The air hangs thick beneath an iron gray sky. Distant rumbles shake the earth with low growls, as if some great beast stirs beneath the ground.

Crows circle overhead, caws slicing through the oppressive gloom. And below them, like a dark scar on the blasted land, a vast multitude has gathered.

Raucous voices and high-pitched laughter fill the air as the crowd mulls about on a barren plain.

“Silence!”

A voice booms over the crowd as a figure robed in white appears on a high stone outcropping to one end of the plain, ebony staff in hand.

A few jeers.

A taunt from somewhere at the back. “Hello, pretty magician.”

The offender meets a swift death on orc blades. They patrol the fringes of the crowd, watching for more disturbances.

Saruman continues unperturbed. “We have gathered today for a great occasion. For on this day, we shall learn who is the greatest villain among us!”

“IT SHOULD HAVE BEEN MEEEE!” A woman shoves her way to the front, her frilly pink outfit a lurid slash of color against the grimy backdrop of unsavory characters.

“Peace, Umbridge,” Saruman says. “Or I shall turn you into a toad.” A wry smile plays at the corner of his mouth.

“Hhmmphh.” Umbridge straightens and looks Saruman in the eye. “Yes, dearie. Whatever you like.” But her gaze is cold and sharp as daggers.

“Please welcome our finalists,” Saruman continues. “In fifth place, Brother, also known as Pinocchio.”

“No. Stop it. I hate that name.” The childish voices come from a scraggly tree at the foot of the outcropping. Several nearby orcs flinch and raise their axes.

“No!” Saruman lifts his hand. “He is not for chopping.”

“Yeah, don’t chop me or I’ll chop you first,” Brother says. One of the bare branches flexes menacingly.

“Keep that horrid thing away from me!” Umbridge shrieks.

“Or what, fat lady? You’ll paint me pink and decorate me like a pet?”

Saruman’s staff cracks down on the rock. “Enough! Brother stays.”

Several boos. Someone shouts a crude joke about driftwood.

“Now,” Saruman goes on, “in fourth place, please welcome Bonifer Squoon.”

“Welcome, Booo-Hoooo Squoon!” Brother shouts. A laugh ripples through the crowd.

Bonifer skitters out from a shadow beneath the outcropping, his frail body as out of place as Umbridge’s dress among the villainous ranks.

“I should have won,” he snaps. “Nothing ever goes my way. First…”

A shout interrupts him. Toward the back of the gathering, a desert marauder slashes at an orc with a curved blade. Two more guards step in and make quick work of the second offender. “Tried to steal my weapon, the maggot,” the first orc says.

“See,” Umbridge says accusingly at Saruman. “If I had won, there wouldn’t have been any of this uncivilized nonsense. And certainly not such a horrid stink.” She presses a pink lace handkerchief against her nose.

Saruman ignores her. “In third place—”

“I’M NOT DONE!” Bonifer shrieks. “All my life I’ve played second fiddle. And then when my well-laid plans are nearly complete, those wretched children come and ruin it.”

He turns on the crowd. “And you all. Sniveling worms. Show me the respect I deserve or I’ll have every last one of you turned into a Fang.”

“What’s a fang?” a large man mocks. “Your head’s too shrunken to think straight, old man.”

“There will be order!” Saruman’s voice carries like a crash of thunder across the assembly.

Everyone hushes. Umbridge gives a small sniff and gags on the stench.

“In third place, Princess Davira.”

Davira emerges from the crowd, head high, back straight, chin up. A murmur runs through the gathering and eyes widen at her beauty. But they all have sense enough to hold their tongues, for her defiant stare suggests any who harass her will find those tongues swiftly removed.

“I am of the same mind as Bonifer,” Davira says. “Such a lack of respect. I would have thought better of your ceremony, Saruman.”

“Nah, should’ve thought worse,” Brother pipes up from a stick at Umbridge’s feet, causing her to promptly faint. “We’re all wicked, right? So the worse it is, the better it is.”

“Shut up, maggot-face,” an orc growls.

