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"Whew awe we going?"
"Shut up."
"Who wath that man?"
"Never you mind."
Mordor would be bearable, were it not for the natives. Since miscellaneous Orc #1 had been damaged in that storm, Fléin had been gifted with a new one. That wouldn't shut up. Whatever he tried.
"I demand to know! I thhould've jutht fowwowed you! I don't know why I let you talk me into-"
"Shut up!"
"But whewe awe we going?"
Fléin stopped walking and turned around to face the Mordorian. "You're job" he said, "you're job, the thing you have to do, is follow me. FOLLOW. Get it? Follow! Follow! No talking. Stop talking to me! I do not want to talk to you! I do not need to talk to you! You are a distraction, not to mention an abomination. I do not need you TALKING to me when I am trying to think. I do not like it. I do not like you. I do not like green eggs and ham. Got it?"
The orc sulked, but quieted down. Fléin, meanwhile, stormed ahead. Was there even a rule about not killing kamuraorcs? Surely they could replace him?
Finally, he found a public telephone. And accompanying it - there! The Telephone Directory! Every man, woman and dwarf in Lost Angles, right there.
Ten minutes later, he was knocking on the door of a small house.
Twenty minutes later, he had left the ornithologist's home.
Thirty minutes later, he was buying a crossbow and net.
Forty minutes later, he was treating himself to a latte. He had done quite a lot in a short space of time, after all.
Forty-one minutes later, he was on the hunt. Jack Sparrow was his.
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