The Cult Of Nemazzip; A Discworld (c) Short Story

By Ian Norris <Ian.Norris@student.shu.ac.uk>



This is the Discworld. Through star spangled blackness it travels, about as
stoppable as a juggernaught going over the edge of a cliff. A giant disc
sits upon the backs of four gigantic elephants. Their trunks wave in the
vacuum of space, their tales brush gently against the underside of the disc
that holds millions of lives. Occasionally they cock a leg to let the sun
go past, and cock a leg to do other things. Needless to say the Shell of
the turtle upon which they stand needs a good cleaning.

The turtle is A'Tuin. Or the Great A'Tuin. Most of the inhabitants of the
Discworld don't care, they just live on the thing. The turtle swims
ponderously through space, quite content in its way of life. It has not
been recorded if the turtle puts its head into its shell or not. The sex of
A'Tuin is still undetermined, but wizards say if you flip a coin and call
one side male and the other side female, then you've got a pretty good
chance of getting it right.

A blue magic suffuses space around the edge of the Discworld, keeping those
things in that need to kept in & keeping most things out that need to be
kept out.

Most things. Particularly unpleasant creatures keep trying to break through
to the Discworld, because, you see, it is on the edge of reality. Which is
only a good thing if you happen to be insane because more people put more
credence in your words than they normally would.

Anyway, these creatures. Lets just say you wouldn't want to invite them
round to after noon tea to meet your granny. Or you may if you had a
exceptionally abominable granny and really wanted to see her brains being
sucked out of her hair pores. Just remember you'd be next on their list.

Other things shatter through the magic too; ideas travelling at speeds
faster than light - which, lets face it, moves like treacle upon the
Discworld, - slowed down when they hit solid matter. On the Discworld a
blade of grass had come up with the theory of relativity, which was great,
but fell down on two points. Firstly, Relativity has very little to the
Discworld. The Discworld is a third cousin, twice removed when it comes to
relativity. Secondly, most of the grass on the Discworld didn't talk. The
percentage that did, people ignored. Well, would you listen to a blade of
grass?

This is the story of one such idea, travelling at immense speeds, passing
through the warm blue glow of the Discworld magic, moving along with other
ideas that would be unappreciated by stones and animals that they hit. This
idea is a lucky one. It emerges through the other side of the blue ether,
leaving a shower of blue magical sparks behind it - there, can you see it?

It looks truly beautiful, a raw unused idea. It narrowly dodges an ice
particle but one of its comrades is not so lucky and the idea of bringing
peace to the world through the masochistic use of cabbages is wasted upon
it. Just as well, really. Our idea speeds up, sees its fortunate
destination, and it tries to smile to itself, but it just exudes a yellow
glow from inside. The idea lands - spling! - in the persons head. They
wonder, quite literally, what hit them. The idea rests, contented ready to
unleash itself at any moment, ready to change the face of the disc forever.
It bides its time and waits for its opportunity.

Our Story does not begin there though (well, technically it does, because
it just began (be quiet (sorry (thank you.)))) It begins here.

This is this Discworld. Upon it thousands of innocent lives are carried.
Upon it millions of guilty lives are carried. Upon it there are hundreds of
cities, places where both the innocent and guilty live together, side by
side. Often in the same prison cells. This city is the largest cup of
civilisation. This cup, being the largest, carries the most dregs. More of
the good stuff floats to the top though. This city is Ankh-Morpork.

It is cut in half by the great river Ankh. Which is what most people do
when they see the terrible thing. The river's water, if it could be classed
as such a thing, swims with things unimaginable, and things perfectly
imaginable. A pair of legs stick gapingly out of the water, the body only
half submerged. Two men, or a least one man and another form of human life,
stand in the river, water and sludge creeping below the rim of their
waders. The sub-form sighs and gives a hopeless tug upon one of the legs.

"It's stuck, Sir." Said the creature, rather unnecessarily. Of course he
could see it was stuck. It was goddamn well obvious it was stuck. The thing
that depressed Selt was the fact that they were going to have to get it
out.

Selt sighed. He'd imagined it would have been easy getting into the watch,
after all they took all sorts of misfits. The un-dead, golems, trolls,
Werewolves. When he'd applied they'd almost flat out rejected him. What did
he have to offer? A keen sense of smell? No? Hearing? Not exactly? A
resistance to being killed? I do have a faint mortality rating, was his
unspoken reply. How about . . .? I'm human. He's said. Normal. The captain
had smiled and nodded. "Well, there's always room on the squad." Nothing
had made Selt feel anymore worthless in his entire life.

The creature gave another tug on the boot of the corpse and it came away in
his hands. He held it up to the light, as if inspecting it, then he pulled
the other one of and stashed it away somewhere on his person. "So, you want
to ditch this corpse and go have a couple of ales?" Selt looked shocked at
the little persons suggestion.

"What abandon our duties, half way through? You can't really be serious?"
The creature shrugged and looked at the socks. Under the creatures intense
scrutiny he decided they were clean, cleaner than any he'd worn for the
past few months (The creatures socks could only be described as holes held
together by thread. They could kill an elephant at twenty paces though.)
The creature pulled them off and secreted them along with the shoes.

"Nobby!" Selt almost screamed. "That's grave robbing!" Nobby shook his
head.

"Nah, he's not been buried yet." Nobby looked at the legs sticking out of
the water. "Well not religiously at least. Come on," urged Nobby in a
pleading voice. "My throat is as dry as a horses backside. A horse with
constipation that is." Selt acknowledged Nobby's intimate knowledge of
horse's bottoms, and wondered just how he'd acquired it. "But we can't
leave our duty. Our honour is our lives!" The creature slapped what
everyone assumed to be a hand to its forehead. Selt noticed it had the sock
over it, making it appear like a snake glove puppet.

"Oh, come off it! Sure we can! He'll sink eventually. Might be a couple of
weeks, but he'll sink." Nobby added knowledgeably.

"B - but . . the duty!" Nobby shrugged.

"It'll save us some paperwork." Finally the creature had hit upon Selt's
weak spot; he'd joined the force for action, not for filling out forms
every day of the week. "Come on, we can go to the Drum. There might be a
fight going on. And if there isn't, we can start one." Selt smiled at the
thought; action, excitement, adventure! That's what the recruiting poster
had advertised, and it looked like Selt was about to get his first taste of
it. He licked his lips in anticipation.

"Come on!" He grabbed Nobby by the arm and dragged them both forcibly out
of the river with as much haste as you could possibly muster walking
through the Ankh. Realistically it was quicker to walk over it, not using
bridges, but actually over it. The bridges were there just for the posh
nonces' who didn't want to get their feet slimed.

Selt and Nobby reached the bank, Selt jumped quite literally out of his
boots and into his shoes. Nobby was more relaxed, sitting on the ground and
pulling out his newly acquired pair of shoes and socks. He whipped off his
old pair and tossed them into the river, possibly killing whatever kinds of
life forms that lived there currently. Selt stood on the spot jogging
impatiently. Nobby noted his movements.

"You go on ahead. Perhaps you can have a ruckus nice and warm for me when I
get there?" Selt smiled.

"Sure thing, Nobby er, boss." Selt turned, wondering how exactly that Nobby
happened to be a higher rank than him.

Nobby pulled his shoes on and moved his feet around in them. Eh, there was
a little bit of space between toe and cap, but they were comfortable and
clean at least. Nobby shambled to his feet and tested his new shoes out. He
wasn't completely happy but Nobby supposed he was going to have to be happy
until the next corpse came along. Nobby trundled off into the dark and
winding streets of the city of Ankh-Morpork.

It is probably untrue that the second half of the cities name came from the
citizens love of pig products. Not that the citizens didn't love pig
products. If there was one thing they enjoyed, next to being stabbed in the
back, it was pork. Or beef. Or mutton. Or mutton dressed as lamb. Food in
general was enjoyed and savoured by everyone.

Whatever your taste it could be found here; from genuine Boot Cuisine to
un-genuine Sausages inna bun. One such group of food connoisseurs were the
wizards. You'd think wizards had better things to do on a gigantic disc
that was on the edge of reality and was suffused with magic. The wizards,
however, thought better, and consequently spent most of their time eating.

Generally the wizards in Ankh-Morpork restricted themselves to one
building, the Unseen University. The name was a complete misnomer. The
university was anything except unseen. It may have been Unseen at one time,
but the wizards who was making it so probably got bored and went and had
some Lunner. (like brunch (breakfast & lunch) but instead lunch and dinner.
The name had yet to catch on outside the university.)

The university was a gigantic and monstrous appellation of a building.
Towers sprouted off like leaves of trees. Minarets had sprung up recently.
The university had claimed they were beginning to cater for the minority
groups of wizards. Such an eyesore was the university that several
petitions had been sent off to the Patrician, along with several apologies
for wasting his valuable time.

The city of Ankh-Morpork was renowned, not only for its solid river, but
also it sterling show of democracy. One Man One Vote. The Patrician was
renowned for being that One Man.

The university was surrounded by a high wall, designed, like the ephemeral
dome of the Discworld, to keep things out as well as keep them in. Wizards
are only human however, and magic is naturally hereditary, normally laying
only dormant for several generations. Magic also wants to propagate, like
most sensible things. So over several centuries circumspicious routes over
the wall had been carved out. A brick removed here, a brick placed there,
and the wizards were free to inspect the outside world.

The inside of the UU was pretty interesting, but the human mind gets bored
easily. Like a man with a diamond may trade it in for a pretty marble,
because it's more interesting. True that man would have to have a few
screws loose, but then most of the inhabitants on the Discworld tended too.
It was also true that trolls had diamonds for teeth, which made the cities'
dentists the most well paid throughout the galaxy. It also made that job
the second most dangerous in the galaxy.