“See? That’s the spirit.” The stick dances as if Brother is pleased.

“He has a point,” Bonifer says. “I should turn you all into Fangs and be done with you despicable rabble.”

“Try it, and I’ll have you ripped limb from limb,” Davira says in a cool tone.

Voices rise. Weapons come out.

Saruman levels his staff. “Beware what folly you pursue. We are here at the invitation of the Dark Lord. I hold pity for any whose actions bring his displeasure.” As Saruman speaks, a light flashes across the plain. And far off, the crowd sees it—a lidless eye, hanging, as it seems, between two stony crags piercing the sky like knives.

“The eye that sees all,” Davira whispers. Her face is lit with greed and envy.

“Let us continue,” Saruman says. “In second place, Lord Whitlock.”

A tall, powerful man strides to the front. A mixture of boos, cheers, and curses rain down, along with “Do I know you?!” from Brother, who’s returned to the tree.

Whitlock turns a hard gaze on those who showed contempt and leers. “You think I don’t deserve to be here? Fools! You know nothing of my story, of my powers.”

“You’re an old man—no better than me.” Bonifer points an accusing finger.

“Simpleton. I’ll show you the meaning of power.” Whitlock rushes at Bonifer, green runes sparking to life in the air beside him as he prepares a spell.

Orc guards rush in with roars.

One of Whitlock’s spells blasts the arm off the nearest orc.

Several more join the fray. They rip Whitlock and Bonifer apart before either can do further damage. But the two continue to stare death at each other as the orcs drag them to opposite sides of the crowd.

Saruman clears his throat. “Your petty arguments are pointless. For now, I have the honor of introducing the winner of this year’s competition. The one chosen as the Most Nefarious Villain. Please welcome—”

“Stop!” A snake-like voice reverberates through the dank afternoon. All eyes turned upward, toward the source of the voice.

A black-robed figure hovers in the air. He descends to lightly land on the edge of the outcropping, face to face with Saruman.

“Welcome, Lord Voldemort.” Saruman gives the slightest incline of his head. “To what do we owe this untimely appearance?”

“I smell foul play,” Voldemort replies. He whirls and looks down at the audience. His pale right hand grasps a Yew wand. Some cower. Most stare back in villainous defiance.

“Explain yourself, “Saruman says.

“Proof.” Voldemort flicks his wand casually. “What proof have we that any of these votes hold truth? I, for one, find it highly suspect that I was not included among the finalists. Or have some forgotten the extent of my power?”

“The snake-face is right,” Brother pipes up. “I don’t believe any of this. I should have been the winner.”

Contemptuous imp,” Whitlock snaps. “Clearly, I should be the Most Nefarious Villain. I challenge all the finalists to a duel—and Voldemort as well. We shall see how they hold up against my power. Have you so quickly forgotten last year’s ceremony?”

The orcs tighten their grip on him.

Voldermort sneers. “Muggles. Such pathetic creatures. I don’t see how you abide their presence here, Saruman. I could…remove them.” His wand quivers like a viper preparing to strike.

“Voldemort is right…” Saruman says.

Gasps. Shouts. Curses.

“…if proof you demand, proof I shall give.” Saruman levels his staff and mutters a spell.

Davira shrieks as a knife of flame sears her forehead. It leaves a clear mark—33.

“What is this sorcery?” she yells, clutching her burned skin.

“Behold,” Saruman says. “Princess Davira received 33 votes.”

The crowd gapes. Voldemort smiles. “I am intrigued.”

Saruman’s staff points at the tree next. Seconds later, a number is burned into the wood. “Brother received 20 votes,” Saruman says.

The flaming knife reaches Bonifer. He shrieks and tries to run, but the orcs hold him fast. He whimpers as the blade brands his forehead with a 31.

Whitlock begins to form a spell, but a swift jab from Saruman’s staff blasts the glowing rune to bits. Whitlock glowers silently as the knife carves a 37 into his forehead.

“Do you now doubt the truth of these proceedings?” Saruman asks.

