[The Saucepan Man]

The children sat expectantly, chattering excitedly amongst themselves. Although it was dark outside and there was no apparent source of light within, their faces shone with an inner radiance that lit the hall as brightly as any lamp.

The door opened, and a man stepped in. Although he was youthful in appearance, his deep blue eyes belied a profound wisdom well beyond his apparent years, indeed beyond time itself. His kindly face beamed brightly as he paused for a moment by the door and surveyed the children, his children, sitting cross-legged before him. The chattering stopped and all eyes turned to the man in excited anticipation. An indulgent smile briefly played upon his lips before he walked slowly to the front of the hall and addressed the assembly.

“Now, my children,” he began. “The time for practice is over. I have instructed you as best as I can. You must now breathe life into the theme that I have laid out for you. Sing now, my children. Sing as you have never sung before.”

And, upon his cue, the children began to sing. The sound of their voices filled the hall, great and wondrous in its beauty, full of splendour and glory, magnificent and yet somehow haunting.

“All things droll and comical,
All sub-plots great and small,
All things fun and farcical,
In Muddled-Mirth shall rule.

Each play on words and pay-off
Each little jape and jest,
We like the quick one-liners,
But running gags are best.”

But, as the children’s song unfolded, a low hum could be heard, almost imperceptible at first, but insistent and gradually growing in intensity. A look of displeasure crossed the man’s face as he brought the song to a halt.

“Who’s making that dreadful racket?” he asked, surveying the radiant faces before him. His gaze alighted on a boy sitting at the back of the hall, bigger than the rest with dark, tousled hair and a mischievous twinkle in his eyes.

“Ah, Melvin. I should have guessed. Would you please stop that nonsense right now?”

“Oohhh!” groaned Melvin, obviously reluctant to give up his little game. Then, as the man’s eyes shot him a piercing glance, he grudgingly gave way. “Yes Dad,” he said sheepishly, his eyes staring fixedly at the floor.

The song started up again.

“All things hale and humorous,
All satire well-observed,
All things light and ludicrous,
The blithe and the absurd ...”

“Ow!” exclaimed a girl with pigtails and flowers in her hair. She promptly burst into tears and, with each drop that fell to the earthen floor, a delicate green shoot sprang up.

“Dad, Melvin just pulled Yawanna’s pigtails,” said one of the boys, almost identical to Melvin in looks but smaller in build and fairer of face. Melvin shot him a withering glance.

“Yes, Manuel. I saw him,” replied the man. “Melvin! Will you please stop playing up? You’re spoiling the song for everyone else. I won’t tell you again.”

“Hmmph!” snorted Melvin before nodding unconvincingly. “Yes Dad,” he muttered once again.

“And you can stop sniggering too, Colin,” he said, directing his gaze towards one of the younger boys, a pasty, bespectacled fellow. As Colin nodded his head vigorously, the song resumed once again.

“The carefully crafted pastiche,
The witty repartee,
The slapstick and the horseplay
And fine tomfoolery.

All things …”

“NA-NA-NA-NA-NA-NA-NA-NA-NA-NA-NA!” shouted Melvin, his fingers stuck firmly in his ears.

“Right, that’s it young man!” exclaimed his father, striding over to Melvin, grabbing him by the scruff of his neck and propelling him towards the door. “If you can’t behave yourself, we shall have to carry on without you. Now, out you go!”

Môgul Bildûr’s eyes snapped open.

Father!

A pang of grief stabbed momentarily at his black heart. For a few brief seconds he longed once again to be that child, sitting attentively among his breth/sist-ren, bathing in the radiant glow of his father’s bounteous smile. He yearned then to run headlong into those welcoming arms, to feel the tenderness of his father’s touch, and to beg for his forgiveness. But the moment was fleeting and the pain and regret that he had felt turned quickly to bitterness, resentment and anger.

He never loved me! Not like he loved the others. What does he care of Muddled-Mirth? He abandoned it long ago and so did they. It is mine now. Mine to do with it as I please. My preciousss.

