Disclaimer: If I owned LoTR, Sauron would have won. Which, incidentally, I'm doing here! Anyway, all props go to the dead man six feet under.

Warning: Warning? Warning? Blatant disregard of the LoTR trilogy, I suppose.

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"Ah, dear hobbit," said Sauron jovially (as much as an unspeakably EVIL Dark Lord could be jovial, of course.) "Thank you for returning me to body." He dusted pink soot off himself and turned to his loyal Ringwraiths.

"All of you except No. 8 go and capture as many heroes as you can from the Black Gate. Do not forget that sodding heir of Isildur! NOW!" And no one disobeyed The Voice™, much like no one could stand The Look of Doom (or The Look™ for short), so the eight Nazgûl (that's the nine minus Nazgûl No. 8) mounted their respective Fell Beasts (except the Witch King of Angmar, who rode No. 8's, as his Foul Steed had been…decapitated) and flew away to do their evil master's bidding.

Nazgûl No. 8, however, grumbled to herself. Yes, this was the one, and only, female Nazgûl of the Nine, proving that men (dead or otherwise) need someone levelheaded to make sure they didn't get out of line. Even if the Witch King was the 'leader', he obeyed No. 8 because he knew what was good for him. Or, to be more accurate, he knew what she would do to him otherwise.

"What am I supposed to do here, My Lord?" she asked, irritated, for she knew she would be at the mercy of the other Nazgûl's teasing (i.e. being the only girl she was expected to stay with the Dark Lord while the 'big boys' caught the heroes.)

"Get that hobbit an outfit," Sauron said shortly. Then added hurriedly, "Before No. 6 gets back."

No. 8 nodded understandingly, barely suppressing a shudder. That week when No. 6 had tried to get Sauron to try various EVIL Dark Lord outfits (while he was still in Fiery Eye mode) had been…draining. She beckoned to Frodo with one finger, and he followed, as if in a trance.

Only after the two had left the chamber did Sauron turn to the still bound-and-gagged Samwise Gamgee.

One wave of an EVIL hand had him un-gagged and spluttering for breath.

"What are you doing to Mr. Frodo!"

Sauron merely glanced at him before continuing to stare at the pandemonium at the Gates. The view in Sauron's chambers was spectacular, and Mount Doom gave an ominous rumble in the distance.

"'Mr. Frodo' shall become an honorary Nazgûl, although he is neither a human, nor a king. Still, I've always wondered about you Halflings, and you've almost been my undoing, had not 'Mr. Frodo' suddenly surrender to the will of My Ring." At this he admired the band of GOLD on his finger. How nice it was for all his fingers to be nice and intact. Sodding Isildur, with his sodding father's sword. Should have stomped his brains out.

Sauron was brought out of this train of thought when Sam exclaimed, "Honorary Nazgûl! By the Gaffer, Frodo will never be a Nazgûl! You won't turn him into one! I won't let you!"

Tired of the useless prattle, another wave of his hand (his intact and EVIL hand, you mustn't forget) had the gag back in Sam's mouth. "I can and I will make Frodo Baggins of the Shire a Nazgûl, and you will not stop me. You did not stop me from getting the Ring, and you will not stop me from making Frodo Nazgûl No…9 ¾."

He snapped his fingers (intact!) a Man stepped out of the shadows and took hold of the vainly struggling Hobbit.

"Take him to the kitchens. I daresay we need someone who can whip up… 'taters'." Sauron smirked and waved the Man away, said Man bowing respectfully and dragging out a struggling Hobbit.

The EVIL Dark Lord turned back to the lovely view. The White City, Minas Tirith, caught his eye and he grinned. EVIL-ly.

If this didn't rub it into that sodding heir-of-Isildur's face, nothing would.

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The screeching of the Nazgûl announced their arrival to Sauron. He waited patiently (as patiently as a busy and EVIL Dark Lord could be) as each of them deposited their spoils.

Sauron examined them all impassively. Sodding Heir-of-Isildur, who was disturbingly being soothed in the arms of Prince Legolas of Mirkwood. Sauron had to stifle a laugh. Leggy, as he was called by…Them.

Then there were two more Hobbits. By the Valar, they were tiny. One looked like a puppy that had been kicked and left out in the rain, while the other had way too much curly hair. Hmm. He could use the puppy looking one, as a politician…

Another man, presumably from Rohan, judging by his armour, as well as the reek of horses around his person. And then a dwarf, red haired and smelling of stone. Don't ask. Next was Gandalf the WHITE. Huh. Gandalf the bleached, more like.

