[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.