by Detergent
Larry pulled up his drawers, then his third-hand Calvin Klein trousers, and buckled his genuine leather belt that had been repurposed from a Louis Vuitton suitcase. His time on the toilet had been enormously unproductive. The horrible flatulence still had not dissipated, even though he had accidentally set himself on fire using Madame Gunnhild's questionably-expensive reversing spell ($999, supposedly very powerful and so worth it) weeks ago in the abandoned parking lot next to a defunct warehouse on the very edge of Terre Haute. Out of habit, he gazed into the toilet bowl to see what he had strained to put there and found what appeared to be a pair of gold cufflinks. He sighed and bent down to fish them out of the water, brushing his soiled toilet paper aside. He wondered how much the owner of Finest Threads would be willing to give him in exchange for this offering. Idly, he stepped up to the sink and pooled Chris Doir Hamme fragrance hand-soap into his palm, lathering the cuff links as well. He took a cloth napkin out of the basket that sat on the sink counter and dried his hands, then flopped the toilet lid down and, covering his hand with the napkin, flushed the toilet. Throwing the napkin in the vicinity of the basket in the corner, he stuffed the cufflinks into his pocket and opened the door, letting himself into the hallway of his private garage.
He paced the few steps up the hallway and entered the garage proper to find Cash-Blaze huddled against the far wall, its engine fluttering in fear and panic. The Bently's hazards were flashing rapidly. The car had parked itself so close to the wall that Larry feared for his baby's paint job. His eyes narrowed as he fought to see if there were any black paint scrapes on the flawless white wall. Just as the eye strain began to give him a headache and as he took a step in Cash-Blaze's direction, he felt a heavy thrumming on his skin, the garage pregnant with an oppressive presence.
An invisible hand yanked him around by the collar; he could hear small pops as some of the stitching gave. A yelp burst from his lips as the invisible hand propelled him towards his dilapidated leather chair in the seating area. His legs shook as the Force compelled him to take huge, staggering steps to remain upright. He was dumped unceremoniously before his Father, who had ensconced himself in Larry's armchair as if the thrift-store seat was his own. Larry's knees bruised themselves against the cement floor.
"Larry." Sauron's voice resonated through him, its timbre deeper than usual. Larry felt it in his bladder. Father hadn't bothered to veil his presence whatsoever. The man grovelling on the floor fought the urge to squeeze his thighs together so he wouldn't wet himself. The bright overhead lights winked off Sauron's sunglasses, the mirror lenses underscoring the Dark Lord's inhuman origin.
"Yea Fatherest?" Had Sauron heard his innermost ungrateful thoughts? Had Father heard the one time Larry had doubted him? He felt his underarms dampen.
Everything went silent for a moment. His ears couldn't even pick up the click-click of Cash-Blaze's hazards.
"It is time you repaid Me for your resurrection. Do you have any idea of what I lost when I had to turn My attention from other projects to clean up your little mishap with your jarred candles, oils, strings, and garbage from Red Lobster? Do you have any idea how you're going to accomplish that?"
Sauron steepled his hands elegantly before him and waited for Larry's answer.
Larry tried to swallow but his tongue stuck to the roof of his mouth. He summoned a few drops of saliva and managed to unglue it. He still had his Christmas money from "Santa". Father had kept him busy since Christmas and he had no time to indulge himself whatsoever except by spending the few hundred dollars the sale of his Chanel binky had brought.
"I haveth the Christmas money milord Santa bestowedest upon me," he began timorously. The air felt thick and difficult to breathe with his Father's scrutiny so hard upon him.
"Very well. Bring it here. All of it."
All of it? As fearful as he was of his Father's wrath, Larry hesitated. All of the Christmas money? Larry had hoped to arrange a trip to the Bellagio now that COVID restrictions had lifted. He was going to get a custom-tailored tuxedo... He glanced over at the gold-plated custom-made toolbox, just a reluctant peep. Sauron's anger gouged through the garage like a stab of lightning. The corrupted maia made the smallest gesture with his left hand and the toolbox skidded violently across the floor on its rollers, leaving shreds of burnt plastic as it went. With a screech of metal and a cacophony of banging drawers, it came to an abrupt stop almost against Larry's face. He could feel the cold metal grazing the mother-of-pearl roundness of his cheek.
