Assigned to Mordor RPG

[Encaitare]

Over the next few hours, Wilhelmina obtained a new cell phone with a frog ringtone, a diamond bracelet, a kitten, a bunch of Disney movies, a lawn mower, several boring books that had interesting covers, and an empty tube of chapstick, all at the expense of one Mr. Karís Mâtiktwít, who was currently trying to carry all these down the sidewalk. Being a bit hard-of-hearing as she was, she could not hear him muttering to the kamuraman, who, at her insistence, had gotten his sparse hair dyed magenta: "Old hag gets famous by dumb luck and suddenly she thinks she's some kind of princess." However, she knew he was thinking it, which was just what she wanted.

"You know what would be really excellent?" she said, stopping short and turning around.

"A breather?" Karís gasped through the sweat pouring down his face.

"No," Wilhelmina said sweetly. "If you got me that PT Cruiser over there. The yellow and lavender one."

"We've got... to get to... Edge-Where..."

"Yes, and it will be much faster if we can drive!"

"In this traffic? Are you... are you crazy???"

"Young man, are you questioning me?"

Karís wiped at his forehead in trepidation. "No, ma'am."

"Good. Then you won't mind getting the car. Perhaps you can give its owner that lawn mower as compensation."

~*~*~*~*~

"Oh, you won't be coming with me," were both the most wonderful and the most terrible words that Karís had ever heard. His face contorted into horrible faces as he tried to decide whether he should be overjoyed or horrified. He settled with simply confused.

"But... what about the show? I'll be out of a job! I'll be ruined!"

"Hmmm...." said Wilhelmina, leaning out of the car window. "Oh, I've got a simply smashing idea! You remember how you said sex sells?"

Karís nodded, hoping she wasn't about to suggest he adopt a new, promiscuous lifestyle.

"All you have to do is find a new star! Get someone else from the Offending Party!" Actually, it wasn't a half bad idea, Karís realized. But there were problems.

"But the contract is for you!" He added a silent 'unfortunately' in his head. "Anakron--"

"Pish-posh on Anakron; think of the ratings you'll get with young, happening stars! I happen to know where you can find a few others from the Offending Party."

"Where? Where?" simpered Karís, Double Dragon signs dancing in his eyes.

"Oh, some place called RCA," said Wilhelmina. "Best of luck!" And with that, she pulled out into traffic, prepared to terrorize the roadways of Lûndûn.

[the guy who be short]

Fléin woke with a start - of the table. He tried to look up at whoever had shook the table, but his face seemed stuck to it, and his eyelids to one another. Struggle as he might, and did for a few moments, he could free neither with ease, and didn't wish to appear as ridiculous as he knew he must. He stopped moving, hoping to give an air of being completely at ease stooped over the table with his eyes shut.

"Excuse me, old chap, are you quite alright there? You don't mind if I sit here, do you?" a constipated, or perhaps educated, voice floated down to Fléin.

"Go ahead" Fléin growled into his beard, a little more aggressively than he intended to.

"I do thank you... I say, are you quite alright?" the man persisted.

"Merely tired..." the Dwarf lied.

"My poor Man! Let me get you a coffee."

More vibrations, the table jogged a little more, and Fléin presumed the man was gone, giving him a little time to unstick himself if he could. He dug his finger into the corner of his right eye, scooping up as much conjunctival gunk as possible and flicking it onto the table for some poor unfortunate to fiddle with later. He noticed that there was perceivably less gunk than there had been last time he woke up.

The process was repeated with his left eye. He opened them, and was greeted by the sight of the eternally sticky table. Fortunately only a small portion of his beard, near the sideburns on his left cheek, was actually stuck to the table; the majority drooped over the edge.

"No! No, old chap, that's not at all what I meant!" the constipated voice, raised, interrupted his thoughts.

"Are you insinuating," a loud Orcish voice rose over the hubbub, "that I, as an Orc, can only serve black coffee? Is that it? Eh?"

Fléin smiled to himself. Political correctness... ridiculous, but ever so amusing when stuffy old upperclassmen were confronted by it.

He focused on his beard again, letting the raised voices of the Orc and the burbling responses of the stranger merge into the background. There was only one way out of the current situation, and he didn't much like the idea of it.

Placing a hand to the left and right of his head, he yanked his face off the table. There was a sound like velcro ripping, and pain shot through the left side of his face, but he was free! He rubbed his face a little.

"Sorry about that," the upperclassman reappeared and interrupted him again, causing him to quickly drop his hand to his side. "Those orcs... make a dreadful amount of trouble, much more than they're worth, but what can one do?"

Fléin smiled a little and took the proferred coffee. "Thank you," he replied, "those Rakhâs are a lot of trouble, aren't they? You're lucky, I got an oration on Language."

"Yes well... Did I introduced myself? Most rude. Aranwe Mullion at your service."

"Fléin son of Fréin at yours." He stood up and bowed, before resuming his seat and sipping his coffee. It was surprisingly good, for Mordor. "Thank you once again."

"Think nothing of it. I thank you for letting me share this table... all the others are taken, or full of undesirables." He scowled a little at the room in general before turning back to Fléin with a smile.

Draining his cup, Fléin stood up a second time, before seating himself again rapidly.

"You wouldn't happen to know where Edgingville is, by any chance, would you?"

A frown crossed the man's face. "Edgingville. No villes around here anymore... all have long since been swallowed up by Lûndûn, or Lûn-dun as I call it, ha-ha." Fléin resisted the temptation to roll his eyes at the poor joke. "You don't mean Edge-Where do you?"

"Yes! Yes, that was it! Edge-where!" the Dwarf beamed up at him. "Edge-Where... that's where I need to get to".

"Rather. Edgewhere, where-"

"Could you tell me where it is please?" the Dwarf interrupted before he could complete what was almost certainly going to be another ill attempt at humour.

"Only I'm in a little bit of a hurry"

"Why of could, my good chap. You're at Amon Haradow. You need only travel about five miles North East. You could get there in a few hours, though if I were you, I'd get a taxy."

"Taxy?"

"A Lûndûn phenomenon, I see you're new to the city. So called because they overcharge so, and the journeys are usually quite taxing - they're simply vehicles driven by Orcs that take you wherever you wish to go. Some call them cabs, because they're often even tighter a squeeze than cabins. Just hold out a hand to a black car on the road, it'll most likely be a taxy."

Fléin thanked Aranwe and left, finally feeling slightly in control of his quest.

[littlemanpoet]

Alli was sitting on her blackened stage, waiting for the foolish minions to do as she had ordered when the floor began to rumble beneath her. The rumble grew louder and louder, fiercer and fiercer, then there was great THUMP, and Alli found herself having been bumped into the air.

"Ow!"

She landed on her fanny about ten feet from where she had been sitting, and she was conveniently facing the place from where she had gotten bumped. What had it been what was going on?

The gyratable barely-clads all screamed and ran off.

The floor was rising, cracking, breaking apart, and an eerie red glow issued from the crack. The rumble and roar continued, the crack widened, and the red glow broadened, until with a great crash, the floor gave way. Alli shielded her face from the shrapnel, and peeked through her fingers.

"Oh. no," she said in a flat voice.

A Balrog stood before her. It was wingless. It opened its mouth. And pointed at her.

"You're late for work." Balrogs had not been speakers in the days before the Anakronism Dweomer, but things had changed since then. The wingless Balrog reached out and grabbed Alli about the waist in one hand; it was lucky she was still wearing her burn-proof work clothes. The Balrog jumped back into the hole and carried Alli into nameless nether regions deep beneath Lûndûn.
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The minute Wilhelmina turned the key in the ignition, a horrible tranformation occurred. Her elderly hands grew into rough, hard fingers with talons. Her petite old lady's nose grew into a blotchy orcish nose, which also increased her ability to smell the fume and stench of the city. Her slightly bent back grew until she had a hump with ridges.

"Oh dear! I knew there was a good reason that I had never driven before!"

She gamely decided that if she must be an orc, there was little that could be done about that, she began to drive like an orcish maniac, and for a while, the orcs behind the wheels of other cars dutifully got out of her way.

Then BOOM. Boom BOOM!!!

The car suddenly began to list to the right, and was riding on its axles. Three flat tires, all at once.

Wilhelmina shook her head, then looked behind her. There were four spares in the back seat. Which was good. They were all in varying states of baldness. Which was bad.

[Celuien]

Panakeia sat uncomfortably in her seat as the musicians hovered above her. For the moment, they had turned aside and were speaking among themselves. Panakeia caught only a few bits of their conversation. Phrases such as "nosy reporter" "no good snoop" and "any publicity is better than none" floated past her ears. They probably think I'm here to do a story on them, the self-absorbed egotists, she thought. Maybe I can use that to my advantage.

The man who had first addressed her again opened the conversation. "Sorry 'bout that, ma'am. We all was havin' ourselv' a little con-fer-ence. I'm Dwaine (named for Dwalin - my ma always did love tales of the Dwarf-folk but she nivver could spell worth a plug nickel) of the King's Own Trio. Him over yonder with the banjo is called Strummer (what his rightful name is, he's not sayin'). An' the feller what looks like he sat on a porcupine is called Isildil Payne." Payne glared. "Pleased t'meet you."

Panakeia replied "Likewise, I'm sure."

Dwaine beamed. "Well now. You sure put us in a mess. No one was supposed to come in here. And in you came. And what we want to know is why?"

"To be perfectly honest, I was looking for a seat. It's awfully crowded out there." Dwaine nodded in agreement. "And..." Panakeia paused, debating whether or not to play her card. "And, I was hoping to run into you. Your performance was most...inspiring, and I was hoping to write a story about you. I'm a free-lance reporter." She smiled, hoping no one noticed the writing on her sample case.

But Payne did see it. "'Panakeia's Cure-Alls?' A reporter? Come again." There was a sneer in his voice.

"It's a side-business." She frantically thought of a way to distract them. "Tell me about yourselves."

That did the trick. Dwaine went on and on about the trio in its early days, how they had been court musicians to the King himself in Minas Tirith before being banished (there followed a brief argument as to which of the three had been most careless about the use of Anakronisms), their beginnings in Mordor as a hit band, and their more recent fading from the public scene.

"Yes ma'am, those were the good ol' days. Near on 30 years ago it must be now. We was at the top, the very top. Maybe you remember?" he asked hopefully.

Panakeia stiffened. "I am but 29 years of age. Of course not."

Dwaine whistled. "You don't say?" He eyed her up and down skeptically, but didn't challenge her assertion.

He went on to explain the business of Willy and Eckaust Fûmës. "See now," he lowered his voice confidentially, "'T'aint no Mr. Eckaust Fûmës. This here is what we call a publicity stunt. Willy thought it up. He's our manager. And a right clever plan it was too. Got us some good 'tention. It's been hard, just being in the BU all these years, no big performances, lessin' it's one of them things where they pull out all the old has-beens. But now we got ourselves another chance at the bright lights. All this 'bout Willy got us out there agin with our public, and what do you think? RCA done give us a contract t'come in and make a new record!"

Payne had been sitting silently in a corner, glowering like a thunderstorm. At last he burst out, "There's just one little problem. You. You know that none of this was real. If they find out that this stunt has all been a put on, they might rescind their offer. We can't afford to take that chance. Which means that you are coming with us, at least until the session is safely underway."

Panakeia gasped. "But I can't! I have to be in Edge-Where tomorrow."

Payne smiled maliciously. "Did you not say that you are a reporter? How can we be certain that you won't release your 'scoop,' as you say, before the session ends? No, you had better come with us, unless you would prefer that I turn you in to the authorities for failing to report to your assigned Mordor duties. Strip-mining or quarrying or some such thing, wasn't it?"

Panakeia gazed uneasily at Payne. How could he have known that? She had told no one of the official summons to report to work at some strip-mining operation or other. The summons she had tossed into a heap of litter as soon as she received it. She hadn't given it a second thought since then, but somehow, she had a sinking feeling that if the proper bureaucrats were notified of her disobedience, she would have some difficult explaining to do. Panakeia realized that her only hope was to escape Mordor before the slowly turning wheels of the bureaucratic machine caught up to her. Her impatience to reach Edge-Where redoubled.

"Sir, are you blackmailing me?" Panakeia suddenly found herself falling into Payne's overly formal speaking style.

"Let's not call it blackmail. It is such an unpleasant word. Rather, let's say that we have reached a mutually agreeable solution to our common difficulties. Quid pro quo, if you like, Miss, Miss... You have the advantage of me."

"Panakeia of Harad. I still call it blackmail, but I suppose if we must go through with this, we'd best be hurrying along."

Dwaine cheered and slapped his knees, then Panakeia's back. "Now there ya go! Looks like we got us a travelin' compan-yon." He dropped his voice, sotto voce. "Don't let that Payne worry you none. He's got the disposition of an ornery hound-dog, but his bark is worse 'n his bite. Besides now," he added brightly, "You've still got to find your way through t'station at Potted Ham Court Road. An' we've been riding these here trains for years. Why, I'd say I know them like the back of my hand!"

Willy grinned. "Don't worry, our side trip won't delay you much. The Ridiculously Cacophonous Arsininity studio building isn't far from Edge-Where on the Northern Line. Just at Entish Town. We won't keep you from your appointment, whatever it may be. You only need to stay with us until it's too late for any story to stop our session. Besides, I'll bet that you've never seen a studio before." Panakeia could not say that she had. "Well then," said Willy, "It'll be interesting for you." Panakeia had her doubts about that, but said nothing.

The train screeched to a halt. "Potted Ham Court Road! Potted Ham Court Road! Everyone off this stop."

Well, here we go, thought Panakeia. What have you've gotten yourself into now? Payne grabbed her arm, and all five of them hurried out of the train to stand in the cavernous space of the station.

[the guy who be short]

"Taxy! Taxy! Taxy, Mahal curse you!"

One after another, the black cabs of Lûndûn passed Fléin by. It must have been half an hour, at least, since he had left Ma Cuddonelds and stuck his hand out in vain. Various orc-driven vehicles had not only failed to stop, they also hurled abuse at him.

"Get that bloody arm off the road, you menace!" an orc leant out of his vehicle to cry at the Dwarf. This involved swivelling his head at a degree perpendicular to the angle at which it should have been, desirably, for the purpose of driving. This led to 'an incident,' as some bureaucrats might put it. "Holy-" was the only word the Dwarf caught, followed by a short screech, a loud bang of metal upon metal, an eerie silence, and a lot of cussing in quick succession.

Fléin stood around a little longer, spectating the spectacle as a spectator, before decided it would probably be quicker to walk the five or so miles it apparently was to Edge-Where. He waited just long enough to hear the blame for the accident attributed to budget cuts in the production line, before strolling off in what, according to the Sun, was a North-Easterly direction.

[Feanor of the Peredhil]

Alli was not at all happy with this new problem. As soon as she thought she had things under control, deus ex machina gave had given her a hard kick in the posterior. She glared at Roggie of Morgoth. "You're burning me." she accused, "And I am NOT late for work." He looked at her with a maniacal and not at all guilty feeling grin as he ran through the nether regions with what could only be described as wingèd speed.

"You know," she added pensively, noting his unnatural winglessness, "I'm kind of amazed at how quickly you're able to fly from the wreckage of the studio if you haven't got wings. Rog', why aren't they there? I attached them myself. You paid for them by giving me disco lessons, remember? And we both know that I'm the best 'winger around. You couldn't just lose them... they're attached. And you wouldn't take them off yourself... your nickname used to be The Lord of the Wings! When you won your most recent battle, the world called the event The Return of the Wing. Roggie... what happened?"

As she talked, he began to slow and looked more and more upset. His eyeliner ran as his balrogic tears turned to steam upon generation. Now he stopped and set her down. She brushed ash off of her clothes and stood there stubbornly.

"Roggie... tell me what's the matter."

"It's that... that hobbit."

"What hobbit, Roggie?" All of the hobbits Alli knew began to march slowly through her thoughts. She couldn't think of a single one that could make someone such as Roggie of Morgoth cry. Bill, maybe... Bill was a wimp. He lazed around for hundreds of years until an old man could beat him up. But Roggie? No way.

"It was... it was... Màrîo."

Alli looked at the wingless balrog wide-eyed. She couldn't believe it. She wouldn't leave here until she heard the whole story.

[Encaitare]

"Tarnation!" cried Wilhelmina. Rather, that was what she'd meant to say, but in her newly Orkish state, a stream of rude words burst out instead. She weighed her options. She could attempt to replace the tires, but she honestly had no idea how. Or, she could get out and walk -- but she didn't know how to get to Edge-Where at all! Many of the drivers behind her were honking and shouting. One pulled around in front of her, yelling, "Call a tow truck, lady!"

Now there was an idea! Wilhelmina turned off the car, found her new cell phone, and dialed Information. For a long while she heard nothing but some Mûzak melodies. Finally, there came a voice: "Information, how can I help you?"

"I need a tow truck," she told the operator.

The operator made a scoffing sound. "In this traffic? Are you kidding me? Look, ma'am, is it a five-car pileup?"

"No, but I've got three flat tires in the middle of the road."

