An Orc once sat down on a log, weary from his long walk in the woods. On his journey he had seen things, heard things, and they puzzled him and troubled him. The Orc took in the scenery, the fresh air, the chirruping birdsongs and the buzzing of the locusts in the trees. He took a breath and felt that all was good and peaceful, save the clamor that he heard from inside the hollow log. He looked inside and found a sack of U.S. Politics, and words that used to mean different things, and even -underneath the mold- some nazis, though they hated to be called that, and would scuttle for the shade when he exposed them. He squished a few, and it felt satisfying. The Orc had little love for much of what he found inside the bag, but if he left it there, he reasoned, someone else would someday find it. Instead he brought the bag home to his people. Every now and then, when things at work were quiet, he would reach into the bag and pull out something from it that would help them understand what they were seeing in the world, or help put words to something some of them were feeling. Mostly they just burned the things together. It should be said that no one lived happily ever after, but they were Orcs. They didn’t care about that stuff. Sometimes, it’s good enough you got to burn some nazis.