"The money," reiterated Sauron. "All of it. Now. It won't go well with you should I have to repeat Myself."
Larry scooted back a bit to allow himself room enough to open the bottom drawer. Keeping his head down, he schooled his expression into blankness. He rolled the large drawer open and began to shovel cash out onto the tiny, threadbare rug just before the tips of his Father's immaculate black leather boots. He shovelled and shovelled- Morgoth had been generous both with his cock and in his largesse. It took several tense minutes for Larry to empty the drawer. He even reached within to ensure no bills had remained, wedged into drawer seams.
"Hence artest all of the cash, Fatherest," Larry willed himself stoic when all he wanted to do was cry fat diamond tears from his tanzanite eyes.
The bills whooshed into the air and neatened into piles, fluttering as if counted by an invisible machine. The fluttering ceased and the bills settled down onto the floor into two portions: A towering block and a tiny stack.
"Are you playing a joke on Me, imbecile?" His Father's voice thundered. "There is two-hundred and fifty dollars here, no more."
"Whateth?" Larry yiped. No, no, no! There had to be tens of thousands of dollars in the other pile. Morgoth had given Larry stacks and stacks of cash for Christmas. He grovelled across the floor and reached to one of the tall towers of bills and pulled one from the top. The money smelled real, felt real, the ink colour was correct. Then he noticed the portrait: Instead of the sombre engraving of Benjamin Franklin gazing placidly from the face of the bill, he saw a portrait of Morgoth winking sassily up at him. He grabbed a second bill and saw the same thing. He grabbed another and another and another. Despair seized his innards and he couldn't help but give a tiny sob. No trips to Vegas, no mansion in Italy, no custom tuxes... it couldn't be true... couldn'test beeth... and yet it waseth.
"Stop blubbering," Sauron commanded. The fake currency was taken up by a tornado of power and ground to dust. The side door opened and the tornado exited the garage. "It just so happens that I have a job for you."
Not cleaning out the portapotties at the carnival again... it was spring and growing warmer and the plastic toilets would be even more foul than normal after sitting all winter...
"We are going to Russia. You are going to manage some of my assets there while I discover what happened to My former ring-bearer. He is still useful to Me, even if he is not worthy of one of My rings. I no longer hear his voice. He has stopped praying to Me. I will discover why."
"Russia? Assets?" Larry blinked. But Russia was still at war with Ukraine... the sanctions... closed airspace...
"Did I stutter?"
Larry bowed his head again. "Nay, Fatherest."
Sauron whipped his mirrored shades from his face, revealing eyes that blazed red. He jumped from his seat and lifted Larry from the floor one-handed.
"You will speak proper English to Me, nit," he shook Larry until, in his absolute terror, Larry felt his bowels release. Truffles began rolling down Larry's pants leg and onto the floor. His asshole burnt as he helplessly disgorged the fungi. He had no time to consider how expensive they were or how much better this was than shitting his third-hand Calvin Klein trousers.
Sauron's head swivelled as he watched the truffles land on the epoxied cement. He released Larry, who landed in a heap with a squawk. Sauron retrieved one of the truffles and held it to his nose. He stared at his useless son for a moment, then used the Force to gather the rest of the truffles that Larry had shat in fear and reseated himself, the truffles in a neat pyramid beside him. He spent a moment wondering what sort of perversion had led Larry to stuff his pants with truffles and could not imagine how he had managed to procure them as much as Sauron curtailed Larry's funds.
"These will not make up for the damage you caused Me, do you understand? But you have proven you are not entirely useless. For now. You will come to Russia with Me. I will complete my tasks and you will manage My assets." Sauron paused for a second. "Do you speak Russian?"
Larry prepared himself and stumbled over regular English. "No, F-fff-Father, I, ah, don't."