The first most dangerous job, or at least it was in Tenwick's eyes, was
cleaning. Tenwick didn't clean normal things. Tenwick regularly prayed for
the day when he could clean something normal - Oh, how refreshing that
would be! What Tenwick cleaned was the University, or at least most of it.

Tenwick had always wanted to be a cleaner. It seemed pretty irrational to
other people when he was young; a child who washed cups before drinking out
of them, who wouldn't have a picnic unless the grass was freshly cut and
cleaned, preferably bug free, who dusted candles, windows and people, if
they hung around in one place long enough.

The truth  was that Tenwick was  born to clean. Like  some sort of magic it
ran through his veins,  an urge to keep things tidy, orderly and in tip top
shape.

The Unseen University was Tenwick's hell. In a world where magic is seeping
out of even stones, and in a building where most of that magic was
gathered, nothing stayed clean for long. Spells went wrong, things got
blown up and Tenwick practically pulled at his hair as he waited for the
dust to settle. He'd learnt his lesson; wait for the dust to settle.
Because in the UU you never knew what spells you were going to run into.

He'd spent two comforting weeks as a duck, when he hadn't had to worry
about cleaning. He'd found a nice perch on top of some old mans head,
because the other duck had said that it wanted a rest. The old man hadn't
noticed him in fact. Finally a wizard came along and recognised him (god
knows how - or at least one of them does) and he was turned back into a
human after another four days.

So now Tenwick had to wait for the dust to settle. Being a duck is a nice
place to visit, but you wouldn't want to live there.

Other things went wrong too. Sometimes whole corridors vanished in the flux
of some insane spells. This made moving from A to B quite difficult, and
cleaning even more so, especially when your scheduled roster is in another
plane of existence. He'd been offered a teleport by a mage but he'd
declined, deciding quite wisely that the cleaning could wait until the
corridor re-appeared. It never did, so another one was built.

The wizards at UU were quite friendly, but also quite ruthless. They made
their way up the hierarchical ladder by offing their superiors. Tenwick had
never quite got used to cleaning the blood off bed sheets.

UU was, overall, a general bugger to clean. His parents had foisted him
here at the tender age of 17, where they had hoped he would pick up magic.
The mages found out his true aptitude soon enough though and sent him to
cleaning. It also gave them one less dagger from behind to worry about,
too.

He'd been quite happy for a while, but then the awful truth finally
pervaded his mind. The UU was un-cleanable. Every feather-duster stroke he
made to erase the dust of centuries upon the walls only served to attract
more dust upon the walls a few days later. It was as if the stuff had a
life of its own.

Tenwick had once happened upon the library, and was disgusted but the dust
lined upon the shelves. He whipped his feather duster out and found himself
being held several feet off the ground. He managed to get a look at his
assailant. It was a ginger bag of bones wrapped in some leather skin. Or
more concisely, monkey. Tenwick was about to say "Bloody hell, a monkey!"
when he noted a badge on the monkey's bright red and yellow coat. It read
quite distinctly; Librarian; Orang-utan.

It was new wizards week at UU. The Librarian took great offence at being
called a monkey. If he could, he would have called us monkeys, but he
couldn't because he was an Orang-utan, a species not particularly noted for
their verbal skills, except amongst other Orang-utans. The wizards, in
their infinite wisdom decided to pin the badge their this year. The reasons
for this were many and numerous. 1) Whomever called the Librarian a monkey
woke up with the mother of all headaches, and not even getting the
opportunity to enjoy the drinking that normally goes with such occurrences.
2) New wizards frequently called the librarian a monkey. 3) The UU doctor
was at his wits end. He couldn't deal with so many cases of head trauma at
one time. The badge appeared to be working this year.

"Bloody hell." Said Tenwick "An Urang-utan." The Librarian smiled a grin
that had more pearly whites than a harpsichord. Fortunately for Tenwick
instead of getting a severe headache he only got thrown out into the
corridor, with a severe "ook" of reprimand. Tenwick was unsure of what he
had done, but in another moment of wisdom he decided not to volunteer to
clean the library again.

The Librarian had, in fact, thought that Tenwick was casting a spell, and
that the yellow feathered duster was some sort of new-fangled wand. The
last thing the Librarian wanted was someone casting a spell in his library.
Because in a world with a high magic density, in a building where the
worlds magic is primarily focused and in a room where all the knowledge of
that magic was stored . . .

Lets just say the Librarian wasn't a monkey by choice (well, people assumed
he'd been born human and turned into a monkey by the high magic density. So
he didn't choose to become a monkey. He chose to stay a monkey. There's a
whole world of difference. Hairy arms and fleas for one.)

Being a monkey had great advantages for a librarian. For one it allowed him
to reach the really high shelves. For another the entire library was on a
slightly different plane of existence. Several slightly different planes of
existence. Being a monkey helped the librarian cope with that fact, because
monkey's don't care that much for planes of existence.

Now that Tenwick had mentally placed the library out-of-bounds, along with
several other rooms in the UU, including HEX the supercomputer , who now
refused to work unless it was being tickled by one of Tenwick's feather
dusters, or FDP - Feather Duster Positioned as the mages who worked HEX
liked to call it. He'd also blocked off the arch-chancellors room, the
bursars room, the dining room, the lofts, most of the corridors, all the
pictures whose eyes watched him and the Girls Dorm.

This meant he would only clean his room had he a choice. Sadly he was
rarely given a choice. Tenwick had more honour in him to have to be dragged
from his room kicking and screaming, so he merely insisted on a little slap
and motivational talk. The talk consisting of "Ducks lead a lot more
pleasant lives than frogs." And the aforementioned slap.

Tenwick cleaned, and when he wasn't being assaulted by magic he enjoyed it.
He'd never experienced anything else so to him there was nothing more
enjoyable. Still it was a dangerous job, but somebody had to do it.

Tenwick lay on his bed contemplating his ceiling. There was little else to
contemplate in his room. The ceiling was unsurprisingly clean. No cobwebs
hung over the corners, no layers of dust clung to the ceiling. They did in
fact, but Tenwick, after giving up on months of trying to dust the damn
stuff down, had painted over it, a quick solution to a big problem. The
rest of the room was painted in the same uniform white. White so that
Tenwick could immediately spot any speck of dust or dirt that landed upon
it.

The room had Originally been black, with a strange congealed-brown patch
upon the right hand wall. Tenwick dreaded to think what it had been. That
had been painted over too, but he was still unsure if the off white patch
on the right wall was his memory or something else more sinister.

Tenwick's ceiling refused to get any more interesting, and Tenwick was
quite happy with that. The only light in the room was provided by a small
candle, a gift from a wizard for a job well done. The candle would burn
eternally (or a long time at least) so said the mage. It sputtered and the
room wobbled with the swaying light.

It was the middle of the night, and UU was asleep. Everything was asleep.
The books in the library slept, the Librarian slept, the Arch-chancellor
slept even the Bursar slept, having sweet dreams of dried frog pills. Why
then, couldn't Tenwick sleep? Something was nagging at his core. Somewhere,
something was dirty, and Tenwick wouldn't sleep until it had been cleaned.

He'd suffered from insomnia for a week now, every since the incident with
the moving eyes in the painting. How was he supposed to know a wizard had
got the wrong peeping hole. The wizard in question had been trying to find
the girls dorm, but had taken a left instead of a right. Tenwicks scream
had echoed throughout the UU. Something needed cleaning. Tenwick covered up
the candle with a bell. It was still going, underneath there, he knew.
Blackening the inside of the bell, making it sooty and dirty. That would
have to wait until tomorrow.

Even as the UU slept the rest of the city was alive, or at least
semi-conscious. Nobby had managed to catch up with Selt before he'd arrived
at the Drum. The shoes seemed to endow him with a new speed. Anything
faster than walking pace was new to Nobby though. They walked through the
moonlit streets, casually ignoring several muggings, murders and moonings.

They arrived at the Drum, and put on their best "Just looking for trouble"
face. Originally called the "Broken Drum" - "You can't beat it", it had
been burnt down and rebuilt as the mended drum by another owner. Sadly the
same slogan didn't apply to the mended drum, because it could be beaten,
and it frequently was - the drum that is.

Generally people's heads were the tools used to play the Drum. Now it was
simply referred to as the Drum, because the damage of the drum was in a
constant stage of flux. One morning it was whole, the same evening it had a
persons head sticking out the top and the rest of their body sticking out
the bottom.

Selt and Nobby assayed their situation. Nobby didn't even know what assayed
was but it sounded quite police-ish, so when he wrote a report (which was
rare) and if it was legible (which was rarer) he'd include the word for
good measure. "I isayd the sit - sit - situ - seen nd deci - dec med up me
mynd thit the fella nedded a reight gud slappin"

A drunk was propped against the wall, hand grasping for a tankard that had
been removed from his hand by the barman. Another person lay at the other
side of a street, face down, an odd protuberance sticking from his back.
Nobby and Selt ignored it, deciding that it wasn't worth the paperwork.

The door to the drum hung off one hinge. Nobby assayed the situation again.
It looked like they had missed the fun and were just going to be stuck with
the papers. Nobby sighed, his little raggy body deflating. "Well", said
Nobby, resignedly "Looks like it's going to be up to us to sort this one
out. You may have the honours." Selt smiled and kicked the door off its
remaining one hinge, splintering wood and possibly his toe in the process.

Nobby marched past Selt, who was secretly nursing his bruised toe, and into
the Drum. What Nobby saw in there surprised him more than anything he'd
ever seen in the Drum, Mended or Broken.

