Of course, there are rather a lot of them...perhaps I’ll hear them out, then bolt. A nice tongue bath, a long lie-down next to something warm (how good is a balrog’s eyesight, anyway?) and then...and then...

...and then I get reset and possibly killed, for the last time.

As plans go, it lacks a certain...win condition.

Ugh, fine, I’ll put up with this. But really, how rude! Don’t they remember me? There’s only one of me, and fifty billion of them, how could they not remember?

Almost worse than being wet is how cliché my next statement will inevitably be. Yet, certain situations call for certain responses. So I clear my throat, flick a few stray droplets from my whiskers, and with as much dignity as I can muster (not a lot, we’re talking about .3 Mirandollas and falling) and say the tired words:

"Take me to your leader."