The Dark Lord’s Existential Crisis

The Lord of Darkness Has a Crisis

Deep within the shadows of the world, where fire roared and brimstone cracked, the Lord of Evil, Morgoriroth, awoke to another day of doom and despair.

As usual, he barked orders at his minions, threw a few innocent souls into the flaming pits, and brooded over his empire of torment. But something was off. A strange feeling gnawed at him—one he was unfamiliar with.

Doubt.

It all started with a lowly hero he had been torturing a few days ago. In between screams and threats, the hero had yelled a simple question:

“Why are you doing this?”

Normally, Morgoriroth ignored such nonsense, but this time, the words burrowed into his mind like a cursed dagger.

Why?

Why did he bother? Why endure volcanic lairs, incompetent minions, and the eternal smell of sulfur? Was it truly worth it?

With a sigh that shook the very Ninth Circle of the Underworld, he did something unprecedented.

He went to a tavern.

A Demon Walks Into a Bar…

The barkeep, Benjamin, had seen all sorts of lost souls wander into his establishment. But the Incarnation of Evil drowning his sorrows in a mug of ale? That was new.

“I mean,” Morgoriroth muttered, swirling his drink, “I’m 6000 years old. What do I have to show for it? Legions of demons? A world steeped in darkness? Endless despair? Bah!”

Benjamin, a man well-versed in handling drunk dwarves and angry mercenaries, poured him another drink.

“Rough day?” he asked.

Morgoriroth sighed dramatically. “You have no idea.”

The Taxman Who Ruined Everything

The bar was calm, the night starry, and history was at a turning point. Evil itself was on the verge of throwing in the towel.

And then…

The taxman arrived.

The tavern door slammed open as a pudgy, self-important bureaucrat swaggered in.

“What is this abomination doing here?” he sneered, pointing a stubby finger at Morgoriroth.

The bar fell silent. The tension was thick enough to cut with a cursed dagger.

Benjamin, ever the diplomat, tried to smooth things over. “He’s a paying customer, Bunt.”

Bunt scoffed. “A customer?! This filthy demon has terrorized kingdoms, and you serve him drinks like he’s a respectable citizen?”

The patrons shifted uncomfortably. Insulting the literal Lord of the Damned wasn’t exactly wise.

But Bunt wasn’t known for wisdom.

The Comeback of Evil

Morgoriroth didn’t react at first. He simply took a sip of his drink. Then, with eerie calm, he spoke.

“Those are some very hurtful words, Mr. Bunt.”

Bunt froze. The bar held its breath.

“You know, I was considering retirement. Giving it all up. Perhaps opening a bakery.”

The barmaid nearly dropped a bottle.

“But you…” Morgoriroth leaned in, his eyes glowing like molten fire. “You reminded me why I exist.”

He stood up, robes billowing, voice echoing like a thunderclap.

“I am Morgoriroth, the Lord of the Damned. And I do not bow to petty men with too much power and too little kindness.”

He grabbed Bunt’s arm.

The room exploded with fire and smoke. The floor split open, revealing a swirling pit of darkness.

And then—

They were gone.

A Bad Day for Everyone

Later that night, Morgoriroth sat at the bar once again, sipping sherry.

“Ben?” he said.

“Yes?” the barkeep asked, cautiously.

“Sorry for the trouble.”

Benjamin shrugged. “We all have bad days.”

Morgoriroth chuckled. “Amen to that.”

A moment passed.

“By the way,” Benjamin asked, “what exactly did you do to Bunt?”

The Dark Lord hesitated, then smirked.

“Oh, he’s having a very bad day too.”