It was quiet. All the tables were upright, tankards with flowers in them
still standing. The cobbled floor was clean. No recumbent bodies could been
seen anywhere. Nothing appeared to have been spilled; Alcohol as well as
blood. The place was empty, completely deserted. Only the barman remained,
standing behind the bar and polishing away at the table top, in the manner
of barmen everywhere. He appeared undisturbed by the noise the imploding
door must have made. The barman looked up nonchalantly, happiness in his
eyes.

"Yes sirs, how may I help you, this fine day?"

Nobby and Selt looked around the room wordlessly. If there was one thing
that was instantly suspicious to Nobby's mind it was the fact that nothing
was happening. If something had been happening, a murder, a mugging, and
yet more nasty things beginning with "m" then Nobby would have been quite
happy. A bar brawl would have been nice, indeed that's what they had come
here for. Instead nothing was happening and Nobby was suspicious and on his
guard. Selt was rather disappointed, but still didn't notice anything out
of the ordinary.

The barman gave them a steely gaze. "If you're not wanting anything then
you can get out! I'll not have people who aren't paying taking up valuable
seating space. Or floor space for that matter. Well, come on, I've not got
all night."

Nobby and Selt stared at each other in abstract fascination. They'd never
been drilled to deal with nothing! Nobby decided he was going to have to
wing it. He walked down the few steps in to the bar and then strolled
menacingly as he could to the bar. The fact he was only a little bit taller
that the bar itself didn't seem to phase him. He jumped up on to a seat and
made himself comfortable.

Selt had followed a few steps behind, leather armour slapping against his
bare skin. He cracked a few of his knuckles to show the barman that they
meant business. Selt quickly regretted his mood; he'd never been good at
threatening cracks and all they came out as was wet "pops" in the silence
of the tavern. That and it hurt his fingers to do it too. Nobby eyed the
barman suspiciously.

"Look." Began Nobby. The barman turned away involuntarily for a moment. The
smell of Nobbys breath was almost equal to that of the Ankh. "We know
something isn't going on here. Tell us exactly what isn't going on and
maybe, just maybe , we'll leave your place alone." The barman smiled.

"Do what you like. I hardly think the two of you can stand up to a troll."
Selt looked at Nobby. He didn't like this. Hitting something soft and
pliable was okay in Selt book but when it came to hitting something that
was the equivalent of a brick wall, there he drew the line. Nobby held up a
hand at Selt in mock restraint.

"We may not be able too, but I'm pretty sure Detritus could." The barman
took the warning immediately, and calmly.

"Well, officers. It's most gracious of you to patronise my establishment.
As you can see, we are none to busy at the moment, so feel free to have
your pick of the tables, the choice of the finest seats in the house." The
barman spread an arm gesturing at the vast emptiness of the place. He
smiled condescendingly again. "So how may I help you?"

"What's going on? This isn't normal. What's up?" The barman shrugged.

"Do you expect me to reveal all I know, for nothing in return?" Nobby
sighed. He hated having to pay for things, especially things he could live
without, such as information and knowledge, but his superior wouldn't be
happy unless he came back with something.. He fished deep into one of his
pockets. His little stubby fingers grasped things that had not perhaps seen
the light of day in years. A comedy moth flew from his other pocket shortly
before he put his hand in it.

The comedy moth is a rare creature, found upon many planets, including the
Discworld. It's sole purpose in life is to hang around stingy peoples'
wallets then fly out at the first opportunity. The movings of the comedy
moth are well noted in most places including far away places like
schottland , where the people are notoriously stingy.

After what seemed like decades of rummaging Nobby finally came across
something that was round and smooth. He jerked out his hand and slapped it
down on to the bar.

"You can have whatever's under there for the information." The barman
studied the back of Nobbys hairy hand.

"Just out of curiosity do you ever carry anything valuable around with
you?"

Nobby smiled. "We'll just have to find out won't we?" The barman sighed.

"Well, it all started a couple of months ago . . ." Well, okay, perhaps our
story didn't start there but it should have done. It almost definitely
starts here though. Just call what's been going on padding, okay? Good.

Ideas flew through the atmosphere at a great rate. Bunched tightly
together, they travelled. Some got knocked away into the vast depths of
space. Many, though, headed towards the mountains, towards the home of some
Dwarves.

Ricky stepped out of his small cave and breathed in the sweetness of the
air. It was a beautiful morning and the background birds were singing in
their trees. Ricky took another deep breath of the fresh morning air. All
was well in his world. The rocks were rich and the food was plentiful. He
even had several female admirers (or at least he hoped they were female).
He stood there, inexplicably unable to move. His life was so good, why
shouldn't he enjoy it?

The idea plunged onwards, towards the earth towards its final destination.
It was a lucky idea; it was going to be given into the world. It clawed its
way through the atmosphere, streaking onwards. There against the pristine
green grass of the fells it saw it's target, like a black spot upon a giant
dartboard of green. The idea streaked down pulled by the desire to be free
and released upon the world!

Ricky stood there unaware of his destiny. The idea struck, plunged deep
into his mind. Ricky swayed with the impact of the idea. It was truly world
changing. He slumped to his knees, the weight of the idea pressing down in
his mind. It was so simple Ricky was amazed he'd never thought of it
before.

Flat. It had to be flat, like dwarf bread, but only nicer, and perhaps just
a tad edible. Flat like the Discworld, flat like the metal of a sword. It
had to be circular, like the Discworld, circular so it would fit on a
plate. It was simplicity itself. It would revolutionise everything!
Toppings! It had to have toppings too!

Ricky swayed back to his feet, prising himself gently off the ground using
both his hands. He turned and ran back in to his cave where his mother (or
was it father - it was hard to tell dwarves apart because they all had deep
voices and beards) was merrily frying something in a pot. The dwarf looked
up. "Oh, hello son. I thought you were going out for the day!"

"I was, I was, but I had an Idea! A truly awesome one!" His mother
tut-tutted.

"You know how dangerous those can be, Ricky. Perhaps you should lie down
for a while?" Ricky shook his head.

"No, Mother, now I see my destiny and that destiny is to bake!"

"Bake, Ricky? But you've never burnt a thing in your life!"

"Well mother, I've got no time to learn . . ."

"That's okay then. Perhaps you can become the most famous dwarven cook
ever. Or infamous at least."

"Thanks for the vote of confidence mother, I really needed it! I'm off to
the big city mother, to find my fortune in the streets of Ankh-Morpork!"

"Oh no, dear. You don't want to go there! Why don't you have a nice cup of
tea and a lay in bed. An idea for one like you could mean serious trouble.
Please dear, the only thing you'll find in that city is a knife in your
back."

"Nothing you can say will stop me mother. I leave this afternoon for
Ankh-Morpork."

"But the coach doesn't leave until next week Ricky." Ricky glared at his
mother.

"You just ruined the dramatic tension." Said Selt, who had become Quite
engrossed. Nobby shrugged. It was getting a bit dull, I thought I'd put
some comedy in to it." Nobby turned to face the barman. "How do you know
all this anyway, specially that stuff about the ideas falling from the
skies." The barman shrugged.

"Don't ask me, I'm just a piece of narrative text."

"What?" Said Selt, quite uncomprehendingly.

"Carry on barman." Said Nobby.

The next week came and Ricky boarded the coach in high spirits. He was to
make his fortune in the land of opportunity! He was going to be rich!
Richer than he was now anyway. His idea . . . his idea would change it all!

The coach bumped along a well worn trail in the road, jolting its cargo.
Ricky bounced along inside the coach, feeling strangely ill. It is fairly
well known that dwarves are not great fans of riding on water, or just
water in general, which accounts for most of their unpleasant odour. This
being the case Ricky was having the closest experience to being on water
without actually being on water.

He was also having strange rumblings deep within his stomach. Occasionally
he got a taste of breakfast, then dinner, then tea and he quite enjoyed it
the first few times, but after that the effect got almost . . . Dwarves
didn't really have a word for sick as opposed to Ecksians who had about 90
words for any other given word, sick included.

Dwarves didn't have a word for sick because they were basically brought up
on slops and other terrible culinary disasters. They always managed to keep
it down, another obviously dwarfish trait.

There were about five other people in the cart, none of them seemingly
affected by the rocking motion of the vehicle. An awful silence had filled
up the cart since Ricky had got in. It was the awful silence of
non-conversation. It was the ice that had to be broken by something, yet
no-one dare speak because the only thing that is going to break this ice
will be the titanic running in to it.

Eventually it was broken by the sound of Ricky retching over the side of
the cart. He turned back to face the other passengers, vomit stuck in his
beard. The other passengers eyed him nervously. The silence was also one of
racism, one created by the fear of something unknown, different and most of
all not like you. Someone was going to have to say something eventually. A
man coughed nervously.

"Er, so, you're a Dwarf then?"

Ricky nodded nonchalantly, vomit dribbling down onto his brown tunic.
"Dwarf indeed."

"What's your name then?" Asked the man.

"Ricky Rogerson." Said Ricky. The man laughed.

"Ha! That's no name for a dwarf! They all have names like Thor
Stronginthearm, Ralp Digsdeep! Not Rick Rogerson! That's no name for a
dwarf! you'll never make it in the big city with a name like 'Ricky
Rogerson!'" Ricky considered this.

"What do you suggest then." The man scratched his chin.

"Well, what is that you do best?"

"Actually I'm hoping to be a cook."

"What? A crazy person?" Ricky shook his head.

"Not 'kook'. C . . Cook. Someone who makes meals."

"Really? A dwarven cook? I've never heard of one of those before." Said
another passenger on the train.

