[Meneltarmacil]

A terrifying NEIIIIIGGGGGHHHH echoed through Orth-Tank.

"What is all that noise?! I was on the palantir!" Saruman shouted.

"*SNRRRRRKKK* What?" asked Grima as he woke up.

"Never mind," said the wizard as he headed downstairs.

In the engine room, a battle was raging between the Uruk-Hai and a number of ferocious-looking horses. The horses seemed to be inexplicably gobbling up the orcs, as if the orcs had no fighting skills whatsoever.

"I think what we've got here is a case of Imperial Stromtrooper Syndrome, sir," Grima offered as he walked up. "It frequently occurs in massive armies of doom. Symptoms include mass stupidity and inability to kill the good guys at even point-blank range with superior firepower."

"Ah yes, I remember now," Saruman said. "Caused by narrators unfairly favoring the heroes, if I remember correctly. I know just what to do. We'll tie up the narrator and write the rest of the story ourselves."

Just as they were about to do that, however, tragedy struck and... Hey, what are you doing? Put that rope away now! I'm serious! Stop it! AAAAAAAmmmph...

This is Saruman taking over for the moment. We shipped the horses off to the glue factory, gave the meat to the orcs, and will release Meneltarmacil if he agrees to behave. Oh, and I inexplicably acquired fifty billion dollars and my own private space station.

That really isn't good writing, you know. And you're making me sound too much like Nilp with those italics.

Cut it out, or I'll feed you to the orcs.

*GULP*

EDIT: We're heading WEST.