Assigned to Mordor RPG

[the phantom]

The van ride was extremely bumpy. Mardil wasn't sure if the street had a lot of bad potholes or if they were running over pedestrians who foolishly believed that the street was an appropriate place to walk. Sai was directly in front of him sandwiched between two copyright lawyers. She sat in a slumped position staring straight ahead as the two men talked over her head.

Alli was leaning forward and breathing a bit heavy and kept looking around at the ceiling and walls, as if they were too close for her comfort. "Claustrophobic?" Mardil asked.

Alli took a large breath and paused, like she was considering her answer and perhaps gathering herself to say something untrue. "No," she said, and then she turned and gave Mardil an awkward look, which Mardil figured was meant to appear confident and at ease.

Mardil nodded and said "Okay," but he was thinking "You're lying, Alli."

Alli looked down at her hands again, obviously uncomfortable. Mardil nudged her arm. "What do you want?" asked Alli, still looking at her hands.

"Trade spots with me," said Mardil, thrusting open the window next to him as he spoke. "I want to talk to that RCA representative sitting next to you and it would be easier if there weren't someone between us. Plus, this way you will be able to look out the window and get some fresh air. Surely that will be more interesting than staring at your hands. With the traffic around here, it could take us a good thirty minutes to get there."

[the guy who be short]

Fléin walked into Ma Cuddonelds, perhaps just a little apprehensively. He had, of course, heard of it before, vaguely and in passing. Most people seemed acquainted with it. The large, yellow, spiderlike symbol above the doors was instantly recognisable - he'd seen it on litter for years. But what was Ma Cuddonelds?

There were chairs and tables all around the doors, stretching into the building for a few score metres. And there, right at the back, were several orcs behind a counter, an unsanitary looking kitchen behind them.

Two years in Mordor, and still Fléin could hardly look at an orc without shuddering, his hand unconsciously moving towards his axe. Still, he had to be politically correct, or at least pretend to be so. Or did he? Wasn't that one of the things he was trying to escape from...? He marched up to the counter.

"Excuse me my good Man-"

"Native Mordorian, please," the Orc simpered. Fléin shuddered.

"Yes, yes. What... this is an Inn, yes?"

The Orc explained that the establishment was indeed an eating house, or a fast food company, as some preferred, but that it was no ordinary inn. As words such as "Multinational corporation," "Providers of institutional food," "false allegations of food poisoning," and "possible halitosis" whizzed by, Fléin started to nod off. The story of Ma Cuddoneld herself, and her capitalising upon her brilliant ideas (such as using slave labour to increase profits and reconstituting chicken nuggets from diseased meat) passed him by completely. A long queue starting forming behind him, and when the person behind him pointed this out, the Orc simply started rambling about the history of language, and how the word queue had seemingly changed meaning after it's transition from French to English. He seemed to ramble on and on.

"Interesting, isn't it, how a queue is almost like a tail, in that it flows behind you, but of course, I had the most horrendous French teacher, don't you know, threatened to eat my legs, and my mothers, all of them, if I didn't do well, but never mind all that, what would you like to order?" he finished at last.

Fléin asked about the menu, and was told to choose from "a burger, large, medium or small, either cat, fish, lemming, possum, rabbit, raccoon, squirrel or any other furry animal, with optional purple ketchup, or else a bag, large, medium or small, of candy, flies, liquorice, bees, or slugs. There's also a choice of lima beans, chocolate, chewing gum or fruitcake, with either cola, coke, pepsi, coca cola, soda or mountain dew on the side."

Fléin signed at the unimaginitive, quasi-traditional Mordorian menu. Sometimes he really did long for a nice mug of ale and some nicely cooked chicken...
"Medium lemmingburger, please, and hold the purple ketchup," he replied.

After eating his meal at a small window table (it had come with purple ketchup, and was grossly overpriced at one troll fifty, and altogether wholly unsatisfying), he decided he really needed to sort out where this Edgingville was, and how he was to get there before the end of the day. It was already midday.

*******

Half an hour later, Fléin was still puzzling over the useless map. Amon Haradow... it had to be here somewhere. The map was still of Lûndûn, no matter how odd the names. Haradow... Haradow... Edgingville, too, was mysteriously absent.

The Dwarf sighed and, deciding that a short nap would clear his wits, set his head upon the rather sticky table. He closed his eyes, immediately regretted doing so for obvious reasons, sighed again and tried to get to sleep in the middle of the very busy restaurant.

