It began with the baking of the great pies. Apple, for the elven love of trees. Pecan for the dwarves, great lovers of starch and sugar. And strawberry-rhubarb for Men, who above all else desire unique flavor combinations. But they were all of them deceived for another pie was made. Deep in the land of Mordor, in the ovens of Mt. Doom, the Dark Lord Sauron baked one last pie. And into this he poured his malice, his hatred, a little bit of rum to add a slightly fuller flavor, and lots of raisins.

The hour is late. Smoke rises from the kitchens of doom, and Gandalf the Grey rides to Isengard, seeking coffee and maybe a pastry.

*later*

I offered you almond croissants. Instead you chose the way of PAIN! Au chocolat!

"You have only one choice, Mr. Anderson. The Pie must be destroyed."
"Then what are we waiting for?"
*Gimli advances, fork and knife in hands*
"The Pie cannot be eaten, Gimli son of Gloin. It has been stale and harder than adamantium for centuries. It must be taken deep into Mordor and cast back into the fiery oven from whence it came.