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It was about eleven o'clock in the morning, mid-March, with the sun not shining
and the usual look of hard, cold doom in the foothills. I was wearing an orc's
old suit, brown pants, brown shirt, no shoes, some mail and armor. I was tired,
I was frightened, and I was desperate, and I didn't care who knew it. I was
everything the apocalyptic hero ought to be. I was calling on the doom of all
the races of Middle-Earth.
As a rule this Mordor joint wasn't the sort of place a respectable person would
be seen in. That suit me just fine. I never claimed to be a respectable person.
And I've seen enough unrespectable people doing unrespectable things that it
rarely makes me lose any sleep. This case, however, was one of the exceptions.