[Kath]

Sai was keeping her body in as tight a hold as possible as the van lurched from side to side, not wanting to come into any more contact with the two lawyers on either side of her than she had to. They both reeked of the city and she was having to keep her head down to avoid gagging. Not that either of them even seemed to notice she was between them anyway. They were talking about warranties and tax codes and custom checks, and all the time using double negatives and passive voice and mispronouncing words so that Sai was having to bite her tongue not to scream at them. Even worse though, the two of them continually punctuated all their points by waving their arms about, so she was being hit in the head every few seconds and was starting to worry about a possible concussion.

Her patience was already running very thin when one of the men's arms hit her in the nose. The pain caused her eyes to water like crazy and she finally lost her temper. Grabbing hold of the arm that had just hit her she took hold of the little finger on the hand at the end of it and bent it backwards. Pulling herself upright again she carefully bent the man's finger until she could see his eyes begin to water as hers had just done.

"Hit me again, and next time, I won't stop here - understood?"

The man nodded, trying to edge away from her without moving his finger, a feat he was failing at quite miserably if the look on his face was anything to go by. Satisfied that she had made her point Sai let go and settled back down, finding that she inexplicably had more room. Her method of attack may have been less fierce than Alli's, but it seemed to have been just as effective.

[Celuien]

The train doors shut behind Panakeia with a thud. The whistle blew, screeching and discordant, and the train lurched ahead. She stumbled along the aisle, searching for a vacant seat. If the platform had been crowded, the train was doubly, no, triply so. The passengers climbed over each other in their rush for a seat, resulting in many trampled toes and bruised legs. Panakeia's aching feet rejoiced as she spotted an empty seat at the back of the car. She moved towards it as rapidly as the crowded conditions and unsteady ride, for the train swayed terribly along the track, would allow. She had nearly reached the chair when someone rushed up from behind, pushed her aside and sat down, with a hostile glare that defied her to challenge his right to sit. Panakeia was in no mood for a fight. She grasped a loop dangling from the ceiling and held on for dear life. The conductor was doing a terrible job. The train threatened to derail at every turn. The conductor must be speeding, she thought. I only hope we make it to Edge-Where alive.

The train stopped abruptly. "South Rût’s Lip. South Rût’s Lip. Everyone off for South Rût’s Lip." No one already on board budged, but several more passengers piled on to the train. A woman with a small child, perhaps 2 or 3 years old, now stood behind Panakeia.

"Mommy, I want some more gum," she said.

"Not now, dear. Finish what you have."

"I want more now!" she screamed. The tot was obviously spoiled rotten.

The mother replied in a harassed voice. "I told you, when you finish what you have."

The child began to cry at the top of her voice and pulled the gum out of her mouth. Her fingers went to Panakeia's hair, smearing the gum into her locks. The child smiled broadly. "All gone, Mommy."

"Good girl. Have another piece."

This was too much for Panakeia. "I hope you swallow that gum," she hissed under her breath. The only response was a sly grin and wave. Panakeia moved to find another place to stand. As she glanced around, she spotted a door at the rear of the car. A sign on the door stated "Private. No admittance." Preposterous. This is a public train on the BliddyUnnergrind. There aren't any private cars. She pushed the door ajar and stepped inside.

The new car was dimly lit. As her eyes adjusted to the darkness, Panakeia noted that the car was vacant. Except for four people standing together in a corner, speaking in low tones and laughing. They turned to face the intruder, and Panakeia realized that three of them were the street musicians from Rût’s Lip Garden. The fourth man was Willy.

The lead singer shouted. "Can't you read? This is a private car. Leave at once!"

"Hush up, Payne. Ah reckin it's too late now. She done seen us."

The second speaker stepped forward, and extended his hand in greeting. "Howdy, ma'am. Step inside and set a spell." He seemed friendly, but there was something in his tone that suggested a command rather than an invitation. Panakeia nodded and sat down while Willy and the musicians hurried to stand in front of her.