"No, you probably won't hear of one. At least not twice." Came the nasty
comment. Ricky ignored it. "So do you have any suggestions for a name?" The
first man thought. As he was thinking another idea plunged through space
and time in the direction of the man. It was the pair of Ricky's idea,
complimentary to the utmost. Such a thing happening is a million-to-one
chance, but as we all know they happen nine times out of ten.

The Idea struck and the man blurted it out. "How about . . ." he tried the
name in his mind, then repeated it for good measure. "How about . . .
'Ricardo Fryingpan!'" The man smiled, pleased with his idea. Ricky was not
all that enthusiastic.

"Doesn't that sound like a minstrels name?" He asked.

"Yes! Yes!" The man enthused. "You will be a minstrel of food, a actor
whose stage is the dish! You will be a master! But not with a name like
Ricky Rogerson." Ricky considered this. Perhaps the man was right. Perhaps
he did need a new name, an invigorating name, a name that would appeal to
the masses. "Ricardo Fryingpan - Master Cook!" Ricky smiled as the idea
from the man began to infect his own mind. Other passengers in the coach
nodded with the infectious idea. "Yeah, It'll be great."

"It's kinda growing on me." Another person said. Ricky nodded and repeated
the name again. "Ricardo Fryingpan - Master Chef! I like it!"

The coach trundled along through the rest of the night and Ricardo, as he
now insisted upon being called, explained what his idea was and how it
would change the face of the disc. Perhaps they would put statues up in his
memory one day. Ricardo still had a problem though - he had no name for his
master dish, and none of the others could come up with anything, not even
with the constant stream of ideas that bombarded their heads.

"Are you sure you're not making this up?" Asked Selt, suspiciously. the
barman frowned.

"If I was making it up don't you think I would have come up with a better
name than "Ricardo Fryingpan". I means it's just absurd! Please, give me
credit."

"Yeah, but what if you're getting hit with all these ideas from the
heavens, and you're just making it all up?" The barman looked unhappy.

"Would my bar be empty if I was lying? No! It would be full of people
laughing with me." Selt looked around.

"Oh yeah. I forgot that was why you were telling this story. Your bar is
empty."

"As opposed to this story being some ingenious plot device?"

"What?" Said Selt, losing track of the conversation.

"Let him finish his story, private. That way we can drink more beer." The
barman noticed a cold mug of ale had appeared in Nobbys hands.

"Where did you get that from exactly?" Asked the barman suspiciously.

"Don't worry," said Nobby "What's under my hand will pay for it all." Nobby
waved his hand behind him at the long line of empty glasses that were on
the bar.

"When did you drink all those?" Asked Selt, amazed.

"While he was telling his story. Now let him get on with it. I'm thirsty."

The cart arrived, more or less, in the centre of Ankh-Morpork. More or less
because humans tend to think that wherever they are is the centre, and
everything else is around them which is technically true, but not a very
good way to find out where you are. This phenomenon is most prevalently
true in witches who believe that they are never lost, it's just the rest of
the planet that's got misplaced.

Ricardo stepped of the cart and into the cobbled streets of Ankh-Morpork.
He breathed in the air and immediately wished he hadn't. The putrid smell
made his eyes water and his lungs gasp. He been brought up in sweet
smelling air and this stuff . . . well this stuff was absolutely terrible.
It was like breathing in chloroform, only you didn't get knocked out, which
made it all the more unpleasant.

Ricardo staggered around for a moment and was violently ill again. This
gave him the best opportunity to study the floor something he would not
have normally done voluntarily. To his great disappointment the streets
were not paved with gold. They never are.This meant that his plans for
funding his venture had gone immediately down the refuse distribution pipe.
Ricardo stood and surveyed his surroundings. He was already puzzled. These
creatures built their cave outside . Stone and wooden buildings turned to
meet him whichever way he looked. Caves outside. It was a strange concept
and Ricardo decided he was just going to have to learn to get used to it.

He swivelled around and was greeted by a knock on the head. Ricardo was
already stunned and he fell on to his rump, straight into his vomit. He
looked up and was greeted by a face that managed to be shifty and friendly
at the same time. He looked the sort of person who'd sell his own
grandmother, provided the price was right and that he got to keep the
teeth.

The man reached down a hand and Ricardo took the larger one in his own
small hand. He was pulled ungently to his feet and the man smiled
expansively. It was the equivalent of a crocodiles tears smile. It was a
dangerous smile and Ricardo knew he would normally beware of a person with
such a smile. But it was also disarming, and so friendly. How could he not
trust such a person?

"Well there." Said the smiling man. "I'm terribly sorry. Perhaps I can
offer you something, because of your little accident. All you need to do is
sign this." The man pulled a piece of parchment from somewhere. "Don't
worry about that "In full and final settlement for accidents received to
the party of . . ." what is your name anyway? It's not legal unless I have
a name." Ricardo considered the disarming smile, and was won over again.

"Er, well I don't actually read or write. But my name is . . ." Ricardo
paused for dramatic effect. " . . . Ricardo Fryingpan!" The man looked
strangely un-impressed. But it had seemed like such a good name on the
cart. Why wasn't it having the same effect here?

"So I take it you're a chef then?"

"Well, technically a Cook."

"Well, you'd ave to be a kook to go round calling yourself 'Ricardo
Fryingpan', I mean only a mad person would call themselves that. I mean
look at bloody stupid Johnson. I heard he was christened that, didn't earn
the name." The small dwarf held up a hand.

"Not a kook. A Cook. C - C - C - Cook." The man smiled as if understanding
had suddenly dawned.

"So you're a chef in the navy then?" Ricardo felt like slapping a hand to
his forehead. He had a strange feeling that this sort of misunderstanding
was going to be following him around for sometime. Perhaps soon it might
get funny. Or perhaps it would just get plain annoying.

"I am not a chef in the navy! I'm a cook!" The man smiled sardonically, as
if enjoying this little word game.

"We' already established that you've got a screw loose. But what is it that
you do?"

Ricardo grumbled. "I'm a chef." He grumbled under his breath.

"Pardon me?" Said the man, even though he had heard perfectly well.

"I'm a frigging basalt chef alright! Now just leave me alone!" The man
refused to leave the Dwarf alone though, and as Ricardo turned to leave he
was caught on the arm.

"Hold on a minute. Perhaps we may be of mutual assistance. You see I too am
in the catering trade." The shifty man waved his hand across the top of his
tray to indicate his wares. "May I interest you in a Sausage inna bun? Two
for a groat, and that's cutting me own throat." The dwarf eye the wares
suspiciously. Some of the meat still had hair on it. He declined, with all
the possibly dignity he could muster.

"Slag off." The man raised one eyebrow at the comment, but let it pass. The
opportunity to make some quick money was too great.

"What is it that you chef?" Asked the vendor. Ricordo's eyes lit up with
the opportunity to pass on his idea, to make another convert to his cause.
He went in to a long and detailed explanation of what his idea was, what it
would contain and what would be on top. The vendor knew it was a good idea.

"It sounds to me like a good plan. You need to get a name for this dish.
Let's see. It seems to have a lot of ingredients." Ideas flew through the
atmosphere. Okay perhaps I was stretching the truth when I said it was the
story of one such idea. It's the story of several ideas, which happen to be
all inter-related. They flew and the idea that would make the jigsaw
complete struck the head of one CMOT Dibbler.

"It seems to me to be made of several . . . pieces of ingredients. Pieces
for the dough, pieces for the topping. Perhaps, perhaps we should call it .
. . Bitsa! "

"Pardon me?" Ricardo said, non-plussed.

"Bitsa. Will, bitsa this and bitsa that. I think it's quite a good name."

"Well, perhaps, I think Pizza is better."

"Pizza? No-one would go for that in a hundred years."

"I think they may. I'm gonna stick with that anyway. Wait a minute. I've
told you everything, and I don't even know your name." the man smiled like
a shark

"Dibbler, sir. You can call me Dibbler. I'll help you out for a mere 65% of
whatever you make. And that's cutting my own throat." The dwarf was
suspicious.

"So what would I get?" Asked Ricky.

"Oh damn." Said a voice. The barman was taken aback.

"What? What now?" More glasses had mysteriously piled up next to Nobby's
arm.

"You almosht had a conshistant narrative going on there." Slurred Nobby.

"What?"

"Well, you  shee, you've been calling  him Ricardo for ages  then you shlip
and call him Ricky again. Shnot good."

"You think this is funny?" Asked the barman. Nobby considered.

"It sheemed funnier in my head."

"Obviously." Said the barman.

"So what would I get?" Asked Ricardo.

"The opportunity to work with Me, Dibbler, the finest purveyor of Sausages
inna bun this side of the ramtops."

"And what's the disadvantages of not working with you?" Dibbler smiled.

"Well you've told me everything that you know. I could start up myself you
know, make a tidy profit."

"Aaah. I see."

"So what's it to be?" The dwarf considered, and while he didn't have enough
business sense to know that he was being ripped off he had enough sense to
know that something was better than nothing.

"I'll take it." The man smiled.

"You won't regret this, young man. You won't regret this." Dibbler smiled
and Ricardo had the strange feeling that he'd just been lured in by the
crying crocodile.

Dibbler patted Ricardo on the back. "Are you sure I can't interest you in a
sausage inna bun? Only One for a Groat today."

"It was two for a groat a while ago."

"Well, inflation, you know. Rocketing prices, and all that."

"Where we going to start then?" Ricardo asked. Dibbler smiled.

"Well first we gotta get you a place to chef in, somewhere you can cook
your meal."

Dibbler clapped Ricardo on the shoulder, a feat he had to bend down to
achieve, and together they walked off into the streets of Ankh-Morpork.