The crowd bursts out with shouts of evil glee. Voldemort nods. “Very well, I hold no judgment. But, perhaps we should burn the muggles further?”

“No. I am weary of this, and greater matters demand my attention,” Saruman says. “Now, please welcome the winner of this year’s award…

“Death-in-Life!”

The crowd roars its approval.

A pale man comes forward, his skeletal frame towering above even the tallest orc. His lips form an evil smile. As he walks to the outcropping, the white skin stretched across his face like wet paper smokes from the flaming dagger, revealing the final number—43.

The finalists scowl in resigned silence.

“Come, receive your prize,” Saruman says.

In the blink of an eye, Death-in-Life’s body contorts and twists into the shape of a huge dragon. Even the orcs back away from the score of horns jutting out from The Dragon. He leaps skyward and lands beside Saruman, causing the outcropping to tremble. He then takes on his human form again.

Voldemort takes a step back, wand held ready.

“They have chosen well,” Death-in-Life says. “None could hope to face me and still stand. For I am ageless! I am power!”

Saruman lifts an eyebrow. “To the Most Nefarious Villain, I am proud to present this prize. The greatest of all the Silmarils.” He waves his staff and a skull flies through the air to his waiting hand. From it, he lifts the Silmaril.

Its black, faceted surface reflects no light. Like a hole in the fabric of the universe. Saruman lifts it with another spell. The velvety black ribbon loops over Death-in-Life’s head and the Silmaril settles against his chest.

“Behold, Death-in-Life, the Most Nefarious Villain!” Saruman’s voice thunders.

The crowd goes wild. The other finalists hurl insults.

Whitlock cuts down his orc captors with a spell. “I will have my revenge!” he shouts. With a burst of runes and loud clap, he vanishes.

Death-in-Life transforms back into a dragon and lets out a fiery roar. Flames singe the air and chaos breaks out among the onlookers, as if The Dragon has given them permission to let their anger and vileness pour forth.

Blades swipe. Axes hack.

Bodies jostle and fall as more people and creatures join the fight. A few flee.

Bonifer scuttles out of sight, followed by Davira. But Brother lets out a gleeful yell and sends splinters of wood spraying into the confusion.

With another burst of flame and a flap of his mighty wings, The Dragon launches into the air. “I bid thee farewell, Saruman. Your sense in awarding me this prize spared many lives today.”

Saruman watches him fly off, then looks back down at the melee. Several lay dead. Still more are wounded. “Fools,” he mutters.

“Perhaps,” Voldemort says from beside him. “But not so foolish as any who continue to defy me. He rises into the air. “Next year, Saruman. I warn you, if I am yet again denied my rightful place among the Most Nefarious Villains, all who stand against me will rue the day they were born.”

With a flick of his wand, he’s gone, taking Umbridge’s unconscious body with him.

Saruman sighs. After a moment more, he too takes his leave.

But the fight rages on far into the night. For what else can come of a gathering of villains?

The End

Or not…

Hope you enjoyed that, um…rousing ceremony. Word is, they stopped fighting eventually. But it certainly sets things up for an interesting ceremony next year. Guess we’ll see if Voldemort makes good on his promise.

P. S. The villains don’t actually believe in any other award ceremonies and don’t want word getting out. But, well, they’re just selfish.

Truth is, there are plenty of other ceremonies. Tomorrow we’ll learn the winner of the Silver Tongue Award. Pretty sure it’ll be less vicious than today’s ceremony was.

Of course, be sure you don’t miss the final two ceremonies.

Most Faithful Friend – Thursday

Most Epic Hero – Friday

And if you haven’t gotten a chance to read any of the others, you can check them out here:

Wisest Counselor

Most Epic Heroine

Most Magnificent Dragon

Most Mischievous Imp

Strangest Character

Least Competent Henchman

P. P. S. I have it on good authority that this is exactly how the ceremony went down. Because I wasn’t invited to Mordor, nor did I have any desire to go and oversee a pack of villains for an afternoon.

Were you surprised Death-in-Life won? Given all the threats and arguments, who do you think will win next year? Let me know in the comments!