"You're not native to Lûndûn, are you, ma'am?" the operator asked sympathetically.

"No," Wilhelmina admitted.

"Then let me be the first to tell you that the towing companies here only come under two circumstances: a pileup of at least five cars, or a parking violation."

"That's--"

"Have a nice day, ma'am, and enjoy your stay in Lûndûn!" the operator said brightly. Then there was a click, and a dial tone buzzed in the bewildered woman's ear.

"Well! If that's not the most ridiculous thing I've ever heard!" she huffed, hopping out of the PT Cruiser. "I suppose I'll have to check my map again, as convoluted as it is." She did so, and decided that she had to head down a particularly crowded street to her left in order to get in an Edge-Whereish direction.

[Kath]

Sai watched as first Alli was led away and then Mardil disappeared soon after. The lawyer she had not threatened, who was flipping through sheet after sheet of paper, was holding her in place so she couldn’t follow. Peering over his arm she could see nothing that made any sense, save the words Britney, Sai Onara and singer. She suddenly recalled that Mardil’s plan did actually require her to sing, and wondered whether she ought to have pointed out the fatal flaw of her inability to do so. Well, no, if you took the definition that singing was simply speaking words to music then yes she could sing, it was just the lack of pitch, tune and general talent that had anyone who heard her pressing their hands over their ears in consternation. Still, she needed to get inside and find her companions, so decided not to mention it for the moment.

Finally her captor seemed to find whatever it was he had been looking for, though Sai strongly suspected that he had in fact just wanted to show her that he was in charge here. The macho man impersonation was more amusing than effective though, and she was having a hard time keeping a straight face when he glared at her. He began to walk towards the obscenely large RCA building, throwing back an order to follow him. Scowling Sai complied, not wanting to be left alone in the middle of the street with all these orc drivers suffering from road rage. As she followed him though, she could have sworn she saw an orc that looked just like that Wilhelmina woman. Turning to get a second look she was nearly mown down by a group of incompetent nurses, who had been sent out to fetch the slightly dented lawyer.

Unfortunately he could not tell them how much he was hurting due to the unconscious state he had ended up in, while Sai was hopping up and down on one foot, holding the other and cursing under her breath at idiots who don’t look where they’re going. One of the nurses caught wind of her words and, apparently deciding that the stretcher they had with them needed to be put to good use, cried out in what felt to Sai like glee and wrestled her down onto the white board. Before she could move even a finger she was strapped down, a thermometer was stuck in her mouth and she was on her way into the building.

She was carried up what felt like hundreds of floors. The building either had no lifts or the nurses had a phobia of them, and Sai could feel the bump of every stair she was taken up. She was just beginning to think that by the time they were finished with her she would need a nurse when she was deposited in a very ungainly manner on a narrow bed. She tried to sit up but was pushed back down while the nurses searched for the injuries they had been told their casualty would have. Unable to find any they decided that it must be some kind of optical illusion, and that they would try to guess where the fragments of glass were likely to be embedded, and pull them out. Now thoroughly terrified, Sai distracted them with a quick “Oh my God, what’s that over there!?” and a point in the vague direction of the nearest window, thanking whoever created these awful creatures for blessing them with a gullibility and stupidity rivalled only by that of the contestants of shows such as Big Brother. While their backs were turned she leapt out of the bed and out the door with a display of agility that would have amazed her old physical education master and ran directly into a large man who let out an “oomph”, and in so doing, allowed Sai to discover the pleasure of being breathed on by a person with halitosis. She clamped a hand over her nose and mouth and didn’t dare remove it to speak as he led her down various corridors for fear of the stench emanating from his mouth.

He dragged her down the numerous flights of stairs she had just been carried up, and stopped in front of a door that seemed to have burn marks around the ages. Not noticing, her smelly breath’d friend pushed it open, shoved her inside and wandered off. Sai caught hold of the handle just before she fell into the chasm that stepping into the room had taken her to the edge of. Staring down in amazement her eye fell upon a familiar looking item. Tightening her hold on the door handle, Sai leaned forward a little more, and saw that it was one of Alli’s gloves – she must have gone down the hole! Yanking herself back through the door she set off running, little caring which direction she went in just so long as she could find someone to tell her where Mardil was.

Bursting through a door a little later she saw him just up ahead, coming out of a room. Slowing enough so that she wouldn’t knock him over in the same way she had done to countless people on her journey through the building, she took hold of his sleeve and tugged his head down so she could inform him of her suspicions without anyone else hearing. From what she had seen of the characters here so far, they were more likely to try and make some money out of it rather than try to help them find Alli.

Finishing her story she let go of Mardil and tried to get her breath back as he quickly weighed up their options and turned to talk to the contract personnel behind him.

[Celuien]

The arches of Potted Ham Court Station stretched above as far as Panakeia's eye could follow them. Rût’s Lip Garden, a relatively small stop on the line, was nothing in comparison. People and orcs scurried about everywhere, searching for their destinations. Adding to the confusion was the fact that there were numerous shops in this station, mostly devoted to the sale of (what else?) potted hams and something called spam, which appeared to stand for synthetic potted ham. If the ingredients list on the back of the can was to be trusted. There were numerous cafés in the station as well, all seemingly devoted to the sale of those particular items. A menu in the window of one of the shops read:

Egg and spam, 50 maggots
Egg, bacon and spam, 75 maggots
Egg, bacon, sausage and spam, 1 troll
Spam, bacon, sausage, and spam, 1 troll, 25 maggots
Spam, egg, spam, spam, bacon, and spam, 1 troll, 50 maggots
Spam, sausage, spam, spam, bacon, spam, tomato and spam, 2 trolls

Panakeia wondered aloud, "Don't they have anything without spam?"

Willy interrupted her musings. "Come on, we've got to keep moving. Our train leaves from the other end of the station."

As they hurried off to find their train, a mob rushed up to the group, celebrating Willy's release from the train and asking for autographs. They stopped. Willy beamed, being sure to thank the trio for their support. Camera flashes came from all directions, blinding Panakeia with a blur of green and purple spots. A moment later, they were moving again, Panakeia's arm still in Payne's grasp. They were taking no chances of her making an escape attempt. In truth, there was no need to worry, at least for the moment. Panakeia was glad of their guidance through the station, the complexity of which would have left her completely lost on her own. But once they reached the train, she fully intended to try and lose her new travel mates. In the meantime, she allowed them to lead her to the train while she gazed around the station. Piles of blue cans, marked in yellow with the word spam in capital letters were stacked everywhere. Yet more spam dropped intermittently through tubes between the ceiling arches. Just as quickly as they fell to the ground, a crew of workers grabbed the cans and either stacked them against the wall, to be sold to local merchants, or packed them into boxes to be shipped to distant parts. Potted Ham Court Road was the heart of Mordor's vast spam industry, and there was certainly no shortage.

As Panakeia wound through the station, up stairs and down stairs, left and right, she noticed that, unlike in the rest of Mordor, the walking paths here were smooth and even. Not one crack or hole was to be found. Even this could be explained by spam; mixed with Mordor's other abundant commodity of gravel, ash, and some water, it made an excellent substitute for concrete. Thus, the roving work crews in Potted Ham Court Road were able to keep the walkways in excellent condition, although their constant presence while patching them greatly worsened the flow of foot traffic through the station.

The little band came to a halt within sight of the platform, which was strangely vacant. They stood at the back of a long line of pedestrians waiting to go on to the platform. Panakeia soon spotted the reason for the delay. One of the crews was at work ahead, fixing a rather large hole in the walkway. They left only enough room to pass them in single file. The work crew's flagger stood in the space holding a sign. "Stop."

The train rolled up. "All aboard! Northern line to Edge-Where. All aboard!"

The company struggled to push ahead. But they couldn't move an inch. The sign was still turned to oppose them. Willy shouted, "Let us through! We'll miss our train." The flagger merely cursed at him.

"All aboard, last call."

Suddenly, a rumbling, mingled with the sound of voices raised in song, came from behind. Four riders on horseback, clad in long robes and horned caps, rushed up, bearing filled boxes of spam for the Northern line.

"Spam, spam, spam, wonderful spam. Lovely spam," they chanted.

The leader blew a blast on his horn. The work crew moved aside. The sign was turned around. "Go." Everyone rushed forward to avoid being trampled by the spam delivery. The horses brushed past. Panakeia boarded the train, pulled ahead by Payne.

Still chanting their song, the riders piled their boxes onto the train. As the last box was loaded and the riders turned to depart, the train pulled out of the station, bound for Edge-Where

***

The passengers stood and cheered as Willy and the musicians entered the car. The stunt certainly did seem to have earned the respect of the BliddyUnnergrind's patrons. Panakeia chuckled to herself at the knowledge that they had all been taken in by the group's scam. I only wish I'd thought of it myself. Brilliant, simply brilliant. She again gave thanks for their company as five passengers rose to offer their seats to the heroes and their "lovely companion." Panakeia's feet ached terribly and she was exhausted by the trip. Sandwiched between Willy and Payne, she fell into an uneasy sleep.

Troubled dreams filled her mind. She was in a dark tunnel, her feet trapped in a soggy floor of melting spam. A troop of police-orcs, bent on arresting and dragging her off to the mines, were in hot pursuit. "Failure to report," they shouted. "Unpardonable." Just as they were about to reach her, Panakeia came to the end of the tunnel. The orcs vanished. She stood outside in the night air.

The charred timbers of a ruined house were ahead of her. A realization dawned on Panakeia. "I'm home." She hurried forward. The ghostly figure of a young woman moved in the crumbling wreck. She wore the tattered remains of a long white gown, shot through with green leaves. Her long, light brown hair fell in wisps to her waist. The apparition turned. Panakeia screamed. "It's me. Dead!" The spectral image of the young Panakeia beckoned, a sad, surprised look on her face, her lips moving as if she were about to speak.

Panakeia awoke with a start. She was still on the train. Dwaine looked at her. "You look like you seen a ghost."

Panakeia nodded thoughtfully. "Perhaps I have." Then she shook off her mood. "No, it was just a bad dream."

The conductor entered the car. "Entish Town. Entish Town."

Payne grabbed her arm. "Come. This is our destination."

Panakeia hesitated. "Wait, can't you just let me keep going? You have my word that I won't reveal your secret."

"We don't have time for this. You are coming along." Payne sneered. "What good is your word? Panakeia's Cure-Alls. Reporter or not, you, my dear lady, are a charlatan. How can we trust you?"

Panakeia stood abashed. Her dream brought to mind her old ideals. Never join the family business? Look how that turned out. He's right. I'm nothing but a scammer. The very thing I once despised. She hung her head and followed Payne off of the train, lost in thought.

Up, up, up they went. At last, they returned to the street. Winding through traffic and pedestrians, they made their way to the RCA building. Panakeia noticed a PT Cruiser with flat tires at the side of the road. Its driver looked strangely familiar for an orc, but Panakeia couldn't quite place her.

The musicians proudly announced themselves to a guard. "The King's Own Trio, here for a recording session," cried Willy. The guard checked his list and opened the building's tall iron doors. They shut behind the group with a clang. And chaos greeted them.

Half-dressed dancers ran about screaming. There was frantic talk about some disaster on stage. "A Balrog, a balrog," they cried out in terror. "Brit sulking and the new girl gone. What will we do?"

Panakeia seized her opportunity. "Gentlemen, this is where I leave you. Best of luck." She raced off to where the commotion looked greatest and ran down a hallway looking for a back door. The corridor twisted back into the maze-like building. Rounding a corner, she was startled to see two familiar faces.

"Sai, Mardil! Fancy meeting you here. What a surprise." Both of them looked grim. What was going on?

[Encaitare]

It was not long before Wilhelmina (happily no longer an orc) was completely engulfed by the swarming crowd; however, she was now getting accustomed to the pace of the city, and managed to move quickly down the sidewalk. Those who walked too slowly received merciless prods from her walking stick. As she continued on, she noticed a crowd gathering on a corner; she got closer and saw a pileup of not three, not five, but seven cars, around which were standing seven irate orcs. There were also a number of police officers, but they appeared quite useless, as all they did was say, "What's all this, then?"

One of said police officers was performing a slightly more functional job: diverting the spectators away from the crash site. "Nothing to see here, folks!" he yelled above the din of the angry orcs. "Nothing that won't soon be cleared up! Down this street, please! Take the detour, please!" Of course, only about half the people heeded his pleas. Wilhelmina was about to do so as well, but suddenly a thought struck her.

"Excuse me, officer," she said, approaching him. "Would you be so good as to tell me the way to Edge-Where?"

"Certainly -- Let's move along! Ma'am, you'll have to -- nothing to see, I said! -- head several blocks north -- the detour, if you please! -- and then you should see some signs -- Oy!" A brawl had begun amongst the orkish drivers, and the officer dashed off to help his fellows break it up. Wilhelmina decided that his information would suffice, followed the detour street, and then turned north. She had walked about five blocks before she saw a sign. It was heavily graffitied, but she could make out 'Ed Wh e: 3.5 m es -->,' and the rest fell into place. She would be in Edge-Where in no time.

As she marched off in the direction the sign indicated, her hat squeaked in anticipation.

[the phantom]

Mardil glanced quickly at the newcomer. "Panakeia, wasn't it?" Panakeia nodded. "We have a bit of a situation here," he continued. "From what I can piece together from Sai's information and the chatter we've heard over that security guard's radio, a balrog burst up through a recording stage and snatched Alli."

"Oh, that's horrible!" Panakeia exclaimed.

"Yes, it really is most unfortunate," agreed Mardil. "I hope she can talk the beast into letting her go. But in the meantime, you two need to get down to the recording studio and prepare to put on the worst performance in history. Right now they have an official document that requires Sai, Alli, and I to negotiate a contract. If we ignore that and make a run for it, we will have RCA thugs on our tails from here to Ithilien, and that simply won't do. We need to negotiate a contract immediately."

"But once we're signed we will be required to record an album, so we won't be any better off!" objected Sai.

"Yes, and so obviously we need to get them to break the contract," said Mardil.

"But how?"

"I've already got the RCA president to agree to let me help write our contract from scratch. I will include cunning clauses in our contract that will keep RCA from having any say about what we say in our songs. Essentially, they will have to back anything so long as we're under contract. Also, I will demand to be paid hourly, meaning that they will have to pay us for every minute we are around. That way, we don't get any guaranteed payoff, and thus it will be beneficial for them to dissolve our contract as soon as they possibly can once they have a reason to. After the contract is signed, we will go down to the studio and begin recording songs like 'RCA sucks' and 'We Hate RCA' and they will have to either pay us to record those songs or rip up the contract. Which one do you think they will do? Mwu ha ha!"

"That's brilliant and all, but what about Alli?" asked Sai.

"I hope she finds some way to escape while we are busy getting free of our contract," answered Mardil.

"Wait... you mean..." stammered Sai in shock, "you're going back into the office to negotiate instead of helping Alli?"

"It's possible that we won't have time to rescue her," said Mardil coolly. "Our first priority is getting to Edge-Where. It would be foolish to lose our chance of escape to go looking for Alli. I don't know about you, but I want to get out of Mordor more than I want to risk injury in rescuing a girl I only met a few hours ago."

"You are so self centered, Mardil!" shouted Sai.

"I didn't say that you couldn't try and rescue her. Go right on ahead. Be a foolish hero."

"So, you really are willing to ditch her?! She's a decent enough girl that I bet she'd try and save you! Why, I'd-" Sai stopped in mid sentence. "What is it Mardil?"

The look on Mardil's face had suddenly changed from flustered to devious. "Wait for me down in the studio where Alli was kidnapped," Mardil said with a half grin.

"Why? What are-"

"Don't worry, just do it. I'll be down shortly," said Mardil quickly as he turned and walked back towards the president's office.

------------

"Well, I think that just about does it," said Raymond Celeborn Adderly X (aka Mr. RCA, president of RCA).

"Yes, this contract is almost satisfactory," agreed Mardil. "All it needs now is something about liability in work related accidents- you know, just the usual fine print that pretty much never gets used. But to make this thing completely official, we'd better include it."

"Oh, of course," said Mr. RCA. "The more official, the better! So how should this be worded?"

Mr. RCA's secretary typed as Mardil dictated. "RCA security is responsible for protecting occupants of the RCA building, and so in the event that Mardil or any of his musical minions are injured or kidnapped while on RCA property, all contracts with Mardil and Co will immediately become null and void. In addition, RCA will be required to use whatever means Mardil deems necessary to correct the lapse in security that resulted in the injury or kidnapping." Mardil turned to Mr. RCA. "Sound like good fine print to you?"

"Yes, yes, of course. Now bring that thing here for me to sign- and then you sign it."

"With pleasure!" said Mardil, handing Mr. RCA the contract.

------------

"It's Mardil!" shouted Panakeia to Sai upon spotting him running down the hall towards the recording stage.

Sai joined Panakeia at the door. "Are you done negotiating?" asked Sai as Mardil entered. Mardil winked at her.

"I'm not only done negotiating," answered Mardil, "I've already managed to get the contract cancelled. Two minutes after Mr. RCA signed it, a security guard burst into the room and announced that Alli had been kidnapped by a balrog. The way I wrote up the contract, RCA is liable and must release us from the contract as well as help us put the situation back in order, no matter what the cost."