They walked for quite some time, Dibbler occasionally stopping to try to
sell something, stopping to pick up bits of rubbish that might be valuable
to someone. Dibbler seemed to find some intrinsic value in everything. Even
cow shit. If Dibbler had known about the place with only one cow and
streets paved with gold he'd have been there with a pantomime costume in a
flash, and doing the service himself.

Everything possessed value to Dibbler, even the curious meat produce in a
bun. This worried Ricardo slightly. He knew eventually Dibbler would find
something more valuable and profitable than Ricardos' idea, then he'd be
out in the cold. He knew this, yet he still went along.

Eventually they arrived at a wooden door which was set in a wooden wall.
Many of the houses in Ankh-Morpork were wooden. This is because the city
tended to thrive on arsonists and if this were going to get burnt down, why
build something that was going to take a long time to burn? Might as build
it back up quickly, that having to clean hundreds of stones.

Dibbler rapped on the door three times in a strange percussive sequence. It
creaked open ominously.

"Who's't?" Said the creakily ominous voice. Everything about the house was
creaky and ominous. Ricardo looked at the straw welcoming mat. It was very
ominous and undoubtedly creaky.

"S'mee." Said Dibbler, confidently.

"Smee?" Queried the creaked voice behind the door. "Wan't he the boson in
that show 'bout the boy who never aged?" Dibbler sighed.

"No, no, no, no, no." Dibbler said, then added for clarity; "No. It's Me.
Dibbler."

"Oh yeah? What you got then?" Said the voice, ominously. Ricardo didn't
like this in the least. He had the feeling he was put a pawn in a game. And
not a very thrilling game at that. People just kept pushing him forward
from one square to the next. Ricardo wondered when the other pieces would
come into view.

"I got me an idea. I need a place to set up, perhaps some capital
investment, if you know what I mean?" An eyeball appeared at the door
frame. It was ominous, but at least it didn't creak. "Yeah. I think I do."
The eyeball swivelled left and right, as if looking for something. "You
alone?" Asked the eyeball. Dibbler coughed and held an upturned thumb above
Ricardos head. The eye peered downward. Ricardo peered up at the eye and
waved a small hand.

"What's that thing?" Asked the eyeball, snapping back to give Dibbler an
ominous gaze.

"It's a dwarf, Gary. You've seen Dwarves before." The eyeball stared hard
at Dibbler. "What have I told you?" Dibbler raced through his mind
desperately trying to remember things that Gary had said. Vision of large
profits were quickly slipping away from him. Ricardo shuffled his feet and
studied the cobbles, just to remind you that he is still there. "A bird in
the hand craps on your fingers?" From the look in the eyeball Dibbler could
tell it was the wrong answer. "Too many cooks and it's time to open another
restaurant?" The eyeball got angrier, if it was possible for an eyeball to
do such things, this eyeball did it. "A stitch in time saves nine?"

"No, I never did understand that one. I said 'Never call me Gary!'"
Something in Dibblers' mind clicked the way they tend to do after the
event. "Ah yes, my apologies Ga . . . Ga-reat Exalted Yrret! We come with
must supplicacious knees and are begging favours of you." The voice sighed.

"Okay Dibbler there's a line between reverence and sarcasm. But never mind.
What will I get for my trouble?" Dibbler did the deep inhale through nearly
clenched lips that was the trademark of mechanics (or in the case of the
disc, cobblers - "ooooh - That horse shoe replacements gonna cost ya. Looks
like you need a new nail on the bi-lateral cuspid") everywhere. "Ooooh. A
small share in whatever profits there are. And that's cutting me own
throat."

"I'm sure it is Dibbler, I'm sure it is. Well I got a free place just
outside the shades, rent and insurance, if you know what I mean, and seeing
as you're a friend Dibbler, I'll be generous and save a tedious bargaining
scene and give it to you for 7% of what ever you make." Dibbler was awed.

"7%! But that's outrageous! I'll only give you - " the eyeball cut him off.

"I did it to cut out a tedious bargaining scene. Now don't you go and start
one or all offers will be withdrawn and I'll get everyone I know who you
owe a debt to, to call it in. That sound fair to you?" The eyeball smiled
maliciously. Dibbler smiled smarmily.

"Fair enough kind sir. When may we accommodate these premises?"

"Immediately. I doubt the door is locked. Word'll get round soon enough
that I'm looking after you. The house number is . . ." The eyeball told
them the house number and the door shut. Dibbler looked down at his little
companion who had somehow managed to pilfer one of his buns. He was shoving
the last remnants in to his mouth.

"Oi! Where did you get that!" Ricardo looked ashamed.

"Well I found it in that alley over there . ." Dibbler held up a silencing
hand. His face had gone slightly green. "What was it?" Ricardo picked at
this teeth.

"Rat inna bun. Dwarven cuisine, you know."

"Would you kindly wait there one moment please?" Dibbler turned away, threw
up some of his breakfast, followed by dinner and some carrots and
sweet-corn. Not much phased Dibbler. True, there was some rat in his
sausages, but at least it didn't look like rat. Eating a rat that looks
like a rat and eating a rat that looked like a sausages were two completely
different things. Dibbler turned back to face the little man.

"Well I think we will leave that topic of discussion closed for the moment.
On to the shop." The duo walked through the city streets talking to each
other. Ricardo talked about rocks; their different weights, varieties,
textures and how fascinating they really were, provided that you had the
aptitude for it. Dibbler, for one, ignored him and talked over him about
his multiple businesses; outlay, profit margins, taxes and the fact that
his profits varied from day to day, depending whether the tax man was in
town or not.

Needless to say each was well pleased with the amount of reception they got
from the other person; how interested they were in their meagre business.
And how also that the other person managed to keep silent for so long. It
was also needless to say that neither had heard a single word the other
person had said but both were quite content to continue living in their
worlds of self delusionment. The two struck up a greater rapport with the
other and eventually after much conversing, the two came to their shop.

Shop being the very loosest term to describe it. It was a small wooden
hovel. The door was hanging on it's hinges and even though it was what time
ever it was . .

"What time was it?" Asked Selt, the scrupulous. The barman shrugged.

"Is it important?" Selt considered, looking down at the slumbering figure
of Nobby.

"I suppose not, seeing as I'm the only one who's listening. Look do you
think you'll finish this tale before he wakes up, 'cos I can't wait to see
his face when he hears he's missed the punch-line."

"That must be a first." Commented the barman.

"Pardon me?" Queried Selt.

"Well, someone saying they can't wait to see Nobbys' face. It's gotta be a
first." Selt looked at Nobby and wholeheartedly agreed with the barman.

"What do you mean by punch-line, anyway?" Asked the barman who was
sometimes a little slow in picking up a lead line.

"Well that is where this joke is going isn't it? There's going to be some
great joke at the end about a horse going into a bar and the barman saying
why the long face?"

"And what did the horse say?"

"It didn't say anything. It's a horse." Exclaimed Selt, not believing that
the barman hadn't got it.

"And that's supposed to be a joke is it? I don't care much for your line in
humour mister. Building it up to a naff punch-line. I kinda feel sorry for
that upset horse." Selt sigh in self-humiliation. He guessed he was going
to have to lock that joke up in a cupboard for another ten years. "Never
mind, get on with the story."

. . . and even though it was the middle of the day . . .

"Oh, it's the middle of the day now, is it?"

. . . and even though it was the middle of the day grey clouds hung above
their small shop. "Those clouds aren't creaking are they?" Asked Ricardo.

"No, but they look damn ominous." Ricardo opened the door and looked
inside. A pair of gleaming red eyes looked back at him. Ricardo licked his
lips. The rat ran for it's life. Rats have a startling grapevine when it
comes to informing others that there's a hungry Dwarf on the loose. Dibbler
followed him in, pulling the door of it's hinges.

"Damn." Said Dibbler. Ricardo sighed. "Well it looks like it's going to
take a couple of days to clean this place up. I suppose you should get to
it." Dibbler sat in a chair and put his feet up on the rickety table. He
clasped his hands behind his head and stared up at the ceiling.

"And your just gonna sit there are you?"

"Well as your manager, I have to manage your workload. So here it is; get
to it." Ricardo sighed.

Several days later . . .

"Hold on. That's not fair. I want to hear about him struggling and striving
to get the place together without a jot of help from that cruel and nasty
Mr Dibbler."

"Well we just did one of these interruptions a couple of lines back, I'll
not be funny if we keep putting them in anywhere."

"It's not funny anyway."

"No, your quite right there."

Ricardo struggled and strived, trying to get the place together. Not once
did Dibbler lift a finger to help Poor Ricardo.

"Thanks," commented Selt.

"No probs," said the barman, "Anything to keep the customer happy. You are
customers aren't you?"

"Er", said Selt.

Finally after several days of hard intensive labour the shop was spick and
span. The walls were clean and whitewashed, the door was back upon it's
hinges and several more holes had been dug in to the base of the walls to
allow easy access for the rats, whose grapevine had got somewhat quite of
late. A counter had been built and Dibbler had had some Trolls steal a kiln
from a potters. Ricardo had adapted it to fit the image that haunted his
thoughts. There were 4 tables and two chairs. The tables were actually
wagon wheels and half axles, a result of a wagon carrying a kiln for too
long. The chairs had been dredged by the trolls from the river Ankh, and
after the bodies with concrete shoes had been removed and re-deposited back
in the Ankh, the chairs were really quite serviceable.

A Sign Stood magnificently above the door to the restaurant "Pizza - Here".
It was painted in a gaudy pink colour. When Ricardo looked at it he swore
that it was flashing. The paint had come from the Unseen University and was
a result of putting a gas called neon into the paint. A few spells later
the paint began to flash on and off intermittently. The wizards were sure
that it was to constantly glow one colour but try as they may it still
flashed. And buzzed with each flash.

