The Dark Lord Zorgoroth eats Oreos at the kitchen counter. He pulls them apart and dips each half in milk, lets them soak through and lifts them out right before they crumble down into the pale abyss. Zorgoroth the Unholy is secretly pleased when this happens, derives a perverse joy from slurping the thick sludge from the bottom of the glass as if it’s the liquefied souls of unbelievers.
When his mom insists he wash the crumbs off his face and stop eating so many cookies — he’ll spoil his dinner — Zorgoroth, the Scion of Doom, marches up to his room with the fury of a thousand snarling hellhounds, taking the stairs three at a time. Would that he could only banish his social studies homework to the black tombs of Necropolis.
One day a reckoning will come, and Zorgoroth will smile from atop a gilded throne of human skulls. Until then he’ll bide his time, he’ll flex his claws, he’ll learn those damn amendments.
