Denethor:
Minas Tirith cruised smoothly to the starting line. Denethor, son of Ecthelion, Lord High Steward of Gondor, peered out of the tower, down to the crowd, where a huge section of the crowd, clad in black and gold, had turned out to support the Gondorian team.
"Father," he heard his son and copilot say, "Aragorn's on the palantír. It's something about being a good steward of his city, and making sure to return it with a full tank."
Denethor scowled. Minas Tirith had been his ride! His!
"Yes, yes," he grumbled to Faramir. "While I head over to the podium to speak to the crowd, you go find Húrin, Keeper of the Keys, and get the spare set. I don't want to be stranded somewhere in the middle of Rhovannion just because we misplaced the one set.
"I've never misplaced anything in my life," said Faramir.
"What about that Ring?"
"I didn't misplace it! I sent it on it's way!"
"Whatever. You go get the keys, while I go talk to the crowd. Got to drum up some more fans, you know. I think the Arnorian crowd could be persuaded to root for us instead of that silly Bag-End, if we appeal to their Númenorean side."
Faramir rolled his eyes, but said nothing. He and Denethor descended the long stairwell down to the citadel, then followed the road down the seven circles, weaving back and forth until they reached at last the great, re-wrought gates of the city. It was a quick jump to the ground, and then Faramir was off to find the support team for Minas Tirith, while Denethor headed off to the podium, where Dwarfy the Dwarf was welcoming the Drivers.
"And now," announced the Dwarf grandly, "to introduce to each of you our charming and heroic drivers, who will represent us in this daring race!"
Denethor glared at Saruman (Palantír thief!), at Sauron (eyelidless git!), Gothmog (the waffle-faced!) and the Witchking (imitation city-driver). He spared a glance for Éowyn, barely acknowledging that she was his son (and copilot, he thought with a grimace)'s girlfriend. He looked right over Bilbo (old fuddy-duddy).
When his turn came to be introduced, Denethor stepped up to the mike, raised his arms in greeting to the crowd.
"FOR GONDOR!!" he cried, clicking on a lighter in his right hand. The lighter caught flame, and in the crowd, the Gondorian fans waved their own lighters, torches, and other flaming objects in solidarity with their driver. Except one.
"Uh oh..." muttered Boromir. "Dad + Fire = Not Good!"
Sure enough, a wind arose out of nowhere, and the flame caught on Denethor's cloak, spreading.
"Oops..." said Denethor. "Quick! Something to douse the flames." He caught sight of a barrel just behind the podium, and hurried to extinguish himself.
"No, no, Dad!" cried Faramir. "That's fuel for the engines!"
Denethor paused long enough for the para-healers to catch up to him with a bucket of water. Pretty soon he was soaking, steaming, and scowling.
"I look like a fool," he muttered to Faramir, as Dwarfy continued to introduce the drivers.
"At least the crowd loved it," whispered Faramir.
"Did they now?" grumbled Denethor. "Well, that's one good thing. Was it the Arnorians, do you think?"
"No, I think it was the Balrogs who enjoyed it the most."
"Silly pyromaniacs."