The Arch-chancellor was concerned Demons were about to jump out of the pot
and had ordered it immediately thrown out of the window. By extreme good
fortune it landed on the head of CMOT Dibbler who was always on the lookout
for a freebie. And idea plunged into Dibblers mind. Yes he'd have to
remember that next time something hit him in the head - Freebie/Frisbee.
Hmm there was potential there. Dibbler took the paint away and did the
sign. It was simple and it did the job. Dibbler Didn't actually "do" the
sign, he had just managed Ricardo doing it and took credit for it later,
saying; "well you would never have managed without me."

And so it was opened. And people did come to try the strange new dish from
far away lands. The dish shaped like the disc. The dish with so many
different toppings, you could choose what you wanted, cheese, tomato, basil
even pineapples, though god knows who came up with the idea of putting
anchovies on them. Even the dwarves didn't order anchovies. They ordered
rats, bats and cats (but not hats, mats or er, something that rhymes) but
never the dish wish the fish.

And soon the word spread and indeed more people did comest . .

"Why are you talking like an omnian priest?" Asked Selt, not caring whether
interruptions were funny or not.

"Sorry, got carried away in the moment."

People came in their numbers to "Pizza-here". The queue went dangerously
close to the shades until people upon reaching the doorway found that they
had nothing left with which to pay for their meals. Then they started
queuing in the opposite direction. It was inevitable that some unscrupulous
people would start up other Pizza-here's, stealing the recipe from poor
Ricardo. But his name, along with that of Pizza, was already spreading
throughout all of Ankh-Morpork.

"Other shops have sprung up now. There's little business left for your
raconteur, entrepreneur and other impressive sounding words. I mean, no-one
comes here no-more. And they say that the Pizza-here's are watched over by
some mysterious cult."

"Oh good." Said Selt.

"It's good that the Pizza shops are being run by a cult?"

"No, not that. I was just wondering when we got to the bit that was
relevant to the title." Commented Selt, who's mind sometimes worked on
higher dimensions.

"Ahh," said the barman in his most humouring tone of voice. "O-kay. Well
they do say that this cult called is called Nemazzip."

"You're awfully knowledgeable for a barman."

"Well I had a look at the title," he replied.

"What does that mean, do you suspect."

"I reckon it's Pizza-men spelt backwards." Selt spelled out the word in his
head.

"Well, so it is." He said because unlike Nobby, he could spell. "So is that
it?"

"Is that what?"

"Your whole story?"

"Well, yeah I guess it is. It's up to you to finish it off now."

"Gee thanks." Muttered Selt.

"What about my payment?" Selt looked at the veritable array of drained
glasses spread across the counter. "Hmm, well Nobby said he had something.
Nobby." Selt shook Nobby's arm. There was no reaction. "Nobby." Still
nothing. Selt leant close to his Nobby's ear. "Nobby." He whispered. He
leant in closer. "NOBBY!" He yelled in to the peaceful slumber of Nobby's
dreams. Nobby Startled To wakefulness.

"What? What, what, what?" He asked. Nobby looked up blearily eyed from the
counter top. "Did I miss anything?" He asked.

"No, the punch-line was a real let down?"

"Was it the one about the horse with the long face? Never did get that
one."

"No, Nobby. There are Pizza-here's all over the city, and there's a strange
cult running them all."

"Really?" Asked Nobby, sounding incredulous. "I think I prefer the one with
the horse."

"Well that's the way it is. Now I want paying." The barman plodded a podgy
finger onto the bar-top in front of Nobbys' equally podgy nose. "What's
under your hand, then? It had better be valuable."

"Oh yeah, I'd forgotten about that."

"Yeah, I'd hoped he had too." Nobby muttered, seeming fairly sober.

"Well, come on then. Pay up." Nobby smiled and slowly lifted his hand,
revealing-

"A bottle top?" Said Selt and the barman together.

"Yesh." Slurred Nobby, deciding to forego continuity. "Thas a Family
Heirloom Thas is. You Hold on to that and-"(belch) "One day you'll be a
rish man my shon." Nobby looked at Selt. Nobby winked. "Scarper!" Nobby
jumped off his seat with all the agility of a ferret. He weaseled through
the tables and beavered out the door. Selt looked at the barman. The barman
looked at Selt. His eyes were angry.

"Er," said Selt, then proceeded to bugger off most quickly. The barman was
left alone in his room with only comedy dusts of smoke for company.

"Damn." Said the barman. He pocketed the bottle cap, recognising it as a
420 Classic. The little creature had not known what he'd had. The barman
smiled and chuckled to himself. A few more years and he could sell this
little trinket for 5 times what the thing had drunk. The barman laughed and
got on with polishing his bartop.

Selt and Nobby met at the end of the alley. "Well, that was a close one."

"Certainly Selt. Good job I got hundreds of those 420 Classics at home
though."

"What?" Said Selt, who was not au-fait with the realm of bottle top
collecting.

"Never mind Selt, I'll tell you all about it one day."

"What do you reckon we should do now?" Nobby considered.

"Well I reckon we should pay a visit to that Ricardo Fryingpans' Pizzaria."

"Pizza-here, Nobby."

"Whatever." Muttered Nobby. The two law enforces paced off into the city,
ignoring various crimes and misdemeanours along the way.

"Quiet isn't it, Selt?"

"Very, Sarge."



The gods weren't happy. That's not to say they had ever been happy.
Emotions to gods were useless, but unhappiness and vengeance came in useful
now and again. Nothing like a good smiting to keep the old believers
believing. The gods unhappiness was not on this occasion directed towards
mortals though, rather to one of their own kind. The gods had assembled
round the table, including the one who was the source of much derision
amongst them. They all stared at the god.

"What?" Asked the god, flinching slightly under the pressure of the stares.

"This is your fault isn't it?" Said god A. (All gods will remain nameless
to protect the innocent.) "Honestly, It had nothing to do with me. I wasn't
even here when it started."

"Yes you were." Said god C, deciding to jump the queue.

"Oi, I should have been before you." Quoth God B.

"Sorry, but I had to speak out. This god has done heinous and terrible
things."

"Yes But C coming before B it's unprecedented!"

"Calm down you two," Ordered god E.

"Don't you start." Began God D.

"Now, everyone, calm down," said God A, who was obviously the most level
headed. "Go ahead, C have your say."

"I saw him lurking around underneath our table, the moment the dwarf got
out of that carriage. I just thought he was someone's food."

"It's not my fault!" Said the god of Pizza, because it wouldn't make sense
to leave him nameless. "I didn't ask people to start believing in me! They
just did!"

The Pizza god was an inverted triangle, that is; the point at the bottom.
He hovered a foot of the ground. His front was covered in all sorts of
gunk; melted cheese, slices of tomato, oregano, peppers, ham, pineapple and
that single anchovy. His back was dotted with holes, though none of the
other gods were quite sure why. He merely said it was part of the belief.

The god talked through a tomato loop while his right eye was a sausage
slice and his left eye a piece of square bacon. His features would alter
occasionally too, depending upon the current trend.

"Well I still reckon you should do something about it."

"It's not down to me! It's her! She caused the idea to fall upon his head!"

"Me?" muttered fate, because she was tired of being anonymous, "Well,
perhaps a little. But I will not confirm or deny the matter." Fates eyes
were a flat white and her voice was cold and clipped.

"That means she did it." Muttered god D.

"But why do people believe in him? I mean just because something exists
doesn't mean you have to believe in it." The gods thought about this. They
thought about it some more. They had to finally admit that there was no
reason why this wasn't the case.

"Well we all exist." Said god C.

"But we exist because people believe in us. Take this chappie here." Said
God X, because everyone got a say. "He started out as a small god. A small
god in the pantheon of gods, no-less, but he was small. Then more people
believed in him, so he got bigger. Now he's a full fledged god. People pay
sacrifices, they visit his temples - these so called pizza-here's, quite
frankly he's taking away business from us."

"But what are we going to do about it? Said god Q.

"I say we eat him." Said the god of the ravenous, because the letters had
run out.

"Er, excuse me I am in the room." Said the Pizza god.

"Oh yes, so you are. My apologies, good man. I have to admit thought that
the last tabled motion does have it's merits."

"You better bloody not or I shall smite you all with cheese." The gods
looked at each other.

"Very well then, looks like Pizza for lunch."

"Bugger." Said the Pizza god, smiting the other gods with cheese before
making a hasty get-a-way.



Tenwick couldn't rest. Something big was happening in the city. It was big
and it felt messy. Deep in that clean tidy brain of his Tenwick had an
inbuilt instinct for when things were dirty or messy. And it was ringing
seven bells at him at this moment. If someone didn't clean it up he was
going to have to.



The wizards weren't happy. It was a bad day for everyone, wizards, gods and
janitors. The wizards weren't happy because they saw things at ground
level, while the god merely manipulated and controlled from above. But the
wizards were down here, they were the ones who had to sort it out when the
gods cocked up, which happened too frequently, for the wizards liking. They
were happy to aspire to godhood, but when it actually came down to the
paper work they were ready to skivvy off at a moments notice.

They had gathered around a table. Not because there was a meeting, but
because there was food. It was the easiest to get a group of wizards into a
room at the same time, or at least it was according to several old jokes.

"Look." Said the Arch-Chancellor and waving a drumstick, giving him the
look of a magical Colonel Sanders, only with a large pointy hat. "Look, we
really have got to do something about this Nemazzip business."

"Why?" Asked the dean. "It's not doing anyone any harm. And they're making
a tidy profit."

