[chapter by Detergent]
Mister Allendale shook hands with the chairman of the Vigo County Republican Party, grimacing what appeared to be a smile of genuine happiness, thanks to the glamour he had donned in the morning. He couldn't be bothered to act today. His nose kept picking up the scent of something acrid on the wind and he was only half engaged in the final preparations for the barbeque fundraiser while most of his energies were bent on ruminating on what sort of disturbance had occurred in the Force. He had put his phone on Do Not Disturb the night before last to minimize interruptions- He had been engaged in sending the President of Russia, one of his Ringbearers, images of Russia's glory.
Sauron walked towards the parking lot. When he was out of view, he simply disappeared, teleporting to his mansion in Zionsville, far away from the dinge and the odours of Terre Haute. He took out his phone and exited Do Not Disturb mode. He expected at least a few messages, not the deluge of text alerts that flashed across his screen like strobe lights at a disco. He saw charge after charge had been applied to the credit card he had signed for Larry to use the day he had signed for Juniper to have a credit account of her own. At the time, feeling mellow after spending some quality time with Jane, he had been pleased to allow his somewhat useful son a bit more luxury in his life But only a bit.
He opened up his banking app and read the full list of charges: One hundred dollars to Madam Gunnhild for an entrance fee. Ninety-nine dollars for slippers and shoe storage. Several fees for lighting and disposal of incense. Furniture insurance. A large fee for summoning and conversing with the god Balgyr. Charges for the purchase of ritual ingredients. Sauron balled up a fist but couldn't keep from smirking at the same time. He was half wroth with this woman and her audacity in charging Larry so much money but the other half of him was extremely impressed with the number of fees she had managed to tack onto a single meeting and the purchase of some factory-second glass-encased novena candles, a few herbs and curios, and what appeared to be a hearty dinner at Red Lobster.
Madame Gunnhild had missed her true calling in life- Instead of speaking for Balgyr and creating spell kits, she should have taken business and accounting classes, he smirked to himself.
"Coffee," he commanded in his deep, rumbling voice of no one in particular.
In the kitchen, one of his house servants set to work grinding beans and brewing espresso while Sauron lowered himself into his favourite armchair and continued to peruse the charges, locking away his admiration for the way Madame Gunnhild could invent reasons to charge clients, and concentrating on Larry and all of the money he had spent on the sorceress and her dubious workings.
He focused on Larry, counting the number of times he had used the card Sauron had so graciously allowed him to have. Larry hadn't even tried disputing any of the charges and why had he even bothered to seek out Madame Gunnhild in the first place when Juniper was a witch herself and fully capable of doing whatever Larry needed? Sauron glanced at his phone screen and scrolled through the list of charges- "Removal of Class I Curse," he read. Sauron growled to himself- Curse? Who would even bother to curse that bumbler? It wasn't as if Larry got out much at all, Sauron reflected. Most of his time outside of the lab was spent working at the Carnival and any free time Larry had, he was usually at Sauron's Terre Haute property- Somer Fable, fucking the luxury automobile Sauron had bought for him to ensoul as a rebirthday gift.
A cup of espresso in antique china was presented to him on a golden tray by one of his favourite and most docile meth orcs. Sauron had decided very early in his career as a drug lord to employ a few of those he had turned as staff- He did not have to pay them and they ate seemingly nothing at all, therefore saving him even more money. He looked up and saw Hiread, a tall, thin blond creature with pleasing, dainty features like those of a fairytale princess translated onto a man. Hiread bowed his head. "Lord," he acknowledged Sauron before returning to the kitchen.
Sauron's nostrils flared as he continued to catch a whiff of something acrid, something smoking perhaps. It had smelled stronger in Terre Haute, true, but the scent had followed him home as well. He huffed a little bit and called for incense to be lit to cover the offensive odour. He then returned to pondering why Larry had taken himself to Madame Gunnhild and what, exactly, this Class I Curse he had paid so much to remove actually entailed. Why hadn't his daughter simply cast a small spell and cleansed whatever trifle Larry thought he had from him? He frowned and scrolled further through the charges, which seemed unending. Perhaps, he reflected, Juniper was having migraine trouble again. She must have eaten some corn, he sighed.
