#60: No, THIS Is the Worst Day of My Entire Life!

Mar
24

Date: June 17, 590 F.A. (Years of the Sun)
My Mood Is: completely humiliated

I thought things couldn’t get any worse than they were yesterday. I was wrong.

Today I was hovering over the maelstrom where the seas are still rushing into the great chasm that was once Angband. I’ve dropped my physical form and have been manifesting as a naked fëa, just for mobility’s sake. Also, I didn’t want anyone to see me blubbering my eyes out over the loss of a billion years’ hard work and effort. And in spirit form, only other Ainu can see me.

Then some other Ainur saw me.

Somebody cleared their (metaphorical) throat, and there revealed was the spirit of Eönwë. He’s the lick-spittle who took over my position as Chief of the Maiar when the Valar rebelled against Melkor. His official title is “Banner-bearer and Herald of Manwë, which is pretty retarded since immortal anthropomorphic personifications of eternal verities don’t really need flags or bugles to make their wishes known. But whatever.

“Hearken, o Sauron, spirit of Craft,” he said, intoning in that bullshit Biblical way that lesser Ainur use when they want to seem all serious (whatever a “Bible” is). “The bonds that Morgoth has lain upon you are strong. But redemption still lies within your grasp.”

The bonds that Melkor laid on me? This from the asshole who polishes Manwë’s buttocks on a nightly basis?

“The Powers of Arda call on you, Sauron, to return to Taniquetil in Aman, and place yourself in judgment before Manwë Súlimo. Admit to and repent your crimes, against the Valar and Maiar; against the Children of Ilúvatar, the Elder and the Younger; and against Eru Ilúvatar Himself, and you will know justice, and forgiveness.”

Now, you know how you always wish later you had thought of something really clever to say, something witty and cutting that would really put someone in their place? That esprit d’escalier, when you think of the perfect comeback ten minutes too late? That always happens to me. Because what I wish I had said — what I wish I had said — was, “no, thank you.”

But I couldn’t concentrate, and all I could think of to say was, “listen here, you piss-ant little shit-bag. I wouldn’t give Manwë the Dickless Prick the life-altering honor of licking the Orc-pus off the bottom of my iron-tipped boots, much less let that syphilitic sideshow freak hold me in so-called ‘judgment’ over deeds I committed, by right, as Chief Lieutenant of the True Lord of the Earth. So why don’t you go back to your satin-lined hidey-hole in Aman, lube yourself up, and insert yourself right back up into Manwë’s distended rectum where you belong!”

And with that, I made to leave. But there were more Ainur present, and I recognized them both, unfortunately. One was that jackass Curunír, the useless little Craft spirit who used to spy for me in Almaren way back before the Second War. He was apparently still afraid of me, because he was hiding behind the allegorical skirts of another Maia — Olórin, that sanctimonious jackass whom I almost killed in the First War. Of course he would be here at my lowest possible moment.

“Sauron,” Olórin said, “reject not the pity of Manwë, for there are those in Aman, of your own people, who love you still.”

Pity? Pity?? If I had harbored any fleeting desire to limp simpering with my tail between my legs to Valinor to cower at the heels of Manwë the Dickless Prick, it was obliterated in that moment. Pity? Suck my big, fat, hairy werewolf balls.

But, before I could share with Olórin my deeply held, well-reasoned, and carefully-worded thoughts on the matter, another Maia appeared. And you know that whole bit about “lowest moment of my life?” Yeah, well, up until this moment, it was my freakin’ birthday party. I didn’t know what “low” was.

A voice spoke — a gentle, musical voice, more beautiful than any other amongst the Maiar. “Mairon,” it spoke, “my beloved Mairon, do not speak so harshly, nor let bitter feelings mar thy beautiful spirit.”

Mairon? Nobody ever calls me Mairon. Not in billions of years. Not since the Timeless Halls. Not since her.

Not since Melian.

There she was, being beautiful, and sweet, and loving, and caring, in all her glorious lover-betraying Elf-buggering glory. My Melian.

“Set aside your hate, and anger, and pride, and willfulness, and desire for mastery,” she implored me, with as much condescension as you might imagine. “Join me, Mairon, and return to your people. Together, we will create things of beauty for all to enjoy.”

I have to admit, I just looked at her for a long time. I mean, where the hell did she get off? Seriously! She left me. She betrayed Melkor. She shacked up with an Elf. She spawned the half-Elf abomination that razed my tower, murdered Draugluin and stole Melkor’s shiny rock. She led the Elves of Doriath in revolt against me, and then abandoned them to slavery and death the moment her Elven boy-toy was dead.

And I’m supposed to ask for forgiveness? Me?

I should have attacked. I should have assumed the form of a great werewolf — huh, bad idea, open water, um… a great Fire Drake, or a Sea Serpent — and ripped her freaking head off. I should have reduced her to a quailing spirit of misery and remorse, plaintively singing laments over the face of the waters until the Last Battle. I should have destroyed her, and Eönwë and Olórin and that other one. Bitch called me Mairon.

But I didn’t. I just fled. And they didn’t follow.