A knock on the door of his office suite roused him from his dark brooding and an Orc dressed in a blue short-sleeved shirt and blue shorts stepped warily into the room dragging a bulky post-bag behind him. It was his first day on the job and his colleagues had cruelly volunteered him for top-floor duty. This was an intimidating task at the best of times, but the hapless fellow today had the misfortune to encounter Môgul while in the process of reasserting his habitual malevolence after an uncharacteristically warm moment. With hardly an acknowledgement of the Orc’s presence, the Dark Developer grabbed the wretched creature by the throat and flung him across the room. The luckless Orc, together with his post-bag, hit the wall at speed and collapsed into a crumpled heap on the floor. A flurry of letters, internal memos and invoices hung in the air for a brief moment before slowly fluttering to the floor beside his prone body.

“That’s better,” Môgul thought to himself, his mood brightening.

And there was much for him to be in a good mood about. The Gateskeeper was excelling himself. So much so, in fact, that Môgul was seriously considering offering him Lordship over the Dell of Hardwairaith as reward for his endeavours. And now it looked like another member of the Equal Opportunities-ship was coming over to his way of thinking. He would have to send a memo to the Master of Dungeon #379 requesting him to step up his “gentle persuasion” of that Topfloorien dissenter, Celedimbore, to “encourage” him in his efforts to crack the Thingwraith spell. After all, Môgul was sure that the Elf would rather not end up (literally) fronting his latest poster campaign.

The news from the dread Loyers was good too. One by one, through a series of leveraged buy-outs, refinancing deals, leaseback offers, hostile (excessively hostile, in fact) take-overs and occasional incidents of good old fashioned bribery and corruption, the realms of Muddled-Mirth were coming under the control of Môgul Enterprises LLC. The media campaign had been a resounding success. For the most part, the formerly free peoples of Muddled-Mirth had been content to accept evil dominion in return for a constant supply of consumer goods and services which, although shoddy and sub-standard, were generally less shoddy and sub-standard than those that they had become accustomed to. And evil was so less threatening when accompanied by reassuring words and happy faces.

Of course there were isolated outbreaks of resistance, but most of them had been brought under control. The servants of the Dark Tower Block were most adept at uncovering skeletons in cupboards and, with the help of well-placed articles and smear campaigns in the Daily Maul (proprietor: one Môgul Bildûr Esq), the ringleaders had largely been weeded out. And where that was to no avail, brute force always offered a most satisfying alternative.

Soreham remained a problem, though. Môgul bristled at the audacity of Lord Dimli’s resistance (although he did of course admire the Dwarf’s methods). And then there was Sauerkraut’s treachery. Môgul still thought of him as Colin, the geeky kid with glasses that everyone had picked on, although he had to admit that the nerdy kid had come a long way since then. But treason such as this had to be dealt with in the severest manner, not least because the Dread Developer greatly desired to learn the secret of Sauerkraut’s mass media coverage. If only he had a few more troops at his disposal, he would have little difficulty in acquainting both the impertinent Dwarven Lord and the conniving Wizard with their (un)just desserts. But Orcs and their ilk were in such short supply at the moment, what with the need to suppress his newly-acquired subjects while maintaining a suitably impressive force to man/orc/troll the Land of Shadowy Deals. And the Beasterlings and Poltroons were far too busy squabbling amongst themselves over the lands to the south and east of Moredough to be of any use.

Môgul grimaced as he stared ruefully at the twitching body of the unfortunate Orcish postal clerk. Absent-mindedly, he picked up one or two of the scattered letters and memos. He experienced a moment of mild irritation as he was duly informed that a fire drill was due to take place that afternoon and mentally noted his assembly point at the foot of Mount Odouruin. Then his gaze was drawn to an official-looking notice bearing a seal that he recognised only too well: the Seal of the Velour. He scanned the solemn missive with renewed interest.

“Of course!” he exclaimed aloud. “The Orcish Conundrum Concordat!”