Finally, he came to a charge at a Thornton's gas station for a single can of Pepsi soda and he snapped. Carefully, he set his phone aside when he wanted to hurl it against the stones of his magnificent fireplace. Larry had been too careless with His money in employing Madame Gunnhild and furthermore, he had insulted His daughter by spurning her skills. All Larry wanted to do was spend money to demonstrate his power when he was spending from Sauron's bank account. He called upon his Father's wealth and power without acknowledging from whence the money came. And he dared to splurge on such a silly, insignificant thing. True, if Larry had bought himself a costly bottle of imported wine, Sauron's ire still would have risen but He would have understood the display made by such an expensive libation. Pepsi would never have crossed the lips of the Lord of Mordor. How dare Larry lower Sauron's reputation so far as to buy Pepsi cola?
Lifting the espresso to his lips, Sauron decided he would look in on Larry. He sipped the rich, bitter brew and concentrated on his lesser offspring. His Seeing slipped from his body and flew like a dart towards Terre Haute, over the fields of corn, over the interstate, down to the Carnival and thence through the city until it halted in a neglected parking lot behind an abandoned warehouse. On the loading dock, there was a half-burnt cardboard box with a braided cord still inside. Nearby sat a discarded black bottle. Shattered glass and splashes of charred paraffin were everywhere as if there had been an explosion. The acrid stench he had smelled all morning was overpowering. Looking out across the cracked and overgrown pavement, Sauron beheld a charred pile of something still smoking. He studied it for a moment and saw a body with a crushed can of Pepsi in its hand.
Larry.
Sauron's temper immediately boiled over. As he sipped his drink, his Seeing slammed back into his body; he convulsed with anger and espresso sprayed from his lips. His good-for-nothing, stupid, inept, gullible son had managed to die.
Again.
AGAIN!
The reinforced door into Larry's private garage flew open to reveal the figure of Sauron outlined in almost unbearable brightness. Cash-Blaze had been lounging up on the forks of the deluxe car lift that Larry had installed for their pleasure. He had been feeling a bit uneasy all day and felt that some time off of the hard, epoxied concrete might take the edge off. Now, to the engine-churning horror of the black Bentley, the being he feared most had come to rob him of his peace. He revved, causing the lift to lower him to the ground but the corrupted maia fixed him in place as soon as he tried to shift into gear. His hazards flashed like lightning tearing through a storm and the gasoline congealed in his lines. He tried to honk but his horn would not make a sound.
"We're going on a little trip," Sauron announced to Cash-Blaze, smoothing His hand down one side of the black Bentley's hood. His touch burnt and felt unclean; Cash-Blaze could feel his paint contract and crackle where the Lord of Mordor's fingers had lingered. He tried to honk a refusal but his horn still remained silent. He tried to reverse away from the imposing blaze-haired maia but Sauron still controlled his transmission and he could neither shift nor engage his clutch. Sauron's finger slid under one of the Bentley's door handles, caressing obscenely. He felt polluted.
"Open wide," he commanded the luxury auto, his voice oozing with sickly sweet menace.
Cash-Blaze tried to lock his doors but couldn't.
Sauron pulled the handle and, against his will, his door sprung wide open. Then the interloper was in him, ensconcing himself in the seat where only Larry was allowed to sit, violating the sleek leather with his weight.
"Mmmm, very nice," Sauron wallowed his ass into Cash-Blaze's well-padded seat, savouring the expensive upholstery, the way the soft padding cupped him.
Once inside, Sauron closed his eyes and conjured a mental map of Terre Haute before him. Larry's location was pinned in amethyst. He frowned a bit, noting that he would have to move Larry's old beater car lest some meddling cop find it and cause problems. It was nothing that a few phone calls couldn't cure but Sauron didn't want any rumours to spoil the Vigo County Republican Party Picnic, so he had to grit his teeth and clean up after his stupid son again. Using a tendril of power, Sauron took over Cash-Blaze's faculties and put him into gear. The garage door rolled up and he drove out of Somer Fable and headed towards the abandoned warehouse where he had spotted Larry earlier.