Sai and Panakeia noticed that the floor was rumbling.

"The balrog must be coming back!" screamed Panakeia.

"I think not!" said Mardil, who looked quite pleased with himself.

As he finished speaking, ten huge tanks burst through the far wall and stopped. The hatch on the tank closest to the stage opened and an orc in camo gear emerged. "Ready for orders, Master Mardil!"

"What in the world is this?" asked Sai.

Mardil chuckled. "Like I said, RCA is required to right the wrong, and so I made them pay to have a little tank division come and help us rescue Alli."

"That's wonderful!"

"Yes, and I made sure that RCA hired a tank division based out of Edge-Where. That way, after we have Alli, we can simply ride back with them. Now let's go!"

------------

"There's a balrog, dead ahead, sir!" shouted the driver of the lead tank- the one Mardil, Sai, and Panakeia were in.

"Don't fire yet! I've been told it has a hostage. What's it doing?" asked the orc commander as the tanks roared through the last bit of tunnel before the large cavern where the balrog was seated.

"The balrog is sitting next to the hostage, sir! I think it just spotted us!"

"Shoot it before it grabs the hostage!"

"Yes sir!"

Mardil, who couldn't see what was going on, popped the top hatch open and peeked out. He saw the main cannon fire and score a hit to the balrog's midsection as he reached to grab Alli. The impact knocked the balrog back into the wall of the cavern.

"Fire again!" yelled the commander. Then he climbed up beside Mardil to get a better look and radioed to the other tanks. "Tanks Two and Three, fire everything you have at that fiery devil! Four, Five, and Six, you guys get between the hostage and balrog and stand your ground! Seven, Eight, and Nine, you guys hold the entrance so the balrog doesn't follow us out of here! Ten- follow us!"

Guns blazing, the tanks shot out full speed into the cavern. When the lead tank got close to Alli, Mardil jumped off. "This is so stupid!" thought Mardil as he flew through the air. "You should've let one of the orcs do this part. It's dangerous." But Mardil knew he wouldn't have it any other way. When there was a delicious damsel in distress, he simply had to be the one to rescue her.

Mardil hit the ground with a roll and leaped up. He then grabbed Alli and threw her over his shoulder. The balrog, enraged by his injuries, leaped at Mardil, but Mardil dodged to the side and took off running towards the lead tank which had turned around and was now pointed back out of the cavern. The balrog chased after them, but Mardil had a trick up his sleeve. With his free hand, he drew a throwing knife that he had prepared while in the tank and threw it at the balrog's thigh. It pierced the beast and, as Sai and Panakeia watched through a gunner's slit on the tank, the balrog's leg began turning a bluish color. One of the tanks let loose a shot at the injured leg, and it shattered like ice and the balrog fell to the ground.

The orc commander helped Mardil onto the tank and yelled into his radio, "Fall out! All tanks fall out!" Then he turned to Mardil. "Wow, that was really something! What did you do to that knife, anyway?"

"Oh, it was nothing," said Mardil, pretending to be modest. "As you can see, I have all sorts of little vials and such on my belt. They're all for coating my throwing knives, and each one of them is different. Some of them have poisons that kill quickly while some just paralyze. But the one I used for that monster was this vial of concentrated cold virus. It works particularly well on spirits of fire."

The orc clapped Mardil on the back and shook his hand. "Well, that was nicely done! And now, Lord Mardil, we'll just turn up that side tunnel there, and in four minutes or so we will come out of a hole right in Edge-Where's central park."

[Celuien]

I should have stayed with Payne. Balrogs, singing and rescue missions. Blargh. Panakeia was a devoted self-preservationist, and this business of rescuing Alli from a balrog sounded dangerous. Yet she pitied the girl. Panakeia hoped that she would manage an escape. And hopefully, Mardil would handle any balrog-battling that was to take place.

She listened to Mardil's conversation with Sai. Get out of an official contract? That didn't seem likely. RCA's lawyer's were sure to fight anything of the sort. If they were unable to escape their obligation to RCA, Panakeia wasn't planning to wait for them. She had already been delayed enough on her journey.

Mardil strode off. Sai said, "Come on, let's go to the studio." She led the way to a door.

What a sight met Panakeia's eyes! A gaping fissure sat in the center of the stage. Red light shone outward from its depths, illuminating the room with an eerie glow. The room was deserted. Panakeia caught Sai looking at her quizzically. She realized that she must look terrible with her filthy dress, broken shoe and gum-smeared hair. Panakeia smiled wanly, "I know I look terrible. It's been a hard trip."

Sai snapped. "I wasn't thinking about that. I'm worried about poor Alli. How are we going to save her?"

"I don't know. But in the meanwhile, I suppose I should take the opportunity to clean up. You wouldn't happen to know where there's a restroom, would you?"

"Restroom? How can you think about your appearance at a time like this?"

"My dear, there are some things that are unforgivable. One of them is for a lady to go about looking like a draggled-tailed...street pigeon. In any case, if we're waiting for Mardil to finish negotiating, we're going to be here for sometime. I might as well use it."

Sai looked at Panakeia in disgust. "I didn't notice. You're on your own." She sat on the edge of the hole in the stage and said nothing more.

"Oh, sulk then!" she exclaimed. "I'll be back." Panakeia left the room and headed down the hall. She was in luck. The third door down from the studio was marked with a star. "Dressing rooms." Panakeia entered. Another hallway stretched out before her. She walked down the hall. It too was hung with portraits. With a start, she recognized the images of her friends from the train. All three were smiling. Payne doesn't look quite so frightful when he cracks a grin, she thought. He really should try it more often. She kept walking. A pink door was marked in gold. Ladies. Panakeia stepped inside.

For such a lavish studio, you'd think they could find a better cleaning staff. Soap scum covered the sinks. The mirror was so smeared that Panakeia couldn't find her reflection. She pulled out her scarf and wiped a spot clean. I really do look dreadful. How embarrassing. She turned on a faucet. Cold water poured out, but the side marked hot was not functioning. Better than nothing. She opened her sample case. A change of clothes was stashed in the bottom. Out came a bottle of Residue-free Gentle-cleansing Shampoo for Dyed Hair to tackle the sticky mess in her locks. She only hoped it wouldn't double as a hair-remover. There were no extra shoes. After thinking for a moment, she took off the undamaged shoe and broke off its heel. At least I'm on even ground now.

15 minutes later, Panakeia emerged looking like her old self, if a few inches decreased in height and with shorter, greener hair. The shampoo hadn't done much to help her remove the gum, so she had been forced to trim off the involved areas. Worse yet, it didn't mix well with Pearie Ockside Potion, accounting for the change in hue. I should know better than to use my own products, she thought ruefully.

Panakeia made her way back to the studio and peeked inside. Sai was still sitting at the edge of the balrog hole. There was no sign of Mardil. She poked her head inside. "Have you seen Mardil?"

"Not yet." Sai stared. "What happened to you?"

"Never mind. I'll wait out here."

Time passed. Just as Panakeia was about to set out on her own again, Mardil appeared at the end of the hall. "It's Mardil," she shouted. She listened as he unfolded his plan.

The entrance of the tanks startled Panakeia. This was most impressive. A new respect for the strange man of Gondor and his influence rose in her. It was a masterstroke to have the tanks bring them to Edge-Where. Panakeia really did not want to return to the BliddyUnnergrind. She eagerly boarded the tank, forgetting temporarily that they were about to go searching for a balrog. However, she was soon reminded of that fact when their driver announced that one was directly ahead. She watched in amazement as Mardil exited the tank. Panakeia was not about to look out the hatch, but she wanted to know what was going on.

"Isn't there any way to look out of this thing?" she queried the orc-in-command.

"Gunner's slit, just above. Be sure you don't block his view. We may need to fire."

Panakeia reached the opening just in time to see Mardil running back toward the tank, the balrog just behind him. "Retreating already?" she said “And I thought he was trying to be a hero.”

"Look again," Sai said triumphantly. "He has Alli!"

Panakeia had failed to notice that fact. "I only hope they make it back before that beast catches them." She watched in astonishment as Mardil flung his blade and the balrog's leg changed color, then shattered. It seemed that Mardil could do more than talk. At the same time, Panakeia was annoyed at his showing off. It made her feel all the guiltier about her own unwillingness to face danger for her companions. But what what Alli doing? She appeared to be screaming at Mardil.

Mardil and Alli climbed into the tank. The commander barked. "Back to Edge-Where!" Alli continued to yell at Mardil. If that's the way she thanks him for getting her out of trouble, I shouldn't feel quite so guilty about being less than eager to come to her aid. The tank rumbled and turned down yet another tunnel. Alli's hysterical screaming about the Balrog was beginning to grate on Panakeia's nerves when a soldier gave her an injection. Alli dropped off to sleep. "Thank goodness," Panakeia murmured.

A few minutes later, they stopped. The driver announced their arrival. "Edge-Where."

Mardil flung the hatch open and leapt gracefully from the tank, carrying the still unconscious Alli. Sai quickly followed. Panakeia brought up the rear.

Behind them, the tunnel gaped back into darkness. A mist hung about everywhere, making it difficult to see where one thing ended and another began. If this mist is around all the time, Panakeia thought, I see why this place is called Edge-Where. I can't find the edges of anything.

"Well, here we are," she said cheerfully. "Where to now?"

[Feanor of the Peredhil]

"What are you doing?" screamed Alli, barely aware that Mardil could not hear her over the ammunition fire. "Don't you dare throw that knife! You ba-" she was cut off as a sudden bump caused Mardil's shoulder to slam into her stomach. She hit him hard across the back of the shoulders, not caring that it probably didn't hurt. As soon as they were in the tank she turned on him.

"What the [deleted] do you think you're doing? Who the [deleted] are these people? Why the [deleted] are you here and what the [deleted] makes you think you have the right to come bashing your way through here, shooting at and seriously injuring a helpless balrog, taking me away against my will, and destroying Roggie's home?!?" Alli thoroughly cursed him out, getting all that much more upset by his look of understanding concern. Mardil whispered to one of the soldiers who looked at Alli appraisingly and then made himself busy in the corner.

"Come miss," another soldier interrupted. "Balrogs is evil through'n'through. They's only one way to deal wid creatures like dem."

"Balrogs aren't evil!" she screamed, flustered at this man's obvious racism and agreement errors. "They're just misunderstood!"

The soldier that Mardil had spoken to now came over to Alli. "Ma'am, it's all right. I've got a background in medicine and Freudian psychology. You're in shock. Don't worry. We've got everything under control. Here... let me treat your burns."

Alli slapped him hard as he tried to move close. She didn't trust Freudian psychologists as far as she could throw them and this one had just helped to blow the leg off of an old friend of hers.

"Let me out of this [deleted] tank!" she screamed at everybody listening. The physician soldier looked at Mardil, discreetly showing him what had been hidden in his palm. Mardil looked at Alli, uncertain. When she moved to the hatch and attempted to leave the moving vehicle, he nodded with a sigh. A second later, a needle punched through Alli's skin. Immediately she slumped and fell, unconscious. Mardil caught her and laid her on the floor.

"You know," interjected Sai nervously, "she's not going to be happy when she wakes up."

Mardil responded quietly. "She wasn't happy already. We'll deal with it once we're in a less dangerous situation. If she'd gotten the hatch open just then, it would have hit the ceiling of the passage and either broken off and caused a pileup behind us or slammed back down into her. Either way, we're currently safer with her drugged."

With that, they reached Edge-where.

[Encaitare]

Three miles, the next sign said. Then two. Then one. Finally, Wilhelmina spotted a shiny sign which garishly welcomed her to Edge-Where. "Smashing!" she exclaimed. She might have done a little victory dance if her feet hadn't been so tired from all the walking. 'I wonder where exactly I'm supposed to go,' she thought, 'and more importantly, how I'm supposed to get there.' She chose to leave it to chance, which had served her relatively well thus far.

Edge-Where was a misty place, but that did not seem to deter the large number of shoppers she saw as she moved deeper into the area. Everywhere she looked, people were eagerly buying everything from rap CDs to lima beans to mice. One mall boy was begging his mother to get him a small nuclear bomb. "Now, now, Phineas," his mother was saying. "I already told you, no more nuclear devices this week."

'What a horrible name for a child,' thought Wilhelmina.

Up ahead was a sign that read 'Edge-Where BliddyUnnerground,' and from behind it emerged four familiar figures -- or three emerged, rather, and one was being carried. As Wilhelmina approached them, she was sure that they were fellow members of the Offending Party.

"Hey!" she called, coming to meet up with them. "Well, look who's made it: Mardil, Sai, Alli--" she raised an eyebrow here, wondering what had happened to her, "and Panakeia. Everyone but the Dwarf and... er... Waldo. Or something like that. So, does anyone know where we're supposed to find Anakron?"

[the guy who be short]

A few minutes later, Fléin had reached the A-AOO6, or Autoroute All Obdurate Orcs 6. Some called it Ent-One Road. The Road systems of Lûndûn were immensely complicated, making mapping something of a nightmare even in the right language. However, Fléin made sure to ask several people along the way, and was quite sure of his direction.

Furthermore, the map had started to make a little sense, once he had shown it to people. Though the names were awfully mucked up, he had a vague idea of where he was going to, and where he was coming from.

He even felt brave enough to leave the main roads. If he stuck to the A-AOO6, he'd go far out of his way. Chavton Road would significantly cut his travelling time; by a quarter, he worked out mathematically in his head.

Unfortunately, as a newcomer to Lûndûn, Fléin had no knowledge of Chavs. Some things were horrible, even by Mordorian standards, and these things had a habit of congealing in the vibrant city. The Chav was one of them.
Fléin noticed a large group of youths up ahead, all with odd clothing. Nick, their white clothes screamed at him from afar, which should have been a harbinger of things to come. Um, Bro? other tops asked in the linguistic manner of these people. Another boy's top seemed to say Re-Book. As Fléin got closer, not noticing the snickers of the lads, he managed to read the whole slogan. "We apologise most sincerely, the mechanized telephone system seems to have failed miserably, please Re-Book.

The white, near-fluorescent jogging bottoms the boys wore hurt Fléin's eyes. No wonder they had covered their faces with huge hoods, he was surprised they didn't need goggles.

As the gang approached, Fléin aimed to walk directly through them, thinking they would part around him. Apparently, it was not to be so. Suddenly, he found himself surrounded by a dozen boys towering above him.

"Aw-ite, mate, givvus yoo munny'nd mobile" the tallest of the chavs sniped at him. He too wore a hood, but Fléin could see the boy's pale face and bling-bling fake diamond earring. He couldn't help bursting out laughing at the combination of hideous fashion and attempted machismo.

The boy's face turned sour. His body tensed up visibly, as did the rest of the gang. "Whaddya larffin' at? I ain't kiddin' bruv. Givvus the cash now."

"Bruv? I am Fléin, Fréin's son of the Orocarni. I am no brother of thine," Fléin accidentally slipped into Jamesian English.

"And I's tellin' yoo to gimme yoo munny, innit," the boy replied, trying to maintain the upper hand and appear as threatening as possible. Fléin bit his lip.

"I'm warnin' you, bruv-" he attempted to continue in an intimidating manner, but was cut short by the sudden apparition of a double-headed axe in Fléin's hands.

The entire gang dissolved and fled before Fléin could blink, which was a little disappointing, truth be told. He had wanted to make a clever retort, something along the lines of "No, I'm warning you;" but no matter. It was too late now. He half-heartedly chased the leader who had tried to mug him, waving his axe frenziedly whenever he looked back, but too soon the fun had ended.

"And not even a severed arm to my name," the Dwarf grumbled to himself into his beard. Still, the short jog had quickened his journey yet more, and now he had an interesting tale to his name.

The rest of the walk passed without major incidence, unless you wished to count a dog jumping onto him, tearing off part of his beard and running off on its tartan-clad, furry little way. Fléin, however, resolved to omit this part of his day from his account to the others, presuming they had got to Edge-Where, of course.

Well, he thought, One task down... Let's hope the others are a little easier.

A short while later, he realised he had just referred to himself in the plural form and sincerely hoped he wasn't developing schitzophrenia.

A short while after that, he was with the rest of the offending party (minus Valde) at Edge-Where BliddyUnnerground Station.

[Durelin]

Valde had a lovely chat with the trolls on the way to the Trobe Theatre, and began slipping into Jamesian English as he was always wont to do when trying to impress someone, or simply when talking to a number of trolls. He was in great spirits, since it seemed his skill as a playwright was finally being recognized. He mentioned this, and the Trolls seemed happy to oblige in bringing many of his dreams to reality.

“Ah, playwrights. ’Tis a sorry state indeed, that most of thy kind live their fruitful lives unbeknownst to most eyes and ears, until their death bed doth bring them fame.”