And next was…

"What the Hell is that?"

The Witch King shifted guiltily. "It's a horse. Brego."

"And why would I need a horse named Brego?" Sauron asked, his voice dripping with forced patience and sarcasm.

"I…um…didn't want to come back empty handed…if I did have proper hands, of course."

Sauron sighed tiredly. Help these days. "Send him to the kitchens. Maybe our new cook can cook horse and taters for our victory feast." He laughed as he thought of something else. "And take our guests to…The Room™."

Nazgûl No. 7 gasped. He was elbowed in the ribs.

The heroes were hauled off, wondering what in the Valar's name was The Room™.

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The Orcs that bundled them into The Room were strangely silent, as if unwilling to stir someone…or something…that was inside it. Anyway, the heroes were chucked inside as quickly as possible.

As soon as the door was barred (and quite securely I might add, the reason shall be apparent in the next few paragraphs.) lights came up from nowhere. So much for not awakening the Thing.

All seven of them gazed in horror. It was hanging from the ceiling and appeared to have noticed them. She (for they believed it to be a she) was beautiful (this is an edit. The original had approximately 42 synonyms of the same word, some repeated and most misspelled.) even if the blood had pooled in her face. She seemed to be hanging by a manacle with EVIL looking runes on around her ankle.

She spoke, and her voice was loud, and yet managed to sound sweet. But mostly loud.

"Leggy!11! Like, OMG! It's u, my luv! Come 2 rescue me and we'l get married!" she exclaimed. Then, "Gornie! You're, like, here too! You can help Leggy! And-" her eyes widened "-Eomer! You are sooooo soooper hot too! Merry and Pippin…adorable widdle munchykins! We wuv you, yes we do…"

They stood there in shock. What manner of being was this creature? She had started to drool, and it dripped steadily into a strategically placed bowl. Mordor wasn't super clean, but it wasn't dirty enough to have MarySue drool all over the place. Sauron does have his standards.

Aragorn poked Legolas, and whispered, "What's all this about rescuing her and getting married?"

The elf prince, otherwise known as Leggy!11, shot him a pained look.

"Like, it hurts! Help me down, and I'll give you kisses! –giggle, giggle, twitter, twitter, snort- EW, did I just, lyk, snort? Yuck!"

In a second they were banging against the door. "Get us OUT of here!" came their unified cry.

But the only reply was the muffled laughter of the Orcs.

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"Tada!"

No. 8 had outdone herself. Frodo was now clothed in tattered black cloth that had a hood that was pulled over his head. Around his breeches (for she could not find proper Hobbit-sized Nazgûl clothing) was a minimized dagger and sword, along with a special horn, which purpose shall remain ambiguous until the next chapter.

He did not wear the pointy boots because he was a Hobbit, but No. 8 had compensated by painting his nails black and silver. Not with nail polish (or varnish) because it does not exist in Middle-Earth.

"Well done, No. 8," Sauron acknowledged from his EVIL throne.

No. 6 looked sulky.

"Thanks, My Lord." No. 8 smiled and turned to Frodo. "Now, Frodo, meet the rest of the gang." She pointed out each Nazgûl in turn as she called out their names.

"The Witch King of Angmar; Bob; Jasper Darlington Higgins IV, or just Higgins for short; Yomama, he's the one who goes 'Shire…Baggins' all the time, you'll learn to ignore it; Pavlov; No. 6, the tailor, you may call him Taylor; No. 7; I'm No. 8 and No. 9. You're No. 9 ¾. Any questions?"

"Why don't Nos 7-9 have names?" Frodo spoke for the first time in front of Sauron.

"Meh, we got lazy choosing original names. Numbers were simpler," replied No. 9.

"And now, my loyal Nazgûl, we welcome our newest addition; Nazgûl 9 ¾, Frodo Baggins! Cheers!" And Sauron raised his chalice of DOOM.

There was a chorus of "Cheers!" and a sole "Shire…Baggins!".

And so, Frodo Baggins was made a Nazgûl.

The party afterwards went on until all hours of the night…or day, it was hard to tell without the sun. Wine was aplenty, and the table groaned under a huge platter of 'Horse-and-Taters' The Orcs who passed by swore on their lucky swords that Nazgûls 2-7 started a rendition of Riverdance, had Riverdance existed in Middle-Earth at the time.

No one noticed the screams coming from The Room™, and if they did…they feigned ignorance.

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Phew. That took a long time to write. And I have school tomorrow. Waaaa! REVIEW and make me feel better!

alien