They bumped down a little alley studded with potholes, weeds springing up through cracks in the crumbling asphalt. Behind the dilapidated brick building, they found a large, equally neglected parking lot. Some small distance from the building sat the broken-down Buick that Larry drove as his usual transportation. They pulled alongside it and Sauron left Cash-Blaze paralysed there so the Bentley would not escape. He crossed the small distance to where Larry's still smouldering remains lay. The contorted knot of charred meat and fourth-hand designer clothes reeked of caramelized Pepsi cola and burnt pork. As he bent down, Sauron could feel Larry's presence in the spirit realm. He knelt down and examined the corpse, picking shards of glass and scorched crab shell remains from the carbonized mass.
Sauron gestured and Cash-Blaze idled over to him against his will.
"Scoop him into this," Sauron commanded, producing a disposable aluminium roasting pan.
Tears of wiper-fluid rolled down the luxury auto's windscreen as he did as he was bade. Sauron conjured a roll of heavy-duty grill foil and the automobile covered the remains with it as if it were a shroud. Cash-Blaze then managed to pop open his passenger-side door and waited for Sauron to place the pan of Larry into the seat. The corrupted maia reached out and pushed firmly on the door, closing it again.
"No. I will not ride with a roasting pan of failure beside Me in the front of the car. As I am forced to clean up after him like some lowly servant, Larry will be riding in the Buick. In the trunk." He gestured and the dented boot of the Buick grinded open with a harsh squeak. "Place him there," he ordered the Bentley. The luxury auto, grief-stricken, floated the roaster into the trunk of the hooptie and closed the trunk to the cacophony of squeaking springs and metal grinding upon metal. The maia paused for a moment; his seething orange gaze had spotted something on the asphalt. He bent and retrieved a knot of Larry's obsidian mane tangled in a sticky beige rubberband. His nose detected notes of caramelized Pepsi and old gym socks wafting from it. Sighing in exasperation, he pocketed the tangle, his nose itching from the stink. No matter, it would come in handy later, even if it smelled like a locker room after a football game.
"Back to Somer Fable, pretty boy," Sauron wallowed his ass back into Cash-Blaze's luxuriously-upholstered driver's seat. If a Bently could both shudder and cringe at the unwanted touch, that was what the automobile did, jittering a bit on its springs, its shock absorbers giving a fraction as if he could shy away from the evil being obnoxiously smoothing his hands along his steering wheel. He hesitated- Cash-Blaze didn't want to leave his master's remains all alone in the trunk of that thing.
"Time's wasting," Sauron overrode him and threw the luxury auto into gear. "We have things to do and I have places to be. The Republican Party Picnic won't wait. Larry's coming too. We have little time to get him ready. Get going."
Cash-Blaze helplessly peeled out on the crumbling asphalt and zoomed around the building, his horn emitting sad, gurgling noises when he wanted to honk a scream at full volume. When he finally looked out of his rearview mirror, the hooptie followed closely behind them. They sped across town and let themselves into the fortified complex Sauron owned to house his meth lab. They took a turn, once inside the many security checks and arrived again at Somer Fable. The garage door slid up and he pulled inside and, to his rage, that damned hussy Buick pulled in after that.
Very early on the day of the Republican Party Picnic, a special dish made exclusively for Mister Allendale was being constructed at Somer Fable.
Wiper fluid dribbled down Cash-Blaze's windscreen and onto his hood. Sapphire blue tears stained the crisp, pristine apron tied to his grill. Pieces of Larry were stewing in chicken stock, wafting the scent of barbequed pork through the kitchen attached to Somer Fable. On another burner, simmering in a large saucepan were things like tamarind pulp, tomato paste, chilis, and a touch of molasses- all of the makings of an award-winning barbeque sauce. Sauron had commanded this and the luxury automobile had no choice but to obey. He had wept as he had deboned Larry's corpse, wept as he had scrubbed the remnants of clothing from the charred meat of his beloved master. He honked his grief softly, lest he anger the enormous maia who carefully watched him to ensure he didn't ruin one bit of his dundering son's flesh.
