Holding a skeletal hand aloft, he motioned to the waiter, a shadowy form by the name of Sauron, for his usual steaming mug of Hellbrew. Sauron used to be a dark lord himself, but apparently had fallen on hard times and had to wait on tables now just to make ends meet. Just mentioning the word "hobbit" made his single flaming eye burn with eternal hatred.

MY USUAL PLEASE, SAURON.
To call it a voice was to call a mountain a pebble.
"Very good, Sir." Sauron's voice was quieter, more subtle, like the run of snake hide on rock.
HOW'S MRS SAURON?
"Oh, you know, Sir." Sauron had gone pale. "Same old Mrs S. She was very upset about.... that business in Mordor."
I'M GLAD. BAD ENOUGH BUSINESS, BEING A TYRANNICAL DARK LORD. LAST THING YOU NEED IS NAGGING AFTER A HARD DAYS DAMNATION.
"Sir understands perfectly," said Sauron with a bow.
"Will Sir's friend be joining him tonight?"
HE WILL BE HERE. YOU KNOW THE Creator. FOR A PERFECT BEING, pUNCTUALITY WAS NEVER HIS STRONG POINT.
"Indeed, Sir. Excuse me." Sauron bowed again, and drifted elegantly away.

Suddenly, Shai'tan's attention was drawn across the room, as the door flew open and in came the Creator, heavenly white hair in disarray. He held his pristine whit cloak up with both hands so as not to drag it's hem on the floor. The Dark One noticed he had shaved.

