Around the House with the Dark Lord

In the Kitchen with the Dark Lord

"Damn souffles!" Voldemort cried as he threw down his dainty pink dishtowel. "They never rise for me like they do in the recipes!" Wiping his hands on his red and white checked apron, he flounced out of his tastefully decorated kitchen in a huff.

"Wormtail!" he screeched as he headed into the living room, "It's happened again!"

Wormtail looked up from his magazine (Figure Skating International) and regarded his master with an annoyed expression. "How am I supposed to catch up on the wheeling and dealings of Kristi Yamaguchi with all your yelling! What happened, Voldie? Did your soufflé not rise again?"

"No," Voldie said sadly. "My reputation as one of the most feared Princes of Darkness hinges solely on my cooking ability. I am an embarrassment to the name 'Dark Lord!'"

Before he could collapse in tears of frustration, Wormtail rolled his eyes and stood up, tossing his magazine down on the table next to his kaleidoscope (he liked the purty pictures he could see in it) and embraced the Dark Lord warmly.

"Voldie, if I've told you once, I've told you a hundred times, you have to whip the eggs gently. Gently! Did you just throw them in the bowl and hope for the best again?"

Voldemort looked sheepish. "I might have."

"I thought so," Wormtail said, nodding wisely. "And you probably were jumping around in the kitchen while you were listening to Eminem again, huh?"

"I can't help it. 'Cleaning Out My Closet' is so uplifting. I can't help but get my schwerve on!" Voldemort then demonstrated how groovy he really was by placing his hands on his hips, gyrating slowly and, for the cup de grace, thrust his pelvis forward suggestively.

"Jumping around is going to flatten any soufflé. Tsk tsk," Wormtail said. "Well, I'll eat your food anyway. It's not the presentation that's important. It's how it tastes, right?" He patted his Master on the shoulder. "It's going to be ok. I know you tried. You know what we can do after dinner?"

"What?" sniffed the Epitome of Evil.

"Let's go out and torture some Muggles. They've been way too jovial lately. Let's go flatten some tires...whip rocks at windows, you know, all that fun hurley-burley. You need to let off some steam."

"You always know how to cheer me up, Wormie," Voldemort said, "and that's why I let you live. Have I told you lately that I love you?"

"I know, I know," Wormtail demurred. "Now let's eat!"

In the Bathroom with the Dark Lord

(Sung to the tune of "Wild Thing")

Prune juice you make my bowels loose....
You send everything thorough me....
Prune juice...you move me.

Lord Voldemort was indeed correct; his soufflé was flatter than ten-ear old girls' chest. It was also drier than a popcorn fart. Wormtail surmised that perhaps the eggs had not been fresh. If only he'd listen to me, Wormie thought with a sign and a roll of his eyes. Brown eggs are local eggs and local eggs are fresh! He inspected the shells in the trash bin. Sure enough, they were white.

Because it was Wormtail's night to clean the dishes, he placed a stack of plates and bowls into the sink and began to fill it with water and soap. The Epitome of Evil was in the living room, tuning into his favorite show, American Idol. He quite enjoyed the scathing commentary from the judges and the shaking and trembling of the tone-deaf contestants. After one girl was told that the only people who would willingly listeno her sing was a room full of the hearing impaired, Voldemort bellowed with laughter. "That Simon makes me laugh," he called to Wormie. "Do you suppose we could recruit him to the Death Eaters'?"

"Is Saddam Hussein one card short of a full deck?" Wormtail answered. He didn't have the heart to tell his all-powerful Master that Simon had been hand selected by the Death Eaters as the First Runner-up Dark Lord, and would assume all responsibilities of said position should something happen to Voldemort to cause him not to be able to fulfill his duties.

(You say it would never happen, but we all know about that one Dark Lord who fell from grace...click, click!)

It really was pointless to let Voldemort know this information. His self-esteem was already low, what with the constant humiliation of being thwarted over and over again by a boy too young to legally purchase beer and all. The Dark Lord also had a penchant for worrying himself into a tizzy over things like uprisings and coups, and much to Wormtail's chagrin, his Master's Prozac wasn't working as well as it once had. Voldemort's mutterings kept him awake for hours most nights.

So consumed was Wormtail in his thoughts that he tripped over Voldie's teacup poodle (named Mr. Sparkle), and launched into a full twisting double with a difficulty of 3.5 back (the landing is SO tough to stick on that). As Wormtail was no gymnast (although he did have several bedroom moves that could have placed him with the ranks of Nadia Comenich) he fell squarely on his back. To say he was in a little pain would have been like saying that a few people wanted to buy the upcoming Harry Potter book. He groaned as he sat up and rubbed his back.