Sauron casually dipped a finger into the bubbling sauce and brought a taste to his mouth- Though it boiled, he was entirely unharmed. He tried the mixture, smacking his lips, then went for seconds.
"Maybe I should keep you as my chef," he leered at the Bentley, whose tires chattered on the epoxied floor at the very thought of such a thing. He heard the Lord of Mordor snort several times at his reaction and returned his attention to the sauce to distract himself from the horrors of the day.
Soon, the time came to remove the Larry meat from the stock. Cash-Blaze used a huge slotted spoon to softly cradle the pieces of his master into the waiting serving dish that Sauron had produced for him to use. The sauce followed: A luscious, red-brown rivulet ribboned down onto Larry's skillfully-prepared remains, drenching them in flavour. A gentle application of the Force ensured that every bit of muscle became fully enrobed in deliciousness. Cash-Blaze rinsed the dishes and couldn't help but think of the tiny fragments of his master swirling down the pipes and into the sewers. His radiator fan sighed. To the side, arranged in a large disposable roaster lay the pale, lower-grade mother-of-pearl bones of Larentius Hortler, displayed like a discount ossuary. The luxury auto couldn't keep himself from glancing at them from time to time.
The Vigo County Republican Party Picnic was in full swing. So many people had turned out to support the political party that people had to stand to eat their styrofoam plates of home cooking. At the large table set up for high-ranking politicians, a conversation was taking place regarding a certain large dish of barbeque.
"What's your secret? That smells so delicious," complimented Dr. Bucshon.
"You have to cook the meat and carmelize it in Pepsi until the soda forms a sort of sugary skin," offered Mister Allendale, showing far too many teeth in something that approximated a jovial grin. "This is just one of my many experiments. All in all, it is a dismal failure, which is why I won't be subjecting anyone to it," he spoke over the roaster as if accusing the barbeque-slathered corpse inside. "No matter, this isn't Prime rib but I am sorely disappointed in how it has turned out nonetheless. I wouldn't expose the Republican Party to such a mess."
"Well," Dr. Bucshon sighed, putting away his desire to test the dish, "for a failure it sure smells like heaven."
Mister Allendale had just forked up some of the barbeque. He paused in carrying the meat to his mouth and looked him in the eye archly. "You can spray Gucci cologne onto a freshly-bathed pig but in the end, it is still very much a pig," he popped the forkful into his mouth and chewed, then genteelly wiped his lips with a paper napkin.
"Yeah, it's like a liberal pretending to be sane and a patriot," opined another Republican.
"Wokies," everyone at the long picnic table chuckled.
In the end, coleslaw and potato salad were dished out; everyone who came to the fundraiser got some good barbeque, and the Republicans looked very respectable in their virtuous, clean, wholesome pageant of hometown values.
On the side of a gravel road surrounded by cornfields for miles upon miles, Sauron had pulled his son's black Bentley to the side of the road and spent some time sitting like a round, slightly agitated hive of hornets. He constantly patted his pregnant-looking belly which had bulged and expanded with the amount of meat he had consumed. He hummed to himself and sang quietly: "You fucking asshole. How dare you do this to Me? Not only did you get yourself killed again, you're starting to give Me indigestion."
Cash-Blaze's door swung open without the Bently's input. Soon, Sauron was hopping out his fury beginning to multiply.
"Do you hear Me, you little shit?" He grabbed his unusually distended belly with both hands and shook the flesh angrily. "You're about to become a big shit and I am not in the mood for this right now but what's done is done. Just for once, it would be nice if you didn't fuck up everything you insert yourself into. But I suppose I should expect that from someone who spends money he doesn't have like he's a billionaire playboy and can't even manage to get himself out of some stupid, piddly curse even if he was a very minor god in a past life."
Sauron's belly gurgled as if in protest.
"I don't fucking want to hear it. Of course I'll bring you back dear son," he sneered. "Your only redeeming quality at the moment is that you are My get. Once you're back, I expect better of you. Remember Whose you are and stop being such a dismal failure."