"Shai'tan! How the devil are you?" said the divinity. "Oops! Sorry, bad joke. So, how long's it been?"
IT IS A WHOLE TURNING OF THE WHEEL, AS IT ALWAYS IS, AND ALWAYS SHALL BE.
"Shai'tan, you don't need to use that bloody stupid voice with me, you know."
"Sorry," said Shai'tan. "One kind of gets used to it after a millenia or two. Very useful for getting the attention of one's minions. And, call me by my real name would you?" Shai'tan replied.
"Okay. Simon it is. You can use mine too, if you like."
"Thanks Bob."
"Hey, ain't that ol' Sauron bringing the drinks over? He don't look so good." asked Bob.
"Yeah, he had a bit of trouble with his ring." Simon's voice was laced with supressed mirth. Well, it wasn't the done thing for a Dark One to chortle. Bob rose to the bait.
"You can get a cream for that!"
"Just don't mention hobbits, whatever you do. I saw Lord Foul and Ineluki the Storm King in here the other day teasing him, and Sauron threw a whole tray of Soulcakes at the pair of 'em!" Simon said with a whisper.
"I'll try and remember!"
"So, what happened to the beard?" Simon asked. Bob rolled his eyes and sighed.
"Bloody sick of it, to tell the truth. I went to a Creators convention the other week, and every last one had a grand flowing beard. Every one! So, I thought, 'be a little different, Bob' And I shaved it off. I might dye me cloak too. I thought 'Peruvian Sunset' would be a nice shade, or possibly 'Morrocan Dawn' or maybe 'Daylight Robbery'. What do you reckon?"
Simon shrugged dismissively. "I have always favoured black myself. You know where you are with black. Plus, it hides the dirt well. You've no idea how dirty a Dark Lord can get. It's the soot, you see...."
Bob the Creator nodded understandingly.
"So Bob, to what do I owe the pleasure?" asked Simon the Dark One.
"Well Simon, you know it's time for the last battle again?" Bob pulled a cigar from an inner cloak pocket. He fumbled for a light, so Simon held out a flaming thumb."Mmmf. Very kind," said Bob, lighting his cigar from it. "I mean, very bad, very evil, you contributing to my poor health by offering me a light." said Bob when Simon arched an eyebrow.
"Why do we call it the last battle, when we have one every turning of the wheel?" asked Simon, extinguishing his thumb in the fish tank.
"I know, I know. But how would you get the mortals to take it seriously if it was called 'Repetition Infinitum Gaidon'? Bad enough getting the Dragon off his backside and unifying the nations as it is."
"I see your point. They'd be all 'Ooh, let's not worry too much about ths one. There'll be another one along in a few ages' and nothing would be resolved."
"Exactly. Which is why I thought, we could make this much easier if we settled this.... a bit more directly." Bob gave Simon a pointed look.
"Well..... it'd be a lot easier than trying to direct trollocs, that's for sure. 'Forward the Trollocs!' I yell, and the Trollocs take one step forward. One bloody step! I have to shout 'Erm... Forward quite a bit more, please Trollocs!' just to get 'em to advance a league. Then they all get a blood frenzy on, and eat each other. Daft buggers. It's so embarassing."
Bob chuckled widly. "I know what you mean. I go to all the trouble of getting Lews Therin reborn, hoping he'd have learnt from his mistakes with, shall we say, the fairer sex, and the woolbrained pillock goes and gets involved with three women! Three! And speaking of women, can't you keep that Lanfear under control? She makes it very difficult to walk in the light, when she's showing off a length of leg in the shadows!"
It was Simon's turn to laugh. "Aaah, my finest chosen. She still plans to rise above even us, you know." Another laugh. "Still, she makes me laugh. I say 'Lanfear, I have big plans for you' and she say 'Oooh, Great Lord, I just luuurve a big one!' And of course, she's rather.... fit." Simon ran a forked tongue over his lips.
"Except in the guide, she looks like Cher without the plastic surgery," laughed Bob.
At that moment, Sauron came over with the drinks. "One Hellbrew for Sir," said Sauron, setting down a metallic skull full of smoking liquid in front of Simon. "And I took the liberty of bringing one flagon of Sibilant Sidney's Suicide Soup for Sir" said Sauron, thankful that he didn't have a lisp.
"Aaaah! Top stuff!" Bob rubbed his hands together. He looked up when Sauron held out a sly claw and gave a small cough. Rolling his eyes, he created a gold coin and slipped it into Sauron's oily palm. "Now, hobbit!" said Bob. Sauron's eyes narrowed dangerously.
"What?"
"I said, hop it!" said Bob sweetly. Simon studied his hellbrew furiously, struggling to keep his face straight. When Sauron had gone, Simon looked up.
"So, how you want to do this?"
"Well, I thought a.... contest..... between me and you. Here. Today. What do you think?"
"Contest? What kind of contest?" asked Simon, suspiciously. The Creator leaned over and whispered in his ear. Slowly, a grin spread over Simon's dark features.
"I like it," said Simon. "Yes, it'll be.... fun." Simon frowned at the unfamiliar word on his tongue.
"Yes, fun!" said Bob. "Let Tarmon Gaidon begin!"