"They are, are they?" The Arch-chancellor stared into The Deans eyeballs.

"W-w-well, according to what I've heard they are. And the meals are
absolutely splendid." The Arch-Chancellor stared at him again. "According
to what I've heard." He added hurriedly.

"But we can't just have a cult going round the city, thinking they can take
control of what they like. It's just not done, man."

"I say we eat him." Commented the Bursar, who belonged to another plane of
reality.

"Yes, yes." Replied the Chancellor, humouring the old fellow.

"I have to admit thought that the last tabled motion does have it's
merits." Said the Bursar.

"Quite so, my good man." The Chancellor patted the bursars leg.

"Well we could either wait and see if any creatures from the dungeon
dimensions appear, or we could sort it out now." Said the Chair of
Indefinite Studies. Sometimes he carried his work to the lunch table.

"Thanks for that useful contribution, Chair." The Chancellor took another
bite of his drumstick, some of the secret sauce spilling down his beard.

"Ook." Interjected the librarian, nibbling on a roasted banana.

"Anyone catch that?" Asked the Chancellor.

"Looks like Pizza for lunch." Suggested the bursar.

"I think that's the problem Bursar." Said the Lecturer in Recent Runes.
"Everyone is having pizza for lunch. No-one's having anything else anymore.
Just Pizza It's not good. I can sense something bad."

"Which is where I started this conversation," the Chancellor commented.

"Conversation?" Said the bursar.

"Quite." The Arch-Chancellor added without thinking.

"Oook." Said the librarian, tossing a comedic banana skin onto the floor.

"He says we can't risk any of the senior lecturers." Ventured the Dean.

"He does?"

"Ok-uk-Oook." Squealed the librarian, giving a dangerous look to the dean.

"He says I obviously misinterpreted his words, and that I should give an
apology at his behest."

"He said all that with three grunts?" Asked the Chancellor.

"No, but that look can't be misinterpreted."

"What did he say then?"

"I think he wants the salt passing."

"Oook!" The librarian smiled a grin with more ivory than a grand piano.

"Is salt good for mon .., er, Librarians?" Asked the Arch-Chancellor, in
concern.

"Well not giving him the salt could be bad for some of us,
Arch-Chancellor."

"Ah, I see your point, Chair. Someone pass that man the salt." A young serf
picked the salt from one side of the table and ventured around to the
librarian. He lay it before him grandiosely. Then walked away. The serf
slipped and stumbled on something unseen, collapsing to the floor. The
librarian jumped onto the back of his chair, and started clapping.

"I say!" Exclaimed the Chancellor. "Bad Play that man! Foul, I say." The
librarian looked admonished and sat down in his chair, head bowed nibbling
quietly upon another banana. The wizards turned from the librarian, back to
their conversation.

"I must say though, the dean does have a point, Arch-Chancellor." It was
the Chair of indefinite studies, who was one of the first to avoid work and
danger. "I mean it just wouldn't look good having a senior wizard being
gobbled up by a fiend from the dungeon dimensions. Bad publicity all round.
We need some courageous young person, someone who is bold . ."

"Those two words hold the same meaning, Chair." Commented the Dean.

"Someone who is willing to venture to the fore, risk all for the greater
cause someone who is noble, hardy, brave . ."

"Someone, Chair, who is, basically, expendable." Surmised the
Arch-Chancellor.

"Well, I would have hardly have venture to phrase it so harshly, but now
that you mention it, yes, someone expendable." All the wizards had a
malicious glint in their eyes. "Who though?"

"Damn shame that Rinseclothes isn't around. He was jolly good at dealing
with demons, and such like."

"Oook." Said the librarian.

"He said 'Rincewind' sir." Translated the Chair.

"Well, what is in a name? A flarg by any other name would smell as sweet."

"Indeed, Arch-Chancellor, But I think we ought to select someone with the
correct skills and qualifications for this job." The Arch-Chancellor
considered.

"What's it to be then? Straws or names out of a hat?"



A shiver rolled down the spine of Tenwick the cleaner. Somewhere something
was happening and he could feel himself being pulled into the web of
destiny.



"Does anyone know any spells for this sort of thing?" Asked the dean.

"Ooh! I think this is my area of expertise!" Said the chair of indefinite
studies. "You see all things are random and undetermined until the point of
determination. Like if you put a cat in a box . . ."

"Yes, we've heard this one before, Chair, now if you'll kindly get on with
it." The wizards had moved the table to one side, making the great dining
hall seem much emptier than it was. The footsteps of serfs echoed around
now and again. The librarian sat in a corner, making sad little orang-utan
noises to himself.

"Well, I've got a good spell for this one, it's called Flibleys Indefinite
People Picker. What it does, it sort of scrys around in the ether, looking
for the right person at the right time. Obviously only within our
time-frame and set of circumstances or we'd be up to the neck with heroes
and warriors of great deeds. It contains 4 raised pitches, 5 syllable drops
. ." The Arch-Chancellor held up a restraining hand.

"We're all very interested in your spell, chair, but perhaps this is not
the time nor the place to explaining every little intricacy of your
spells." The chair looked downfallen.

"Well when would be a good time, because I can wait, you see." The
chancellor bristled. All wizards knew it was a severely bad idea to upset
the Arch-Chancellor, mainly because he wasn't dead. The chair backed down.
"Very, well. I will cast the spell, but I must say it is under much
duress." The chair snorted like a snooty child and walked into the centre
of the room. The chair lifted his hands, the sleeves falling down them
revealing non-too bony arms. Several rings adorned his podgy fingers.

Wizards rarely did anything without show, or glamour, and a hundred
different ingredients that weren't really necessary, but made it look
better anyway. Dribbly wax candles and pentagrams were normal wizards fare,
along with eye of newt and wing of bat. No-one knew exactly what they did,
but they gave the whole thing a much better feel to it. At a push though
they could do practically any spell without elaborate equipment, perhaps a
drop of mouse blood and two eggs.

The Chair of indefinite studies began to chant, the other wizards didn't
even bother to try to memorise the spell, each one had their own realm of
expertise and they were happy with it that way. The air currents swirled
and what dribbly wax candles there were flickered in the gathering winds.
The chair lowered his arms.

"Well?" Asked the Arch-Chancellor, expectantly.

"Well, what?"

"What's this chap's name?"

"I don't know."

"You mean when you say you don't know you mean you just went through all
that trouble and come out with nothing?"

"Not exactly, in fact . ." The air rushed again and there was a loud
popping noise, akin to what would be heard if ever the great turtles head
changed pressure very quickly. A figure stood in the room, looking fairly
bewildered. All were surprised, except for the Chair, who seemed quite
pleased with himself.

"Now lad," he began. "What's your name?"

"T-Tenwick sir." Tenwick had seen wizards before. He'd seen lots of wizards
before, but he was quite unused to them suddenly popping into his bedroom
at night. Tenwick looked around. Now there was a point. What had these
wizards done to his bed? And, come to that, how had they managed to make
his room about ten time bigger and grander? And just what was that dinner
table doing off to one side? And why was the librarian sat in the corner,
looking ashamed and abashed.

"Excuse me, sir," said Tenwick knowing when it was wise to play clever and
when it was wise to not. "But what have you done with my room?" The chair
smiled down at the lad.

"We've moved you here lad. You're in the great dining hall." Ah, so that
explains it then. I've been kidnapped by wizards for a yet as unexplained
purpose.

"Excuse me, chair, a moment with your colleagues over hear please." The
Arch-Chancellor waggled a finger creaky with arthritis at the chair. The
chair had an ominous feeling. He walked slowly as possible until the
waggling got more frustrated then the chair hastened his pace.

"Er, Chair, it has come to our attention that there appears to be a teenage
boy standing in our dining room. Not only is he a teenage boy, he is a
spotty teenage boy. Just what, exactly, is he doing here?"

"He's the right person at the right place at the right time."

"Yes but I wanted a name, then we could have gone on a epic quest to find
this young lad."

"Well if you had listened to my explanation you would have realised that it
was a summoning and not a divination." The Arch-Chancellor bristled. The
chair got off his high horse.

"Well what's done is done. Are you sure this is the boy though? It could be
any-one, even a cleaner." The chair smiled.

"Well Flibleys Indefinite People Picker hasn't failed me yet. It's got a
good track record."

"Really?" Asked the Lecturer in recent runes, because he hadn't had a lot
to say and was feeling left out. "And how many times have you used it?" The
chair hung his head, akin to the look of the librarian. He muttered
something. "Speak up, chair." Said Recent Runes. He snapped his head to
face Recent. "Just the once, okay? Happy now? I mean it's not like a disc
shaking calamity happens everyday! They're the only circumstances it'll
work in you know."

"I'd hardly call a cult running around the city a disc shaking calamity,
chair."

"Oh bugger." Said the arch-chancellor. The sentiment was echoed by
everyone.



The Pizza god was cornered. Trapped at least, because the pantheon of the
gods had an oval foundation. "We'll never let you get away you know." Said
Offler, the crocodile god, who had far too many teeth for the liking of the
Pizza god.

"Not until we've had lunch anyway," Interjected Io, a stereotypical thunder
god.

"Why me?" Complained the pizza god.

"Because you're edible." Said fate, licking her lips.

"Well, er, I'll manifest myself then! Hahahaha! You gets didn't think of
that did you? I'm big enough, powerful enough! Hahahaha! I'll see you on
the Disc, freaks!" The pizza god vanished into a puff of grated cheddar
cheese.

"Well, that got rid of him." Said Io.