[Feanor of the Peredhil]

Alli was the first to leave the van... at least if you didn't count the lawyer. She pushed her way past everybody and opened the door, climbing out into the air. Suddenly a tall man in a business suit was looking down at her, shaking her hand, and informing her how pleased he was to see her. Before she could say a word, he had showed her an official looking document with a lot of fine print and an impressive looking signature with a rather large number of loops and squiggles that seemed to spell out "Anakron" or at least "Anakin"... or perhaps it said "A Napkin"? Wait... she thought, napkins aren't impressive... at least not if they aren't finely woven fabric delicately embroidered and trimmed with the best Lothlorien Lace... and he'd slung an arm around her shoulders and was forcibly leading her away from the van. A little bit motion sick and still recovering from her run-in with claustrophobia, Alli could do nothing but cast a longing look toward her companions as she was pulled farther away from them and through a large pair of iron doors into the pretentiously decorated, not to mentioned pronounced, foyer of a truly tall and somewhat shiny building with a large gold music note on the front of it.

She ignored his self-aggrandizing speech as he guided her down many twists and turns. How could a building that had such boringly square architecture on the outside have hallways that actually curved in such random directions? she thought. She was lost quickly but recognized the portraits of a few famous musicians on the walls. Madonnarwen gazed down from her portrait like a virgin clad in white silk. Aikenamir looked down at Alli from the second place in the long line of pictures and she shivered to see a somewhat creepy looking photo of the ever famous Jack son of Michel of the city of Nevilind.

Suddenly the man turned and opened a door, pushing her through it and slamming it behind her. She looked around nervously, wondering where she was. Loud music came on suddenly and stage-lights began to flash. Alli looked around, slightly terrified, and saw that she was surrounded by a dozen scantily clad dancers gyrating to the music. Suddenly a bleached blond clad in slightly less than her backups walked slinkily toward Alli. She beckoned sexily, singing accusing words at her.

"I see you looking at me like I'm some kind of freak."

Alli was terrified. The lights were flashing like a storm had come indoors. The music was loud, the dancers were everywhere, and this woman was speaking to her.

"Get up out of your seat. Why don't you do something?"

"But I'm not sitting!" protested Alli. "And I don't know what I'm supposed to be doing! Where am I?" she yelled over the music.

Suddenly the blond singer motioned to somebody off stage and the music cut. The lights turned on and Alli saw that she was standing in the middle of a stage, surrounded by irate dancers. The singer was yelling at a stage manager. Alli caught a few words as she looked around speechlessly.

"... not in costume... unprepared for work!" Alli looked over as the woman gesticulated toward her. She was about to sneak offstage and hope she wasn't noticed when she heard one of the dancers gossip to another.

"Brit's just mad because the new girl is prettier and looks better in leather."

At this, Alli snickered and decided that enough time had gone by when she wasn't in the control of the situation. She left the stage, pulling the man that the singer had been complaining to with her.

"I've had enough of her attitude." Alli complained to him with her hands on her hips. "If Brit can't handle my presence on stage, she can work with somebody else. Doesn't she know who I am?"

Though the man had no idea who this raven-haired diva was either, he knew better than to argue with one of the company's stars, and she certainly acted like a spoiled one. It was better to get fired for following orders from one of them than to get fired for ignoring them. Quickly the stage was cleared. Alli watched Britney Spears get dragged from the theatre with a deeply satisfied look on her face. Within moments, she was standing alone with the man. "Send for my backup singers." she demanded. "They are in this building somewhere. Ask for Mardil and Sai. I want them here yesterday. And I want a bottle of Dasani, a vegetarian sub, and an I-pod with a lot of heavy metal music on it."

As he scurried off to do this fantastically bossy new artist's orders, she sat happily in the middle of the darkened stage hoping and praying that she didn't run into the blond singer again. She doubted that the woman would be happy with her having her kicked out of the theatre.

[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.

[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.

[Feanor of the Peredhil]

Alli nodded appreciatively at Anakron's mention of her extra curricular activities. She was pretty sure that she knew what he was talking about... but wasn't sure if he did. Actually, she wasn't sure if she did... or if he knew what she knew that he knew and thought she didn't know. It got very confusing sometimes, trying to keep straight what only she knew, as well as how many "knews" went in what sentence and if she'd gotten them in the right order to convey the correct meaning, what she'd shared with a few people, and what people were perceptive enough to pick up without help. Just to be sure, she nodded again and grinned.

As she watched the rest of the scene unfold, she thought it high time for a hot drink. It was getting cold and she'd been in a miraculously good mood for several hours now. Why hadn't she been brooding? Eh, it wasn't important. She had other things to think about. That dream, for one. Was that a flash of red in the crowd? No... of course not... now she was just being paranoid.

Somewhat relieved that the fangirls had found new eye-candy (Mardil was looking appealing to them and Tom was looking terrified to her), Alli led him to a small cafè she'd spotted while she was zoning out during Anakron's narrative.