Valde bowed his head slightly in respect, smiling at the troll, and flourishing his hand toward him, silently offering a compliment and agreement to him concerning his words. His face practically split in a wide green that displayed yellow teeth to Valde, who politely continued to smile. trolls, no matter their GPA as a graduate of University of Mordor, nor how poetic they could be, often slipped back into their more primitive ways, enjoying praise as a child does. The thought reminded the man of a tragedy he wrote about the ‘Childlike Poet,’ and he was brought back to thoughts of scripts and stages.

“Such is the playwright’s bane, yes. But only one who suffers so can truly grasp the meaning of tragedy.”

“Aye, aye,” the trolls agreed, nodding, and falling into their own deep and dark thoughts of their deepest and darkest memory from somewhere in their dark and mysterious past that made them the brooding geniuses that they were, and which had secured them a part in the upcoming tragedy of the Spamlet.

One troll, the new Trollonius, suddenly spoke up. “I do wonder, though, my dear tragic fellow, if thou would’st be so kind as to act as the sun does on a fog fettered dawn, to scatter the mist that doth cloud my vision on a particular subject that thou knowest well?”

“I would, verily and gladly,” Valde replied in what he believed to be a professional way, hiding his excitement at being consulted by such trolls as these.

“Is a playwright thusly named because he doth craft plays, or because he doth write them?”

Another of the trolls, the one playing Trollrick, jumped in. “Thou knowest ‘tis due to the write, for the answer is found in the very name itself!”

The troll who had voiced the question immediately snapped back at his comrade. “No, thou art a beslubbering pottle-deep coxcomb, and thoust would not know a pillow from a hedgerow!”

“You loggerheaded swag-bellied flea! I shall instruct thee in thy fiendish ways, and show you that it is indeed the wright and not the write!”

The new Trollonius stopped to look at his fellow troll. “What on earth are you gibbering about?”

“How darest you say that I gibber, cur!”

And so Trollrick jumped upon Trollonius in an awful bout, the likes of which Valde had never seen before. Admiring the punches thrown, and with his mind still dwelling on wrighting and writing plays, he made a few notes in his head, hoping to remember some of the moves in order to choreograph a fight scene later. But then Trollonius pushed Trollrick off of him, causing the latter to land on the litter (Valde later tried to say that five times faster) that the man still sat on. He gasped in shock as he felt his seat rock, and squeaked in surprise upon hearing the breaking of wood as Trollonius jumped back on to his opponent. It was not until a screaming Lead Tragic Actor was pulled out of the back of the van along with his fine seat, one troll he knew well, and one not so, that Valde realized that he had not answered the troll’s question yet.

Rising from the pavement and rushing out of the street, rubbing his bruised bottom, Valde watched in awe as the two trolls continued their brawl in the street, and caught the last sight of the Pretentious Blimcasting Corruption van with a mournful glance. Tires screeched and several crashes rang out as the orcs, poor drivers as they were, failed in coming to a halt soon enough and were forced to hit more solid objects than the trolls in the middle of the road. Valde counted exactly five cars that had found each other to be their preference when it came to solid objects. At least the victims of the accident could be comforted in knowing that Mordor’s towing companies would soon be on their way.

“It is playwright, you know,” Valde shouted at the wrestling duo. Somehow, Trollrick had found a ‘mail receptacle’ and had it raised above his head, prepared to keep Trollonius down for the count, but he paused now, and both turned to the man on the sidewalk. “Wha?” they both asked, and Valde shook his head, and swirled his cloak in a dramatic fashion as he turned to walk briskly away. But he stopped in his tracks and turned back to the trolls with just a bit more dramatic swirling. “W-r-i-g-h-t. You know, like those Wright brothers who Trollinci is suing over stealing his designs.”

Trollrick dropped his ‘mail receptacle’ with a heavy metal thud, and began to wail. Trollonius placed a comforting arm around him, and the two began to share some strange kind of moment of reconciliation, though it was as if it were a scene from a play that they should never have been characters in, with Trollrick muttering something about ‘tomorrow, and tomorrow, and tomorrow.’ Valde bothered them only once more after a moment, asking politely if they could tell him where ‘Edge-where’ was. They gave him detailed directions amidst sobbings and splutterings and many a ‘thou,’ ‘tis,’ and the like. The Lead Tragic Actor, feeling even more tragic at having lost his part, settled on a solemn vow to make it out of Mordor, even though he knew that it would make such a good play if he did not.

[littlemanpoet]

Anakron Istkon Vayor stood just outside the entrance to the Edge-Where Bliddyunndergrind terminal, staff in hand, the Siamese cat purring loudly.

The sun was setting. Mardil, Sai, Panakeia, and Alli, arrived.

"Mardil, 10 points. Sai, 10 points. Panakeia, 10 points. Alli, 9 points; one subtracted for arriving unconcsious."

Anakron waited a while longer. Wilhelmina showed up.

"Wilhelmina, 9 points; subtract one for driving without a license."

Anakron waited still longer. The sun was almost down. Fléin appeared.

"Fléin, 10 points."

Anakron waited yet longer. The sun went down. "Valde is not yet here; 9 points as of this moment, subtract one for lateness."

He turned to the others. "There are cots in that shelter just across the square. Take your rest and be here at sunrise. There is much to do on the morrow."

The six who had arrived, made their way to the shelter the Grank Anakronist had indicated, talking amongst themselves, wondering where Valde was.

Anakron continued to wait for Valde.

[littlemanpoet]

Anakron Istkon Vayor was standing precisely where the six who had successfully completed the First Test, had left him.

"It is good to see that you are all (ahem) awake this morning," he said. "Valde Delego has not yet arrived. Since it is morning, I subtract one point more: current total, 8."

Anakron raised his staff, but Mardil cleared his throat.

"Grand Anakronist, sir...."

"Yes?"

"What difference do the points make?"

"It is a flexible system (by which Anakron meant that he had not decided exactly how the point system would add up in the end, nor precisely what total signified failure) by which, for each test, members of the Offending Party will be given a point total not less than one, not greater than ten.

"There are five primary Tests, but that does not mean that points will be given out only five times. If I determine that a particular circumstance warrants points given, they shall be given. Any questions on that?"

No one spoke.

"Now then." Anakron raised his staff and the Siamese Cat let out a particularly raucous yowl. The air rippled as if it was made of water, and revealed before the eyes of the Offending Party were ten vehicles: five Yellow PT Cruisers, and five Little French Cars With No Guts. The tires on each vehicle were in various states of near baldness. Beside each vehicle was a pile of ten spare tires.

"Lûgnût!" Anakron called.

Up walked the Orc who had given them instruction back at Cair Pairadocks.

"Congratulations," simpered Lûgnût, "to the six of you for having successfully avoided failure in the aforementioned goal, albeit with varying honours.*

"Now then. Your next test is to drive from here to Mount Doom Casino and Resort, by way of the Motorways and (ugh) Interstates that have been constructed in the chasms created by the passing of the Dark Lord (may his stay in the Void be fortuitously enibriated). You will be given 50 Trolls, in addition to that which you have not expended from your former allowance.

"You may select from any one of these ten vehicles displayed before you. You may also elect to form a group of two or more from amongst yourselves, in order to perhaps increase your chances of success. But do understand that, for the purposes of this Second Test, each fellow member of the Offending Party removes three spare tires from the amount with which you you may stock your vehicle. A PT Cruiser with only one driver can hold ten spare tires. A Little French Car with one driver can hold precisely three spare tires. By way of addendum, the PT Cruisers have tanks that hold twenty-five Trollbellies of petrol, and manage perhaps fifteen to twenty-five miles per trollbelly, depending upon conditions. By Contrast, the Little French Cars have tanks that hold eleven Trollbellies, and manage between thirty-five and forty-five miles per trollbelly. Choose wisely.

"I am given to understand that the entirety of you are in need of drivers' licenses. You must all take RETs, in the vehicle of your choice, under my observation.

"And now I will hand out the Trolls." Lûgnût handed out the money.

Anakron looked on dispassionately. "One thing my assistant failed to explain," he said presently, "is that the tanks are not full. Some have more petrol, some have less. So this is a race to see which of you will get the best deal at the start-off. Ready, Set, Find your car!"

The six were taken by surprise for the briefest moment, then tripped over each other trying to get out in front of the small pack.

*-all loquacious Orcs speak with British spellings...

[Celuien]

Think, think! PT Cruiser with twenty-five trollbellies of petrol at fifteen to twenty-five miles per trollbelly. Little French Car with eleven trollbellies at thirty-five and forty-five miles per trollbelly. What does that make? Panakeia tallied up the numbers. Fortunately, running a business had made her good at arithmetic.

So a PT Cruiser could go 625 miles on one tank, but the French Car only 495 at maximum. Furthermore, the Little French Car looked suspiciously flimsy, not much more than a golf cart, better suited to an easy jaunt over well-kept green fields than Mordor’s hazard ridden Interstates. And could the driver of a PT Cruiser even see the diminutive lawn-mower of a vehicle if she were to choose the French contraption? Undoubtedly, a PT Cruiser is the better choice. She ran ahead, unapologetically tripping over Fléin in her haste.

Spotting a particularly shiny PT Cruiser that appeared to be in better repair than the others, Panakeia rushed to the door, tossed her sample case into the rear, and sat behind the wheel. "I've never driven before. This should be an adventure," she said to no one in particular. Recalling that she had only seen Orcs piloting these particular means of transportation before, she added half jestingly, half in genuine worry, "I only hope I don't turn into an Orc."

Panakeia stared at the dizzying array of controls and dials in front of her. Watching the Orcs spin through the streets of Lûndûn, she assumed that driving was a simple thing. But now that she was the one sitting in the driver’s seat, she felt differently. She longed for a way out of this challenge. “A horse! A horse! My kingdom for a horse!” she cried, before sheepishly recalling that she neither had a kingdom nor any great skill as a rider. “How do you start this confounded thing?” she called. Lûgnût simpered and pointed to a rusted key dangling from the side of the steering wheel.

Panakeia turned the key. The SUV sprang into life with a roar and blast of exhaust. And suddenly, Panakeia felt herself changing. She watched in horror as her carefully polished fingernails lengthened into thick, yellow claws. Her hands grew rough and warty, and she was sure that she felt her ears lengthening. With no small amount of trepidation, she glanced up at the mirror fixed to the center of the Cruiser’s ceiling to find that she had indeed been changed into a particularly hideous Orc. Her wrinkles were now massive sagging folds in her face that no amount of Wrinkle-Away would cure, even if it were a genuine product.

With the physical transformation there also came a change in personality. Panakeia’s temper suddenly seemed to have been turned up from a low simmer to a full boil. She screeched at Anakron, her voice raspy and harsh, berating him in no uncertain terms for this less than satisfactory makeover.

“Only Orcs may drive automobiles. As it is necessary for you to drive, it is also necessary for you to be an Orc.” He turned to leave.

“But for how long?” she protested. Anakron didn’t hear her. He had already moved off and was speaking with another member of the Offending Party.

Lûgnût cleared his throat. “Prepare for your RET. This will be a brief exam, designed to assess your suitability for the undertaking of the task of operating a motor vehicle.” He opened a small book and began to read in a solemn voice. “Mordor Drivers’ Licensing Exam, Version Five A. Instructions. Cheating is strictly forbidden. This includes, but is not limited to, requesting assistance from other licensing candidates, requesting assistance from previously licensed drivers, or attempting to obtain copies of the exam in advance. For this reason, multiple versions of the exam are given, such that drivers are not necessarily tested in any consistent fashion. Is that clear?” Panakeia nodded. “Good. We shall proceed with the exam. One. Turn on your vehicle.” He paused. “As you have already completed this step, we will dispense with it. Two. Locate the steering wheel.” Panakeia placed her hands on the wheel. “Three. Move the vehicle to the location of your choice.” She fiddled with the various controls and pressed on a pedal on the floor. The Cruiser unexpectedly jolted backwards, knocking a pile of tires over of one of the Little French Cars. She slammed her foot onto the other pedal and the car stopped. Having no wish to run over anything (or anyone) else she quickly turned the key again and stepped out of the car.

Lûgnût sauntered up to her. “Congratulations! You have passed the RET. Sign here, please.” He pointed to a line at the bottom of a small rectangular card. The number 9 (or was it 6?) was printed in the corners along with a red diamond. There was another, larger red diamond in the card's center with her name neatly etched over top of it.

Panakeia scribbled her name on the line. “This is your drivers’ license. Keep it with you at all times. Do not lose it! Do not permit unauthorised drivers to use your license.” He handed Panakeia the card. “And now, if you will excuse me, I have several other exams to administer.” Lûgnût left her standing by the PT Cruiser. Now that she was out of the car, Panakeia slowly began transforming into her ordinary shape.

A moment later, all traces of Orcishness had left her. What a relief! At least it seems transformations are limited to driving. She laughed. Maybe that’s a good thing. No one will recognize me like that. I can drive as aggressively as any Orc, and no one will ever know it!

Panakeia snapped into action. She grabbed the nearest tire and proceeded to put it into her SUV, working on what she hoped would be an ample supply of spares for the journey ahead.

[littlemanpoet]

Just as the Offending Party were choosing vehicles, six yellow vans descended upon the scene, each bearing the words, Blimmin' Barblecashing Corpulation on their sides. Karís Mâtiktwít jumped out of the first one and started screaming orders at various and sundry goblins, orcs, uruks, and trolls, who ran around in a seemingly disorderly fashion, setting up kamuras, my crow phones, and other such paraphernalia.

One goblin each ran up to each of the Offending Party and pinned very tiny my crow phones to their lapels, earrings, strands of hair, or whatever was most ready to claw. Meanwhile these goblins lisped directions at the competitors, who, after the directions had been completed, had to wipe their faces clean from all the flying spit.

Here is an example of what they had had to go through:

"You have to weaw thith my cwow phone becauth you'we on the BBC weality tv thyow, an' if you don't weaw it, you'll be in vewy vewy big twoubow. Theiwill be a kamuwa twoll in youw caw at awl timeth. You may not go anywhewe without him, or you'll be in vewy big twoubow. Thith ith the biggetht hit of the theathon wight now, an' if you co-opewate, maybe thewe'th thomething it it fo' woo."

Six sets of eyes rolled and six pairs of hands rubbed six faces. As each member set out, sure enough, a BBC van followed each one.

[Feanor of the Peredhil]

Alli had slept through the night and woke up rather irritably the next morning. She had no idea where in Mordor she was but the tent in which she seemed to be located was full of sleeping Offenders. She resisted the urge to kick the prone Mardil (barely) and wasn't all together happy with Sai either, though she at least felt no violent inclinations toward her.

Leaving the tent, she sat shivering and watched the sun rise, taking deep soothing breaths. She wanted to go back and find out what it was that Roggie had been trying to tell her but she had no idea where she was or how to find him. A few tears rolled down her cheeks and she felt lonelier than usual, even for being in Mordor. She was in the middle of a terrifying new city with nobody for company but strangers that were prejudiced against her friends. Roggie was hurt and wingless and she couldn't do anything to put him to rights. Mardil, whom she had just been starting to like, had allowed her to be drugged. She missed her family and her friends from home... she really just wanted to go home. She sat on the cold ground hugging her knees, crying softly as the sun broke the horizon, staining the dirty grey sky an almost pretty shade of dirty salmon. Suddenly she heard a noise.

Anakron stood before her. "Up. There are things to be done." He walked away as the rest of the Offending Party began to gather, all looking remarkably bleary eyed. Alli hastily rubbed her eyes free of all traces of upset and joined the group once more, pointedly ignoring Sai and especially Mardil. They both looked at her concernedly but she pretended, hopefully convincingly, to be far more interested in the state of her fingernails. She picked at her chipped black nail polish. They probably think I'm some annoyingly weak and angsty emo-kid or something. Well let them. See if I care.

Of course she did care... they just didn't need to know it. It was easier to lie than to admit that she was vulnerable. Now Anakron gave his instructions. Alli looked at the selection of vehicles and decided instantly. The moment he stopped speaking, she pushed her way to a little French car with no guts, loaded it with spares, and opened the door. There was a man sitting in the passenger's seat holding a kamura. "No freaking way." she muttered. "Get out of my car." she ordered. "You aren't coming."

Anakron tapped her on the shoulder and sneered aristocratically down at her. "Yes. He is. And this van will be following."

She set her jaw, about to argue the point when she decided against it. She got into the driver's seat (turning orcish immediately) and apparently from nowhere, Lûgnût appeared. He didn't speak. Alli looked at him quizzically for a moment before shaking her head and ignoring him completely.

Now what do I do first? she thought, the kamura lightly humming just enough to annoy her. There was a small red light on the side of it that kept flashing. She felt the urge to throw it out the window when inspiration struck. Well... first I must get my driver's license. She put her seat-belt on and adjusted the mirrors. She turned the key in the ignition and to her surprise, it actually worked. And then it didn't. The car died where it sat. Jumping out of it (and transforming back into her usual form), she fumbled with the thing until the hood popped open. A rather large amount of smoke that seemed to convey the idea that something wasn't quite working right poured upward like a demented coffee pot defying gravity. She coughed and her eyes watered. She had no idea what to do so she kicked the car a few times and, much to her even bigger surprise, the smoke cleared and the car began to run smoothly in very unorthodox circles around the parking lot. She assumed that she'd better go catch it, but before she could, Lûgnût descended upon her with a small piece of paper-like substance with a picture of a suicidal monarch decorating it. Alli grinned, thinking along political lines, and then realized that her grin was a bit maniacal, not at all appropriate, and that if she got caught snickering over regicide, even if she escaped from Mordor, she'd be locked up. That sobered her and she noted that her name, Alumìne Umfuìl, was emblazoned on it with her date of birth, her eye color, and a lot of truly pointless information such as her favorite brand of mobile phone and the name of the last boy she had after-date paranoia with, and it all typed neatly in bubbly comic sans lettering.

