"Laurentius."
Larry bristled and fought the urge to correct him with "it art Laurentinius nowest." It was already bad enough that he'd been summoned here by portal. That almost always meant Sauron was pissed... again; he didn't need to make it worse.
Sauron reclined with a calculated grace upon his iron throne, a relic of menace that clashed dramatically with the modern elegance of the sleek black business office. The throne, forged in ancient fires and adorned with intricate, menacing engravings, seemed an anachronism amidst the minimalist decor - yet his imposing figure was far from ridiculous.
With a trembling heart and his hands clasped tightly behind him, Larry took a hesitant step forward. His throat tightened as he swallowed hard, trying to muster the courage for what lay ahead. "Yea, Fathereth," he murmured, his voice barely above a whisper, as his gaze remained focused on the black floor.
In the heart of the dimly lit chamber, Sauron steepled his long, slender fingers, and the room seemed to hold its breath. Their eyes met — Larry's pulse quickened under the weight of that gaze. Sauron's eyes blazed with a molten intensity, twin orbs of fiery orange that seemed to pierce the very fabric of the world around him. These eyes, like the molten heart of a living volcano, were almost as fiery as the deep, cascading waves of his crimson mane — a blazing torrent that contrasted with the white marble of his skin. Larry wanted to look away, but he was compelled to hold eye contact.
In the suffocating silence, as shadows danced like ghosts on the cold stone walls, Larry stood with bated breath, each second stretching into an agonizing infinity. Every heartbeat echoed loudly in his ears as if time itself had slowed to a crawl. He waited for the Dark Lord Sauron to break the oppressive quiet, his heart pounding like thunder.
For an impossibly long moment that felt like an eternity, Larry waited for Sauron to speak, feeling as if his very life was hanging in the balance. Larry stood on the precipice of fate, questioning whether this would be the day that marked the ultimate end, a day where the dark overlord Sauron, in his unyielding quest for dominion, would finally decide that Larry's usefulness had run its course and snuff out his life. Despite being the direct descendant of the Dark Lord himself, with the blood of Sauron coursing through his veins, Laurentinius Hortler was acutely aware that his father, the architect of shadow and dominion, harbored no warmth or familial affection. To Sauron, the very concept of family was sentimental foolishness that he had no time or patience for.
Sauron lowered his hands, and folded his arms. "Your mother tells me that you've been busy."
Oh shitteth. Larry's nervous chuckle escaped his lips, a feeble attempt to break the tension hanging like a storm cloud in the room. But the piercing gaze Sauron fixed upon him was as unforgiving as a shadow cast by a towering mountain. In that silent, searing exchange, Larry felt what seemed like an entire multiverse's worth of disapproval and contempt. Nonetheless, Larry gulped and answered him. "I hath been most successfuleth with mine churcheth, Fathereth. We are harvestingest much psychic energyest... and moneyeth. Moneyeth that makest many goodeth returnsest."
Larry didn't want to elaborate upon the details, and found himself in a precarious situation — one that he desperately wished to keep under wraps. He was particularly anxious about confessing to Sauron that with the increasingly generous offerings to his church, Larry had taken a dark detour into the underbelly of crime, purchasing a potent batch of methamphetamine from Sauron's nefarious labs. This wasn't just any meth — it was laced with a mysterious, transformative magic that gradually turned its users into Orcs, who would eventually be discovered and captured by Sauron's legion of hidden minions, and trained for Sauron's army. And Larry had taken the very potent, very magical meth he'd purchased and sold it at a much higher price to Elon Musk himself, who was hooked and slowly transforming into an Orc - besides the large sum that Elon had given for the meth itself, soon Larry would find a way to part Musk with his billions, once Musk was fully transfigured into an Orc and Larry kept him in a dungeon, away from Sauron's spies. Larry had given up on the idea of training a single Orc to lead a pack of Orcs as its alpha and attempt conquest of a small country like Liechtenstein. He wouldn't need to, if he had control of Elon Musk's money all for himself. He could do much bigger and better things.