Worst. Day. Of. My. Life.

#59: This Is the Worst Day of My Entire Life

Mar
16

Date: June 16, 590 F.A. (Years of the Sun)
My Mood Is: devastated

Crap crap crap crap crap crap crap. Holy crap.

There have been some bad times since I joined up with Melkor, but nothing to prepare me for this. This is without a doubt the worst day of my entire life. I have no idea what I’m supposed to do now.

Beleriand is gone, just gone. Almost the whole continent — which coincidentally I did most of the design for, before the stinking Valar ruined the coastlines in the Second War — is now under the ocean. I could just say “good riddance” — except Angband is gone, too.

And everyone in it. Even Melkor.

There’s just a huge, swirling whirlpool of seawater above where Angband used to be, as millions of gallons of Ulmo’s stinking brine flow into its endless beautiful chasms, quenching the subterranean rivers of magma, flooding the breeding pits and torture dens, and forever drowning countless Chthonic creatures, their twisted and unnatural forms the stuff of mortal nightmares.

Those traitorous Valar bastards!

Everyone is gone. The Armies of Fire and Ice and Darkness and Death are destroyed or scattered. The Balrogs have all been slain, their fëar reduced to naught but Spirits of Malice in the Wild; well, all but that one idiot hiding in the Misty Mountains. Most of the dragons are dead, their bloated corpses bobbing on the tempestuous sea; although I hear a handful escaped. No doubt there are some Orcs left — they’re like cockroaches, and anyway they probably fled when the real fighting started. Maybe some trolls survived, but they’re useless. A couple of vampires might have made it.

Ah, the werewolves. My beloved werewolves. They would have refused to run, fighting until the end. No doubt they all perished.

BASTARDS!

And Melkor? Wonderful, terrible, magnificent and awful, the Rightful Lord of the Earth, Melkor? That idiot, imbecile, asshole, fuckwit? I’ll tell you what happened to Melkor. He hid in the lowest bowels of Angband, cowering and suing for peace. That brain donor had spent so much of his mana on armies, and monsters, and defenses, and spiky black armor, and curses designed to afflict individual warriors with bad luck, kinslaying and incest, that he had nothing left when the Valar and their Maiar and Mortal slaves swept down from the Uttermost West in a cowardly surprise attack.

Then Eönwë — Eönwë, Manwë’s toadyish little flag-waver, and not some halfway-majestic Ainu like Tulkas or Aulë –overthrew Melkor from his throne and bound him in chains. The Valar thrust Melkor out the Doors of Night into the Outer Dark, to suffer in the cold, dead vacuum as long as Arda lasts.

So that’s it. Through mismanagement, and idiocy, and caring what primitive little mortals thought of him, and lusting after magic rocks and hot Elven chicks, Melkor has destroyed everything we planned for and dreamed of, ever since those early Days Before Days in the Timeless Halls of Eru Ilúvatar when we improved the Ainulindalë.

MOTHER FUCK. Billions of years of careful planning and hard work. FOR NOTHING!

And here’s Sauron, a mere echo of his primordial angelic self, trapped within this tiny spacetime continuum for Eru knows how long — friendless, luckless, and alone.

How am I supposed to spend the rest of eternity? Sitting on my ass?

Or maybe I should slink across the the Sundering Seas to Aman, and present myself for judgment before the “throne” of  Manwë the Dickless Prick, begging forgiveness for my so-called sins, and sit out a couple of eons in the Halls of Mandos until I am deemed sufficiently “rehabilitated” to go back to work for Aulë. Christ on a cracker (whatever that is), I’d rather kill myself.

What the hell am I going to do now? What am I going to do?

Answer Our Questions — THE EYE COMMANDS IT!

Mar
2

The Mouth of SauronGreetings, Slave of the Eye. Once again, it is I — The Mouth of Sauron, Lieutenant of Barad-dûr, Herumor’s Heir, and Rightful Chief of the Dúnedain. It is my privilege to communicate to you the commands of Sauron, Lord of the Earth.

As you are aware, Sauron’s Blog is perfect, and requires no improvement — for how can it not be perfect, if created by Sauron Gorthaur, Chief of the Maiar? And certainly, The Eye would never stoop to asking mere mortals for their opinions on such things. Your lot is to work, then die.

That said, The Eye commands you to complete this brief, four-page survey. As a reward, when Melkor returns from the Outer Dark and the filthy Valar and their Elvish and Mannish followers roast on the spit, you will die quickly and painlessly.

You’re welcome.

Do it now! Where there’s a whip, there’s a way!

#58: Time to Defeat the Valar Once and for All!

Jan
25

Date: March 25, 582 F.A. (Years of the Sun)
My Mood Is: reticent

It’s my birthday. Yes, I have a birthday, remember? If I can make an entire planet, I can have a frikkin’ birthday.

Anyway, I was minding my own business, baking a delicious cake out of milled flour, honey, yeast, nutmeg, and the blood of slain Mannish infants, when I was disturbed by a horde coming down into the forest glen.