Sauron came around to the boot of the luxury auto and caressed a ruby taillight. "Open up, pretty boy," he cooed. A moment later, wincing, Sauron emitted a supernaturally-rancid fart. As the gas passed, he thought the squeak sounded like Fatherest... He frowned and shook his head. Even as a digesting pile of mostly-digested fetid meat, Larry still managed to bungle the English language.
The boot popped revealing the cheap disposable roaster that held Larry's bones. Sauron lifted the pan out and began carrying it into the nearby field. Dry, golden cornstalks reached up to the pale, end of October sky like fingers on a hand from the grave. Cash-Blaze followed the corrupted maia forlornly as a path opened up on either side of the Lord of Modor as if the dead cornstalks would not suffer to touch him. Once they reached the centre of the field, they halted.
Holding the pan in one hand, Sauron turned a heavy, dignified circle, his other hand held palm outward. Power sprang from his hand runkling the air and cornstalks were uprooted and flung aside, creating a space in the closely-planted mass. Satisfied, he set the roaster on the bare earth.
And there the Lord of Modor, his belly gurgling like a cauldron on the boil, began his act of power by dropping his elegant, well-tailored black trousers. He bent his pale arse over the discount ossuary and began his siege. A smouldering cigar appeared in his hand and he took a puff. He retained his balance as if sitting on an invisible commode. He grunted in his labours.
"Come out, damn you..." he muttered, puffing on the cigar as if the taste and scent of it would help him evacuate his bowels more swiftly. Finally, after a bit of sweat and several more explicatives, a brown snake of excrement coiled atop the bones, glistening wetly, producing an infernal stink.
Sauron cleansed himself with his pocket square and tossed that onto the jumble of bones and shit. He then reached into his pocket and produced the rubber band and its knot of ink-dark hair. This he tossed onto the pile as well before dipping back into his pocket. Out came a gold cigarette lighter of antique make decorated with rubies and brilliants, engraved with a tasteful "A" for Allendale. He flipped the lid open, producing a strange flame that burnt almost purple but with a heart of red gold. This he tossed into the roaster as well. After a moment, the contents of the pan flamed up so strongly that Cash-Blaze could feel the heat on his interior and anyone lesser than Sauron himself would have had to step back to avoid incineration.
"Come on then, pretty boy, fan the flames or your Master won't make it back," Sauron gave an ominous, barking laugh.
The Bently had no choice but to back up to the flames and fan them with his exhaust. As he did so, the fire turned violet, the colour of crystals of the purest iodine, gleaming like the luxury auto's own expensive headlights. A lid of night slammed over the sky and overhead, the stars seemed to swirl as the supine form of Larry Hortler began to rebuild itself inside this otherworldly pyre. The bones clicked together and then the pile began to grow smaller as flesh layered itself onto the bones. Soon, as if woven from the night air, black locks of hair grew and sweeping black eyebrows too, as if beautifully drawn by the hand of a masterful artist. Glimmering gentian stars were set in a face worthy of that famous musical prodigy Michael Jackson. Finally, the flames began to subside and Cash-Blaze idled back a bit to behold what he had helped recreate.
There sat Laurentius Hortler once again whole, from toe-tip to the top of his head, skinny chest and all, his ass stuck in a disposable roasting pan, sprawled out, all limbs akimbo as if ready for a culinary sacrifice. Barenaked.
Sauron was standing over his son before Larry could properly realise that he was once again amongst the living.
"Get out of that thing. We're going home."
Larry blinked his jewel-like eyes several times and then, with some effort, managed to stand and shove the roaster off of his ass.
"Thank thou, Fatherest," he bowed his head.
"No need for thanks. You'll be paying Me back for this one. Now get dressed," the huge maia threw some clothing at his ridiculous son.
In silence, Larry donned the garments. They were Peppa Pig pyjamas.
"Let's go," his father ordered. Silently, Larry went to open Cash-Blaze's passenger-side door.
"No," Sauron shook his head and popped open the boot.
Larry would have objected but he was still weak after his resurrection. He rolled himself into the truck and Sauron slammed it shut.
They hit every bump and pothole on the way back home.