Stan the barman was busy mopping some blood from the bar, when he noticed the Creator signalling him over in the corner. Under his breath Stan muttered "Oh no..." and gave a resigned sigh. It wasn't that Stan didn't get on well with Bob and Simon. After all, as omnipotent beings went, they were quite nice guys really. It was just that the two of 'them together had an amazing ability to cause trouble. Checking the calendar, Stan realised it was about due for Tarmon Gaidon. "Oh bugger." mumbled Stan. Last time, they had blown the roof of the tavern, and accidentally summoned the terrible Chaos-Walrus from the seventh level of the dungeon dimension. If it wasn't for the fact that Stan was a six headed-vampire-squid demon lord, then it could of got messy. Stan approached the table.
"Bob. Simon. What can I get you?" asked Stan.
"Well, I wonder, have you but any chance still got the giant games compendium upstairs?" asked Bob. Stan scatched one of his heads with a tentacle.
"Well, I belive I have, though it ain't seen the light of day in many an eon," said Stan. "You want it, then?"
"If you wouln't mind, Stan, only as you know we're due a Tarmon Gaidon, and we thought we'd keep the noise down this time." said Bob. Simon nodded his agreement.
"Really? Oh cheers, guys. I'll get it straight away! And another round of drinks, compliments of the house." Stan felt his spirits rise. So it was a game-a-thon this time? Even these two couldn't cause trouble in a game-a-thon. ******* "C-2" said Bob.
"Miss." Simon smirked.
"Miss? How can it be? Are you sure?"
"Are you calling me a liar?" asked the Dark One, aka the Father of Lies.
"Well? Aren't you?" asked Bob, pointing at the vertical grey square between them. Simon paused, then made some pretense of looking again.
"Oooh, my mistake. Hit."
"I knew it! I bloody knew it!" raved Bob.
"Alright, alright, don't get excitable. My guess: F-8."
"Miss. C-5"
"Miss. F-9"
Bob sneered. "Hit, damn you. D-3" he said.
"Miss." Simon took a sip of Hellbrew.
"Really?" asked Bob, his brows raised.
"Yes." replied Simon.
"Sure?"
"Yep. Absolutely."
"So, if I called Stan over to referee it, he'd say the same, would he?" said Bob, suspiciously.
"Oh, D-3? You said D-3? I thought you said F-9. Erm.... Hit." Simon couldn't meet Bob's gaze.
"Well?" asked Bob. "Erm.... Aah... You appear to have, erm..... aaah... um... sunk, as it were, my battleship."
"YES! YES! WINNER! TORPEDO KING! MASTER OF DISASTER!" Bob was dancing on the spot. "Loser!" he chanted, pointing at Simon. "Loooooser! Looooooser!" Suddenly the Dark One stood and cast the Battleships board into the fish tank.
"Stupid game! Not fit for Trollocs, if you ask me. Alright, one-nil to the light. But it's early yet, Bob. You may have won a battle...."
"yeah, yeah, yeah. Next game?"
"I am ready."
Stan, six headed-vampire-squid demon lord, and proprietor of the "tavern at the end of creation" spun the little plastic arrow. Spin - spin -spin - wobble- spin...... stop. "Left foot on red" said Stan. Before him, a scene from nightmare was taking place. A white platic mat with coloured circles printed on it was spread over the floor. Two enitites, one the manifestation of ultimate darkness, the other of the holy light of creation, were sprawled in an entwined mess of limbs, cloaks, and hair. Bob the Creator was now faced with moving his left hand to a red circle. This wouldn't be an easy accomplishment even for a god because all of the red circles were occupied by Simon the Dark One's extremities and Bob was currently deciding which of those extremities he could most deal with touching. With a grunt and a superhuman effort, which isn't that much effort for a god, if you think about it, Bob heaved his quivering frame, and slapped his hand down on the Dark One's left foot. "Ouch! You bugger!" exclaimed Simon. "Just you wait..."
"Your turn!" said Bob happily. "Spin it Stan!" Stan did. Spin - spin - spin - wobble- creak - spin...... stop. "Right hand on blue." Stan said apologetically.
"Ha!" laughed Bob. "Right over the other side! Face it Simon, you're history!"
Simon gave a small, cunning smile. He lifted his arm and stretched it ...... and stretched.... and stretched.... round four table legs, out of the window, in through the door, under the Creator, over the Creator, and round another table for good measure it stretched, a horrific nightmare example of obsidian elasticity. Finally, it set down on the blue disc with a satisfying slap. "Blimey, Simon, your reach HAS grown long!" laughed Stan. Simon just chuckled. Bob, however, did not laugh.
"You.... You.... I..... How.... Bugger! How am I supposed to move with your arm wrapped around me like this?" snarled Bob.
"That's your problem," laughed Simon. "Ooh, I seem to be thirsty...." The little finger on the hand on the blue disk extended ridiculously and coiled around his Hellbrew. Carrying it over, he took a long swallow and smacked his lips with an "Aaaah!", as those who have a drink have done in front of those who haven't since time began. Bob was enraged. Bob trembled. Bob shook. "Why I oughta...." With a curse, Bob flopped to one side, a pair of divine buttocks touching white plastic. "Of all the stupidest, daftest, most pointless..." The curses continued, as Simon unravelled himself and stood.
"I believe the correct term...." said Simon with an evil grin (which is the only grin the DO can do), ".....is looooooser. Yes, that's right. Looooooooser! Loooooooooser!" Bob gave a sneer.
"Yes, yes, yes, yes, ALRIGHT! It's one -one. Next one decides it, alright?"
"Fine by me!" said Simon. "Stan, please pick a game at random from the giant games-compendium." Stan looked at Bob, who nodded his assent. With eyes closed, he slipped a tentacle into the box and felt around until he felt an object. "Okay, here it comes!" said Stan. With a tug, it came loose. A black and white checked board fell to the ground, shortly before 32 very life-like pieces of crafted bone shapes in absolute black and total white.
"The game is chosen," said Stan. "Tarmon Gaidon will be decided by a game of Chess."

