A/N: This story came about because James, a co-worker, asked a stupid question about the movie. So, it's his fault!! This is a gross out kind of humor, but that's orcs for you. Please, R&R, hate it or love it, and let me know your out there.
Disclaimer: Tolkien would be rolling in his grave if he saw what has happened to his prized stories. I don't think that Peter Jackson would be too thrilled either!
It's What for Dinner
Kraguz was proud for being a lowly useless typical everyday orc. He couldn't count to five and spell the most essential orc words, like kill, murder, back stab, slaughter, disembowelment (He couldn't even say that one properly) and other such goodies. Yet, he worked for the great high muck a muck Dark Lord Sauron (never met him in person, though), and he had an incredible two syllable name, that not only could he not spell, but his cohorts and the so damn good better than the average orc (what were they called again . . . oh yeah, the Uruk-Hai) had trouble saying right.
He had a special purpose in life. he was the cook for the troops of Mordor, and the Isengard orcs and psuedo-orcs enjoyed his fine talents as a chef as well. This special job meant that he got to stay out of the way of danger and place bets with the other orcs, who were on other super special duties, about how many warriors would their orcs kill or which orc would die in the battle or lose interesting body parts. Kraguz often became a rich orc for short periods of time, until the bigger badder orcs beat the snot out of him and took his winnings. The best part of his job was that he got to go out to the battlefield and kill off the remaining weak and dying. it gave him a real sense of satisfaction to be useful in this way. It was truly a good life. Today's special catch of the day was a exceptionally special treat, especially since the troops were in a particular hurry and pickings had to be made fast. Kraguz lucked into this one. The fresh meat was already generously chopped up somewhat. That was so nice of that damn Dunedain to do for them. They weren't all bad. A little more hack and slash and all was packed and ready within minutes.
Because of those little weakling furry rodents, that they weren't allowed to touch, muchless mangle or cook, because that bloody White Wizard wanted them whole so badly for questioning (A lost hand or foot wouldn't cease up their tongue any!!!), they had to take a breather. All as well, that meant he could put together that special little stew. He always found the addition of the leftovers from last week added a little extra flavoring and a touch of the White Wizard's special stash of that peculiar weed, that some of the Uruk-Hai had smuggled out, gave it an interesting little kick.
One of the bigger orcs, Grishnakh by name, came over and stuck his clawed hand into the boiling pot. He howled some amazing vocabulary and shook his burnt appendage. Sometimes the forces of light and goodness had the right idea about utensils, Kraguz thought as he stirred the soup with a thigh bone. Oh well, a little addition of orc dirt never hurt the flavor any.
While Grishnakh did his special little burned pain dance and cursing song, a group of those Whit Hand orcs showed up. One stuck his spear in the stew and pulled out a nice juicy chunk of meat. He took a good tearing bite, then nodded his head in satisfaction.
"Who's for dinner, Krag?" he asked approvingly.
"I believe it was that Lurtz fellow."
Disclaimer: Tolkien would be rolling in his grave if he saw what has happened to his prized stories. I don't think that Peter Jackson would be too thrilled either!
It's What for Dinner
Kraguz was proud for being a lowly useless typical everyday orc. He couldn't count to five and spell the most essential orc words, like kill, murder, back stab, slaughter, disembowelment (He couldn't even say that one properly) and other such goodies. Yet, he worked for the great high muck a muck Dark Lord Sauron (never met him in person, though), and he had an incredible two syllable name, that not only could he not spell, but his cohorts and the so damn good better than the average orc (what were they called again . . . oh yeah, the Uruk-Hai) had trouble saying right.
He had a special purpose in life. he was the cook for the troops of Mordor, and the Isengard orcs and psuedo-orcs enjoyed his fine talents as a chef as well. This special job meant that he got to stay out of the way of danger and place bets with the other orcs, who were on other super special duties, about how many warriors would their orcs kill or which orc would die in the battle or lose interesting body parts. Kraguz often became a rich orc for short periods of time, until the bigger badder orcs beat the snot out of him and took his winnings. The best part of his job was that he got to go out to the battlefield and kill off the remaining weak and dying. it gave him a real sense of satisfaction to be useful in this way. It was truly a good life. Today's special catch of the day was a exceptionally special treat, especially since the troops were in a particular hurry and pickings had to be made fast. Kraguz lucked into this one. The fresh meat was already generously chopped up somewhat. That was so nice of that damn Dunedain to do for them. They weren't all bad. A little more hack and slash and all was packed and ready within minutes.
Because of those little weakling furry rodents, that they weren't allowed to touch, muchless mangle or cook, because that bloody White Wizard wanted them whole so badly for questioning (A lost hand or foot wouldn't cease up their tongue any!!!), they had to take a breather. All as well, that meant he could put together that special little stew. He always found the addition of the leftovers from last week added a little extra flavoring and a touch of the White Wizard's special stash of that peculiar weed, that some of the Uruk-Hai had smuggled out, gave it an interesting little kick.
One of the bigger orcs, Grishnakh by name, came over and stuck his clawed hand into the boiling pot. He howled some amazing vocabulary and shook his burnt appendage. Sometimes the forces of light and goodness had the right idea about utensils, Kraguz thought as he stirred the soup with a thigh bone. Oh well, a little addition of orc dirt never hurt the flavor any.
While Grishnakh did his special little burned pain dance and cursing song, a group of those Whit Hand orcs showed up. One stuck his spear in the stew and pulled out a nice juicy chunk of meat. He took a good tearing bite, then nodded his head in satisfaction.
"Who's for dinner, Krag?" he asked approvingly.
"I believe it was that Lurtz fellow."