"That's all right," Sauron soothed, practically cooing at his semi-useless son. A Russian language textbook appeared in his hand. "Come closer."
He did as he was commanded and Sauron smacked the side of his head with the book. Larry reeled for a moment as stars bloomed and his vision went dark. When his sight cleared, his thoughts flowed differently and he found that yes, now he understood Russian. The book had vanished.
"Your name is Ivan. Ivan Maironivich. You're the manager in charge of all of My assets in Moscow."
Manager? That sounded respectable enough. Perhaps his Father was ready for Larry to amass more power. And money. Yes, he had to see that Larry deserved more than he currently allowed him.
"Which assets are those, milord Father?"
"I have many lucrative restaurants. You may have heard of them."
Larry saw himself sitting in a well-tailored unbelievably posh suit at the best table in a fine-dining establishment in Moscow. A beautiful, succulent red-haired waiter reminiscent of the rentboy in his favourite fantasies was bringing a bottle of wine to Larry's table for the manager's approval. He gave Larry the cork to test and then poured out a dram into a crystal wine glass. Larry sniffed the cork then swirled the wine and went to sniff again...
"Of course, I had to change the name. Those pesky sanctions," Sauron gave an exasperated sigh. "They're called Uncle Vanya's now."
The dream shattered in Larry's mind. He had seen the news: His Father wanted him to oversee fast-food restaurants. It was almost as bad as working at the carnival. He was going to manage his Father's Muscovite McDonald's restaurants. The indignity.
"We're leaving tomorrow. I will arrange it. Pack your bags."
Larry looked over at Cash-Blaze. The car still huddled against the far wall. Its hazards were still flashing but at a slower pace than before.
"May I bringeth... er bring Cash-Blaze as well?"
"The car stays here. I will only be arranging a small portal so we will not be detected by any Forceful enemy agents. You will pack one suitcase only. I am not planning on staying long. If we stay longer than I anticipate, you can buy local and boost the Russian economy."
Sauron stood, then bent and gathered up the $250 in genuine bills that still laid on the floor and stuffed it into the pocket of his long coat. He approached his son and looked him up and down. He bent again and grabbed one of Larry's pantlegs, hoisting him into the air, giving him a good shake so that his belt undid itself and Larry slid out of his bottoms, biting off a scream. A small truffle fell from his pants a moment later. Then, with a small chime, the solid gold cufflinks he had strained out earlier fell from the trouser pocket. Sauron smiled, a thin stretching of his lips. He caused the cufflinks to float up and he admired them for a moment before pocketing them. He used Larry's trousers to bundle up the truffles, stowing them under one arm.
"Be ready at seven-thirty tomorrow evening." He looked down at his prostrate offspring and sneered. "Wear pants."
Larry watched his Father swiftly conjure a man-sized portal which the maia walked through without a goodbye, without looking back.
Numbly, Larry rubbed his face and pulled his underpants out of his ass-crack. He got up and went over to Cash-Blaze, whose hazards had slowed further but had not clicked off. The Bently's shiny tires seemed to chatter on the floor. Larry patted the car on its rear, not in a comforting manner but so it would open its boot. The trunk popped open reluctantly and he hauled out his spare overalls. He shut the boot and then stepped into them, zipping them to the waist and tying the arms around himself like a belt. Cash-Blaze revved a bit but it sounded like a sob. Larry ignored it and went to sit down in his chair.
Maybe he could shit something priceless before morning so he wouldn't have to accompany his Father to Russia. Could it be possible he might turn his curse into an advantage? Briefly, he thought about driving to CVS to get some laxatives. Perhaps if he ate a large meal and topped it off with some Ex-Lax? But he had no idea of how his curse would react with laxatives. What if he shat a grand piano? He might perish again and still find himself managing all of those Uncle Vanya's. No. He was going to have to go to Russia and do so phenomenally there that his Father would have no choice but to cancel his debt and bring him back to Terre Haute. He began to plan what to pack.
After some time, on the far side of the garage Cash-Blaze's hazards shut off. Forlornly, the Bently idled over to Larry and parked.