debt! Liquidate!
Warranty clause! Bankruptcy laws!
Sue, sue! And turn the screw,
While Loyers draft, and Loyers laugh,
Pound and hound and cite their grounds
Down you go, my lad!

Soon, they were within the Tower Block of Barát-Höm standing with their prisoner before their chieftain, Greedhog, and none other than the Lord of Dark and Dirty Dealings himself. Môgul Bildûr sat in his leather bound swivel-chair, shrouded as always in a dark and murky cloud, gently stroking (as far as could be told) Heslob’s mangy white fur.

“Your Loyers have done well, Greedhog,” purred Môgul. “See that they are well rewarded.”

“Indeed I ssshall, sssire,” hissed Greedhog. Then, turning to them, he continued, “Look to your annual pay review. Threefold ssshall your performancsse bonusssesss be multiplied for thisss year. Now leave usss.”

As Cheetem and Ripoff withdrew from the Office Suite positively dripping with smug satisfaction, Môgul turned his attention to the prisoner.

“So, Gravlox. We meet again. Only it would appear that your Uruk credentials are not all that I had hoped. You are a traitor to all that is dark and diabolical, are you not? You have besmirched the bad name of Orcs the world over. What, I wonder, should we do with you?”

“We ssshould liquidate him, my liege,” sneered Greedhog. “I could have a Writ of Exssecution drawn up within minutesss if you only sssay the word.”

Gravlox’s increasingly Elven features remained impassive, straining only slightly in an attempt to make out the form of the nebulous figure seated before him. Despite his Orcish origins, it was perhaps better for him that he could not.

“No. We shall stick to the original plan. He may yet prove to be a useful negotiating tool.”

“Indeed sssire. Particularly as it ssseemsss that he hasss … er … feelingsss for the Ssshe-Elf.” A look of distaste crossed Greedhog’s twisted face.

“The she-elf?” uttered Môgul in bemusement. “Why on Muddled-Mirth would he be attracted to a storage unit?”

“No sssire, the Ssshe-Elf. The ring leader of the Entisssh Quessstorss. That Merisssuwyniel.” Greedhog spat the name out as if to stifle it the moment it left his treacherous lips but it hung in the air, feminine yet practical. Gravlox was unable to conceal a mournful sigh.

“Well, why didn’t you say so? How curious. Are these … er … feelings mutual?”

“Yesss, my Lord, we believe ssso.”

There was a pause. Then a familiar gurgling, mewling, strangling sound issued forth from the murk. Môgul was chuckling.

“Excellent! Then his value to us is great indeed. See that he is not harmed.”

“Your wisssh isss my command Massster,” replied Greedhog, a tinge of disappointment in his voice.

“Well, my friend, it looks like you will be joining us on our little jaunt to Valleyum. What say you to that?”

Gravlox remained resolutely silent.

“Please yourself. Now, we must arrange transport. Greedhog, send for the Aircorps of Dumbar.”