I should mention that I haven’t really done anything since my last post. If you’ll remember, I learned from that idiot Balrog that Melkor was finally getting the upper hand in his pointless War of the Jewels against Elves and Men. I figured I’d probably better come out of hiding and go back to Angband — but I would need a good story.

The story I came up with was this: Soon after defeating Huan and Lúthien Tinúviel at Tol-in-Gaurhoth, I heard about a guy in the Far East of Middle Earth who knew how to make those Silmarils that Melkor has such a boner for. I decided to run off and look for him, but I lost track of time.

No, stupid, there’s no guy making Silmarils. Pay attention. It’s a lie. And Melkor’s such a dunce, he’ll probably believe it.

Anyway, that’s the plan. Sure, it’s been about 70 years since I ran into that Balrog, and I haven’t gotten around to heading back to Angband quite yet. I like it here in Eriador — it’s quiet, and there are a lot of tasty Men, Elves and Dwarves to eat, none of whom have ever trained under the stinking Valar. If I didn’t occasionally run into that Iarwain Ben-adar jackass, this place would be paradise.

Besides, I’ve grown quite fond of Young Man Willow. When Melkor and I destroy the Valar, and burn all the world’s trees in a hellish worldwide conflagration, I think I’ll spare him.

Look, I’m billions of years old. If I want to wait 80 years to get around to something, it’s my prerogative.

But back to the horde. I was busy baking my birthday cake when about a thousand Elves came pouring over the horizon. At first I thought it was an invasion — but they were singing and laughing and carrying on, and I remembered this was Elves we were talking about. An Elf army is about as scary as a Gay Pride Parade, whatever that is.

I assumed a pleasing, Elvish form, and mingled. That’s how I learned some really amazing shit. Melkor was victorious in The War of the Jewels. The Noldor, the Sindar and their Mannish lackeys were destroyed or routed. Melkor was now Master of All Beleriand. Indeed, these Elves were the vanguard of a mass exodus of defeated mortals out of Beleriand.

So why were these Elves so frickin’ happy? It was hard to follow, but I guess there’s this half-Elf mongrel called Aaron Dill or something like that who sailed a magic boat to Valinor and begged the Valar to help all the poor, defenseless, idiotic mortals that the Valar had left to their own devices for the last Age. (I know what you’re thinking — isn’t there a rule that says mortals cannot visit Valinor? Yes! But the Valar never met a rule they wouldn’t break whenever they felt like it. Hypocrites!)

So now the Valar, who were happy for the last five centuries to let Melkor and me torture and kill as many Men, Elves and Dwarves as we wanted, have now mobilized — AFTER we already won — and are at this moment marching with their Maiar lackeys and a handful of mortal slaves on Angband.

Idiots!

I was so thrilled to hear this news, I immediately slaughtered all the Elves. Finally, the chance to kill Manwë the Dickless Prick, have my revenge on Huan and Melian, and destroy the Valar once and for all!

Now, I haven’t left for Angband just yet. I don’t want to miss any of the good fighting. But I figure if I arrive during the battle, my sudden reappearance will seem like a miracle for our side, and everyone will be less concerned with where I’ve been all this time.

So I’m just chilling, for the moment. But soon — SOON! — I’ll be off to Angband, and VICTORY!

#57: Three Idiots, One Day

Jan
9

Date: October 19, 510 F.A. (Years of the Sun)
My Mood Is: pondering

Had three very strange encounters today.

I’ve been living in out in Eriador in the East. I said “living,” not “hiding.” It would only be “hiding” if I cared if Melkor knew where I am, which I don’t.

Anyway, Eriador is almost entirely forested. There are a few Elves living out here, the so-called Avari, who were too smart to follow the summons to Valinor; some Dwarves; and a good number of Men. So, there’s plenty of food. I’m still in the form of a great werewolf, most days, so it’s easy to hunt.

The nice thing about Eriador is, all of Melkor’s crap is over in Beleriand by the sea, where Ulmo can interfere. Eriador is far, far from the sea, and always will be.

I like living in the forest. The trees shelter me during the day from the heat and light of the accursed Sun; and at night I don’t have to look at the useless Moon or at Varda’s filthy stars, which mar the perfection of the Celestial Firmament that Melkor and I built with our own hands. You know, back when Melkor wasn’t an incompetent boob more concerned with shiny gems and the affairs of mortals than with achieving our revenge against Manwë the Dickless Prick and his Valar Traitors.

Anyway.

So I’ve been living out here, taking it easy, bossing around the local wolves and trolls, and snacking on a wide buffet of  mortal creatures — even Dwarves, when I’m hungry for something stringy and gristly that tastes like ass. It’s worth it to hear them scream.

This morning I was sleeping under a huge willow tree down by the river — a nasty, mean-spirited tree with a heart of pure blackness, so we get along fine — when I was awakened by singing. Why is it that every bad thing in my life starts with singing?

At least it wasn’t the thin, reedy, fingernails-on-a-chalkboard-whatever-a-chalkboard-is singing of an Elf, nor the gruff atonal caterwauling of a Man, nor the deep, flatulent intonations of a Dwarf. No, this was proper singing. Ainu singing.