"Your licence, madame." offered Lûgnût with a bow. Alli had no idea just what she had done to deserve her driver's licence. That was ridiculously easy, she thought, now putting her brilliant scheme into action. She went to the passenger side door (on the right of the car, no less), and pulled the filmer out of it. She then forcefully led him to the driver's side and shoved him in front of the wheel, taking the kamura from him. "You drive." As he began to protest, she whispered a long and quickly spoken message into his ear about the state of the company he kept and how he'd be judged by it, his former profession as a scary professor, the fact that he makes his kids practice job interviews with him, and the way she had seen the used handkerchief in his pocket and wasn't afraid to tell the world about it. His eyes grew wide and he handed her the kamura without hesitation. She climbed un-orcishly into the passenger's seat, happy that since she wasn't driving, she wasn't an orc. He climbed in and his body took grotesque form. She flicked the switch of the kamura and began talking into it as the little car peeled out of the parking lot that had been paved once paradise was destroyed, spraying Mardil with mud, and jumping a few curbs. Ignoring the bumps and jostles, and happy to get away from her companions, she spoke.

"You want reality?" she asked the kamura, ignoring the road. "This is reality. My companions are idiots. Not all of them... that Valde is pretty hot. Sai's a nice girl. But the rest? Morons. Especially Mardil. I couldn't be happier than if I never saw him again. And Anakron... where does he get off telling us what to do? He's probably being paid by Gondor's oppresive government. Have you seen the way he represses us? Some watery tart probably jumped out of a lagoon and handed him that staff. Real legit basis for leadership, that." Alli turned the kamura to the road and took a few seconds feed of the landscape. Craters broke the ground every few feet. "The reality of life here is that it sucks. You want beauty? Look for stars at night through the clouds that never leave this place." She pointed the kamura at the moodily dark sky. She then turned the kamura back toward herself as the engine began to sputter. "And I'll bet that you are all idealistic enough to believe that even in Mordor, love can flourish. Well you're all a bunch of idiots too. Love is for the people who are too weak-minded to accept that life sucks and then you die. There always has to be something for you to strive for. Well quit striving. Following your dreams will get you alone and friendless here." There was a pregnant pause in her bitter monologue. "[deleted]." she muttered. "The car just died." She turned off the kamura and got out of the passenger's side, popping the hood open again. This time the smoke was followed by flames. The kamuraman got out of the car (returning to human form) and yelled for Alli to run. For the first time in her life, she didn't question this.

She grabbed her bag and sprinted just in time to be propelled upward, outward, and finally downward into the unforgiving ground by the explosion of the small car whose full tank of gas had just decided that being trapped in a tank wasn't what it felt like doing. As the bald tires kept burning, Alli glared at the vehicle, the kamuraman, and the world. "[deleted]" she muttered and sat moodily on a large rock, contemplating what to do next. The yellow van pulled up and set up a tripod, recording with few visual flaws, the girl sitting. One kamuraman offered her the yellow van to drive, but just then, the transmission fell off of it. Alli couldn't be certain, but she was pretty sure transmissions were important.

[the guy who be short]

One thought rushed through Fléin's mind: PT Cruiser! PT Cruiser! PT Cruiser! Well, perhaps two words, then. Growing up in a business family, the calculations had been performed in his head almost instantaneously, and he headed towards the purple Cruiser as fast as he could - the colour of nobility, that was for him!

That idiotic charlatan, Panakeia of the Dubiously Authentic Face, tripped over him before rushing on. Luckily, this only served to push him forward - he was the third to reach a car, and rushed into it as quickly as possible.

He looked to his left and was startled by an orc. He shuddered, then turned to look in the back seat. There was another orc there, with an odd machine.

An expectant silence followed, with Fléin looking pointedly at the orcs in turn.

After about three minutes, it was clear the orcs weren't getting the message.
"Well...?" he ventured.

"Well what?" replied the orc in the passenger seat.

"What by Mahal's beard are you two doing here?" the Dwarf roared. "Did I order two imbecilic, debased, disgusting life-forms with this car?" The night hadn't been a particularly restful one; he had been tense about the next task, and having to share a car with two orcs definitely wasn't making his day.

"My, what a shocking display of profane prejudice, if ever I saw one... I should tell Anakron, I should. You Mordorian-haters disgust me... we're people too, and deserve as many rights as you do. Probably more."

"Well ruddy go and tell the freak! Get out of my car! You're not wanted here, you... you Orc!"

The creature hissed at him. "Fine then... fine, I'm going. We'll see soon enough... yes, you'll see." He snickered, threw a piece of paper at Fléin, and exited the car. "Do... enjoy your ride" he smirked, and went off.

"Good riddance," Fléin muttered under his breath. He picked the little slip of paper up - apparently it was a driving licence, with his name and everything. That was horrendously easy... no wonder there were so many accidents in Mordor, if all you had to do to obtain a licence was roar at an orc.

The very thought made him chuckle. He turned around, in far better spirits, to the orc in the back seat, whence came a low murmuring sound, presumably from the kamura. The orc's expression caused him to break out into a roar of laughter.

"I'm not going to bite your head off," he exhaled once it had passed. "What do you need then? Will a shout get rid of you too?"

But apparently it was not to be so. The kamuraman would stay. Fléin wouldn't let that bother him. "Stay in the back and stay quiet, will you? I don't much feel up to conversation with an Or- Dorian. Mordorian." With that, he turned back to the wheel.

He frowned a little. His knowledge of cars was hazy at best. Pedals... there were pedals to make you go forward, pedals to make you stop. But... how was he to reach them? These cars weren't designed for Khazad, that was certain. And if he couldn't reach the pedals, he couldn't drive... A fleeting thought of attaching little sticks to his feet rushed through his head before he disposed of it.

Well, he could deal with that later. He lined himself up, and placed both hands on the wheel.

Something like an electric shock passed through his body. He convulsed a little, then lay still a little, then yelled a lot.

Well, at least the transformation had leant him a little height. He noted with glee that he could reach all three pedals. Perhaps he could get used to being a goblin.

[Durelin]

Ever since he had stepped over the ‘threshold,’ Valde knew that his ‘hero’s journey’ would undoubtedly have more than three ‘trials and tribulations.’ And whoever determined that a hero only experienced one ‘abyss’ had no knowledge of a true tragic hero. Once his story was recorded in a diary even more heart-wrenching than any young girl could write; was adapted to the screen over thirteen times, inspiring both a tv show and hundreds of young emo teens to kill themselves; was translated into over thirty different languages; and made millions of dollars off an ‘adopt a tragic hero’ campaign, Valde would show the world.

He was now experiencing one long abyss. His tale had darkened just as the day did, for it was late evening when he fell right out of his leading role in Spamlet, and it grew dark, as the world is wont to do at night. The stars were no comfort to him, and indeed he only watched their brightness and yearned to be like them, a large ball of burning gas that no one could ignore the death of. He wandered in what he had been told was the general direction of ‘Edge-where,’ and stopped only once at a particular shop.

It was the sign out front that had intrigued him: Elenbucks. He spent several moments looking at a small Art of the Modern Orc exhibit, making an effort to seem like he knew how to appreciate art and trying not to see the shady looking hobbits in the corner smoking pipeweed, before he ordered a drink: A ‘Mírdain Mocha’ something, for 4 trolls. Taking his drink with him, he soon discovered some after effects of ingesting an Elenbucks drink. Sleep did not seem like such a good idea anymore. He felt full of energy, and indeed he found that his pace quickened and the depressing poetry in his head was playing pinball. “Is this the way to ‘Edge-where,’” he would ask every passer-by, pointing in a different direction every time. Some answered him, but most did not, seeing his dilated pupils and suspicious looking large black cloak and practically breaking into a run to escape being seen with him. The orcs in the dark alleys were normally nicer to him than anyone else.

Just after dawn, the Lead Tragic Actor did arrive in ‘Edge-where,’ in a very tragic state indeed. The effects of his Mírdain Mocha something were wearing off rapidly, and he was feeling the results of a sleepless night spent walking the streets of the city. It really doesn’t sleep…no wonder it looks the way it does, Valde thought upon inspecting himself quickly in the hazy reflection in a window before stumbling slowly up to where the rest of the Offending Party, looking much more rested and well-groomed, were hopping into ugly cars and turning into equally as ugly orcs. Valde hoped that whatever car he chose, the colour of his skin might match the interior, knowing how un-politically correct that sounded.

He was making a show of being as the injured bull, weak but still full of anger and pride, doing his best to hide his injury, and fueled by the rage of being brought down to the level of the maimed. Certainly his pride was maimed at being last, and he clutched his heart as the Anakron announced that he had only received seven points. Strange that it would be such a number, though. He considered the dramatic irony of it all, if it were a play. Everyone would know that seven would be his death number, as prophesized by… His thoughts were broken by Lûgnût handing him a pile of Trolls and his driver’s license. It seemed the orc was getting sick of administering the RET, as he only waited for Valde to show that he could see the bag of money being waved in his face to determine that the man was up for driving.

Hopping into a hideous yellow PT Cruiser, he groaned as a kamura was shoved in his face. He quickly checked himself in the rear view mirror to see that he did not match the interior, and that he had retained his large, brooding eyebrows. He was a little more than half displeased, much like a cup is more than half empty and not almost half full. He eyed the kamuraman suspiciously. After waiting several moments for the kamuraman to cue him, he slowly started the engine after several more hesitations, and swerved away from the curb, switching on what he believed to be some kind of GPS system. Still there was no cue. “What is the point of this…reality show?”

“To please the masses.”

“Then it is drama that you want! And that is what I can give you, my good kamuraman!” He began to recite his tale, and was happy to oblige in giving the kamuraman several handkerchiefs to blow his nose on which he carried solely as a sacrifice of tragedy. “And so, I am here now, struggling to come to amends with my tortured past, and find my true love in a strange new environment after I gamble away my family fortune and look for a way to redeem myself and my honour.”

“But what about the contest?”

“What do you mean, ‘what about the contest?’ Do you have so little insight that you cannot predict the outcome of a typically and superficially dramatic plot? I am going to redeem myself by winning the contest!”

“What about your true love?”

“Oh, yes, that… Well…”

“There have been rumours of Alumìne Umfuìl taking a certain interest in you…”

“Oh really? Well, then, I guess we might as well make it her. Is there a jealous lover involved, by any chance?”

“We could produce one for you, perhaps.”

“Please do.”

Valde then realized he was driving on the sidewalk again, and quickly picked a white line on the black pavement to follow. He heard a thud and a scream. “Did you get that on the kamura?!” he shouted at the kamuraman, conjuring up fake tears in order to better wallow in self pity upon injuring a helpless…child, cat, dog, whatever he felt like making it. He ignored the kamuraman when he said “It was the spare tire you were supposed to take with you, sir…”

[the phantom]

After Anakron was finished explaining the newest challenge, Mardil turned to Sai and asked, "Are you going to follow me?"

"Do you know the way?" she inquired.

"Yes."

"Then of course I'll ride with you, Mardil."

"I didn't say 'ride with me'- I said 'follow me'."

"But- I don't want to drive!" protested Sai. "The roads of Mordor are murder, and I am not an experienced driver!"

"Don't worry about that," said Mardil dismissively. "Just grab a PT Cruiser and pass your test. I'm sure you're good enough to do that."

"You don't understand, Mardil, I can't handle a Mordor Interstate! I'll probably die!"

"You don't have to worry about the Interstate. Trust me," he said with a wink.

"You seem to have some sort of plan, but I really wish you'd tell me so I wouldn't have to worry any more!" said Sai, feeling a bit relieved but at the same time annoyed with Mardil for teasing her with hope but not revealing what he was up to.

"The fact that I have a plan should be reason enough not to worry," countered the ever arrogant Mardil. "Now go hop in a Cruiser."

Mardil began walking over to one of the PTCs, but before he was halfway there, Alli's little French Car peeled out of the parking lot and somehow managed to spray mud on the back of his cloak despite the fact that the parking lot was paved.

Mardil removed his cloak and grabbed a passing reality tv crewman. "Get this cloak cleaned and bring it back here and wait for me. I'll be leaving but I'll be back within the hour." The crewman hesitated for a second, wondering if Mardil was allowed to give him orders. Mardil grabbed the man's tie and yanked him forward. "I am one of the stars of your program- THE star most likely, if you judge by who is likely to be the most entertaining to watch. Now, go get this cleaned- NOW!"

The man scurried off to do Mardil's bidding and Mardil continued over to the PTC he wanted. Upon reaching it, he opened the driver's door and lowered himself into the seat. A tiny orc with a clipboard was sitting in the passenger seat. "Ready for your driving test?" he squeaked.

"Certainly, but I thought it would be Lûgnût administering it," answered Mardil.

"He's busy doing her test," said the orc, pointing at the Cruiser Sai had just gotten into.

"Okay, let's get this over with," said Mardil as he turned the key. The car started just fine, but Mardil was disappointed to see that the tank was only two-thirds full. "Just a minute," said Mardil to the orc.

Mardil jumped out of the car and trotted over to the next PTC. He opened the door, leaned in, and turned the key. "Ha ha! This one is nearly full!" he thought to himself. "Come over to this car!" he shouted at the orc. "I'll take my test here!"

"You already passed!" shouted the little orc as he climbed down out of the other car.

"What?" said Mardil in disbelief.

"You know how to get in and out of a car and read the gas gauge- that's plenty good to get a license," explained the orc as he approached, holding Mardil's license in his hand.

"Are you kidding? That's lunacy!" shouted Mardil. "It's no wonder there are so many accidents and traffic jams- any idiot can get a license!"

"Are you saying that the driving test is too easy?" asked the orc, who seemed rather shocked. "I know several people who had to take their test more than once before they passed it."

"That doesn't mean the test was hard," said Mardil. "It means that they are stupid."

"My daughter had to take the test three times- are you calling her stupid?!" screamed the little orc, stamping his feet with rage.

"Yes," said Mardil. "Now, give me my license."

"Forget it! You don't get one!" With that, the orc turned around and stomped away.

Suddenly, he tripped and fell. He looked back at his foot, and saw that it was pinned firmly to the ground by one of Mardil's knives. "Yahhhh!!" he yelled, as the pain finally reached him through his slow neurological pathways.

"I passed my test," said Mardil as he approached, "So give me my license." Mardil pressed his foot down on the orc's neck and held his hand out to receive the license. With a look of sheer hatred, the orc handed it over. After examining it to make sure it was legit, Mardil removed his foot from the orc's neck and his knife from the orc's foot and strutted over to Sai, who was finished with her test as well.

"Load your spares while I talk to Anakron," he told her. "After you see me leave, wait two minutes or so and then drive half a mile down that road over there. When you see my car, park next to it. It will be on the right side of the street in an empty lot next to a used car dealership. I spotted it yesterday evening when we emerged from that hole in the park. It's right across the street from it. And also, don't mention to the reality tv people that we are going to be traveling together. Otherwise, they might think they only need to send one van with us."

"What difference does that make?" asked Sai.

"You'll see," replied Mardil, as evasive as ever.

------------

"You haven't been overly impressive thus far, Lord Mardil," said Anakron as he walked with Mardil towards his PTC.

"What are you talking about? I didn't spend any of my trolls, I arrived on time, and I rescued a damsel while I was at it," stated Mardil.

"Why did you bother with her? It was an unnecessary detour. What if something would've gone wrong? What if a stray shot had caved the tunnel in on top of you? What if you would've stumbled when the beast came after you? There are many things that could've gone wrong. You should've gotten to Edge-Where and left her alone."

"But- she was my companion. She trusted me to get her to Edge-Where, and I was just keeping up my end of the bargain!" argued Mardil.

"Your first priority should've been yourself," said Anakron firmly.

"It was," said Mardil.

"Good," said Anakron, nodding his head. "But Mardil, I have to ask- you say you rescued her out of a sense of duty, but are you sure you didn't do it because she is attractive?" asked Anakron.

"Well... I don't know. Maybe that did make me more willing to rescue her, but-"

"Would you have gone to those lengths to rescue Fléin or Wilhelmina if they had been your companions, or would you have, in the name of prudence, left them to their fate?"

After a pause, Mardil answered, "I don't know."

"Listen to me, Mardil," said Anakron, turning Mardil's head with his staff and looking him in the eye. "The rescue was either the right thing to do or the wrong thing to do. If it was wrong, then you were lacking in wisdom when you rescued Alli. If it was right, then you are lacking in nobility when you say you might not have rescued someone else."

