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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.
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