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Old 08-27-2003, 06:29 PM   #53
The Saucepan Man
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Join Date: Jan 2003
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The Saucepan Man has been trapped in the Barrow!
The Eye

As Grrralph gazed East, a baleful eye or three gazed darkly back at him and his companions from the depths of the Land of Shadowy Deals.

A peculiar, strangled, gurgling sound issued forth from the leather armchair where Môgul Bildûr sat intently watching the images flickering on the Sate-lantir before him and gently stroking the fluffy ball of mangy white fur on his lap. The sound gradually increased in intensity until it became a hoarse, rasping roar laden with malice. Strangely enough, it turned out to be a laugh.

“It goes well, my friends”, cackled Môgul, addressing no-one in particular.

“Indeed it doesss, my Lord”, hissed Greedhog, sensing that a reply was required and happy to provide it seeing as he charged by the hour and was keen to prolong the usefulness of his presence in the chamber for as long as was able. In any event, the only other occupants of the room were three off-duty Nazgûl and, since they were frolicking in the background practising a new dance routine that they had just worked out, it was clear to Greedhog that it was up to him to play the sidekick role in the exposition of the Dread Developer’s machinations that he sensed was imminent.

“It is clear that this company of witless fools is no match for my power,” gloated Môgul. “When the time comes, I will crush each one of them like so many non-gender specific ants.” As a Dark Lord, it was, of course, Môgul’s unassailable right to assume with unshakeable confidence that his victory would prevail, despite all precedent to the contrary. “But for now, Greedhog,” he continued “we have them well and truly ensnared. They cannot make a move but that we know of it.”

“Yesss. The ssspies of Moredough are everywhere, my liege”, replied Greedhog darkly.

“What news of Minus Teeth?”

Greedhog smiled a smug and self-satisfied smile. “The Proctor had no choice but to take the loan offered to him by our agentsss. And thanks to the dark cloud of Lítig-aî-Shön with which we have enveloped the city, his finances are ssstretched to the limit.”

“Ah yes, Lítig-aî-Shön,” purred Môgul reflecting with twisted pleasure on the power of the Black Art, known mockingly in the Common Tongue as Dispute Resolution, which had been developed and perfected over many years by the Amber Lance Chasers, the most cruel and depraved of the Loyers who worked within the deepest dungeons of the Dark Tower Block. The people of Minus Teeth, their sense of grievance heightened to the full, had been powerless to resist the evil force as it swept through their city, turning neighbour against neighbour, servant against master and citizen against governor, indeed anyone on the lookout to make a quick buck from their misfortune against anyone else that they could pin it on and who appeared to have the means to pay. The Proctor had of course presented the most obvious target for their frenzy, since it was generally assumed (albeit wrongly) by all and sundry that he was loaded and that it was all probably covered by insurance anyway.*

“Soon it shall be ours, Greedhog,” continued Môgul. “And, with it, the lands of Ethyline, Listerine and Dol Amstel. The hapless citizens will have no choice but to bow down to me as their Overlord. lol! i is so kool1 **** i rOol!!!!!!!!” he exclaimed, lapsing into the Black Speech of Slangbad in his enthusiasm.

A cacophonous clamour barely recognisable as laughter rang round the chamber again as Môgul contemplated with satisfaction the other deals that were currently in the pipeline. The Loyers of Gul-Duldor were on the verge of closing a lucrative Sale and Leaseback Deal with the Elves of Topfloorien who, judging that their time in Muddled-Mirth was coming to an end, were quite content to relinquish permanent ownership of their lands in return for handsome reward, notwithstanding its source. Môgul shivered with devilish delight in anticipation of gaining title to the luxury shopping malls and high-rent apartments of the Salad Realm. And messengers had been dispatched to the Dwarven Kingdom of Trebor, with its rich sherbet mines. Môgul fancied that the Dwarves of that land would have few qualms over accepting Moredough’s (literally) filthy lucre in return for a quick deal.

