Orcs Will Die On July 30, For They Must

A trench-coat-clad detective emerges from a thick late night fog. He spots his partner - a smaller, more plainly dressed man - standing near a small bridge between two rocky cliffs. And also a pile of dead orc bodies. "What was the official time of death?" the detective asks grimly, not even bothering to greet his protege. "Midnight or somewhere thereabouts. July 30," the young man replies. Both then briefly survey the carnage. It's not pretty. Spikes and arrows protrude from torn green flesh, while others are singed, and still others seem as though they've gone careening through the air until... splat.

The detective looks a bit green himself, but he keeps his composure. "Who could've possibly done this? Do we have any suspects?" His assistant glances away uncomfortably. "Well, yes. You," he blurts, suddenly staring the detective straight in the eyes. "And also me. And, like, everyone. Also, we should probably stop talking and start laying more traps. Another group of them is gonna be here in, like, 20 seconds." The detective furrows his brow thoughtfully. "Oh, right. But why?" he wonders aloud, suddenly feeling existential. "Well, because it's wicked fun," his assistant replies. "And they've all got it coming eventually anyway. I mean, Orcs Must Die, too."

Fin.