[ WP ] You 've finally done it : unquestioned world domination . The planet is entirely under your control . Now what ?

**Sauron the Necromancer, Ruler of all Middle-Earth, ** rested his chin on his fist, and blew air threw his nose. It whistled through his mask; a high-pitched squeaking sound. 
 
 All around him the halls of *Industry*, of Progress for *Destruction's Sake*, rang empty. Torches flickered in their wall sockets, dancing flames laid low by the sigh of the wind. 
 
 Somewhere, a postern door creaked open. As metal screeched against stone, for a brief, quickening moment Sauron thought he heard the pitter-patter of small, harry, *Hobbit* feet. 
 
 Fiery images and sweet, distant screams, echoed through his mind - piles and piles of diminutive skeletons - and Sauron was reminded, once again, that the Glory Days were over. All he had left were memories, and an old, constantly whispering ring that seemed to be incapable of *shutting up*. 
 
 `` Master-'' Skreevil the Pretty scampered into his view, his ruddy snout split in two by some old battle. *How the orcs come up with these ridiculous names... * 
 
 `` Master, we've found him. The *last* of Man. We've gutted him clean and his skin was strung up to dry. This is the dawn of the age of the ORC!'' Skreevil slammed a fist to his chest, and uttered a whooping howl. 
 
 Sauron shrugged his mailed shoulders, not bothering to lift his head. 
 
 `` That's fine, Skreevil.'' 
 
 `` Master?'' Skreevil ducked and weaved in that pathetically timid way the smaller orcs do, as if Sauron might smash his tiny skull into pieces at any moment, `` Master, is something wrong?'' 
 
 `` Have you ever heard the song of the Valar, Skreevil?'' 
 
 `` Is that the one by Barbish the Blood-mouthed?'' 
 
 `` No, no,'' Sauron's wistful tones were low, monotonous, as if inflection itself was too difficult - or too pointless a task, `` It does not matter. It is not a song you will ever hear, because they are all dead. Just like the elves. And the hobbits. And the ents...'' 
 
 `` The dwarves,'' Skreevil sniveled helpfully. 
 
 `` Truly?'' Sauron was lifted briefly out of his stupor by a longing pang in his chest, `` When did they go?'' 
 
 `` Last century, my lord. You always said they'd end up killing themselves.'' 
 
 `` Pity. I should have liked-'' 
 
 A thought struck Sauron like an arrow through an eye-socket. Skreevil cocked his head at his master, fidgeting. When Sauron sat up in his throne, Skreevil automatically threw his hands in front of his face, and squealed. 
 
 Yet the smashing did not come. Skreevil uncovered his face. Sauron was staring down at him, twin kindlings of fire glowing behind his mask. Sauron had his left hand - the hand with the ring - cupped to his ear, and was nodding along as if someone was whispering to him. 
 
 At last, Sauron's voice broke the silence: 
 
 `` Skreevil, how would you like to be a general?'' 
 
 `` A general...'' slowly, a wicked grin spread over Skreevil's face - until a thunderbolt of confusion split his thoughts, `` But, my lord, what armies would I command? We are at peace!'' 
 
 `` For now, yes. That's exactly what we want *them* to think-'' Sauron stood at his full height. He put out his hands, and gripped Skreevil by his shoulders, until Skreevil winced in pain, `` That's why this is the perfect time to strike!'' 
 
 `` Strike- who- my lord-'' Skreevil tried to shrink away from Sauron's grip. 
 
 `` The *Goblins, * Skreevil. The *Trolls* and the *Ogres*. We'll slaughter every last one of them, and we'll- we'll-'' Sauron's hands disappeared from Skreevil's shoulders, and he turned around just in time to see Sauron collapse into his throne. A sigh rushed from behind the mask; a sound like a hundred swords being bent in half. 
 
 `` Oh, forget it. Forget the whole thing. It's this blasted *ring* - I made it in one night of teenage angst, and it's never stopped haunting me. Sometimes, I wish I had just let those poor little hobbits throw it into the fire.'' 
 
 *** 
 
 **'' But it has *worms* in it! `` ** Sauron the Mighty, the First and Last Emperor of Middle-Earth, was arguing with an Orc. Sauron wedged himself into the open door, so the orc could not see around Sauron's sizable frame. 
 
 Gorzog Stinkbreath, who unfortunately lived up to his name, was clever for an orc. That's why he was made Chef - anyone can kill, but it takes true talent to cook. At least, that's what he told himself... 
 