Larry was desperately hoping his father wouldn't find out - that his answer would suffice and Sauron would let him go without interrogation to explore further... or whatever punishment he'd certainly been summoned for.
Sauron cocked his head to one side and his lips quirked with the barest hint of a smile. "Interesting."
"I tryeth. I hath haddest many failures, but eventuallyeth I do learneth."
"I’m truly delighted to hear it, for your dear mother has proposed that I entrust you with a greater share of the burdens and duties within our illustrious family enterprise," Sauron declared, his voice dripping with sardonic amusement. The way he twisted the word "family," lacing it with scorn and mockery, made Larry's blood run cold.
However, Larry still felt a frisson of excitement. Could his ears be deceiving him? Was Sauron truly going to give him a higher position and greater responsibility - greater power? Or would this be a "special assignment" on par with his stint managing the Uncle Vanya's restaurant in Moscow, an experience Larry never wanted to repeat. Larry was cautious not to get his hopes too high, but...
"Whereth art it beeth locatedest, Fathereth?" Larry asked, bracing himself.
Sauron facepalmed, and gave Larry a sharp glare. "First of all, how many times have I told you I detest that horrible, botched archaic English that your mother taught you. If you want to sound like an imbecile on your own time, that is on you. But when you are in my presence, you will speak like a normal person and not a Ren Faire reject. Understood?"
Larry wanted to spit - how dare Sauron insult his beautiful, poetic manner of speaking - but he knew better. He simply nodded.
"As far as the answer to your... stupidly-worded question, it is not a where. It is a who." Sauron gave him a chilling grin. "You are going to be the warden of one of my... special interest projects. This particular special interest project is a person. His name is Donald John Trump."
Larry took a step back, blinking, his head reeling with disbelief. "The Trump? The man who was President?"
"Still is. The election was stolen by those 'woke' fools. But not this time." Sauron shook his head. "You are going to personally see to it that Trump does not fail, this time. He must win the 2024 election, and from there... bring in Project 2025. The reign of hatred and terror and the ensuing collapse of American society will be a fertile breeding ground for us to enslave humanity once and for all." Sauron raised his fist.
Larry also raised his fist. "It is a very different time than when humans joined forces with elves and hobbits to fight against us."
"There was no 'us', you dolt. Yunqualórë had already gotten himself killed by then - yourself, in your prior, original incarnation. Killed by Macalaurë Fëanorion, if I recall correctly. It has been a long time, and you were quite insignificant. And quite laughable to be killed by a half-faded, almost-mad elf."
Larry bristled again, and held his tongue, lest he make a riposte that cost him his life for good. He tried to focus on the here and now - his father was actually assigning him to Trump. That was an amazingly high-clearance task. Larry wondered if having been intimate with his mother during their trip to Liechtenstein had somehow inadvertently given him more influence over her, enough that she would use her powers of persuasive speech - peppered with lies - to convince Sauron he was the right man for the job. Though Larry craved that sort of recognition, he was still daunted by the task at hand.
Nonetheless... "I will not fail this time," Larry said, hating to even admit that he had failed back then, but it was what he had to do to ensure he stayed in what passed for Sauron's good graces.
"You had better not," Sauron warned, his eyes glowing with an intense, fiery menace as he fixed his son with a penetrating gaze that seemed to peer directly into his soul.
Larry then realized that his wounded pride needed to not get in the way of trying to do the best job he could, and that required just a little more information. "Wait - so, to make this clear... I'm to be Trump's warden, but... doesn't he have one of the Rings? That are bound to you?"
Sauron steepled his hands again. "Trump has gained so much weight over the last four years that the Ring I gave him no longer fits... and I am not resizing it again. I am not taking the trouble to craft a new Ring for him, either. Truthfully, he has a bit of dementia - which runs in his family - so he is somewhat easier to control without a Ring. He can be controlled by other means."
"Meth?"
Sauron snorted. "No. I am not wasting my precious potion on him." Sauron gave that hideous-yet-beautiful smile again, that reminded Larry of the mythology of the Serpent in the Garden of Eden. "I am sending you to Russia one more time - this for a short visit."