Stan sighed a long sigh of despair. "So," he said with that sinking feeling,"you don't know how to play chess, Bob?" Bob shook his head, looking ashamed. "And you don't know how to play chess either, Simon." Simon shook his head too, staring at his feet. "Well, that's just marvellous." Stan's voice dripped sarcasm. "The incarnations of the opposing forces of the universe, and neither can play chess. Well, I guess someone's going to have to teach you, aren't they?" He waited whilst they nodded. "And I suppose that neither of you will agree to try another game?" Bob shook his head. "The game is chosen. It must be played."
"S'right." mumbled Simon. With another sigh of resignation, Stan touched a tentacle to a black pawn. "This," he said, "is called a pawn....."

The wheel of time turned, and this age fades to legend, legend turns to myth, which is then long forgotten by the time the age that gave it birth, an age long past, an age still to come, comes around again. The wheel turned, and the time for Tarmon Gai'don came and went. Rand Al'Thor unified the nations, defeated all the forsaken, then shrugged his shoulders as Tarmon Gai'don never actually materialised, so he married three woman, had thirty seven kids, and settled down for a life of that was never boring. The wheel turned, until Tarmon Gai'don was almost due again, and the dragon had been reborn, this time as a domani lap dancer called Lola.....

"Right," said Stan enthusiastically. "Is everyone clear on everything?" Bob and Simon nodded. "Sure?" asked Stan. Both nodded, though not too enthusiastically. "So, Bob, if Simon opens with Pootle's variation on the classic three-point flank attack, you counter with....?"
"Erm.... the second Horace counter sweep." said Bob.
"Good, good. Well done. Now, Simon, let's say Bob counters your sweep with the universal negator of Clotus, but sacrifices his pawn phalanx for third line protection for the rook, what will you do?" Simon looked up hopefully.
"Slap the bugger?"
"Erm.... Nooooo, not exactly."
"Balefire?"
"No."
"Does it involve my horsey?"
"Knight, Simon, not horsey."
"But does it?"
"No."
"Aaaah. Then I need to sabotage the third line protection, whilst giving respect to double lock that he might force with his bishop!" said Simon.
"Yes! And so you would....?" said Stan, allowing hope to blossom in his heart.
"I'd..... I'd..... I'd...... Get Aginor to blend the Dark Queen with the White Knight and make a ShadowPawn!" said Simon. Stan went over to a quiet corner, where he began sobbing gently.
"Look," said Bob, "we might as well get started, and manage best we can, otherwise we'll be here for eternity."
"Yeah, agreed. I'll be black, you be white?" Simon asked.
"Of course. My move first, then." Bob looked down at the board. "King Prawn to Horsey-two!" said Bob, moving a pawn.
Stan's sobbing had taken on a hysterical quality. Simon took his queen and used it to kick several pawns out of the way, beofre placing it on the same square as Bob's king. "Check, mate!" said Simon.
"No, you can't do that Simon," said Bob.
"Why not? That's what I'd do in real life!" Stan squealed. It sounded almost like a laugh.
"You can't do it. It's not in the rules."
"Rules? I am the Dark One! I am the force of entropy and chaos! I poke a finger in the eye of rules, and squeeze the nipple of regulations! Fie on order and structure! I fart in your general direction!"
"Nevertheless, if you don't undo that move, I win." Bob tried to raise a single eyebrow. He discovered that, God he might be, but single-eyebrow raising was the province of women and women alone. So he raised both of them. Simon looked him in the eye and shrugged.
"Well, if it means that much to you..." He cocked a finger at the board and all the pieces returned to their original position. "Forsaken to Fade-3" he said, moving a pawn.
"That's not a forsaken, thats a prawn!" said Bob. "And it's a bishop, not a fade."
"Forsaken , Pawn - same thing. And my bishop looks like a fade. Look, even his cloak ain't flapping, you see?"
"Because it's made of lead, you daft bugger!" said Bob. They were briefly interupted by the sound of Stan banging his forehead repetitively against the wall and making high pitched moans.