Mardil turned away and began to load his ten spare tires into his vehicle. Anakron put a hand on his shoulder and said, "Either way, you have fallen from what you once were. I realize that fate has been cruel, but if you let it make you less than what you should be, your enemies have triumphed."

------------

Mardil shifted the car into drive. As the shifter clicked into place, a tremor ran through Mardil's body. He watched in fascination as his skin began changing to a grayish green. His hair became dark and course, and his ears grew points. "Well, I guess that answers the question about orc ears," he said to the cameraman in the passenger seat as he pulled out of the parking lot. A yellow BBC van followed him.

"Grand Anakronist!" said Lûgnût. "Mardil is going the wrong way."

"I'm sure he knows what he's doing," said Anakron.

[littlemanpoet]

Back at Edge-Where, Anakron considered the state of the Tests. These Offending Party members just had it too easy, with road construction at an ebb. He would have to have a talk with old AzFalt, the Orc in charge of MRC (Mordorian Road Complications). In the meantime, he would have to take matters into his own highly capable hands.

Anakron raised his staff. The Siamese Cat began purring with pleasure.

"Konvay the Dweomer!" Anakron said. The Cat yowled gleefully. Fog thick as pea soup descended upon Lûndûn and all points within fifty miles of the metropolitan area. It stayed for hours. And it got cold; not freezing cold, but only barely.

[Celuien]

"10." Panakeia had just finished lugging the last of her spare tires into her lime green PT Cruiser. She brushed a stray piece of hair, still pea soup tinted, out of her eyes. Hard work that was. Best be setting off. She pulled at her hair again, shaking her head. I have a quick stop to make along the way.

As she was about to climb back into the car, pandemonium descended upon her once again. A bright yellow Blimmin' Barblecashing Corpulation van pulled into the lot, tires squealing. It cut a sharp turn to come directly in front of and perpendicular to her Cruiser. Panakeia was blocked in.

A tiny orc came flying out of the van and grabbed one of Panakeia's necklaces. He attached a my crow phone to the golden chain.

"What do you think you're doing? That's no pendant. Even if it is, it's ugly. Take it off!" Panakeia tried to yank the bird-shaped black object off of her jewelry and hurl it to the ground, but the orc snatched her hands away.

"Dhoun't thouth the my cwow phone," he scolded. "Woo have to weaw it for the weality tv thyow or we canh't hwer whath you'we saywing." A troll lumbered over with a kamura on his shoulder. The orc went on. "Dhith ith Bewt, youw kamuwa twow. He'ww wide whith woo an' woll the fiwim." Bert pulled open the passenger-side door and took a seat.

"Now just a second, don't I have anything to say about this? I don't want to be on any reality show."

The orc pulled out an official document and waved it under Panakeia's nose. "Ith's parth of the deaw for you to be in the Offending Pawty. Thayth tho wighth hwer. You have to be on the thyow, ow ewthe it'th vewy big twoubow for you. But of couwse woo wanth to be on the thyow. Ewryone wathes it. Woo'll be famouth."

"Famous, eh?" That sounded more appealing. "Well, maybe we can work something out."

The orc sprayed on. "Thath the thpiwit. See woo awound." He got back into the BBC van. It pulled into position behind the Cruiser and made ready to follow.

Panakeia's face was soaked. She stood for a moment, wiping her face clean. Then she turned around, hopped into the driver's seat and turned the key in the ignition. She instantly transformed into an orc.

Now that Panakeia was expecting the transformation, it was almost welcome. She turned to Bert. "Stay out of my way," she hissed through jagged yellow jaws, "and we'll get along fine." She slammed her foot down on the accelerator and sped out of the parking lot.

[Feanor of the Peredhil]

Alli was terribly cold. Her work clothes were not very warm as she was usually standing next to shadowy creatures of flame and perceived [but not really existant since they're just misunderstood] malice. Her cloak had been in the car that exploded and most of the kamura crew had gone off walking a while ago to find a sketchy repair shop to see if there was anything that could be done about the precariously dangling transmission. Alli tried to get warm by sitting by the tire fire but the acrid smell of burning rubber turned her stomach. The dratted fog that had all but blinded her meant that she ran the risk of being run over. Well... at least in this case, this stupid reality television crew also stands the risk of being hit. They had begun to ask her questions. She had begun to give smart alecky answers.

"Miss Umfuil, how does it feel to have been Assigned to Mordor?"

"Like a walk in the park, dear man. There is nothing more appealing to me than being stranded on the edge of a dirty road in clinging fog while trying to stay warm by the loving caresses of heat coming from the tire fire which is all that is left of the small car that I was travelling in that so recently exploded."

"Is it true what they've been saying about you and Valde?"

"That I'm pregnant with Valde Who Be Short? Of course." The man's jaw dropped. "You wouldn't know it though, looking at my fantastically lean and fit figure. We've got an appointment with the Jerry Springer Show soon though... I'm supposed to be telling Valde live on the air that not only is the child not his, but it's also a figment of my imagination. Sigmund Freud will appear shortly thereafter to deal with my neuroses. A bit later he'll be guest conducting the band on Saturday Night Live, but they may disinvite him due to his fraudulent criticisms that the flutists have pianist envy." The man picked his jaw up from the dirty ground and reattached it, complaining all the while about faulty manufacturing.

"There have been rumours that you have feelings for Lord Mardil II. Is there any basis to this gossip?"

Alli blanched for a moment. "Of course there's no truth to it."

Now she left the fire and began to wander down the road. She was done with this interview. The questions had ceased to be a source of entertainment. If she was going to get to Mount Doom Casino and Resort, she certainly couldn't do it moping on the side of a road or waiting for help to arrive. Shivering against the damp cold, Alli walked away from the group. A lone kamuraman followed her. She duly ignored him in favor of wallowing in self pity.

[Kath]

Sai stared in horror at the car she was supposed to be driving. She'd never even driven something the size one of the little French cars never mind one of these huge PT Cruisers! As she stepped towards it, the orc named Lûgnût leapt out from the other side, making Sai jump and causing her to fall off the pavement and into the car. Shooting her arms out she managed to catch herself on the wing mirror and was just regaining her balance when it snapped off. Horrified at her seemingly wanton destruction Sai tried to reattach it, but was stopped by the orc who was smiling broadly. Well, she assumed he was smiling, though it did look more like he was about to cough up a hairball, or very possibly an entire cat. Having not been here that long Sai wasn't exactly sure what was included in an orcs diet, though she was quite certain it would be nothing she would choose to eat herself. Nevertheless he was smiling and taking the broken mirror from her hands he exchanged it for a piece of paper with her name on it and some keys.

"What's this?" she asked in confusion.

"Your drivers license. There you see your name, which you will need to sign under, and there's your details and . . ."

"Wait - what? How can I have passed the test? I didn't even get in the car! I just broke it!"

"But you have understood perfectly the principle of driving on Mordorian roads. You want to get to where you're going so to, well, Mordor, with anyone else! It doesn't matter whether you see them or not, though you do tend to get in more trouble with the insurance people if you crash and you did see them. So, to keep premiums down, no wing mirrors mean you didn't see them and so you can't be at fault. Makes perfect sense!"

Sai just stared at him, trying to work out if she had understood anything the orc had just said. Apparently ignorance was the best policy on the roads, and she decided it might be the best policy right now as well because if that was the test then ridiculously easy was about the understatement of the millennium. Forcing her face into a smile she took the piece of paper and scribbled her name on it before heading back over to Mardil. Everything going on around her right now was just too confusing for her to want to even try and figure it out. She'd not been in a situation where she was dependent wholly upon herself before (thanks to those neurotic and over protective parents of hers) and she wasn't too keen to begin her independence in the middle of Mordor, especially not with this cold fog that had just rolled in.

She returned to her car after a quick word with him and was just about to begin loading her spare tyres into it when she felt a hand grab her arm. She was whirled around and as she turned a wire was slipped around her neck and something small and black was attached to it. Batting hands away from her body she backed away and bumped right into a man with a large black box sitting on his shoulder.

"Who are you? What do you want? And what is this thing" she cried out, lifting up the wire on her neck and pointing at it.

"We, young lady, are your kamura crew, and that is a my crow phone. "

My what? Thought Sai, before remembering Mardil's words about the reality crews. She knew she should do as he asked, well, as he told her. Arrogant and bossy he may be, but it wasn't like she had anyone better right now. She wasn't too keen though on the idea of having a group of strange men in the car with her. She hated that even now her mother's warnings about not getting into a car with strangers kept ringing in her ears, and that (as well as the mans referring to her as 'young lady') gave her the courage to resolutely ignore her doubts and make the most of this situation.

"And you are supposed to be following me and filming all I do right?"

Receiving nods from those around her she smiled triumphantly, before sitting down on the edge of the pavement and declaring,

"Well, I'm not going to be going anywhere until all those spare tyres are stacked neatly in the boot, so you'd best get on with it."

Realising they'd been had the kamura crew began to argue, but Sai sat silently examining a most interesting puddle and, noting they had a stubborn one on their hands, the crew reluctantly acceded to her demand. As they began heaving tyres into th car, Sai looked up again and reflectively enquired as to the availability of food. When no answer was forthcoming she sighed quietly and stood up. Theatrically raising her arm to her head she threw it across her eyes and fell gently to the floor, crying out that she had low blood sugar, and that if she didn't get food this instant she would surely not make it through the next test. Lowering her arm she saw a packet of something heading her way at a fair pace, and she snatched it before it could hit her. Barely looking at the label (which said Pronged Cockerel Tail crisps) she ripped it open and guzzled the first morsel of food she'd had in the past 48 hours or so.

Just as she finished her breakfast and her new crew finished loading the tyres, Sai saw Mardil peel away in his Cruiser. Standing up she meandered over to the car, looking as though she was going in no particular direction. Some of the crew turned when she stood up, and she waited until they had gone back to their tasks and closed the boot before wrenching open the drivers door, leaping inside and slamming on the central locking system (helpfully labelled with a big red key sign). Her transformation into an orc was surprising but not painful, and she was quite pleased with the fingernails she developed, having long suffered from the bad habit of biting her own nails. Looking at the encrusted dirt and who knew what else that was on her hands now, she thought she might just have been cured of that particular problem. The crew left stranded outside banged on the window in indignation and Sai rolled it down just enough to yell back at them.

"If you want to film me you're just going to have to catch me - if you can!"

She then turned the key in the ignition as she had seen Mardil do when he set off and slammed her feet down onto whichever pedals happened to be in reach. The car jerked backwards, knocking the crew away and bumping into the kamura van behind it with an audible and destructive sounding crunch. It wasn't exactly purposeful on Sai's part, but she certainly hoped it would mean it took them a little longer to catch up. She was shy enough about small camera's, let alone these ginormous kamuras! Several seconds later she found the forward pedal, and sped away, learning to steer as she went, though not fast enough for the unfortunate lamp post on her right which received a severe dent as she screeched past, and the even more unfortunate pedestrian who had to leap halfway up the now bent lamp post to avoid being crushed between it and the car.

After a while she saw Mardil's Cruiser parked up ahead, and had a slight panic attack as she tried to work out how to brake. Lifting her feet off all the pedals had something of a slowing effect, but she was saved from the need to to anything else by the handily placed bin bags that had been haphazardly thrown around the place but had ended up on the swerving route she was taking. Whatever they had in them was strong enough to withstand the impact of the large car and she skidded to a halt.

Throwing open the door she collapsed out onto the ground and debated with herself as to who was going to turn up first, the crew or Mardil, as she slowly returned to her normal self.

[Encaitare]

While the others rushed off to pick a vehicle, Wilhelmina stayed where she was.

"You don't seem in much of a hurry," Anakron commented.

"I'm not going anywhere those obnoxious kamuramen are going to follow," she said, crossing her arms. "I've had more than my fair share of reality television stardom."

"Oh, we'we weady to fowwow wou into the Void and back, Mth. Bwokenback," lisped an orc who was tottering under his heavy kamura.

"The show comes with the chance to get out of this wretched land, as does getting your license," said Anakron. "You do want to leave, don't you?"

Wilhelmina glared at him and stomped off to where the cars were parked. She looked between the PT Cruisers and the Little French Cars in dismay. She'd developed a dislike for Cruisers after what had happened in Lûndûn, but she'd also had a bad experience with some frog legs once, and therefore was not inclined to drive a French vehicle.

"Frog legs are disgusting," she muttered as she selected a blue Cruiser.

"What wath that?" asked the kamura-orc, who had followed her.

"It wath nothing," Wilhelmina replied, feeling very spiteful. Curse you, Karís Mâtiktwít, and curse your stupid show, too! she thought. Fortunately, Lûgnût approached the car, which kept the other Orc from asking any stupid questions.

"If you would please step into your chosen vehicle, your RET shall commence momentarily," he said mildly. Wilhelmina got into the car; the kamura-orc clambered into the passenger seat, and she tried to ignore him, as well as the fact that she was turning into an Orc herself. She looked out the window at Lûgnût, but all he did was glance at a clipboard and wave his hand in a noncommital direction. Wilhelmina took this to mean that she was supposed to prove that she could actually make the car function. She stepped on the gas and steered dangerously close to a kamuraman, who was forced to jump out of the way; this, however, might have been done on purpose.

In her rearview mirror, she could see Lûgnût beckoning for her to stop. She got out of the car as he approached. "Very good, very good," he said. "Please sign here," he said, handing her a small card with a hastily drawn sketch on it that looked like a stick figure with a large hat. "Now that you have your licence, you may depart and make for your destination."

"If you think I'm driving for a second time, you must be daft," she said, marching right past him towards Fléin's car, hoping he wouldn't mind taking a passenger.

[the phantom]

As Sai exited her car, Mardil came jogging up out of the fog. "Glad you could make it, Sai. Did you see..." Just then Mardil noticed the damage to Sai's car. "Well, my car has a leaky gas tank, but mine came that way. Yours- I don't remember it looking like that. Did you have a bit of trouble getting here?"

"I told you, I'm not a very experienced driver," said Sai. As she spoke, Mardil's TV crew came up behind him. "So, you didn't lose them?" asked Sai.

"We aren't supposed to lose them. If we purposefully lose them for long without their permission, they can appeal to Anakron to have one of our points removed. For your sake, I hope you didn't completely lose your crew, Sai." But Sai had not lost them. They pulled up behind her car as Mardil finished speaking.

Mardil stood thinking while Sai's crew got out of their van. "That damage on your car- did the cameras catch it?"

"I'm pretty sure they did. It was mostly in the parking lot where we started," said Sai.

"Good, good," said Mardil, nodding his head. "Hold on one second. I want to check your car's mileage." Mardil opened the door and peeked in quickly. "Very good. Now, let's get indoors out of this cold fog."

"Into this used car dealership?" asked Sai.

"Yes," said Mardil.

As soon as they entered, an overweight man who reeked of cigarette smoke greeted them. "Hello! Hello, my friends, and welcome to Big Neil’s Steal a Deal, where you can find the best deals on cars of all makes and models. We have-"

"Cut the spiel and let's deal, Neil," interrupted Mardil.

"Of course! Of course! Come on into my office, and we'll get started right away."

"Go on in and wait for me. I'll only be a minute," Mardil told the dealer. Mardil turned to Sai and whispered in her ear, "I'm going to get us a better vehicle."

"How?" she asked.

"I'm going to sell both of ours, and one of the TV crew's vans."

"Hey, you guyth," said Roger, the leader of the crew assigned to Mardil. "We can't heaw what you thayin', tho could you thpeak a wittle wouduh?"

"Leave us alone for two seconds, will you?" said Mardil. "After this, Sai is going to sit down and tell you her life story."

"But, I don't want-" said Sai, but Mardil continued.

"If you're going to follow us during our escape, you'll want to do a focus episode on each of us. Let today be your day to get the story behind Sai. She'll talk to you about her life while I talk to this salesman. And, seeing as my dealings won't be very interesting, this is a perfect time to focus on Sai. That sounds good, doesn't it?"

"Yeth, yeth- I think my both ith gonna wike that. Okay, cwew- evewybody thet up ovuh deh fo' da intevoo. Evewyone 'thept you," he said, pointing at a geeky looking orc with large glasses and pants pulled up to his belly button. "You thtay with Mawdiw."

While Roger was giving his orders, Mardil and Sai continued their conversation, each with a hand covering the microphones that were hanging down on their chests.

Sai spoke first. "How are you going to sell one of the vans?"

"I snatched the key out of the driver's pocket before you got here. Just don't tell anyone. Anyway, once I sell the vehicles, we'll have more than enough money to buy us something much better."

"Okay, that sounds good, I guess. Are you going to buy it here?"

"No, no. I'm going to buy a new one from down the street. But don't worry- it won't take me long. Just keep the crew with you. I'll get rid of my guy long enough to make a deal for the van, and then he can come with me to get our new vehicle. I'll be back with something good within thirty minutes." With that, Mardil turned and made his way towards Neil’s office with the geeky looking camera-orc in tow.

Neil welcomed Mardil into his office and sat down behind his desk. "Now then, you said you're feelin' like dealin'?"

"That is correct, I- oh, I completely forgot to get the keys to my Cruiser! They're out in the car. What's your name, orc?"