And all the while preparations were underway for the charm offensive that was to follow in the wake Môgul Enterprises’ hostile take-over of the lands of Muddled-Mirth. On the six hundred and sixty-sixth floor of the Dark Tower Block, an army of I-Mage Consultants and Gurus of the ancient art of Pé-Är (an art which some said was first practised in Valleyum itself) had joined with the dreaded Whirling Physicians of S’pín to fulfil the brief given to them by the Dread Developer: to make evil the new good. And in the grog-soaked and pipeweed-stained gloom of their offices, they faithfully toiled away, devising slogans, poster campaigns, free-gift promotions and irritating Cell-antir messages, labouring to achieve leading brand status for the Red Nostril (ahead even of McDonelds, Pûkel-Cola and Mireboro pipeweed). Môgul himself was particularly pleased with a series of portraits which had been produced depicting him as a devilishly attractive man with a smart goatee beard and a mischievous twinkle in his eye, tagged “Môgul: the acceptable face of evil”.

Soon the negotiations would be over. The battle for the advertising space of Muddled-Mirth would begin.

Still chuckling to himself, Môgul turned his attention back to the Satel-antir, watching as the His-and-Hers-Ship bonded with the Sorethighim. As the Gateskeeper came into view, a thought occurred to him and he waved a nebulous pseudopodium over the flickering orb. Instantaneously, consternation spread over the Gateskeeper’s face as he withdrew from the company and reached surreptitiously for his Cell-antir.

“Hello, Gatesy,” snarled Môgul menacingly.

“You shouldn’t be calling me at work,” the Gateskeeper hissed back. “What do you want?” Then, belatedly remembering the correct etiquette for addressing a Dark Lord, he continued “Er … I mean it’s a pleasure to hear from you, O Mighty Embodiment of Evil. How may this humble servant be of service to your Majectic Malignant Maleficence?”

“I see that you have hooked up with the Men of the Mike. You will no doubt be aware that the land Soreham is one of my intended acquisitions.”

“Well … er …”

“My agent has the ear of Théboleggen King and bends him to my will as we speak. Soon, the empty plains will be replete with row upon row of soulless semi-detached suburban dwellings.” Môgul’s rasping voice lapsed into a rasping chuckle, as it always did when he was recounting his evil plans for the listening pleasure of anyone unfortunate enough to be in earshot. “I have been breeding Orcs with Golfing-Men for the very purpose of selling off these highly desirable residences. They are the Dês-Res, the Agents of the Estate. Ten thousand strong they are. An army bred for a single purpose: to misdescribe properties to the Race of Man."

“Sounds good, O Damnable and Despicable One,” chipped in the Gateskeeper, adding hopefully “Will they have need of my soft wares?”

“All you have to do, my four-eyed friend, is to ensure the safe passage of the Whatever-Ship. Things could get messy. I want you to make sure that they don’t get caught up in it. Your efforts have pleased me so far, but it is imperative that every single piece of this accursed Broken Ent be found … just to make certain that there are no … ah … unfortunate developments.”

“I’m right on it.”

“Oh and Gatesy?”

“Yes”

“Should you fail in this task, you will find yourself making the acquaintance of the SoBig Wyrms of the Master-Blaster’d Heath.”

The colour drained from the Gateskeeper’s face. “I shall not fail you, Most Illustrious Prince of Perdition.”

“Good. This Cell-antir will self-destruct in five seconds …”

“Eh?”

“Just kidding. My new counsellors tell me that the use of humour is a key weapon in the art of selling oneself. I’m not sure that I’ve quite got the hang of it yet, though. Goodbye.”
_____________________________________________

* The small-print in the Wight City’s fire insurance policy had in fact contained an Urulóki Exclusion Clause which excluded all cover in respect of “any loss, damage, cost or expense occurring in any way whatsoever, whether directly or indirectly, in consequence of the presence in the City (hereinbefore defined), with or without the knowledge of the Policyholder, of any monstrous fire-breathing creature, whether winged or otherwise, including without prejudice to generality of the foregoing any Dragon, Fire-Drake, Fire-Serpent, Fire-Wyrm, Salamander, Hydra or Wyvern”.

[ September 02, 2003: Message edited by: The Saucepan Man ]

[ September 03, 2003: Message edited by: The Saucepan Man ]
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