Originally written for the LiveJournal tolkien_weekly "Mealtimes: Elevenses" challenge. And no, the interpretation of the prompt is no less twisted than "Breakfast" was...
Slipping and sneaking in the utter blackness of Moria the creature, well used to the roots of mountains, does not lose his way - or his quarry. He smells them, glimpses them from afar with his great pale eyes, even counts them obsessively under his breath as they grope cautiously forward:
"Wizard, yes - we doesn't like his staff, it burns usss, precious! Hulking great Men, two, three; hairy Dwarf, ugh! four; nasssty Elf, fiveses; stupid fat Hobbitses, pah! six, sevens, eights, nineses. Pony made ten, but they lost him, yesss. And we, preciousss...” - a hastily-stifled snigger in the darkness - “makes elevenses!”