"Orckel, thir. Thteven Orckel," replied the nerdy orc.

"Orckel, I want you to go get my keys and bring them back. I can't remember where I left them- someplace in the vicinity of the front seat, I'm sure. I have to have the keys to hand over to this gentleman if I expect to sell him the car. Hurry up and get them for me!"

Orckel looked a bit unsure, so Mardil added, "I promise nothing interesting will happen in here while you are gone."

That was enough to convince the orc, and soon he and his camera were out the door. Mardil shut it behind him.

"Now that I've gotten rid of him, let's do some business," said Mardil, who was successfully shielding his microphone from sound as he spoke.

"What've you got?" asked Neil.

"I've got two PTCs, GT. A brand new one goes for just over 24,000 trolls. The ones I have aren't brand new, but they aren't too used either. They are both one year old and have ten thousand miles on them. The tires aren't the best, but they each have ten spares."

"Ten spares?!"

"Yes, so I think that makes up for the baldness. Now, one of them is a bit beat up, but it happened on the way here, so it may actually be more valuable that way."

"I'm not sure I follow you on that," said Neil.

"Well," said Mardil, "You know who we are, don't you?"

"Well, sure, everyone knows. You two are a couple of the escapees. I've been watching the coverage on television," answered Neil.

"Yes, and don't you think you could get more money for a vehicle that was driven by an escapee? I mean, you know this show is only going to get bigger and bigger. We'll be some of the biggest celebrities ever in Mordor."

"Well, yes, that is true- but how does that make the damage any better?"

"Don't you see?" said Mardil. "The damage adds some... how would you say it... color to the car. That damage actually happened on camera, and so the buyer will be able to show people the dents on the car and then show the clip of the show in which that dent was received. It really gives the car character."

"I suppose," admitted Neil.

"So anyway," continued Mardil, "What we have here is two cars that are only slightly used and have been driven by celebrities. You shouldn't have any trouble at all getting more than original price for these."

"Okay, so what are you wanting to sell them for?" asked Neil, getting straight to the point.

"Less than original price," answered Mardil. "Twenty-thousand trolls." Neil leaned back and stroked his chin. "And I'm in a hurry, Neil, so I'm not going to barter. Twenty-thousand is my price, and if you turn me down then I will go elsewhere, and someone else can have the distinction of owning a PTC that was featured in Escape From Mordor."

"Well, all right then, I'll take them both!" said Neil. He pulled a key out of his pocket and unlocked a safe behind the desk. Mardil watched him as he counted out 2,000 double dragons, but before he put the money back in the safe, Mardil piped up.

"How much for one of those vans out there? You can see they aren't very old, they have lots of equipment in them, and they helped to cover Escape From Mordor. How much would you give me for one?"

"Well," said Neil, "I suppose I could give you 15,000 trolls."

"Done!" said Mardil, flipping Neil the key to the van, as well as both of the keys to the Cruisers.

"I thought you sent that orc to find your key," said Neil as he counted out another 750 double dragons.

"I did," said Mardil with a chuckle. "Now, would you be kind enough to send some of your employees out and have them take that van someplace out of sight, and don't let anyone know you have it for a couple months?"

"I guess I could, but why?"

"Just do it as a favor to me. I've just given your dealership some business and some nice publicity, so you can do a favor for me, can't you?"

Neil grinned and winked at Mardil. "Of course I can do you a favor," he said, handing Mardil two very think stacks of double dragons, amounting to 55,000 trolls. Mardil checked them to make sure they weren't fakes (having grown up around lots of money, he could tell quite easily). But the money was legit, so he proceeded to find several different places to stick the money.

------------

"Tho, why awe we goin' hewe?" asked Orckel as he and Mardil walked in the door of a car dealership. "We alweady have cawth."

"No we don't. I sold our cars, and now I'm going to buy a new one," said Mardil.

------------

Ten minutes later, Mardil drove away behind the wheel of a Ford Explorer. As he drove, he thanked whoever it was who had assigned large vehicles to Mordor. Though the Explorer XLT usually went for around 28 or 29,000 orcs, Mardil convinced the dealer to let it go for 20,000 in exchange for allowing them to place a large bumper sticker on the vehicle advertising their dealership. They knew it would be seen by millions of television watchers and so was worth the price knock-off. They also threw in four spare tires, though they probably would not be needed as the dealership had, at Mardil's request, stuck their super tough Mordor-grade tires onto the SUV.

When Mardil arrived back at Neil’s Steal a Deal, he blew his horn until Sai and the tv crew emerged. After Sai was inside the vehicle, Mardil leaned over and whispered to her everything he had done. Sai was extremely pleased to learn that they had a better vehicle and were also 35,000 trolls richer.

Meanwhile, the tv crew was busy scanning the street for their van. Mardil rolled down his window. "I'm sorry, gentlemen, but I can't wait for you. I need to get on the road. I guess you'll all have to get into the van Sai's crew drove."

"But one of uth needth to wide with you guyth," said Roger.

"Don't be silly- we already have Orckel, and one camera-orc is quite enough." Mardil rolled his window up and turned to Sai. "Okay, first we'll stop by the starting point and I'll pick up my cloak. Then, we'll grab something quick to eat, and then- we're off to Mount Doom!"

------------

There was a knock at the Grand Anakronist's door. "Who is it?" he asked.

"Lûgnût, sir!"

"You may enter."

"Grand Anakronist," said Lûgnût as he entered, "Mardil and Sai just passed by the start point. It seems they sold their vehicles and bought a different one."

"Hmm, yes, I know. Very smart- very smart, indeed."

"Mardil threw this little bag at me when he drove past," said Lûgnût, tossing a small brown leather bag onto Anakron's desk. It landed with a heavy clinking sound. Attached to it was a note that read- To The Grand Anakronist- a small token of thanks for your help and advice.

Anakron opened the bag. Inside he found 5,000 trolls.

"Now there's a good noble man, no doubt about it," said Lûgnût.

[the guy who be short]

Just as he was about to fiddle with the pedals, Fléin was startled by a knock at the window. He turned around to see Wilhelmina, and rolled down the window to speak to her.

"My! You're an Or-"

Fléin cut her off with a hand and a shake of his head towards the back seat.

Wilhelmina looked into the back seat, then looked at Fléin again, a frown on her face. "What?"

"Native Mordorian. I'm a Native Mordorian," he explained. "Not an O-R-C."

Wilhelmina looked up at him, sighed and shook her head. "Those political correctness nutters... They've got you too, have they?"

"Not at all, it's just the - the O-R-C in the back seat. They get a little touchy if you call them... you know what."

"You're crazier than Anakron! What Orc?"

Fléin turned his head a further ninety degrees to see that the kamuraorc was indeed gone. He twisted his head in the other direction in confusion - to find the orc sitting in the passenger seat. He turned back to Wilhelmina.

"He's in the passenger seat now, apparently. What do you want, my lady?"

Wilhelmina didn't respond for a while - Fléin heard another car leaving - and then said "I've never seen an Orc with a beard before you know. Most uncanny, you look just like my uncle Bill, but a little more warty." Her eyes focused again, and she said "I just thought I'd tell you, you need to pack your spare tyres - everybody else has, you know."

Fléin thanked the woman, clambered out of his seat, resuming his former shape, and started packing spare tyres into the boot. To his surprise, Wilhelmina helped - what an odd sight we must make! he thought to himself.

"Mah-vewwouth! Jutht mah-vewwouth!" the Orc from the passenger seat squealed, descending and filming them. "What an odd coupwe you two make."

"Oh, be quiet, you nitwit," Wilhelmina sniped back. She turned to Fléin. "These BBC Orcs... they're enough to drive you nutty. I can't cope with driving - driving, and on these streets! - with only one of them for company. Would you mind if I joined you?"

Fléin happily obliged - some company would be most welcome on the long journey, and, in addition, they'd only need to take one kamuraorc between the two of them. And Wilhelmina seemed by far the most pleasant member of the Offending Party, no dramaticism, no teenage angst, no newcomer confusion, no dodgy wares to sell him, no flashy James Bondisms that made him pale in comparison; simply an old woman with a ferret in her hat. It seemed quite an acceptable trade for the three worst tyres.

Fléin climbed into the driver's seat again, transforming into an orc upon contact with the steering wheel. Wilhelmina got into the passenger seat, forcing the scrawny orc ("You really should stop worrying about offending people; no matter what they call themselves, they're still filthy orcs and always will be") into the extended boot, the back seats being pushed down to create more space, with the seven tyres in varying states of decay.

Fléin twisted the key in the ignition. The car fired up.

Just then, smog descended upon them.

[Feanor of the Peredhil]

As Alli walked, she looked for road signs. She found some, certainly, but the only purpose they seemed to serve was to tell her that she was currently in Mordor and that she should have a nice day. She looked at the kamura bobbing along behind her and cursed (though not quite as colorfully as before, with Mardil) the fog. She couldn't see where she was going and was thankful that there seemed to be no traffic. Suddenly she sprawled on her stomach and hit her head on a rock, causing her forehead to split open and bleed down the side of her face. This did not much improve her disposition.

When she could see straight again, she pulled a spare bit of cotton from her bag and pressed it firmly to her injury. Once the bleeding had stopped, or at least slowed a lot, she took a look at what she'd tripped over: a body.

Ugh... why is it always me that has to deal with this sort of thing? she asked moodily, conveniently forgetting that she'd never actually ever had to deal with an abandoned body. A breeze blew the fog away enough that she could see his bruised face: Hookbill the Goomba.

Alli beckoned to the kamura-man. "Do you have any experience with injuries? I'm good enough at fixing my own but I don't want to hurt him any more than he already is."

Hookbill groaned and spoke, flinching away from the kamura-man's (conveniently a doctor also) touch. "It was... Màrîo." And then he fainted and [even more conveniently] had no more lines in this adventure.

Alli thought for a few moments, beginning to harbor a few ill-wishes toward this Marty-o character. Trouncing all over poor innocents like Hookbill? The Goomba never did anything to Marty-o and yet the fat little hobbit felt the need to walk all over him. And wasn't it this same hobbit that Roggie had mentioned? And-- with this, Alli pulled out the periodical that she had began reading back in Lûndûn. As the kamura-man carried the unconscious body of Hookbill the Goomba to a nearby convenience store for aid, Alli sat on a serendipitously placed rock and flipped to the article. Yes... Màrîo. The kilt-clad man was wanted for attacking him, but here two innocents had been attacked by the very hobbit now being treated as a king in Saint Gimli's Hospital. Did nobody else know? Was the kilt-clad man innocent? Alli stood up, hoisting her bag, and fell back down.

Oops... she thought. Note to self: skipping breakfast and then bleeding profusely aren't good for somebody with low blood pressure. The ground swimming around her feet, Alli pretended that she was no longer dizzy and began to walk. She was on a mission. Who cares about getting out of Mordor, she thought. I have to find out the Truth. I have to make sure the right criminal ends up behind bars.

And then a large gas-guzzling SUV pulled up beside her.

[Celuien]

A lime-green PT Cruiser came careening around a corner, closely followed by a tailgating BBC van.

Bert's kamura bounced. "Careful, now," he protested. "You're ruining the shot. And where are you going?"

"Oh, hush," came the peevish reply. "If you must know, I'm looking for the Wally Market." Panakeia needed to buy some Pearie Ockside Potion - she had no intention of remaining in front of the kamuras with green hair. At the same time, she did not want to be seen making her purchase. She would have to escape Bert, at least for a few moments.

"But why?"

"None of your business," came the short reply.

Bert laughed, a rumbling sound from deep in his throat. "This is reality TV. Everything is our business. Why don't you tell us a little more about yourself?"

Panakeia seized her chance. She wasn't about to give up any information about herself, not just yet, at least, but she wasn't going to miss the opportunity to make a free infomercial. On she went about her highly effective line of health and beauty products. "Best sellers from back home in Harad all the way to, well, just about everywhere." She tried her best to flash a dazzling smile at the camera.

"And you use them yourself, naturally."

"Of course. They're what keep me looking the way I do." Recalling that she was currently in an orcish form, Panakeia realized this might not be the best time to demonstrate the efficacy of her wares. "Well, not like this. The way I look when I'm not an orc. Maybe we should continue this conversation outside." She fell silent.

Then, just ahead in the deepening mist, she saw it. A particularly plain, gray, box-like building, even by Mordorian standards, loomed ahead. Panakeia slammed her foot down on the brake and cut her wheel to the left. The bald tires whined as she slid into the parking lot and stopped. It's getting a bit slippery around out, she thought. She hurried out. "Well, here we are," she announced. Bert started out of the car. "No, you wait here. I'll be right back."

Bert shook his head and tapped the kamura. "Where you go, kamura goes."

"Look, it's not all that interesting. I just need to pick something up. Won't be but a moment."

"Kamura goes with you." Bert was determined.

Panakeia shrugged. "Suit yourself. But this needs to be a quick stop. You'll have to keep up." And with that she set off at full speed to the Wally Market, leaving the slower moving Bert huffing and puffing several paces behind her.

Heads turned in Panakeia's direction as she entered the Wally Market. Catching sight of her reflection in a mirror, she noticed that she still partially in orc form. Two fingers on each hand were now clawed, though shrinking back to their normal size. Her skin retained its green-gray hue, and her teeth were still yellowed and uneven. She approached a smiling greeter. "Health and Beauty. Which way?"

"Just to your left through the clothing section." The greeter stared as Panakeia's transformation completed. What bad manners, staring at me like that, she thought.

Panakeia hurried off, choosing the narrowest possible passage in hopes of further frustrating Bert's efforts to follow her. She would be happy to cooperate with the show, but it was really too embarrassing to be caught buying hair dye. Especially when she was attempting to sell her own competing version.

She reached a counter in the Health and Beauty Section. Bert was still several yards behind, tangled in a rack of discounted clothing. "I'd like a bottle of P.O.P.," she said to a salesman, busily reading a magazine behind the counter.

"P-O-P? Pop? You mean soda," he corrected officiously. "You want the food department, back out front." He gestured in the general direction of the front door and went back to reading his magazine.

"No, not soda, not pop. Why would I come back here for that?"

"Why would you, indeed? I don't know. Now go away. I'm busy."

Panakeia's patience was wearing thin. She knew that Bert would catch up to her soon. "Now, look, you lay-about rascal. I want some P.O.P. Pearie Ockside Potion. And I want it now." She looked over her shoulder anxiously. Bert was still entangled, but he appeared to be making some progress. One leg was now free, and he was working on the other.

"Why didn't you say so in the first place," the salesman cried in an injured tone. "Do I look like a mind-reader? It's right behind you on that shelf. 50 maggots, on special today."

Bert had now escaped the clothes rack. He picked up the kamura and hurried toward Panakeia.

"I'll take a bottle." She grabbed one from the shelf and put it down on the counter along with the 50 maggots. "Please put it in a bag."

"Paper or plastic?"

Bert was at the end on the aisle. "It doesn't matter. Just so you wrap it up. Please hurry." The salesman picked up the bottle with a scowl on his face and tossed it in a paper bag. He threw it down on the counter and stalked off into a back room.

Panakeia picked up her sloppily wrapped package just as Bert came up behind her. "All finished," she called out brightly. "Let's go."

[the guy who be short]

"Er... Wilhelmina? I think we have a little problem here."

"Yes," she looked back, wrinkling her nose in disgust, "I can smell him too."

"I weawwy mutht obzhect!" the orc squealed back. "I-"

"Quiet!" Fléin roared at him. "You, back seat, minimal noise. What do you not get?" The kamuraorc sulked in response, allowing Fléin to turn back to Wilhelmina. "That wasn't, in fact, the problem I was referring to. Er... I don't smell too, do I?"

"What was the problem you meant then?" she responded rather diplomatically.

In response the Dworc pointed at the fuel gauge. It was only about a quarter full. "155 miles at best. 95 at worst."

The pair sat for a little, contemplating. By this time, all the other cars had gone - Alli in that little French Car with no Guts; Panakeia, Valde, Mardil and Sai in the other four Cruisers.

"95 miles isn't that bad. I'm sure there'll be a petrol station on the way. It's only... how far to Mount Doom?"

"225 miles. And I wouldn't count on petrol stations along the way, not in this blasted land."

They debated a little longer, hoping the smog would clear, though it only appeared to get worse as time went on. The idea of siphoning off fuel from the four remaining Little French Cars seemed best, though they needed some method of doing so, and, according to Fléin, there was none without the use of extremely specialised equipment.

"We'll just have to brave it and hope for the best then," Fléin finished, and, turning the key in the ignition and pressing a pedal, proceeded to cause the car to hiccup a lot in a vaguely forward direction.

[littlemanpoet]

Anakron looked up at the sky as the Cruiser bearing away Fléin and Wilhelmina jerked out of the lot. Could the sun be seen, it would be more than halfway towards zenith.

"'Tis time for a change in the weather," Anakron announced dramatically, his sombre face breaking into an amused grin, and he raised his staff. The cat meowed displeasurably.

