Sauron stood in the shadow of Barad-dûr, tapping his armored toe impatiently as eight of the Nazgûl paced nervously around him. They knew what happened when Sauron had to wait too long for something he wanted, especially if it was something he wanted as much as the day's planned cruise.
"Lord Sauron," said Khamûl, "surely the Witch-king will be only a moment longer. He certainly does not desire to keep you waiting."
"Jeez," muttered Ji Indur to Dwar, "what a brown-nose. Always sucking up to the Witch-king. It's disgusting, really, to see a Ringwraith lowered to such. But Khamûl always did want power, and I suppose that brown-nosing is the best way to get power in Mordor."
Dwar glanced at Ji Indur. "Pardon," he said, "but what in the hell are you talking about?"
"Brown-nosing."
"In case you haven't noticed," said Dwar, "we don't exactly have noses." He waved a gauntleted hand before his dark hood. "I mean, we really only have these hoods, and the vague shape of a head. Who knows what's under here?"
"We had noses, once. Remember?"
"Hardly," said Dwar. "I've been Sauron's lackey—no offense, boss—for so long I don't remember the old days that well. We were elves, weren't we?"
"No, humans," said Khamûl. "And I can hear every word you're saying, Ji Indur. You're in deep crap tonight, my friend. I'm going to give you the pummeling of your life."
"Dammit," Ji Indur hissed. Dwar shrugged.
"I told you to be more careful when you bitch about people."
"Huh? When?" asked Ji Indur. "And why weren't you inclined to remind me just a moment ago?"
"Didn't seem worth the effort, really. You would've kept talking," said Dwar.
"I . . . well, I suppose you have me there. Say, isn't that the Witch-king?"
"I don't know if that's the Witch-king, but I'd recognize the sound of that Caddy anywhere. Lord Sauron, methinks your ride has arrived!" said Dwar.
"Ooh," said Ji Indur, "you shouldn't have said that."
"What? I was being helpful."
"The sentiment was right, but 'your ride has arrived'? Borderline alliteration. Makes you sound ignorant. And really, who says 'methinks' anymore? That went out with the First Age."
"Says you," grumbled Dwar pitifully.
Looking out over the bridge that crossed a chasm of molten lava and connected Barad-dûr with the rest of Mordor, the Ringwraiths and Sauron could clearly make out the red Cadillac, and the Witch-king at the wheel. Nearly running down a pair of orcs, the Witch-king revved the engine and brought the Caddy to a screeching halt beside Sauron.
"My lord," he said, sliding across the car to the passenger's seat, "your chariot awaits."
"My chariot?" asked Sauron. "I dunno, man, this looks an awful lot like my Caddy . . ."
"It was an expression, my lord."
"Oh! One of those again!" The Dark Lord of Mordor slapped the Witch-king on the back. "You know I'm not too good with that." He walked around the Cadillac and plopped into the driver's seat. "Hop in, my Naz . . . Nazgah . . . Nazguey . . . Ringwraiths!" He revved the engine to emphasize the point.
"Well, if we must."
"I suppose it'd be all right . . ."
"Hell yeah!" Quickly, Dwar jumped into the back, flanked by Ji Indur and Khamûl. The other Ringwraiths started to move, but stopped when it was obvious that there was no room for them.
"Sorry, boys," said Sauron. "Next time, okay? Go chase down that midget—"
"Hobbit, sir. Or halfling, whichever you prefer," said the Witch-king.
"Not a midget?"
"No, sir."
"How 'bout that." Sauron shook his helmeted head. "And here I thought they were midgets all along. Hobbits, huh?"
"Or halflings."
"Now hang on," said Sauron, "which is it? Midget, hobbit, or halfling?"
"The last two," said the Witch-king. "They're not midgets. They're hobbits. Also known as halflings."
"Why not midgets?"
Khamûl cleared his throat. "It's, ah, well, we were sued by a certain organization for calling them midgets. Politically incorrect and all."
"How is halfling less politically incorrect?" asked Sauron. "By calling them a halfling, you're implying that they are only half people. How is that right? At least 'midget' implies a whole person."
"I don't know, sir. All I know is that we got a cease and desist order."
"Did we appeal it?"
"Uh . . . no," said the Witch-king. "If you remember, my lord, you had our attorney beheaded after he lost."
"I did?"
"Yes."
"Really?"
"Yes," said Khamûl. Dwar and Ji Indur nodded emphatically.
"Oh." Sauron shook his head again. "Hmm. Next time, keep me up to date on the daily beheadings, okay, Witch-king?"
"Sure. Hey, Khamûl, make a note—update Lord Sauron on daily beheadings."
"Of course, sir."
Sauron nodded satisfactorily. "So I won't be missing anymore beheadings," he said. "You know, I don't think I've ever seen one. I hear there are a lot."
"Daily means daily, my lord."
"So every day, then?"
"Yup."
"My, who is beheaded?"
The Witch-king shrugged. "Prisoners—you know, spies, criminals, random village people—"
"By the heavens, don't tell me the Village People were beheaded!" Sauron gasped.
"Uh, no . . . I meant random people who live in villages around Mordor."
"Oh. You should be more clear next time." Sauron reached over to the Cadillac's stereo, flicking it on and popping in his favorite compact disc as he put the car into gear. "Shall we, gentlemen?" He floored the gas pedal, narrowly missing an orc soldier and the troll he was escorting.
Ji Indur tapped Dwar on the shoulder. "He didn't just put in what I think he put in, did he?"
As the opening bars of "YMCA" filled the air, Dwar just nodded.
"Yes," he said finally, "he did."
"Bloody hell."