 `` Worms is good for you, my lord. Full of vitamins and juicy nutriments,'' Gorzog demonstrated his point by pulling a worm out of the wriggling, infested bread, and dropping it down his gullet. 
 
 Sauron, covered his nose with one hand and shuddered. 
 
 `` I do not want it,'' his voice was muffled by his armored fingers. 
 
 `` But-'' 
 
 `` Gorzog, I am *busy*. I do not *want* it. I am trying to - I am very busy. Leave me alone!'' Sauron slammed the door in Gorzog's face. The door, a massive, metal thing, with spikes at the top and the bottom, cracked against the stone frame so hard that one of its hinges broke. 
 
 The door swung itself open ( well, to be honest, Gorzog *might've* helped it swing open by kicking at the hinges a few times, but Orcs were rarely honest, so - *the door swung itself open* ). 
 
 Gorzog was assaulted with a barrage of awful, foul-smelling odors: baking apples and cinnamon, acrid-yet-pleasant pipe weeds, and were those... flowers? 
 
 Before he could stop himself, the question tumbled out of his mouth, `` My lord, what are you doing in-'' 
 
 `` Out!'' Sauron shrieked, his long cape fluttering behind him, `` Get out of my workshop, right now! Do n't you orcs ever *KNOCK?! *'' 
 
 But it was too late. Gorzog had seen. 
 
 `` Is those cups filled with ale?'' 
 
 `` *No. *'' 
 
 `` Yes, they is. And that's pipe weed, right? Why is there curly hairs all over the floor?'' 
 
 `` *It's not hair, it's- it's-'' 
 
 `` You're making Hobbits, is n't you!'' 
 
 There was a whiff of air, and the door slapped shut behind Gorzog. Sauron swept towards him, one accusing finger jutting out of a mailed fist - aimed directly at Gorzog's face. 
 
 `` Look, you-'' Sauron lowered his gaze to Gorzog, and started coughing ( *what on Middle-Earth has this Orc been eating? * ), `` You do n't spill a *word* of what you saw in here, Gorzog. Not a *word. *'' 
 
 `` But Master, we killed all the Hobbits. We torched their inns, and we buried them in their own holes. Why do you want to bring them back?'' 
 
 `` I do n't want to bring them back!'' Sauron snapped. He pressed his fingers to his temples, and sighed, `` I'm sorry. I did n't mean to yell at you Gorzog. It's the food, it's the music, it's- it's- oh, you would n't understand.'' 
 
 Inwardly, Gorzog agreed with that, but he valued his life. He looked at Lord Sauron, and for the first time he noticed the cotton sticking out of the ear-holes in Sauron's mask. 
 
 Noting Gorzog's gaze, Sauron plucked, almost guiltily, at the cotton, `` What? This? This was the only way I could get that damned ring out of my head. Kill this, destroy that, betray them - I'm sick of it! SICK.'' 
 
 `` Of course, my lord,'' Gorzog backed away. 
 
 Gorzog thought Sauron was right - he *was* sick, but it was the kind of sickness that made you worry. If an Orc was sick like this, well, the Medicine Orcs usually prescribed a brutal, painful death. *Gorzog had to tell someone. * 
 
 Sauron bent over his table, clutching at the weeds, and letting the Old Toby crumble through his mailed fist, `` I miss the grass, Gorzog. I miss the flowers, and the way the leaves sound when the wind rushes through them-'' 
 
 *Flowers? Next he'll be talking about forgiveness, and love, and other menfolk things. * 
 
 `` Uh huh,'' Gorzog nodded, humoring the Dark Lord as he slowly backed out of the room. 
 
 `` Have you ever heard the Song of the Valar, Gorzog? 
 
 Gorzog had one hand on the door. He had hoped to escape without the Master's notice. The question hung in the air, unanswered. 
 
 `` Gorzog...'' Sauron's voice was a deep, metallic growl, `` You're not leaving, are you?'' 
 
 `` Ah,'' he said, slowly. *Perhaps the Dark Lord had n't changed so much after all. * 
 
 Gorzog fumbled with the broken hinge, scrambling to pull open the might door. He planted his feet on the stone floor, and heaved and heaved and- 
 
 Sauron's mace crashed down on his skull with a ringing ***WHUNK***. 
 
 `` I could've had an army of Hobbits,'' the Ruler of Middle-Earth muttered to himself.