The wheel of time turned, and this age fades to legend, legend turns to myth, which is then long forgotten by the time the age that gave it birth, an age long past, an age still to come yada yada yada......The dragon was reborn, this time as a three-legged donkey called Wonkey. (Which is the best thing you can call a three legged donkey. Another interesting donkey fact is that whilst males channel Saidin, and females Saidar, donkeys channel Said-eee-ooor)

Stan's noises had receded to gentle whispers, and he sat on the floor, tentacles wrapped around his head, rocking back and forth. Bob and Simon sat staring at the board, their attentions locked on the titanic struggle that would determine the fate of the universe. There were only two pieces left, a black king and a white king, one empty square between them. Many of the pieces that had been removed from the board and cast to the ground, were having a battle of their own. Currently the black knight had been dismembered, and was shouting "come back! It's just a flesh wound!" at his attacker.

Bob moved his king into the empty space. "Check."
"So are you." said Simon.
"Aah, yes, I see." Bob frowned at the situation. "It would appear that we have gotten a stalemate."

"Well, we have been here for several wheel turnings. Stands to reason we're gonna get a bit pongy, mate." said Simon.
"No, I meant that neither of us can win this game. It is a draw."
"Well of course it is," said Simon. "It always is. Has to be, in fact. We win one each, and draw one. Balance must be maintained. Balance is everything."
"Absolutely." agreed the Creator. Suddenly Stan stirred in the corner.
"What? You don't mean.... you don't..... you can't..... not after....." Bob and Simon looked toward Stan who had regained his feet. All twelve of them.
"You.... you mean.... to say..... that you two...." he pointed a shaking tentacle at them. ".... knew all along that you would draw this game? Right from the beginning? Knew it'd end in a draw?" Stan took a step forward. Foam was forming on his six chins. All of his twelve eyes had a dangerous quality to them. Bob looked at Simon with that look that said
"Surely everyone knows this?" Simon said
"Surely you knew this?".
"Why, then, did I spend a full turning of the wheel teaching you to play chess? When you could've made it up as you went along? Or not bothered playing at all?" Stan's voice had gone very low, and made a Myrddraal's voice sound like little Jimmy Osmond. Still, you don't get to be a Creator or a Dark One without some ability to feel trouble coming, and act accordingly. It dawned on them that trouble, in this case, was a two-tonne six-headed vampire-squid-demon in a bad mood.....

The door of the "tavern at the end of creation" flew outwards of its hinges as the Dark One and the Creator flew through the doorway a moment ahead of a maelstrom of tentacles brandishing sharp objects, a half-moment ahead of six heads full of even sharper teeth.
"Come here you b*st*ds! I'll kill you, even if you are immortal! Come here! Buggers!" Stan screamed.
"You...*huff* want to.... to do as he says *puff* then?" asked Bob.
"No... *gasp* No, I think we *wheeze* should.... keep running for a.... *huff* bit longer!" said Simon. "Say, until *gasp* Tarmon Gaidon!"

The wheel of time has no beginnings, and no endings. This story does, though, and it ends here. ~Shadar Canine~