"Uncle Vanya's again?"
"Yes, again. But this time, there is an item I need you to retrieve. In the deep freeze at the Uncle Vanya's in Moscow, there is still some of... Putin's remains. You will fetch them. Trump loves hamburgers. You will be in disguise as his new personal chef, and you will make him very special hamburgers. Not only do Putin's remains still carry some of my energy, but by feeding it to him personally you will establish a psychic link and in time, can make him do your bidding."
Larry's skin crawled with a visceral unease as he recalled the grotesque transformation that befell the unsuspecting citizens of Moscow after dining on Putin's flesh at Uncle Vanya's... never mind someone who was already mentally declining AND under Sauron's influence. It wasn't that he had any shred of compassion for a human being, it was that it wasn't particularly aesthetic. He only loved suffering when it was beautiful.
Even so... "Have it your way," Larry said. In a dramatic display of fate's whimsy, Larry executed a graceful bow just as the shimmering portal yawned open behind him. He tumbled through the swirling vortex, a cascade of colors and sensations enveloping him before he plummeted into the frigid embrace of Moscow's streets, clad in a light grey polo shirt and khakis for summer.
Months later
"HAMBERDER!" Trump pounded on the table like a two-year-old demanding to be fed now. "HAMBERDER!"
Larry rolled his eyes - once again he rued the day he had ever agreed to take this job - and rushed over with the platter of hamburgers made from Putin's rectum and brain. "There you go, sir," Larry said, hating that he had to speak in peon English so Trump would understand him. Hating that he had to call Trump "sir". Somedayeth, thou wilt beeth bowing downeth before ME, and thou wilt calleth me LORD.
"Hamberder," Trump slurred, drooling on himself, and picked up one of the hamburgers. It immediately slipped from his hands and the contents fell all over his suit. Cursing under his breath, Larry picked it up, reassembled the hamburger as best as he could, and handed it back to him. Trump tried to take a bite of Larry's hand instead of the burger, then successfully bit into the hamburger. "YUM."
When Trump had eaten all ten hamburgers, and let out a huge burp, followed by a fart - the smell in the air informed Larry it probably wasn't just a fart - Trump seemed to come out of his stupor just slightly. "Say, you seem like a really intelligent guy," Trump said, gesturing vaguely with his hands. "An intelligent guy with a bigly brain. A big, beautiful brain. Bigly."
Larry would have been flattered if it was anybody but Trump. Trump complimenting anybody's intelligence was like a single-celled organism complimenting intelligence. "Is there something I can help you with, sir?"
"I need to raise money, and you seem like a pretty rich guy, right? A pretty rich guy who's bener- Ben Afflecked from me making Amerigggraaa grape again. I don't want you to get the wrong idea that I'm struggling for money or anything, I am very, very rich, nobody is better in bizzzzzzzers than I am. But this Stormy Daniels person, who I've never even heard of, wants me to pay a lot of money. And what would be really great is if I used other people's money to pay her. Maybe you've got some ideas in that big, beautiful brain of yours on how I could raise some money."
On the one hand, Larry thought it was rather pathetic that Trump was asking him for financial advice. On the other hand, Larry couldn't fault Trump's logic of not wanting to touch his own hard-earned wealth to pay off that whore. Whatest doeth American people really wanteth? Larry asked himself, racking his brain. It shouldst be somethingest practical, yet exude gracest and beautyeth and classest. It shouldst remindest them of the sort of riches that Trump is promisingeth to them if they voteth for him.
After a moment, Larry had it. "Gold-plated sneakers. I would wear them." He would.
"That's a great idea, I'm a genius. So glad I thought of it," Trump said. He got out his cell phone. "Hey Ronnie, baby, I have a brilliant idea that will knock your socks off, but you might need those sobs to put on shroos. Get a load of this - golf-bladed snickers." A pause, and some squawking on the other end. "No no. Golb. Real golb, the Minnie Mouse. Shiny, shiny bulb, OK? Put the dold on the sneapers, Beetlejuice will love it."