I immediately threw on a pleasing anthropomorphic form, the kind of thing I used to wear when sneaking around Taniquetil or the borders of Doriath. I hid in the bushes, and saw a woman approaching — clearly a Maia, but one who had taken on the form of a Mannish princess, for some unfathomable reason. She was fair-skinned and blonde-haired, like the accursed Edain of north-eastern Endor; and she wore a green dress shot with silver, and a gold belt.

I needed to know why she was there — was she a spy for Manwë, or worse yet, for Tulkas? Was she somehow related to Melian? I stepped out into the open and greeted her.

Here’s what I learned. Her name was Golodhbereth, and she was one of the lesser of the minor nature spirits, a Naiad; and a servant of Yavanna, the slut wife of my former boss Aulë. She had wandered out of Aman and into Middle-earth because she was “collecting flowers.”

And you know what? This chick was so mind-bendingly stupid, I could believe it. Seriously. I’ve had more enlightening conversations with piles of Orc dung.

So, I had options. I could have seduced her, or better yet raped her; but I’m not really interested in that sort of thing, and I’m saving up all my raping and killing energy for when I encounter Melian again. I could have destroyed her, damning her spirit to wander formless and cold across the face of Arda until the Final Battle — but someone might miss her (unlikely, but a possibility), so I decided to spare her. In the end, I just sent her on her way, down to the river, to collect “water lilies,” whatever the hell those are. I wasn’t terribly worried about her reporting my position to her friends in Valinor, because (a) she didn’t know who I was and (b) she probably forgot me five minutes after leaving me.

I changed back into Dire Wolf form and laid back down, and was just settling into a wonderful dream about ripping apart and consuming Manwë’s twisted hröa, when I heard more goddam singing. Yes, Ainu singing, although the worst I had ever heard.

In fact, I recognized it — don’t you?

“Hey dol! merry dol! ring a dong dadar!
Iar Wain, jolly wain, Iarwain Ben-adar!”

It was him.

Since Melkor and I had arrived on this shitty little disk of rock so many geological eras ago, we had not seen hide nor hair of Iarwain Ben-adar, the mysterious and unidentified spirit who alone had preceded us into this universe. We had decided it was some poor joke by the typically hilarious Eru Ilúvatar, and forgotten all about it.

But here he was, tra-la-la-ing along the forest path like some ruddy Mannish homosexual, mincing and prancing like he owned the forest. MY forest.

So I attacked, leaping into the air with slavering fangs three feet long, claws of blood-stained Adamant, eyes like twin wheels of fire. I fell upon him like a mountain of black, overpowering death.

Something went wrong, and the world twisted, and a moment later I was on my back, dazed, while Iarwain Ben-fucking-adar continued on his flouncing way like nothing had happened.

I leapt to my feet, summoned a storm of lighting and smothering darkness in the sky overhead; covered the forest floor for miles in all directions with a greenish miasma that sucked the life from all things; howled a terrible howl that chilled the Sun, froze the blood, and was remembered in the whispered mid-winter tales of every mortal tribe living within a thousand miles for centuries to come; and leapt again, ready to rend the limbs from the poncy little poltroon, consume his soul and crap it back out down his throat.

Twist, blank, and I’m on my ass again — and he’s hopping down the bunny trail. WTF?

Fine. Whatever. Who cares? Big deal. Let him go down to the river. I hope he finds that Golodhbereth chick, they deserve each other.

Unhappily, I found my spot under Young Man Willow and laid back down. I was just settling into a wonderful dream where Melian was begging me to take her back, but I didn’t care and was ripping her intestines out through her nostril anyway, when I smelt something burning.

At least no one was singing.

I looked up and saw that the forest was on fire. Well, that was cool, burning was what trees were best at. I decided to head over, because I was still pretty bummed out by my run-in with that asshole in the feathered cap, and living things dying agonizingly in flames always cheers me up.

So imagine my surprise when I saw that the flames were being left in the wake of the passing of a Balrog. I recognized him — a fellow named Lungorthin, one of Gothmog’s crew.

Now see, if I were hiding in Eriador, I would certainly have avoided letting Lungorthin see me. Also, I did not reveal myself to Lungorthin because I was desperate for the company of one of my own kind after years in exile. That would be pathetic.

No, I approached Lungorthin to be polite.

He was surprised to see me. Apparently, the belief around the Angband water cooler (whatever a water cooler is) was that I had been destroyed along with my tower at Tol-in-Gaurhoth — as if! Sauron Gorthaur the Deceiver, Lord of Werewolves, Chief of the Maiar, destroyed by that half-breed whelp Lúthien Tinúviel? Puh-lease. She’s lucky I let her live.

Strangely, I guess those Balrogs I ran into in Taur-nu-Fuin never reported to Melkor that they had seen me. Let me tell you , it’s all phone calls and telegrams with those people in Angband — rumors spread like wildfire, but genuine information is hoarded like Silmarils. (Whatever a phone — oh, you get the picture.)

