Morl Brownteeth had died twenty-five times already. 

“That is rookie numbers,” said Broadface. “A real orc must die at least one hundred and fifty times for the elves. Only then he gets promoted. A bigger salary and more breaks too.” 

“Bloody elves,” said Hardarm Strong-Orc. “They are never happy, no matter what we do for them.” 

The elves were their corporate overlords. The true rulers of the movie industry. Naturally, the arrogant bastards had decided long ago that every fantasy movie would depict them as heroes. No matter the story, no matter the theme, the elves were always heroes. Morl was tired of it. How could everyone just allow it? Sure, the elves had power, but they were the fewest. Humans were far more populous, and the dwarfs had numbers too. “We are a horde,” Morl said. “There are more of us than all the other races combined.” 

“Yeah,” Hardarm said. “And what have we done about it? Nothing I say.” 

The siren called out, a great, beeping noise. “Attention all orcs!” the lady called. “Attention all orcs! Lunchbreak is over! Back to set. Back to set!” 

“Time to die,” said Broadface. He sighed and put on his black helmet. It was cheaply made, plastic made to break, so the glorious elves could kill him easily. 

“Move you maggots!” The orc manager roared. “Move!” 

They moved out of the big hall. The site for extras to have their lunch. The walls were of steel, lacked both art and windows. Though some orcs had their porn posted. Hot orc women. Morl tried not to think of them as they moved to set. Hundreds of orcs, all of them with thoughts and dreams. But for the elves they were only mooks, eternal bad guys, destined to die. 

The set was a forest. “Bloody elves,” said Hardarm. “I hate forests. Just branches everywhere, getting in your face, and shrubs. Shrubbery. I hate shrubbery.” 

“You hate everything,” said Morl. 

“Not everything.” 

“You hate elves.” 

“Yeah.” 

“And humans,” said Broadarm the Coomer. He had masturbated too much, so his right arm was large and muscular while the other was thin and deformed. 

“Yeah, I hate the pesky elves, and the boring humans.” Hardarm sighed.

“And the dwarves. Bunch of fuckers they are, just dancing and partying all the time in their tracksuits.” Broadarm smiled.

This narrative has been purloined without the author's approval. Report any appearances on Amazon.

It was true. “They do love partying,” Morl said. “But not all of them. Just as everyone stereotypes us, let’s not stereotype them.” 

“You have always been smarter than us others,” Broadarm said. “Somehow, I find smarts makes you sad. The smarter you are, the bluer you feel. That’s why … I do what I do.” 

“What’s the meaning of life? Is it just to die and die again?” asked Hardarm.

“To the elves that is,”  said Broadarm.

“It’s 42”, said Morl.

“I like whiskey though,” Hardarm smiled. “Dwarven whiskey, the finest liquor in the world.” 

“Yeah, they’re masters of that at least.” 

The trees were everywhere, and the director had his microphone. The elven director had long, silky hair and azure eyes. A glorious, majestic, beauty of a man. Shining in the sun he was. Shiny. Shinyman. His name was Jack the Pete, but every orc called him Manosaur. No one knew why. 

“All right orcs, I want you in the middle of the forest!” shouted Manosaur with that stupid, white megaphone. “You are looking for the maid, so you can kidnap her and return her to the dragon. Form up!” 

The orcs entered the forest, every five hundred and forty-four of them.  They marched while singing, they had to amuse themselves somehow, and when they reached the middle of the forest they waited. The cameras started rolling. Morl counted them. There were four cameras, and the crew were humans. Typical humans, always following the elves around. The humans were the professional upper-middle class. Lawyers, bank tellers, teachers. Many politicians were humans. No politicians were orcs. Figure why.

“All right maggots!” the Orc manager roared. “Do your job for the bosses!” 

“They don’t pay us enough for this shite,” Broadface said before the manager’s lash clashed against his back. 

“Silence in the ranks!” the manager demanded. “You will do your job without complaining on the set. Get it!?”

“Sir! Yes Sir!” the orcs shouted. 

“What the hell is going on?” Manosaur shouted through his megaphone. “Be silent, you damn fools! You ruin the takes!"

And at last, the orcs were silent. Unusual, it was. Orcs were never silent when awake, not in groups, or bands, as they called them. At least they weren't goblins, though, the silly fuckers. Goblins were the true mad lads.

The cameras were rolling again, and soon, arrows entered the scene, the orcs pretended to die, as they always did, and the shiny, pointed eared bastards ran up against the orcs, those left standing. The elves were around 20. They were all dressed in shining, golden armors that gleamed in the sun. These were real armors too, not ugly plastic like the ones Morl and his orc comrades had. Morl and his comrades knew their orders: They would offer poor resistance, so the cameras could capture the unrealistic killing moves the elves did; yes all the stupid movie fighting that would get you killed in 2 seconds in a real fight. One elf was surrounded by 8 orcs, and they all waited around in a circle, indeed being very polite towards the elf so he could kill them one by one. In real life, they would have swarmed him and he would have been dead within seconds. But movies weren’t real life, and they were shot to depict the glory of the Elven Masterrace. The scene would later be edited in elven computers. Orcs could seldom afford computers so they played their games on console. 

"Elven masterrace!" the elves roared out as the orcs pretended to die. Cameras rolled around, capturing the mayhem. Morl raised his plastic sword above his head, leaving him completely open for the elven man that sliced him across the stomach. Morl died again, just like he had before lunch and so many other mornings, afternoons and evenings. Damn, he missed his grandmother's delicious meat pie.