"That's going to leave a mark," he muttered. Before he could grab some Tylenol* (the official pain reliever of the Dark Side) he heard the sound of noisily passed gas, a gasp of surprise and rapid footsteps against the polished wood floor. Oh no, he thought as he stepped into the living room, Lord Voldemort was in the bathroom.

And, judging from the large empty space on the bookshelf, he had taken Uncle John's Bathroom Reader with him.

It was going to be a very, very long night.

Wormtail looked to the heavens. Savior Jesus, I don't ask for much, but please, oh please let everything move the way it's supposed to. I can't stand being here with him when things get a little hairy. May this pass quickly and I will erect several churches in your honor...

Peter Pettigrew's heartfelt words to our Lord and Savior Jesus Christ were ignored. The Almighty must have felt that perhaps Pettigrew deserved everything he was getting, because from behind the bathroom door he heard the words he had grown to dread:

"WORMTAIL! I require your assistance at once!"

"Oh shit," mused Peter with a frown. "What's the matter? Did your impressively evil robe fall in again?"

"OK on that front, but we're out of White Cloud* and I have, er, a bit of a situation here..."

"There's some Soft N' Gentle* under the sink!" Honestly, what would he do without me to tell him everything? Wormtail thought.

Moments passed in relative silence, punctuated only by the occasional grunt and heartfelt, "That's it...easy now, big fella--!"

Wormtail shuddered and hoped he would not need the bathroom for the rest of the night.

PLOP!

"Hey, Wormtail, come and get a look at this! It's so long!"

"I'm sure it's a sight to behold, sir."

"1 can't believe something that huge came out of my own ass!"

The next time there was a call for another second in command, Wormtail was so out of the house. For the gazillionth time he wished he hadn't sold his friends down the river for a taste of the Dark Side's awesome power. Competing against the leg of a chair for Sirius Black's affections would have been more rewarding than this! Evil was supposed to be about debauchery, vandalism and occasional extortion-even pulling those "Do Not Remove Under Penalty of Law" tags off pillowcases. It wasn't supposed to be about supporting the Dark Lord's, uh, endeavors after a particularly bad meal!

I have sold myself ever so short, Wormtail groused as he walked toward the linen closet.

Voldemort's annoyed voice cut through Peter's thoughts. "Soft N' Gentle my evil ass! There are two things wrong with the name of this toilet paper, Wormtail. You went to the grocery store yesterday: where is my White Cloud?"

"Prices at the shops are going up, sir. I had to conserve wherever I could."

"Well that explains the utility-grade beef in the freezer," Voldemort said. "Wormtail, my amazingly incompetent friend, there are certain items that one does not skimp on, no matter how expensive! Toilet paper is one such item. My ass hurts and this toilet paper does nothing but SMEAR! There are no cottony ripples to cushion my stunningly firm butt!" The squeaking sound of a man in pain rocking from side to side on the toilet could be heard. "I am going to Crucio you so bad when I get out of here..."

The rest of Voldemort's thread was drowned out by the sound of his bowels clenching painfully.

The wizard who routinely struck fear into the hearts of the law-abiding citizenry of the magical world whimpered. "God, you think you're done, but then you're not and I'm going to be sitting here all night! Damn souffles and their propensity to go right through me... "

More grunts and then the unmistakable baritone voice of Lord Voldemort:

"Nobody knows the trouble I've seen... nobody knows but Jesus... "

Oh great, sulked Wormtail. Now he's bringing out the show tunes. If he sings "I Feel Pretty" I am leaving and not ever coming back.

"Gawd, I can see the splinters in this stuff and it's no wonder! It's made out of one hundred percent recyclable materials. What did they recycle--tin cans? How many times can something be recycled before it's only good enough to wipe with? Ouch! For Pete's sake, the bark of certain trees is softer than this crap!"

"Shall I warm up the chamois for you, sir?" Wormtail asked in a helpful voice. The last thing he needed when the Dark Lord was through with his project was an angry Dark Lord. Angry Dark Lords could cast killing curses on their hapless minions, and only Wormtail was at hand. Although, thought the fat little wizard with a smile, from the sounds of things Voldemort wasn't going to be running any races anytime soon. He could escape easily if the need presented itself.

Then, again from behind the bathroom door, a new tune:

"Takin' care of business ...I say I'm takin ' care of business ...ooh, yeah!"

"Nice to hear that things are moving along, my Lord."

Ten minutes later, after swear words of disbelief, angry yelling, the sound of rampant plunging, bargaining and finally acceptance, an opening door and the swish of robes indicated to Wormtail that the bathroom was free again. He watched as his Master walked gingerly into the living room.

"Everything come out all right, sir?" Wormtail asked as he looked up from his figure skating magazine.

"It was a moving experience, Wormtail. I have seen the top of the mountain," announced Voldemort with a wistful expression.

His second in command shuddered and shook his head. Why did everything have to be such a production with his master?