Lungorthin filled me in on what’s been going on in the four decades or so since Melkor let Melian’s little brat steal one of his shiny rocks from right off his noggin. The big news, as far as Lungorthin was concerned, was that Gothmog was destroyed, slain while killing an Elf-lord of Gondolin. Yes, Melkor finally found Gondolin, and Nargothrond, and destroyed them both. Carcharoth, that traitorous little dumbass, was dead too, killed by Huan, of all people.

But the big news was this — that little bitch Elu Thingol was killed by a bunch of Dwarves (fighting over that damned Silmaril), and Melian bailed on all the Elves and went back to Aman!

What!?

At this point, I stopped Lungorthin. For one thing, it was a lot to absorb. For another, it was beginning to look like the tide had turned for Melkor, and through sheer luck the old moron was actually achieving his goal of ridding Beleriand of the accursed Noldor and Edain.

Which made me look like a complete and total dumbass for quitting and going to Eriador. And what was I going to tell Melkor? That I got lost? I didn’t keep track of the time? I had something important to pick up in the Hithaeglir, and I forgot to mention I would be gone so long?

I realized the only thing I could do, while I mulled all this new information and formulated a plan, was kill Lungorthin. I couldn’t have him heading back to Angband and concocting some lie about me hiding out under a willow tree in Eriador getting fat on Elf-flesh.

So I leapt to my feet, summoned a storm of lighting and smothering darkness in the sky overhead — you know, the works. Now let me assure you, I could easily have killed Lungorthin. He’s quite subordinate to me, and doesn’t carry any weapon but a big flaming whip. Unfortunately, he’s fast. Balrogs may not have wings, but they can run like they’re flying. I chased Lungorthin for hundreds of miles, until he wormed his way down a hole under the Misty Mountains and I couldn’t find him again. Asshole.

Well, he’s not getting out of there. I’m going to keep an eye on Eregion, and if Lungorthin so much as sticks his ugly flammable nose out for some fresh air I’ll have his head.

So. Melkor is consolidating his hold over Beleriand. Melian fled back to her Valar friends in Aman, taking all her power with her. Things are beginning to look up.

How the hell am I going to get back into Melkor’s good graces?

#56: That’s It, I QUIT!

Dec
14

Date: June 12, 466 F.A. (Years of the Sun)
My Mood Is: lugubrious

That’s it, I quit. I’m done. No more.

I am not spending another aeon of my precious immortal existence serving that mouth-breathing moron, Melkor.

Fuck him. Fuck him right in the ass.

After that filthy, faithless, sniveling turd of a canine Huan drove me out of Tol Sirion, and that half-breed abomination Lúthien (as I have now learned) razed Tol-in-Gaurhoth to its foundations (which is idiotic, since Minas Tirith was an Elven tower — bet no one will ever use that name again), I ended up strategically retreating to Taur-nu-Fuin in vampire form. No, I was not hiding. I was waiting to regroup with Carcharoth and the others, so we could go back, avenge Draugluin, and retake the Pass of Sirion.

So no, I was not hiding from Melkor because I’d had my ass handed to me by Huan and a girl. Shut up!

Anyway, I waited for months in the forest of Taur-nu-Fuin amongst the foul-smelling pine trees, picking up the occasional Man, Elf or Dwarf as a light snack, until finally I espied a troop of Balrogs making their way south. I accosted them, and they didn’t recognize me at first — I had forgotten I was still in vampire form. So I re-assumed my accustomed, anthropoid form, and let me tell you, those boys were glad to see me.

But the story they told me was absolutely freakin’ unbelievable.

Remember that Man I was holding prisoner, the one who sang to Thingol and Melian’s little genetic monster? Well, he and Lúthien headed straight to Angband, with nothing on their minds but stealing one of those stupid Magic Rocks.

Seriously, what is up with those rocks?

So they arrived at the gates of Angband, and who was guarding the entrance but Carcharoth? Here’s what I’ve figured out — Carcharoth did not go to Angband to get messages from Melkor. Rather, Melkor summoned him back North to take over as some kind of seneschal — indeed, possibly to replace me. And neither one had the courage to say anything about it.

Anyway, Lúthien managed to get herself and her Mannish boy-toy (what is up with all the inter-species pollination?) past Carcharoth using some kind of Spell of Command or Word of Oblivion — the Balrogs weren’t clear on the details. Then the two of them walked tra-la-la-lolly past every Orc, Evil Man, Ulfsark, Werewolf, Troll, Giant, Balrog and Dragon in Angband, straight down to the Uttermost Pits where Melkor was sitting in his Iron Crown, brooding or whatever he calls it.

Now that’s security! Good work, everyone! I leave for ten minutes, and it all goes to hell.

Lúthien walks up to Melkor, aka Morgoth Bauglir, The Black Enemy, Master of Angband, Rightful Lord of the Earth, He Who Arises In Might, on his own throne in his own fortress, and starts singing.

If it was anything like that caterwauling she let loose at the foot of Tol-in-Gaurhoth, I’m glad I didn’t have to sit through it.

Now, if you’re asking yourself why Melkor didn’t just squash her with his boot and wipe it off on the nearest Werewolf pelt, well, anyone with half a brain would ask the same question. But the answer the Balrogs gave was really, really disgusting. But I believe them because I won’t put anything past Melkor anymore.

