Resinous Tears: - Chapter 2
"Tree-beard, it's me, I'm Sauron, I've come hoooome, I'm so co-o-o-ld, let me in-a your woody ho-o-llow!"
Sauron awoke with a start, his eye stinging with tears. The haunting voice of Kate Bush reminded him why he'd enforced the Bush Ban in the first place. Any thought of foliage was too much for his Great Lidlessness to bear.
"Saruman!" he roared to the 2019-year-old beard in the corner, "What have I told you about playing that sappy Babushka crap in the vicinity of my podium?"
"I. I beg your pardon my Lord," Saruman faltered. "I was playing Top Trumps with Wargy the Warg Rider, and I had become so become so engrossed."
Sauron rolled his eye. "Enough! No more excuses!"
"So his Ferocity rating of 45 wasn't an exaggeration, then," Saruman muttered, and told Sauron he would see that the culprit was punished.
As he made his way towards the orc quarters, the sound of raucous singing grew louder. Of course! He remembered, it was Uglúk's 540th birthday.
Tiptoeing towards the Great Hall, he shoved the hobbit-carcass doorstop to one side, and peered into the gloom. The party was in full swing, Grishnákh was leading a conga-line, and weaving his way through kind gifts of Ent blood aftershaves, lucky hobbits' feet keyrings, dwarf-beard scarves and in the corner a huge inflatable Gandalf, on which some Uruk-hai had scribbled a triangle bikini. He wished he'd thought of that.
The stench of hobbit entrails below him was overpowering as he surreptitiously severed the little man's hairy hooves. With his stick he scooped out the insides.
"They'll make a fine pair of slippers! A little on the small side but beggars can't be choosers." He thought bitterly of his docked wages - after all, it hadn't meant to offend Sauron; he'd thought a new dug-out canoe, made from the ancient Fanghornian Ent-wood would have been just the ticket to help him get over that nasty break-up with Gollum.
He was always a player, that one, he thought, pocketing an eye. "I can whip up a rare stir-fry with this visual receptacle, and it would go a treat with some Warg-jerky." Having just purchased a cookery book from the Dunlending Wildmen, (the days of the Wild Library were over, sadly, they were 'Dunlending'), he was keen to try out some of the more gastronomically- challenging recipes.
"Uglúk!" he called, seeing the great slimy brute approach. "Sarumaaaaan! Come inshide have shum cake!" Uglúk slurred.
"I got you something," Saruman said, shyly, proffering the necrotic flesh.
"OOOH! Well come on then, let me shee!"
"I whittled it myself," Saruman said proudly, helping himself to an elf ear canapé.
As Uglúk cooed over his cosy new footwear there came a great fluttering from the door through which Saruman had just passed.
The fluttering of lashes.
"Tree-beard, it's me, I'm Sauron, I've come hoooome, I'm so co-o-o-ld, let me in-a your woody ho-o-llow!"
Sauron awoke with a start, his eye stinging with tears. The haunting voice of Kate Bush reminded him why he'd enforced the Bush Ban in the first place. Any thought of foliage was too much for his Great Lidlessness to bear.
"Saruman!" he roared to the 2019-year-old beard in the corner, "What have I told you about playing that sappy Babushka crap in the vicinity of my podium?"
"I. I beg your pardon my Lord," Saruman faltered. "I was playing Top Trumps with Wargy the Warg Rider, and I had become so become so engrossed."
Sauron rolled his eye. "Enough! No more excuses!"
"So his Ferocity rating of 45 wasn't an exaggeration, then," Saruman muttered, and told Sauron he would see that the culprit was punished.
As he made his way towards the orc quarters, the sound of raucous singing grew louder. Of course! He remembered, it was Uglúk's 540th birthday.
Tiptoeing towards the Great Hall, he shoved the hobbit-carcass doorstop to one side, and peered into the gloom. The party was in full swing, Grishnákh was leading a conga-line, and weaving his way through kind gifts of Ent blood aftershaves, lucky hobbits' feet keyrings, dwarf-beard scarves and in the corner a huge inflatable Gandalf, on which some Uruk-hai had scribbled a triangle bikini. He wished he'd thought of that.
The stench of hobbit entrails below him was overpowering as he surreptitiously severed the little man's hairy hooves. With his stick he scooped out the insides.
"They'll make a fine pair of slippers! A little on the small side but beggars can't be choosers." He thought bitterly of his docked wages - after all, it hadn't meant to offend Sauron; he'd thought a new dug-out canoe, made from the ancient Fanghornian Ent-wood would have been just the ticket to help him get over that nasty break-up with Gollum.
He was always a player, that one, he thought, pocketing an eye. "I can whip up a rare stir-fry with this visual receptacle, and it would go a treat with some Warg-jerky." Having just purchased a cookery book from the Dunlending Wildmen, (the days of the Wild Library were over, sadly, they were 'Dunlending'), he was keen to try out some of the more gastronomically- challenging recipes.
"Uglúk!" he called, seeing the great slimy brute approach. "Sarumaaaaan! Come inshide have shum cake!" Uglúk slurred.
"I got you something," Saruman said, shyly, proffering the necrotic flesh.
"OOOH! Well come on then, let me shee!"
"I whittled it myself," Saruman said proudly, helping himself to an elf ear canapé.
As Uglúk cooed over his cosy new footwear there came a great fluttering from the door through which Saruman had just passed.
The fluttering of lashes.