It started to sleet. Slowly the smog cleared into an uncomfortable but clear and slippery Mordorian duskiness having naught to do with smokey hazes from cracks of doom. No, this was the result of the Anakronism Dweomer as it peculiarly functioned in the land of Mordor.

"Lovely weather, is it not, Lûgnût?"

Lûgnût rolled his or her eyes.

Anakron, not hearing a response, arched his brows, though hidden beneath his wide brimmed hat, and glanced down his nose at the nervy little rat.

"Yes, your Dweomership, sir. Very dwimmer-crafty of you."

"Nonsense." Anakron gazed into the pouring sleet, watching the Dworc's and old womorc's cruiser slip and slide down the road. "Lûgnût, I have a message for Rôgû. Take it down and have it brought to him."

Lûgnût obediently pulled out his/her notepad and began to take down Anakron's dictation.

[Celuien]

Panakeia returned to the parking lot, Bert in tow, to find a little change in the weather. It was bone-chillingly cold, at least for someone who had neglected to bring a coat and was still wearing a lightweight lemon and orange shaded summer gown. Sleet poured down from the sky, battering the ground below.

They came up to the Cruiser to find the kamura crew from the van standing outside in disarray. They had been setting up to film an interview segment with Panakeia when the storm blew in unexpectedly, both ruining the lighting for the film and icing the van doors shut. Now they were struggling to shield their equipment from the elements. An assortment of griping grips and grumpy gaffers ran about snatching various instruments and searching for a place to stow them until the storm passed or the van opened, whichever came first. To the latter end, the orc who had pinned the my crow phone on Panakeia's jewelry blew on the frozen doors, hoping to defrost them.

Panakeia couldn't help being amused at their predicament, even though she had been starting to look forward to a moment in the spotlight. But the choice seemed to be between 15 minutes of fame on a reality program, most likely followed by a rapid descent into obscurity, and reaching her destination on schedule. Panakeia decided that she couldn't wait for them. She started to open the Cruiser, only to find that her doors were also sealed closed by the sleet. "This is awful," she wailed. "I'm soaked. And it's cold." Her teeth chattered.

Blowing on the doors wasn't turning out to be a particularly effective method of freeing them from the ice. "Bewt! Thee ith woo can open the doow," the orc called out.

Bert obliged. The side door to the BBC van sat in his hand, completely detached from the opening it was meant to cover. He set it on the ground. The crew hurried inside the van and huddled on the ground. Panakeia followed, happy to escape the chilly downpour.

"What did woo do that fow? Woo bwoke the doow, woo sthupid twoll!"

"Troll? Stupid? How dare you fling such sterotypical insults at me," howled Bert. An argument broke out. By its end, only three things had been determined. The van obviously could not be driven in its current condition. At the same time, there was no way to fix it. Nor was Panakeia's Cruiser accessible. Until some way of breaking through the frozen sleet could be ascertained, hopefully without breaking the Cruiser in the process, the group was stranded in the Wally Market parking lot.

[Kath]

Sai allowed herself to be moved around, needing every brain cell she had to try and figure out how she was going to keep the TV crew occupied for 30 minutes. Her life certainly wasn’t interesting enough to fill that time slot, and even if it were she wasn’t about to tell it to the whole world. She could usually think up a lie at the drop of a hat, but she seemed to be experiencing a brain freeze that was making it hard for her to do so. All too soon she was sat facing a kamura, and a man stepped in front of her and began to count down.

“3 . . . 2 . . . 1 . . . and we are live with Sai Onara, one of the 7 members of the Offending Party who had kindly agreed to tell us her life story. Over to you Sai.”

Suddenly he moved aside, leaving Sai in direct line of sight of the kamura. Terrified she sat in silence for a moment and then, seeing the looks of impatience on the faces of those around her she took hold of the lie that while not the most convincing was definitely one she could spin out for a reasonable length of time, and began to tell her ‘life story’. She just hoped that no one who saw the programme had ever been able to stomach Shakespeare or the old fairy tales!

"Well, I suppose it all began when my parents ànne Urotîk and Carb Onara met. Their courtship and marriage were both rather clandestine affairs, as their parents were rival families and would never have condoned the relationship. My mother carried me in secret for 9 months, but the truth was discovered when I was born and a trap was set to prove it. My father was followed to where my mother lay recuperating, and he was told that she had died from the stress of childbirth. Distraught my father tried to throw himself upon his dagger, but he missed and fell through the door into my mother’s bedroom, finally cracking his head open on my crib. Hearing the noise my mother awoke and got up to see what the commotion was, but she was weak and disoriented and slipped in a nasty puddle cause by a dog that couldn't be housebroken , falling forwards and impaling herself on the very dagger my father had used to try and kill himself. And so it was that they both died, just hours after my birth. I’m not sure I’ve ever really stopped blaming myself!"

Here Sai took a moment to collect herself, knowing that she needed now to show ‘appropriate’ emotions. Her tears weren’t entirely fake, as she was having to bite her cheek hard to keep her laughter in check. Still, they weren’t bad enough that she needed the used hanky that was passed to her. Looking up again she made a show of setting her shoulders and carried on.

"I was an orphan, alone and helpless. My father's brother took me in, and for a while I was happy for he was a good and kind man. But soon after my 8th birthday he married a woman who was neither good nor kind, but cruel and wicked, as were the two daughters she brought with her – Uglià Sin and Mary. Between the three of them they made my life a misery."

And Sai began to regale them with tales of the 'bullying' she had received at the hands of these three women, wondering just how long she was going to have to keep talking because she was running out of ideas! Just as she thought she was going to have to start making up some ridiculous story about fairy godmothers and the like, she saw Mardil out of the corner of her eye and quickly wrapped up the interview.

"Anway, to cut a long story short, my uncle finally saw the error of his ways and divorced my evil stepmother and we all lived happily ever after."

Jumping up she quickly crossed over to Mardil and hopped into the rather flash new car. After a small detour back to the starting point for Mardil's cloak they were on their way. Mardil had wanted to stop for some food, an idea Sai was certainly not adverse to, but there seemed to be no service stations along the road. There were plenty of signs but every time they reached the mile limit specified there was nothing there. The sleet that had begun to fall was making it difficult to even see the signs anymore, so Mardil began to drive as close to the edge as possible so Sai could see better. She was just straining her eyes to see the next sign when she saw a moving shadow. As they got closer she could make out the figure a little better, and caught sight of a distinctive looking chignon.

"Mardil! Stop the car - it's Alli!"

"What? Where?" came his reply. (And there was a "Who?" from the back as well.)

"Over on the side of the road, pull over. If her car's broken down we can give her a lift."

For a moment it looked to Sai as though Mardil was going to keep on driving, and leave Alli where she was, but a quick glance at the orc in the backseat seemed to convince him to stop, and he pulled over next to the still shadowy figure.

[Celuien]

Sleet poured down, battering the van with the fury of a . Panakeia sat inside glumly. This is horrible. Half the day gone and I've hardly even started. If only I could melt this horrid ice. She sighed.

Across from her, one of the grips, wearing a T-shirt emblazoned with the phrase "Escape from Mordor," pulled out a cigarette and lit up. Foul smelling smoke filled the air. Panakeia coughed. The grip glared at Panakeia. "So, you're one of the overly health conscious nuts who challenges my right to smoke?" He blew a cloud of noxious fumes into her face.

Of all the rude, insolent ways to behave! I should give him a piece of my mind. Panakeia was about to launch into an invective against the grip when an idea popped into her head. She broke into an enormous smile. Now that's a way to kill two birds with one stone.

"No, not al all. In fact," she smiled, "In fact, I was just going to ask you to share. May I?" She held out her hand.

The grip eyed her suspiciously. "Well, just one. These things are expensive with taxes and all." He handed her a small box, printed with the image of a man wearing a ridiculously large hat, along with a box of matches.

Panakeia snatched the box and scurried out into the driving sleet. To the loud consternation of the now very angry grip, she set the entire box ablaze and held it up to her Cruiser's door. The ice coating the handle melted. She pulled the door open. Bert pushed in ahead of her to claim the passenger's seat. Panakeia quickly seated herself behind the wheel.

The injured grip ran up to her. "What's the matter with you?" he shouted angrily. "10 Trolls up in smoke."

"Oh, do calm down. Up in smoke is where they would have gone anyway. Here, I'll give you something to replace it." Panakeia rummaged through her sample case. She tossed him a package of black licorice and a box of Hammered Armor Tooth Whitener. "There, that should cheer you up. And it's worth far more than 10 Trolls. Why, I would have charged anyone else 15." The grip disagreed. He continued to yell at Panakeia.

The orc scampered up to the group and ordered the grip back to the van. "Whewe awe woo goin'?” he cried out to Panakeia. “Woo can'th leave uth."

"I'm afraid I have to. I can't wait for your repairs. But I'm sure Bert here will capture anything of interest on kamura. You know where were going. See you at the Resort." Panakeia slammed the door and set off, sliding over the ice. Behind her, the crew sprang back into action under the orc's direction, struggling to replace the door on the van.

Just ahead, Panakeia spotted a sign over the road. "M25 to M1. Mount Doom Casino and Resort and other Recreational Facilities." An arrow pointed to a crisscrossing set of ramps, but gave no clear indication as to which was correct one. She asked Bert, hoping that a Native Mordorian might know the roads. "Which way is Mount Doom? Right or left?"

"Right. No, left."

"Left?"

"Right."

Panakeia gritted her teeth. She looked down at the controls in front of her. One was the likeness of a troll with a large belly. Lines circled the edges of the troll's abdomen, dividing it into portions from "F" to "E." An arrow pointed three-quarters of the way towards the F. At least we have plenty of gas. She turned to the left and hoped for the best.

[Encaitare]

Fléin drove a little way down the road while Wilhelmina lounged in the passenger seat and happily ignored the questions the kamuraorc persistently asked. She didn't much feel like telling the smelly little creature about her past, or her plans for after she got out of Mordor, "if," he said, "woo thouwd be tho fowtunate."

Yet the landscape was bleak, and the smog thicker than the kamuraorc's skull, which he was not pleased to hear. "It's really quite ridiculous," Wilhelmina said. "I think you're right, Fléin; there mightn't be a petrol station for miles. I don't want to be stranded in this awful smog."

"What do you propose we do, then?"

"We'll stop at the first hardware store we see. I think siphoning some gas might not be an entirely crazy idea," she told him with a devious grin that was, in fact, entirely crazy.

"I think there was a Wally Market back there somewhere," said the Dwarforc.

"Unless you want ugly holiday ornaments or squishy pillows, that store is about as useful as... oh, I don't know... frog-leg kabobs at a respectable dinner party."

Fléin wasn't sure what to say to that, so he remained silent.

In a few minutes, an orange glow became apparent in the distance.

"Oh! Wonderful!" enthused Wilhelmina. "I do believe that's a Home Despot store! We can get some tubing there."

"Home Despot? Sounds somewhat dictatorial," commented Fléin.

Wilhelmina waved a wrinkled hand dismissively. "Don't worry your little bearded head about it. As long as the owner's not about we should be in and out in a jiffy."

Fléin pulled into the parking lot, and drove about trying to find a space. Many of the parking spaces were occupied by ridiculously large vehicles, such as Hummers, and their brethren the Singers and Whistlers. "Damn double-parkers," he muttered.

"If woo'd gotten a wittwe Fwench Caw with no Guth, woo'd be abwe to thqueethe into one of thothe wittwe thpaceth," the kamuraorc noted helpfully.

"Wouldn't be caught dead in one of those," the two in the front seat said together.

At long last, Fléin managed to find a place to park the Cruiser, and all three of them passed through the mighty gates (Caution! Automatic Door!) of Home Despot.

O! the vast plains of concrete flooring, spread far in all directions as far as the eyes of Eagles could see! And lo, they beheld the flourescent lighting and the stark metal of the shelves, respectively as flourescent and metallic as really flourescent and metallic things! And they were stricken dumb by the brilliant orange of the shopping cart and the logo, and they fell on their knees before the monolithic statue of the Home Despot mascot, carven in the likeness of a large-schnozzed man clad an apron the color of pumpkins in the sunlight! Yet that was only because they had tripped over an inconveniently located pile of two-by-fours, and they did climb back to their feet, and verily, Wilhelmina was heard to declare, "Two-by-fours really aren't really two-by-fours. They're more like one-and-a-half-by-three-and-a-halves." And thus did end the pretentious narration.

Fléin and Wilhelmina, both being quite short, craned their necks and looked up at the signs suspended from the ceiling, hoping to find the plumbing aisle.

"It'th that way," lisped the kamuraorc. Wilhelmina was about to give him a sharp retort, but looked first and grudgingly realized he was right. Shortly, they obtained a length of plastic tubing, clear, "because," said Wilhelmina, "I don't want to get a mouthful of petrol by accident. Now, let's get out of here."

Suddenly, there came cutting through the stale smell of the store a nearly sickeningly fresh scent akin to flowers rotting in a sugar bowl.

"I've bought out Home Despot -- that's a good thing!" boomed a feminine voice. Wilhelmina just had enough time to say "uh-oh" before a woman appeared upon a makeshift stage. She was dressed stylishly but modestly, and her face suggested that she had been using products similar to Panakeia's wares. Behind her, curtains were swept away to reveal handmade tchotchkes, piles of books of holiday cookie recipes, and cans of perfectly-shaded paint.

"Is that -- Mârtha Stewârt?" Fléin gasped. Wilhelmina could do nothing but nod in horror.

"My new recipe book is chock full of delicious ideas which will be the envy of all your friends and family!" she declared. "And that's a good thing!"

"Let's get out of here, fast!" Fléin whispered. Wilhelmina was quick to agree.

"And you'll all just adore my new craft ideas!" boomed Mârtha Stewârt. "You there! You with the beard!" Fléin stopped and stared at her, dumbfounded. "You look like a learned man -- take note, it has both lovely handpainted flowers, and easy-to-read markings measuring each and every milliliter! Aesthetics and function," she said, thrusting the enormous piece of scientific glassware (which would have made any self-respecting scientist vomit on the spot) into Fléin's hands, "that's a good thing!"

Fléin and Wilhelmina tore out of the store at lightning speed, barely pausing to throw a couple of Trolls at the cashier on their way to the exit.

~*~*~*~*~

"We'll put the car in neutral, then," Fléin decided, "and push it towards the vans. That way they won't hear us approach. Then you can siphon their gas and we'll simply drive off!"

"Stupendous," approved Wilhelmina. And that was just what they did, the kamuraorc nearly wetting itself with the delight of devious activity caught on film. It stopped giggling when they made him help push.

When the Cruiser was next to one of the vans, Wilhelmina unrolled the tubing and inserted one end into the van's gas tank. "I need that beaker for a minute," she said to Fléin. "The gas can either go in there, or in my hat, and I'm not having Mr. Swanky drowning in dead dinosaurs." She sucked quickly on the end of the tube, and then let the gas move through the tube and pour into the beaker. She repeated the action from the beaker to the gas tank of their own car.

"Not bad for an old lady," she noted with satisfaction. "Let's do another one, just in case." In a few minutes, their gas gauge read "full".

As they entered the vehicle once more, Wilhelmina wrinkled her nose at Fléin. "I wish you wouldn't keep turning into an Orc. It's horrid."

In the backseat, the kamuraorc wearily protested, "Native Mordorian!"

Wilhelmina turned around and glared at him. "Every time you're politically correct, Eru kills a kitten," she said sternly, and then they were driving away in triumph.

[littlemanpoet]

Anakron stood by the side of the motorway, deep in the road system chasm, at the midpoint between the two arms of mountains that separated Nûrn from the northern reaches of Mordor where lay the pitted lands of great renown from the War of the Ring. How he had gotten there was a mystery, as it seemed to belie all possibility. But he was, after all, the Grand Anakronist.

It was high noon, though the sun could not be seen. The Offending Party were making terrible progress. Anakron shrugged; it was still early in the trials.

Anakron raised his staff. The cat yowled. The sleet ended, borne away on a dry, hot wind from the desert of Harad. Dry, hot, sandy wind. Dry, hot, sandy, fast moving wind. Painfully fast.

Anakron pulled his cloak more tightly about him, and raised his staff a second time. Against all seeming possibility, the air, amidst the blowing sand, seemed to flow like water, and slowly coming into focus was a bridge, shaped like a half of a figure eight, switching the road directions, such that north was on the right instead of the left, and vice versa. As cars passed by, the steering wheels inexplicably changed sides of the vehicle without warning, and car after car skidded off the road, some of them crashing, a few of them managing to right themselves and re-enter the flow (such is it was) of traffic.

Anakron raised his staff yet again. Billboards started popping up at irregular intervals, too often and multitudinous, bearing obnoxious pictures and messages. There was Britney Spears grinning at the viewers, words in bold, brash colors, bearing the message, "Kotex fits. Period." There was a stern looking fellow in a top hat and striped pants, pointing at the viewer, seemingly saying, "You are judged by the company you keep." And many, many more.

And the wind heated up the land. In mere minutes, the temperature climbed from almost freezing to sweaty.

"Any time now, Rôgû should be making his appearance," Anakron said under his breath with a satisfied smile.