Orc on a plane? Nope.

As she-human and I were now irreconcilably divided, I no longer saw a good reason to stay in the metropolis, as I had not the slightest clue to a way home around here.
I mean, having marital disputes is the normal state of being for me and my countless wives. But she-human and I were not even married, so why did she bother? Anyway, I was no longer wanted (ok, I might not have been wanted at all to be honest), so I was going to leave (now, that’s a first).
The thing is, she wanted to help me (to get rid of me, of course) and said the quickest way of getting elsewhere was by plane. I had no idea what she meant, so she took me to Heathrow.

Personally, I don’t mind humans risking their lives by getting into a metal box and flying high up in the air. Seriously, whatever they do to diminish their numbers, I’m fine with it. But I get very angry if they think I’m stupid enough to get myself into a sardine tin that’s hurled across the sky. Orc in a flying tin. No, thanks. Also, there was the problem of getting a ticket. The guy at the counter would not let me have one unless I took of my ‘costume’. *sigh*
Before I could tell him in no uncertain terms where he could stick his ticket (I like the sound of it. ‘Stick his ticket’. Repeat it quickly three times, :-)), she-human dragged me away.

Next attempt to get rid of me: Kings Cross
Same problem, different tin can. Slightly less dangerous I assume. Anyway, we ended up without a ticket. I didn’t understand the concept of a railroad anyway. How would the rails know where I want to go if I hardly knew it myself?
So, in the end, she-human stole (rented, she insisted I correct myself. But honestly, paying with something not even remotely resembling money… tsk, tsk, tsk), so she stole-rented another tin can, this time exclusively for the two of us and drove me to the coast.
Driving in this tin called ‘car’ was quite a lot of fun, I have to say. Imagine my comrades and me in one of these, driving from one battle scene to the next. Opening the sunroof, Groisch half on top of the roof (don’t ask which half, please, nor try to envision his state of undress). Well, thanks. There you are. Some pictures are never to be unseen again.
We reached a harbour, got on a boat called ‘Ferry’ and shipped across the channel. I managed to keep my armour clean, less so the floor in front of the cocktail bar.
On the other side she handed me a packet with food and a large piece of paper and gave me some advice which I recalled word for word:

“1. don’t ever come back
2. stay away from England
3. don’t bother understanding the frogs (I’m still pondering that riddle. Why should I talk to the amphibians?)
4. The place you thought of going to is called Bielefeld and it is marked on this map of Europe
5. Don’t bother understanding the krauts either”

And off she went, leaving me behind with a map, belonging to someone called ‘Europe’, some food and no idea where I was. Slightly alarmed by her remark I turned away from the coast, always on the alert in case I might come across these mysterious talking frogs.


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