He art losingeth his mind. It seemed that since Larry had begun feeding Trump his "special hamburgers", Trump was having more and more of these episodes. Larry was starting to wonder if Trump was even fit for office - he reminded himself Trump was means to an end, and he didn't need to be fit for office, he just needed to stay there long enough to create the conditions that would be perfect for Sauron to make his move.
If Larry didn't make it first. "Would you like ten more hamburgers?" Larry asked in his most persuasive tone of voice.
"Yeah. And some covfefe to wash it down."
"Coming right up." Goingeth right downest. Larry cackled to himself, rubbing his hands together as he sauntered off.
I stay out too late
Got nothing in my brain
That's what people say, mm-mm
That's what people say, mm-mm
Sören shook his butt as he danced with the feather duster, dusting the bookshelves in the living room. Edmée and her brother Ramen followed, wagging their tails to the rhythm.
When it got to the good part, Sören sang along, and the cats yodeled with him:
'Cause the players gonna play, play, play, play, play
And the haters gonna hate, hate, hate, hate, hate
Baby, I'm just gonna shake, shake, shake, shake, shake
I shake it off, I shake it off
Just then, Nicholas and Maglor returned from the grocery store. "Oh hi Mark," Sören said, freezing in his tracks. "Hi, Niiiicholaaaaas."
Nicholas narrowed his eyes. "Are you listening to Taylor Swift again?"
"Guilty as charged." Sören gave a sheepish grin.
"You know he does it just to annoy you," Maglor said to Nicholas with a smirk.
"As you know, this time we weren't even home," Nicholas said.
"He put it on for us," Edmée informed him.
"Yeah. We're Swifties now," Ramen chimed in.
Nicholas blinked - after all these years he somehow still seemed surprised every time one of the cats talked - and then he tutted as he walked on past.
"Ooh! They have paper bags!" Ramen yelled, excitedly trotting behind.
Sören took a break from his cleaning and put on CNN. As he drank water and watched the news, his cheerful demeanor faded. Edmée climbed on him and sat on his lap in concern, and soon Samiilo was out - he gave Sören a withering glance that Edmée was sitting on him, and slurked off to the kitchen, though Samiilo would of course be out later to sit on Sören's shoulders and stick his butt in Sören's face multiple times.
"What's the matter, Uncle Sören? Are there bad people in the news again?" Edmée nuzzled Sören's hand, purring.
"This idiot Trump," Sören said, skritching her. "I can't believe he's even allowed to run for president again. He's terrible."
Later, when the humans - and one Elf - were in bed, the cats had their usual nightly meeting. "Uncle Sören is sad because that bad man Trump might be president again," Edmée announced. "I don't know what that means, but it's bad."
"The guy Vance who's with him, who has weird creepy eyes, made fun of cat people," Samiilo seethed. "I don't like him. He is also a bad man."
"We should do something," Ramen said. "Like we did other times."
"There is a powerful magic protecting Trump," the elderly sage Mibal hissed, levitating slightly in a trance-loaf. "I sense the evil in him. And it is brainwashing all his followers. What we need to do is get someone with influence - someone well-loved - to tell the world how bad he is, or at least... encourage voting for his opponent."
"I know," Edmée chirped. "Taylor Swift! Everyone loves Taylor Swift. Except Uncle Nicholas."
"YEAH! TAYLOR SWIFT!" Ramen cheered.
"Hard food Taylor Swift," Noodles agreed.
Samiilo walked across Sören's laptop and brought up YouTube. From there, he tapped a few keys that made Taylor Swift come up in the suggestions. They put on a Taylor Swift video, and Edmée aimed her enormous, nickel-sized pink butthole at the screen, farting a cloud of rainbow magic at the visage of Taylor Swift performing. "Endorse Harris!" Edmée called out. "Do it for the cats!"
"Cats against Trump!" Samiilo yowled.
The cats chanted "Cats against Trump! Cats against Trump! Cats against Trump!"