"Here." She offered Tom a cup of coffee strong enough to knock him off of his feet and ordered a small cup of Earl Grey for herself, with just a bit of lemon. She turned and her attention caught on a cloaked figure in the corner. Not Khamul... she thought. Too tall. Also, he didn't try to kill me on sight, and that's tradition. We don't break tradition... it's too fun.

She continued to look at him for a moment before walking over, Tom behind her, still looking shocked and slightly frightened, and speaking.

"Excuse me... do I know you?"

[Eomer of the Rohirrim]

The man looked at Alli with that hint of malevolence associated with all mysterious new characters. Turning away, he said "No, we have never met."

She persisted. "Well, maybe we've never met but I know you from somewhere, don't I? Your accent now—it seems quite unusual for Mordor. Where do I recognise you from?" She smiled coquettishly. The small boy behind her stared away uncomfortably.

He looked at her again but kept his mouth shut. It had to be an inquisitive teenage girl, didn't it? Even with this ridiculous black cloak that he was wearing, the man could not escape this sort of attention. Perhaps if he hadn't been in hiding he would have toyed with her a bit; but he was in no mood for that kind of behaviour today. "My odd voice is a consequence of a sore throat I suffered whilst arguing with a group of particularly obnoxious people. You do not recognise me, missy. Why do you suspect me?" This he said, getting very defensive and thus appearing even more suspicious than he had initially.

"Don't toy with me" said the girl; and while the man pondered the coincidence of her using that phrase after he had consciously been trying not to toy with her, he let his guard down for the quick follow-up: "My name's Alli, what's yours?"

"Eo—mmm....." he mumbled pathetically. "Um, yes. My name is Aimé."

"Aimé?" she replied incredulously. "You can end this charade, mister. I know who you are." Her look of triumph suggested wit, elegance, a touch of sweetness and a lot of vanity.

The man bowed his head sheepishly, forgetting for the moment that Aimé was an altogether nice and genuine name in the time and place he had come from. He stared at the tea-cup and reflected on his time in Mordor. It had not been brilliant fun. Sure there were good aspects about being here: he had been lucky enough to have a couple of chats with Plato, of all people; and his enjoyment of rap and country music had been more than adequately catered for. But good relationships were so hard to find here among the Orcs. And now this inviting young lady had fallen into his hands at a time when it was necessary to shun all others in order to maintain his freedom. It was just so unfair.

"I'm terribly sorry, miss, but I must leave" he said as he stood up. The girl just kept that funny look on her face, which irritated the man something awful. He displayed one of his bad habits in response, sticking his tongue out at the girl, and swirled around dramatically to storm off. But the girl glanced at a clock on the wall and stood up quickly, herself.

"[Expletive deleted]" she exclaimed, "I appear to be running late. I'll have to get out of here too. Grabbing the terrified young boy by the arm, she strode over to the as-yet-unidentified man, who was nearing the exit.

"Did I say leave? O I do believe I meant to say that I must stay here until you are out of sight." He tramped back over to the table and slouched down into the chair in a sulk.

The girl (along with a few objective observers) shook her head in bemusement and left.

[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.

[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 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."

[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.

[Durelin]

Valde continually shot the camera brooding looks, and deftly wiped away beads of sweat that were forming on his temple. Why? Because he was concentrating, of course. This driving stuff was hard work; just ask Steve McQueen. And of course there was the fog, and then the sleet to deal with. Valde was pleased, though. The drastic changes of weather only added to the feel of tension and suspense. If only a good thunderstorm would blow in, then he could have a good brooding moment, and perhaps even a horrific one. But after each change in weather, Valde Delego, wanting only to give the viewers what they wanted, would say to the camera: “Slow down while driving in inclement weather, and be sure to turn on your headlights.” He then punched down on the gas a little harder. “How do I turn on the lights?” he asked, and suddenly a Mr. T voice spoke. “I pity da fool who’s goin’ the wrong way!”

“And so finally, the GPS system came to life, and Valde Delego could breath more freely, if only for a moment,” the kamuraman said, narrating for him.