Melkor spared the Lúthien-creature because he wanted to have sex with it.

Ewwwwwwwwwwww.

So she used her Word of Oblivion again, and Melkor must have rolled some kind of quadruple critical miss on his saving throw, because he dropped unconscious. The Man pried a Magic Rock from Melkor’s crown, and the two of them hightailed it out of there.

Unbelievable.

I mean, yes, I was temporarily kind-of semi-defeated, but by Huan — a fat idiot, but at least a full-fledged Maia. Melkor gets thoroughly humiliated by a MORTAL and a HALF-ELF.

Now you might ask yourself, didn’t anyone in Angband acquit themselves adequately in this whole fiasco? Why yes, one did. Guess who? Could it be my first lieutenant, personally trained by me, one Carcharoth Anfauglir, The Red Maw, Chief of Werewolves? Yes.

Carcharoth overcame the abomination’s sleepy-spell, and bit off the Man’s hand, taking the Magic Rock with it. He ran away, I have no idea where, but at least someone bit something. Jesus.

Whomever “Jesus” is.

I would head up there to kill the half-breed and her Mannish pet myself, but it’s no good — those meddlesome Eagles once again played Manwë ex machina and carried them away. Assholes.

The point is, I cannot continue to work for an Ainu this staggeringly incompetent. That’s it– it’s over. I am setting up my own shop.

Let Melkor play kissy-kiss with all his little hairless apes. I’m going to raise my own army, and fight the real fight — killing Manwë the Dickless Prick, Melian the Back-stabbing Bitch, Huan the Sniveling Toady, and all the rest of the rebel Ainur and Maiar. And when Sauron Gorthaur is King of Aman, I will return to Middle-earth, and declare myself Lord of the Earth.

And maybe, just maybe, if he’s obsequious enough, I shall permit Morgoth Bauglir to serve me!

New Blog URL and WordPress Theme

Dec
3

The Mouth of SauronGreetings, foul subcreature. I am The Mouth of Sauron, Lieutenant of Barad-dûr, Herumor’s Heir, and Rightful Chief of the Dúnedain. It is my task to communicate to you the commands of Sauron, Lord of the Earth, as well as to share news and recent happenings.

First — there is a new URL for Sauron’s Blog. Although http://kunochan.com/sauron will still work, the proper address is now http://www.sauronsblog.com. Use this URL. The Eye commands it.

Second — Sauron’s Blog has a new WordPress theme, one much more severe and imposing than the previous theme. In fact, the Orcs and Wild Men responsible for the previous theme have been tortured and sent to the mines.

Third — by making purchases via Amazon links from this site, you support not only Lord Sauron’s blogging activities, but also His efforts to destroy the corrupt Elves and Men of the West, and unite all The Earth in peace and prosperity. Even if you do not plan to purchase any of Tolkien’s books of Elvish lies, you can click through from Sauron’s Blog any time you plan to purchase from Amazon.

Needless to say, The Eye commands it.

Now, get back to work! Where there’s a whip, there’s a way!

#55: Huan Is The Biggest Asshole In The World

Nov
20

Date: October 31, 465 F.A. (Years of the Sun)
My Mood Is: confounded

I am really tired of getting my SHIT all FUCKED UP!

I don’t have Tol-in-Gaurhoth anymore. Nope. My beautiful island tower, gone. And guess whose fault it is? Melkor? Good guess, but this time, no. Manwë? In a sense — everything is the Dickless Prick’s fault. But not directly, no.

Once again, I have been betrayed by someone who was supposedly my friend.

I was hanging out in Tol-in-Gaurhoth, going over the billing (you think it’s easy maintaining an army of Orcs and Werewolves? The amount of paperwork is incredible). Carcharoth, my aide-de-camp, was off to Angband, to ask Melkor for more Orcs — we always need more Orcs. We go through them like Kleenex. Whatever a “Kleenex” is. I sent Thuringwethil to Melkor first; she’s a vampire, and an idiot, and she never came back. So Carcharoth had to go.

Anyway, that left me stuck with stupid old Draugluin, who’s a moron. Seriously, when I get my shit back together, I need a better class of servant. Some non-Maia servants, because I gotta tell ya, some real winners followed us to Eä from the Timeless Halls. I should create my own lackeys — maybe I can corrupt some Elves or Men, and magically warp them to my own liking. Sounds like a good long-term project.

But I digress.

I was going over the billing when I heard someone singing. Not proper, deep, guttural singing, like the Orcs — it was that high, reedy whining the Elves call “music.” Then a caterwauling starts up from the garderobe. Apparently, when a Man sings, it sounds like a manatee gargling a bag of cats.

I had forgotten I put those Elves and that Man down the garderobe. I guess the Lesser Wargs had been using them for kibble. I kicked a huge pile of wolf ordure down the hole, which put an end to that noise real fast. But the screeching from outside continued unabated.

