Flash Friday 27/02/2015: Rile-Up Connection
Snivlet did not have much going for him. A hunchback, pointy-nosed, crooked sort of man, he was not winning any popularity contests. What he lacked in charisma, he gained for loyalty to his lord. It was a dark day, then, when even his faith in his master had begun to shake.
“It’s not that I call your decisions into question, master,” Snivlet croaked, the pair of them turning heads as they walked down the high street. “It is simply that I do not follow your undoubtedly perfect logic.”
Lord Falvar stared at Snivlet with ice-blue eyes, his white hair covering most of his face. “Does something eat away at you. Snivlet?”
Snivlet nodded. “You say that you want to unleash the unclean horde on this unsuspecting world, but this place is much different than home. Orcs and trolls need to be driven by anger and hate in order to be effective.”
“And what is the problem?”
“In this world, we have nothing. No brutal training regimes. No torture devices or fighting pits. There are eyes everywhere in this world. There’s no way we would be able to work up the hordes into a furor here.”
“Ah.” Lord Falvar stopped in front of one of the stores, pointing at its sign. “I am afraid, that is where you’re wrong, Snivlet.”
Snivlet tiled a head. “An internet café? But what does that have to do with anything?”
Lord Falvar simply made a beckoning motion as he opened the door.
Inside, the smell washed over like a wave of sewage. The entire café was packed, every seat taken by a green-skinned orc yelling and pointing at the screen, with every user sporting one or two angry spectators behind them. The cafe owner stood behind a counter at the back, too scared to attempt anything.
Lord Falvar walked behind one orcish user, just as the orc began to strangle himself with a mouse cord in rage. The spectators behind him quickly parted to make way.
“Excuse me,” Lord Falvar said in a calm voice. “Is anything the matter?”
The orc looked over its shoulder with a angry, yet confused look. “None of this makes any sense!”
“What do you mean?”
The orc pressed a finger against the monitor, smearing grease on it. “There are people talking about this song on the internet. In these comments.”
“Some are saying they hated this song since it came on the radio. But…” The orc frowned as if suffering a migraine. “Why are they listening to the song if they don’t like it? Why did they comment on this song in particular if they don’t like it?”
Lord Falvar shrugged. “Perhaps the song isn’t that good.”
The orc fought back tears. “Beyoncé speaks to me like nobody else can!”
Lord Falvar patted the orc on the shoulder. “I’m sure they just have horrible taste. Do you see the effectiveness now, Snivlet? Put them in front of this wonderful device and it does the job for us. You there, you look like you’re having fun.”
The larger troll that had been pointed to stopped trying to eat the computer tower. “No.”
“Really? What’s wrong?”
The troll snorted as he sat back into his chair, turning away from the computer and folding his arms. “Went on Facebook.”
“Oh, yeah? And how did that turn out?”
The troll snorted again. “People have opinions.”
“Yes, that’s what people usually have. It’s what makes them unique.”
The troll slammed a fist on the table. “But they’re wrong ones! These–” He prodded at the screen violently, causing the monitor to rock. “These idiots make posts about political stuff, how to run the country. They’re wrong, all of ’em. All this healthcare and education and nonsense. I tried to state some troll wisdom, make my case that disobedient children should be eaten by the matriarch during winters. They all told me to shut up! The cheek!”
Lord Falvar shrugged. “People tend to disagree.”
“Well, they’re all wrong. I’ll make sure all members in the Proper Hellspawn Care group are invite-only.” The troll turned on his chair, hammering at the keyboard at what looked like a very constructive criticism to someone’s objection. In troll terms, at least.
“This is quite remarkable,” Snivlet said. “But forgive me for my transgressions, sire, when I state that I am unsure how this will create an army that will take over this world.”
Lord Falvar smirked. “Are you sure?”
“If master would be so kind as to prove me wrong, I would happily beat myself up over it for a good week, sire.”
Lord Falvar nodded in agreement to the terms. Walking to the front of the café, he raised two hands in the air. “Minions. I have a proposition I’d like to make.”
None of the horde took any notice, their cries and yells too loud.
“Hello? Anyone? Nobody wants to take me up on my offer?”
“Well, that’s a shame.” Lord Falvar crossed to a closet. Opening the door and reaching in, he pulled out a large wheeled rack of cruedly-made orcish swords. By the look on the café owner’s face, he had only just learnt of their existence.
The entire café fell silent, all eyes on the rack as Lord Falvar dragged it across the cafe floor.
“Hm?” Lord Falvar looked around the room. “Oh, sorry. I was just moving these swords I was going to give you all to rend venegeance on the humans on this world. But if you’d rather sit there and bicker all day about no–”
The wave of bodies swarming the swords rack took even Lord Falvar by surprise. Soon, all that was left was an empty rack, somewhat dirtied computers, a lingering music, and someone singing Single Ladies in the distance.
“And that,” Lord Falvar said, placing a hand on a still-stunned Snivlet’s shoulder, “is how you use your enemy’s own strength against itself.”
Snivlet didn’t question any more after that day.