Valde began following the directions given by the Mr. T voice, and ended up having to turn around and cut across what seemed to be seven lanes of traffic. By the end, even the Mr. T voice was confused. But then the voice decided that it was best to take a few more rights before they no longer made a wrong. Things settled down for a bit, and even the sleet came to an end. But then a terrible wind started raging, and it seemed an entire sandstorm had swallowed up Valde’s Cruiser. He turned to the kamura. “O what lot life leaves me with! First fog, then sleet, then wind, and then…Britney Spears? “Wait…where’d the steering wheel go?” Valde had just enough time to say before his car crashed into a billboard with a stereotypical blonde on it in a pose that was meant to please the masses of a certain kind. Perhaps she was limbering up for…a show; yes, that’s it: a show. The sign actually read “Paint your game face on” in the bottom right hand corner, but Valde wasn’t sure if it was meant to be there or not.

Stepping out of the wrecked car, he was immediately forced to the ground. The kamura man was still in the car. Most of his rigging was knocked over and tangled around him, trapping him. He did not seem to wish to leave the car, though, anyway. Valde found himself to quickly be back to his normal form. He almost wished he was an orc again, though. The rough skin of such a creature, he assumed, would not sting so much as his did from being hit by the sand. He pulled his coat over his head, and tried to rise from the ground, all the while ignoring a voice in his head that sounded like a commercial. “Dry and irritated skin? We know you orcs get it, too. Just admit it! And now you can more easily treat it, with new Orcbond orcish lotion. Soft enough for a man, but strong enough for any orc. Buy some today at your local pharmacy, and turn that cowhide into leather!”

What? he thought.

“That jerky into tenderloins!”

Tender loins?, his mind questioned, What are they trying to sell?

Valde suddenly remembered he was lying on the ground in the middle of a sandstorm. He may not be on the road, but he could hear the cars whirring by, and the sound was too close for comfort. He crawled under his car, feeling it safe to do so, assuming that if it had not blown up yet, then it would not now. And this was on top of the fact that the gas tank had been just about empty. He had observed this, but pretended that he had not so that when the gas did run out, he could surprise the viewers. But now…now those viewers would never know what happened to Valde Delego! They would bury an empty casket twenty five years after his sudden disappearance, and his grave would be in Minas Tirith, the city happy to finally welcome him home. Feeling a Boromir moment coming on, Valde focused his mind on more important matters. He prayed to Ilúvatar that he would still arrive somehow at the correct destination, and fashionably late as well as fashionably battered and worn in appearance. Considering the story of the tortoise and the hare, Valde felt his lack of sleep catching up to him, and soon let his eyes close, forgetting that it was the hare who had fallen asleep, and had lost.

[the phantom]

With a not very well hidden look of relief, Alli agreed to trade Mardil spots and sit next to the window. It was easier said than done though. The rows of seats were quite close together, not really leaving enough room for two people to squeeze past each other. On top of that, there was the continual bouncing of the van on the substandard streets. Needless to say, an awful lot of contact was made while switching spots, which, though he didn't show it, Mardil rather liked.

Once he was situated next to the RCA representative, Mardil asked "So- you have a document that requires that I accompany you to RCA and work out a record deal, correct?"

"Yeah, homey, that's what we got," answered the man.

"Don't call me 'homey'. My name is Mardil."

"Aw, sorry 'bout that hom- uh, Mardil. Heh- that's a tight name, man- Maarrrdiiilll! S'got a ring to it, ya know. Maaarrrdiiiillll!! Ha ha ha!" Mardil shook his head. He was beginning to regret switching seats. Oblivious to Mardil's annoyance, the man continued. "Mardil... Let's go chill with Mardil! Ya can't hold still with Mardil! Let's pop some pills with Mardil! Yeah, ha ha! Your name'll be real useful when we start bustin' out with some rhymes! "

"Oh, goodie," said Mardil.

"Hey, sorry Mardil, I never told you my name," said the RCA representative. "My real name is Jamal Octavius Jones, but I go by Doctor Drive-by."

"How wonderful," said Mardil.

"Thanks, my man. Now, about that contract. How's about we negotiate that right now, homey?"

"Look, I'm not your 'homey'!"

"Can I call you bro?"

"No!"

"How 'bout MacDaddy?"

"Definitely not!"

"Whaz wrong wid MacDaddy? All it means is a pimp who has reached the zenith of his profession. That's a compliment, man!"

Just as Mardil was about to grab Dr. Drive-by by his throat, the van screeched to a sudden halt. Everyone slammed into the seat in front of them, except the lawyer sitting in the middle front. He went flying through the windshield.

"We're here!" announced the driver.

"I'm suing!" screamed the bleeding lawyer in front of the van.