“Escaped?” SpitFire shrieked. His voice echoed throughout his throne room, carrying out the windows and down his frightful tower. He had been shut up in the room for a very long time, ashamed by Tommy Tony’s repeated victories.

“Yes. Yes sir. Tommy Tony managed to elude our top infantry team. There were… several casualties.” BigFur stumbled over his words, fear of his master’s wrath taking hold. He glanced at the two llama soldiers with him, but they had crept into the back corners of the room, whistling and avoiding eye contact as they did.

“How many?!” SpitFire demanded, already anticipating bad news.

“Twenty-three, sir.”

“You mean to tell me that fucking monkey, Tommy Tony, defeated two and a half dozen of our best soldiers?!” SpitFire foamed at the mouth.

In his unquenchable rage, SpitFire stood from his throne and grabbed his Yield sign. A rusted, scuffed, and mangled blunt weapon he had used for many years, it was now a form of punishment and unyielding carnage.

“I do not take failure lightly, Commander.” SpitFire’s voice had calmed. Raising the sign high above his head, he drove it down with the force of a hundred mole rats, the blow decapitating the stammering commander. SpitFire continued the onslaught, slamming blow after blow upon the corpse. Were it not for its bones, it would have been flattened like a kitchen sponge. He only stopped when his muscles ached, and his lungs screamed for air.

In utter shock, the other two soldiers threw their hooves in front of their faces, trying to avoid the splatter. Neither were bold enough to speak up, remaining as still as possible so they wouldn’t draw any unwanted attention.

“Amanda.” Coming down from the frenzy, SpitFire called for his human servant.

“That’s Arnold, sir.” A rather frail man stepped out from behind the throne and began gently rubbing his fingers on it.

“I’m an evil warlord. Why would I waste my time learning the name of a human? Your only need in this life is to obey me.” SpitFire threw his bloodied weapon over his shoulder.

Amanda glanced at the twisted thing and read 'Yield' aloud to himself. He smirked inwardly at the word.

“Yes, of course, master. I have always admired the great irony of your fearsome weapon.” Amanda rubbed his fingers harder and in longer strokes against the throne. Occasionally, a few moans would escape.

Glancing up, SpitFire was outraged at the fact that he couldn’t read, something he wanted to keep to himself. Even more embarrassing was the fact that he didn’t know what ‘irony’ meant.

“Why yes, I do suppose that it is rather sticky at the moment.” SpitFire took a guess.

Confused by his master’s comments, Amanda had no choice but to cover the awkward silence. “Yes, of course, master. Anything you hold so deftly in your hands is bound to get quite sticky.” Another long rub of the throne made a squeaking noise. Amanda shuddered.

SpitFire cocked his head and made a disgusted face, not entirely sure if the innuendo was intended or not.

“Clean this mess up, Amanda, and bring me NoHoof! I desire its calming presence!” SpitFire gestured to his pet sloth chained up in the room’s left corner.

“Of course, master, your every desire is my pleasure!” Amanda quickly ran another finger along the throne then fetched his master’s pet. Handing it over, he wished with all his might that he could sit upon his master’s lap, just like the sloth.

“I will have my victory over Tommy Tony, even if it costs me the life of every llama at my command! I’ll kill my whole god-damned race just to end the reign of that human scum!” SpitFire roughly pet NoHoof, pressing so hard the creature’s eyes would bulge out at each stroke.

“Yeah master! Yeah you will!” Amanda rubbed his hands across his chest, pausing each time he passed a nipple.

“Stop that, damnit!” SpitFire hurled the words at his servant, slamming down whatever counted as a fist for a llama. He forgot about the sloth in his arms and managed to punch it in the head.

“You, new commander!” SpitFire pointed to NeckWhip, one of the llamas to survive his earlier rage, once again hitting the sloth and knocking it unconscious.

“I’m honored, my lord. What is it you wish?” NeckWhip leapt forward and slipped on a dislodged liver.

“Bring me several small rocks so that I may feed my pet.” SpitFire continued to caress the sloth, unaware that it was no longer awake.

“Sir, I do not believe any living creature is known to eat small rocks, or pebbles as they are often called.” NeckWhip looked at Amanda pleadingly but was answered with an uncertain shrug.

“Do not tell me how to feed my pet, Commander, or I shall hit you so hard your grandchildren will suffer from collapsed colons!” SpitFire screamed.

“At once, sir! How many rocks shall I bring?” NeckWhip moved towards the dusty door, happy he was being given orders allowing him to flee his violent leader.

“He weighs roughly thirty-two pounds, so I would say he will need roughly thirty-two pounds of rocks. Now go!” SpitFire smiled, proud of his intellect.

NeckWhip rushed out of the throne room. Slamming the enormous doors shut, he forgot about his comrade still stuck in the left corner of the room. The trapped llama was embarrassed that SpitFire seemed to forget he was still there, if the tyrant ever noticed he was there in the first place.

“Don’t worry, NoHoof. Now that we’re alone, I shall give you my undivided attention.” SpitFire began to hold the sloth in his arms and hug it tightly. So tight that, were the sloth awake, it would have been in immense pain.

Brown BrownFur muttered to himself, still stuck in the corner, then shouted, “I happen to still be standing here, sir!” trying in vain to get his master’s attention.

Startled, SpitFire grabbed up his sloth and began to shake it violently.

“You do not speak to me unless spoken to, NoHoof, do you hear me!” SpitFire's rough shaking jostled it awake. Panicking, and unaware what it did to offend its owner, NoHoof flailed around trying its best to squirm free.