Some say that Oliver’s mom dropped him on his head when he was kid, others say that he used to eat paint chips, but the bulk of people just laughed and called him names. It is odd, I don’t really remember my childhood much, but I do remember Ollie’s book collection. Here we are, on the border of Mordor and Gondor, and somehow Ollie has a collection of books hidden in a cave. No one knew about them but a few of us – Ollie’s friends. What was even more peculiar was that Ollie knew how to read but that is a recent realization.
So here is Ollie, the ugliest orc I knew and his book collection. No idea what was in those books but it had to be magic because the only time I didn’t eat bat was when Ollie made me a Danish or donut. He was amazing as a kid. Somehow he was capable of transforming the worst ingredients into something delicious, or he was raiding Gondorian merchants which wasn’t hard for the ugliest orc in all the land (he made cheese just by looking at the milk). Then came that asshole Tolkien.
You see, at this point in our lives, we lived in squalor at the fringe of Mordor (the issue with losing wars over and over). It was a hard life, but it wasn’t a miserable life. We had good mud slides, some delicious thistles, and a healthy amount of bats we could snack on. Humans, elves, dwarves, none of these races really cared as long as we stayed in our designated prison. Yea, there were some rogue elements in the orc population but every species has those. And then, of course, Tolkien had to go and write his damn books and piss off Sauron.
Let me put it bluntly, dictatorships suck and when your dictator gets made fun of by a guy looking to sell his book – war gets declared. Oh and by no means am I saying that orc’s are a peaceful race. We spent a lot of time fighting and training – Ollie was exempt from the military because his dad had a distinguished military career, but with the declaration of war, we all were drafted.
I’ll never forgot that day, we were all at Ollie’s parents working on our rappelling. During a minor break, we ran into his parent’s cave where Ollie had prepared a wide spread of baked goods. We kept trying to talk to him, to praise him, and he just ignored us. Girls and boys got pissed because he was unresponsive; I just watched him. His face was buried in some book I had never seen, it had lines, triangles, and all sorts of weird symbols.
After everyone left in a huff, I was able to finally ask him what had is attention.
He responded without looking up, “It’s a map.”
“What is a map?”
And this is why I liked Ollie, he didn’t sigh, didn’t groan, he just looked up at me and smiled, “Come here, I will explain it.” So, we sat there, and he taught me how to read a map. It was interesting and then he explained the maps purpose, “See here”—his finger deformed under the pressure but it didn’t change color—“this is where the best danish is supposed to be located in all of Middle Earth.”
“I like danishes.” I sounded like an idiot but it was all I could offer to the conversation.
“And here”—his finger was right by our border—“is Minas Tirith where they say the best beignets are supposed to be.”
“Have I had that?”
“No”—he slammed the book closed and grabbed a different one—“I haven’t been able to make one because I can’t find powdered sugar… it is an important ingredient.”
“I’m sure we can get some.” I didn’t and still don’t know anything about sugar.
“I keep trying. It just doesn’t—“
“Is Oliver here?” It was a gruff voice, I recognized it immediately as my platoon’s captain. Oliver raised his hand, and the man walked over and grabbed him by the neck, “You’re now a part of Sauron’s soldiers.” His dad rose to stop the kidnapping but was quickly knocked back down by the captain.
All of this because Sauron was “disrespected” by a simple human. That was it, Tolkien’s little books destroyed Ollie’s chances at ever tasting a beignet or making one. We were shipped into the heart of Mordor where Ollie’s whisk was exchanged for a club, armor replaced his black apron, a helmet displaced chef hat, and his knife became a broadsword. He excelled at fighting, but his heart wasn’t in it like the rest of us. The captain knew this and would sentence him to troll duty. This was the worst, if you were distracted for a moment you would end up dead or worse… inside a troll that decided to have a seat. Ollie was on duty every week for six days a week. His radiant blue eyes were quickly grayed after six months. But, it wasn’t until he was capable of swinging a sword without thinking that our captain released him from this duty. For two years Oliver – I call him Oliver at this point because he wasn’t the Ollie I knew – never mentioned the difference between winter wheat and summer wheat. No contemplation about the differences between protein content or the necessity of gluten in making a good hearty loaf of bread. And then it happened, we graduated and were stationed at the Tower of Cirith Ungol.
I think that is what saved Ollie but kille Oliver, because whenever the breeze came from the West, the bakeries of Minas Tirith would blanket our outpost with the smells of fresh bread, pastries, and all sorts of foods. And like that, Ollie began talking about the beignets at Minas Tirith, with each westerly wind, Ollie got more obsessed. Then, on one cold morning, I noticed that he wasn’t anywhere to be found, so, I struck out into the Plennor Fields. With the sun warming my back, I noticed Ollie hobbling. He had gout, probably too many donuts or something.
Which was unfortunate, because the Gondorians also saw him hobbling towards the city. Instead of waiting and seeing what two orcs could possibly want with their city, they fired a single arrow into Ollie’s forehead – technically it was five arrows but only one hit. Seriously, what could two orcs do to the city of Minas Tirith?
With his death I rallied the troops. Orcs aren’t allowed to cry, instead, we are allowed to plunder and pillage. And that’s how I ended up here, a head in one hand, an arm in-between my teeth, and blood soaking my hair. The worst part, I found out that reading is really important when it comes to finding something in this city. Here, I am relying on my nose in a place filled with death.
And then it struck, like a knife in my back, the smell of the fresh pastries fill the street, I turned, ran, turned again, and ended up being tripped by a rope strung across the street. With a flare o my nostrils the smell penetrated my brain. There it is – right in front of me is the elusive beignet. I can tell, I remember the pictures, the white snow covered dough and what I imagine is a crunchy exterior. This time, a real knife cut through my back and I am beginning to fade, but don’t worry I found your beignet Ollie! And now to taste it – pain radiates from my chest but the crunch and sweetness displace the taste of iron with sweetness. It is good Ollie, but I think beignets would be better hot.