I looked down from the tower, and saw an Elf-wench standing at the base, making all the racket. She was wearing some kind of bizarre clothing made of hair, which should tell you something about the standard of living of Elves. But something about her was utterly bizarre, something that only Ainu eyes could detect.

The Divine Light was burning within her. She was an Elf, and yet she was also a Maia. Which meant she could only be one person — Lúthien, the bizarre half-breed spawn of Melian and Thingol.

Well, well, well. What connection she had to the Man in the toilet, I had no idea. But clearly, capturing the abomination produced by the disgusting, inter-species union of Melian and her hairless ape could give me the secret to breaching the wall of sorcery protecting Doriath. Then I could kill Thingol, rape and kill Melian, find Melian’s disembodied fëa and rape and kill it again, and present the spoils of Doriath to Melkor in exchange for a Sauron-snack. Life would be good.

So I sent one of the Werewolves down to fetch her, and waited. But he never came back. So I sent another. And another. And another. After a while I got suspicious. I peered over the railing, and there was Lúthien standing next to a pile of dead Werewolves. See what I mean about needing new lackeys?

So I yelled for Carcharoth. But it was Draugluin who showed up, because Carcharoth was off in Angband. I sent Draugluin downstairs to get the girl and bring her up ASAP.

Ten minutes later, a 500-pound pile of bloody chuck ground comes crawling into my chamber, trailing viscera and effluent. It took me a moment to realize this was Draugluin. He crawled to my feet, cried out “Ghuuaaaaaaaaan is here,” and died.

What the hell was a “Ghuuaaaaaaaaan?”

Nothing ever changes. If I ever want anything done, I have to do it myself.

I raced downstairs and burst out of the entrance to Tol-in-Gaurhoth. Someone jumped out of my way, which I barely noticed — I’m used to people fleeing from the terror of my countenance — and I leapt upon Lúthien, intending to crush her enough to not quite kill her, just to maim her permanently, leaving her a wreck of ruined flesh and twisted limbs incapable of speech and movement, capable only of tapping once for “yes,” two for “no,” and three for “please kill me.”

But then I was hit by the stench from her disgusting hair cloak, and for a moment I swooned. At that second, some cowardly creature leapt upon me, ripping into me with great bloody claws.

So who was this creature, this great giant slobbering DOG trying to gnaw at me with its huge stinky teeth?

Huan.

HUAN.

See, “Ghuuaaaaaaaaan” was supposed to be “Huan.” Thanks for the warning, Draugluin, you asshat. If I come across your disembodied spirit of malice wandering the wilderness, I will kick your ass.

So Huan, my former best friend from the Time Before Time, now literally a lapdog to Manwë Súlimo and his Valar traitors, who I haven’t even thought about since before the Fall of Almaren fifty aeons ago, appears out of nowhere and gets all up in my shit.

And let me assure you, back in the Timeless Halls of Ilúvatar, I could have easily trounced Huan with both metaphorical arms tied behind my metaphorical back. But I don’t know what’s in the water over there in Valinor, because before the Black Gate of Tol-in-Gaurhoth, that tubby bitch KICKED MY ASS. I shifted shape a few times, but he kept me pinned down under those big greasy paws of his.

Huan held me down while that see-you-next-Trewsday Lúthien threatened to destroy my hröa and send me back to Melkor.

“There everlastingly thy naked self,” she said, “shall endure the torment of his scorn, pierced by his eyes, unless thou yield to me the mastery of thy tower.”

“Oh go fuck yourself,” I said. But still, I had to give up the tower. There’s no way I’m going back to Melkor, and explaining I was defeated by Huan. Better a strategic retreat.

Huan released me, and I took vampire form so I could fly the hell out of there. Now I’m hiding in the murky woods of Taur-nu-Fuin, waiting for Carcharoth to get back so I can retake the Isle of Werewolves and get my revenge.

And where the hell are my Orcs? If I were in charge, I would NEVER use Orcs!

#54: Elf-King Tastes Like Chicken

Nov
11

Date: June 16, 465 F.A. (Years of the Sun)
My Mood Is: amused

So I was sitting in the tower of Tol-in-Gaurhoth, working on my novel. Didn’t I tell you about it? It’s a romance, about a vampire and a teenage girl.

So I had just gotten to the part where the vampire (which is, of course, a kind of giant humanoid bat) rapes, tortures and devours the teenage girl — soon after this, the romance part happens — when I saw a squad of Orcs passing by. They were far down below, crossing one of the bridges, but I have really good eyesight, because I’m a FREAKING GOD.

These Orcs didn’t seem right to me, because they weren’t stooping, or shambling, or hacking up fluids, or cursing, or hitting each other, or singing “Where There’s a Whip, There’s a Way”; and they weren’t covered in shit. Well, when I see well-behaved, hygienic Orcs with good posture, I know something’s up.

I sent Carcharoth downstairs to fetch them, and bring them up to my Conservatory. Well, it’s not so much a “Conservatory” as it’s a turret atop the tallest tower, where I like to sit, think, write, and drop Elf prisoners to watch their heads explode when they hit the pavement. It’s where I’m writing this blog entry right now. Do you know how hard it was to get any writing done in Angband? Or Utumno? Or the Timeless Halls, for that matter? Thank Eru for the Isle of Werewolves. It’s the only place I can get anything done.

