The Dark Lord’s Bad Day: A Funny Fantasy Tale

Once upon a time, deep within the shadows of a jagged, volcanic realm, the Lord of Darkness, Morgoriroth, was having a rather bad day. He rose early to the sound of his alarm gong, issued his daily commands to the Armies of Evil, and fed a couple of innocents to the cerberus. Yet, something was off—his usual enthusiasm for malevolence was missing.

For the first time in his 6,000 years, the Dark One found himself plagued by an unfamiliar feeling: self-doubt. It all began a few days prior when a defiant captive in his dungeon screamed, “Why are you doing this?” The question, mundane as it was, lodged itself in Morgoriroth’s mind. Why, indeed? What was the point of his existence? Was this life of sulfuric landscapes, incompetent minions, and relentless scheming really worth it?

These thoughts swirled in his mind as he sat in his favorite dingy tavern, nursing a mug of ale. The barkeep, a burly man named Benjamin, regarded his regular customer with sympathy. Despite being the embodiment of evil, Morgoriroth was always polite, paid in unmarked gold coins, and never caused trouble. Today, however, he seemed particularly glum.

Between sips, Morgoriroth muttered, “Six thousand years, and what do I have to show for it? Armies of damned souls? Realms cloaked in darkness? Bah! What’s the point?”

The barkeep refilled his drink silently, leaving the Dark Lord to brood. The usual tavern patrons whispered among themselves, unsettled by the sight of Evil Himself looking so forlorn.

Just as the somber mood settled over the room, the door burst open, and in swaggered Bunt, the taxman. Known for his arrogance and sharp tongue, Bunt scanned the room before his eyes landed on Morgoriroth.

“What is this vile creature doing here again?” Bunt sneered, his voice dripping with disdain. “He’s the embodiment of evil! He has no place among decent folk.”

The barkeep sighed. “He’s a paying customer, just like you, Bunt. Now, calm down.”

But Bunt was relentless. “Decent folk shouldn’t drink alongside this abomination! Get him out, or I’ll ensure your tavern is buried in taxes and fines!”

The room fell silent as tension crackled in the air. Morgoriroth, who had remained still, raised his head and turned to face the taxman. His eyes glowed faintly, and his deep voice rumbled, “Those are hurtful words, Mr. Bunt.”

The taxman faltered but quickly regained his bravado. “You don’t belong here, demon!”

The Dark Lord stood, his shadow stretching across the room. “You, Bunt, have reminded me why I exist. It is people like you—petty, cruel, and self-righteous—that give meaning to my work.”

With a swift motion, Morgoriroth grabbed Bunt’s arm. Flames erupted, smoke filled the room, and with a deafening roar, the two vanished into a glowing circle.

Later that evening, Morgoriroth returned to the tavern, sipping his drink as though nothing had happened. The barkeep cautiously approached him.

“Ben,” Morgoriroth said, “I’m sorry for causing trouble earlier.”

The barkeep smiled faintly. “It’s alright. Everyone has bad days.”

Morgoriroth nodded. “Indeed. And Bunt? What happened to him?”

“Oh, he’s having a bad day too,” the Dark Lord replied with a devilish grin.