[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.