Anyway. Carcharoth dragged these “Orcs” into My Terrible Presence, and I figured out right away they were Elves wearing some kind of glamour that made them look like Orcs. They were wearing real Orc gear, which means either they slew a bunch of Orcs, or there’s a troop of naked Orcs out there counting their Elf-money who will shortly be getting a visit from Uncle Gorthaur.

Mostly I knew they were Elves because they smelled like Elves — lembas and lavender. Ick. So I yelled “I disbelieve!” and made my Saving Throw Versus Illusion. I rolled a 20, and their glamour fell away like wet tissue.

Yep, twelve Elves — well, eleven Elves and a Man; I assume it was a Man because it was shorter, hairier and smelled like poo. I did my usual Giant Evil Werewolf routine, to put the Fear of Me into them. But the Elf leader, a blond-haired, blue-eyed, pretty little poofter, stepped forward and challenged me to a magical duel!

This was pretty absurd, but I accepted the challenge, both because it would be amusing, and because I didn’t like the way Carcharoth snickered — it wasn’t necessarily at the Elf’s expense.

The Elf started singing — it was going to be Song Magic, then. Well, it’s not like I sang the Universe into existence or anything. The battle was quite amusing, and I have written a poem about it.

I chanted a song of sorcery
of breaking, trampling, of butchery
distending, engorging, castrating
tearing off limbs and defenestrating.
The Elf-prince there barely standing
sang a song of cowering
trembling, gibbering, urinating
resisting the urge to flee screaming.
A song of surrendering, capitulating,
of regretting the mistake he was making.
I sang then of seasoning, and marinating,
setting to broil at 450º, and baking,
having friends over for the meal I was making.
Elf-flesh and marrow, a soup of his testes,
Of eating and enjoying fillet of his breastes.
Chewing and rending and masticating
gnawing the bones, then defecating.

I broke the little Elf’s magic, and he was spent. I grabbed all 12 of them in my claws and threw them down the garderobe, which can double as a particularly disgusting oubliette.

I won’t let them out until they tell me who they are ever.

Back to work on the novel. I think I’ll add a werewolf, who can fight the vampire. Then they can go out together and rape-eat dozens of teenage girls. That’s the romance part.

#53: Melkor Has Completely Lost His Mind

Nov
6

Date: March 12, 464 F.A. (Years of the Sun)
My Mood Is: rankled

Melkor has completely lost his mind.

Look, I get it. He was trapped over in Aman, chained in the Halls of Mandos (real name Námo — did I ever tell you about Námo? Don’t get me started on Námo) for three ages, and was then forced to live amongst the idiotic Elves of Valinor. Just to amuse himself, he got involved in their petty political crap, and was able to get a good chunk of them to rebel against the Valar. Which would be a great accomplishment, if those same Elven rebels hadn’t come back East across the seas to get all up in my shit.

So even though I would never involve myself in petty Elven nonsense, and I would never concoct elaborate schemes to gain control over a bunch of quasi-immortal hairless monkeys or get my hands paws on their stupid jewelry, I can understand why Melkor did so. In Valinor. But now he’s back in Middle-earth. So why is he still so obsessed with the so-called Children of Ilúvatar?

How obsessed? I’ll tell you.

Melkor commanded that I set out from Tol-in-Gaurhoth with an army of werewolves, to invade Dorthonion. (The “werewolves” aren’t actually werewolves — that is, they can’t change form like I can. They’re just a bunch of the more useless lesser spirits of Entropy, Darkness and Death that I corralled and inserted into the bodies of giant wolves. I wanted to add shoulder tentacles, but Melkor shot that down. Anyway, they’re basically mega-Wargs.)

So why is Melkor sending an entire army, headed by his Chief Lieutenant, Sauron Gorthaur, Lord of Werewolves, Master of Tol-in-Gaurhoth, Duke of Angband, Designer of Eä, High Commander of the Forces of Fire and Ice and Darkness and Death, into Dorthonion? To destroy the Noldor? To invade Doriath? To do anything useful at all?

No. He’s sending an entire army into Dorthonion to kill one guy.

One. Guy.

And a Man no less, a tissue-paper version of an Elf. Some idiot named Beren, the son of that Barry the Hero guy whose limbs I ate four years ago. (He’s still on Tol-in-Gaurhoth — I use him to wipe my feet whenever I get home.)

An entire army. And me. To kill one Man. That is what I call a proper strategic deployment of personnel and matériel.

NOT.

So, Melkor has lost his mind. The question is, what can I do about it? He’s up there in Angband, sitting in the Nethermost Pit, with that iron toilet seat covered in elfy gems perched on top of his head. I moved out here to the Pass of Sirion so I wouldn’t have to deal with the Lord of the Mopers Earth.

Now, Sauron’s going to have to save the day again. I just have no idea how.

By the way, we didn’t find Beren. Got to the edge of Doriath, had to turn back. Close enough to smell Melian’s yoni. Soon, vengeance will be mine.