"Great plan that, making him think we were going to eat him to scare him
off. You don't think we've buggered up by letting him manifest though do
you?" Said god C, who hadn't cottoned on that everyone else was using their
names now.

"What?" exclaimed the god of the ravenous. "We weren't going to eat him?
But I'm bloody starving."

"You always are, Ravenous." Said fate.

"Well, even if we have , buggered up, which I'm sure we haven't, the
wizards'll sort it out, I'm sure." Commented Offler.

"Let's go and eat this cheese off." Said the god of the Ravenous.



Somewhere deep in Ankh-Morpork, 8 Acolytes of the Cult of Nemazzip were
trying to summon their god, they believed they truly believed. In reality
there was no mysterious cult running all the Pizza shops, just these 8
lonely people. They were praying for an appearance by their god, which was
quite fortuitous because the god of Pizza was looking for his strongest
belief line. He followed it down to the little house and there he saw his
eight servants.

He manifested himself before them, breaking the roof of the building,
sending rubble flying outwards, upwards and inwards. All acolytes stood
aghast at the form of their god incarnate. The god laughed.

"Hahahaha! Free from being eaten! Hahahaha!" The god looked down at the
eight shivering forms.

"Master, we place our selves in your servitude, please do with us as you
will!" The god laughed again, maniacally. "Ha! Very well, we shall see how
you like being eaten!"

The god swept the eight up in one massive glob of cheese and placed them
into his pepper ring mouth. He chewed thoroughly. After a while he
considered.

"Mmm, tastes like chicken."



"I think we buggered up," Commented Io.



Selt and Nobby emerged from the Pizza-Here, slightly fuller, and pleased to
learn that there wasn't a mysterious cult running all the Pizza-Shop in
Ankh-Morpork, just several sad individuals. The details of their enquiries
are long and tedious, and mainly involve Nobby threatening to shop Ricardo
if he didn't keep making with the free Pizzas. Selt joined in, happy to be
finally learning what real investigatoring was like. The perks weren't bad
either.

They walked down the street when they saw the roof blown of one of the
houses and what appeared to be a giant pizza slice emerge from the top.

"What in Io's name is that?" Nobby looked slightly frightened.

"I don't know, I don't want to know. I think we had better get back to the
station, papers to fill out, and all that." Nobby turned on his heels and
ran, his new shoes getting more wear in one day that his previous pair had.
Selt considered the fleeing form of Nobby then considered the giant pizza.
"But the station's that direction." He said, helplessly, pointing at the
giant pizza. Nobby had said he had paperwork to do. Selt knew that this was
definitely not good. He decided, most prudently, to follow Nobby.



The towering for of the pizza god incarnate was visible even from the
distance of the UU. The wizards had gathered on top of one of their towers,
Tenwick dragged unceremoniously behind, and were now staring out at the
rampaging form of the pizza god. It had moved on from it's breakfast of
acolytes and was now beginning to search through the town for any
Pizza-here's. It was obvious to all that the pizza god was not happy. It
wasn't yet absolutely certain what the thing was.

"What is that thing?" Asked recent runes.

"Looks like an aberration from the dungeon dimensions if you ask me." Said
the chair.

"Eeek?" Queried the librarian. Everyone ignored him though. They knew how
to treat a misbehaver.

"What ever it is we have to get rid of it before it tears the city down!"

"Well then, young Tenwick." Began the Arch-Chancellor. "Looks like it is
down to you." Tenwick was taken aback.

"B-But how am I supposed to deal with that thing? I could never. . ." The
Arch-Chancellor's eye-brows furrowed.

"You'll get rid of that thing, young man, or there will be no supper on the
table for you." The Arch-Chancellor waved a finger at him then the gaggle
of wizards (What is the collective noun for a group of wizards? I'd venture
'incompetent', but that's a verb.) walked off down the sideways tower
stairs. Tenwick was left staring at the giant god, reeking havoc throughout
the city.

What was he going to do? An idea struck Tenwick. Someone had once advised
him, when bullied, to try to talk the situation through with them. It had
never worked, but nevertheless the idea was sound. Tenwick had to talk with
the demon.

He set off into the town easily finding the path of destruction left by the
monster. Sometimes all that was left of the buildings was a massive kiln
and trays filled with toppings. Tenwick noticed that the closer he got to
the great beast the more cheese and giant toppings he found on the floor.
At last he arrived at Ricardo Fryingpans' place where the demon was
gloating over his almost complete destruction of all the Pizza-Heres' in
Ankh-Morpork. Tenwick looked up at the giant creature, it was truly a sight
to behold, a giant pizza slice; a struggling dwarf held in a glob of
cheese; giant toppings falling all over the place.

Tenwick called  out. "Ho there! Demon!" The pizza  god thought it had heard
something.  But it was  an insignificant  mortal to his  supreme godliness.
"Oi! Seventh  serpent of the  sympian sirong!" Tenwick made  up. "I beseech
the  to leave  this fellow mortal  alone, and  lets talk through  this like
civilised  people." The pizza  god turned  to the irritating  little voice.

"And who are you to beseech and beg before me. Bow before my mighty
godliness!" Tenwick bowed, surprising the god. "Er, thanks."

"You are a god, you say? And not some vile creature from the dungeon
dimensions?" The god laughed.

"I know the plane of which you speak, and truly the creatures there are
most vile and disgusting." When the pizza god spoke it kind of squelched
and squibbled. "But I am a god manifest, from the pantheon of the gods
themselves! Bow before me, mortal . . .oh, you already have done. Well -
placate yourself!"

"In public?" Asked Tenwick, who had a poor grasp of the entendre. "Anyway I
beg you to let this one mortal live. Destroy his business, but let him go!"
The god considered.

"Very well I grant your request." The pizza god put Ricardo gently down
onto the ground. "Thanks," said Ricardo, to Tenwick.

"No problem." Replied Tenwick.

"Who are you?"

"The right person in the right place at the right time."

"And what are you going to do about him destroying my business?"

"Well I guess I'm going to have to do the hardest thing imaginable."

"What's that then?"

"Nothing." Ricardo was aghast.

"B-But you can't do nothing!"

"No doing something would only make it harder, fighting it, trying to
destroy it. All would be futile. We must stand our ground and let what
happens happen."

"But it's my livelihood! My business!"

"You can always start it again can't you?"

"Well -"

"Leave it then. Stand by my and watch, and wait." Ricardo stood by Tenwick,
but he fumed with the futility of not being able to do anything. Both of
them looked upwards at the gradually less and less impressive form of the
pizza-god. The god laughed maniacally again, for good measure. "And so I
destroy the last place where your people eat me!" The god swung a cheese
hand as hard as concrete through Ricardos' establishment. Rubble flew and
the walls crashed inwards. Smoke lingered about in the air for a while. A
pair of shoes stood smoking on top of the rubble, for a purpose no-one,
except perhaps a god, knew quite why.



"Man, I love those smoking shoes." Said the god of comedic props.



The pizza-god stood, or hovered over the demolished form of Ricardos
building. Then he noticed it, a weakening in his power a shrink in his
size. He turned terrified looking peppers upon Tenwick. "You! What's
happening to me?" His size shrunk and globules of pizza and topping crashed
to the floor.

"You destroyed all your temples. Ate all your followers. How is a god
supposed to survive if he has no-one to believe in him?" The god was
aghast, which was a very popular emotion.

"And you figured this out?" Tenwick shrugged.

"Just the right guy in the right place at the right time, I guess." Said
Tenwick

"Arrrgh!" The god bellowed. "I'll still live! I'll still believe in
myself!"

"Won't work I'm afraid, A god needs mortals to believe in him. You're done
for mister." The god screamed, an almighty bellow, a sound that echoed
around all of the disc from the counter weight continent to the Ramtops and
beyond. It is said that the turtles ears popped at the sound, which came at
a great time for A'tuin because his head had just changed spatial pressure
suddenly.

Dough and pizza crumbled to the ground, toppings flew everywhere. Finally
there was nothing left but his remains.

"Wow." Said Ricardo. The pair walked over to Ricardo's ex shop.

"Mind that banana skin." Tenwick advised Ricardo.

"Thanks." Said Ricardo.



"Damn." Said the God of comedic props.



"Who's have bananas on their pizza anyway?" Ricardo asked. Tenwick could
think of only one name.

They surveyed the devastation. "I guess that's that." Said Ricardo.
"Nothing left for me to do here. Certainly don't want to open another
Pizza-Here. Back to the mountains I guess."

"Well you got your wish." Added a third voice. They turned round to see
Nobby and Selt who had come back to take commendation for destroying the
menace to society when they had noticed it collapsing on the horizon.

"What wish is that?"

"Well to become Disc famous. I doubt me if anyone is going to forget this
escapade in a hurry."

"Well the university could always do with a good cook Ricardo." Ricardo
smiled.

"I could give it a try, you never know I might be able to make something of
myself one day. But what are you going to do lad." Tenwick smiled, a great
big huge satisfied smile. He looked around at the devastation and
destruction. The mess.

"I think I have a little tidying up to do."



                                  The End



                                  Epilogue

"I knew the wizards would sort it out." Said Fate.

"You would, you get. I'm not placing a bet with you again." Said the god of
gambling.

"You want a wager on that?" Asked Io.



"Well, I knew we'd sort it out." Said the Arch-Chancellor

"You want a wager on that?" Queried the Bursar.

"Quite."

"Well what now?" Said the Dean.

"I say we go and eat. I'm absolutely ravenous."

"Good motion, that man."

"Prunes." Said the Bursar.

"Pardon me?"

"For a good motion." Finished the bursar. The Arch-Chancellor patted him on
the shoulder.

"Quite. Quite. I say, does anyone have the faintest Idea what that lad
did?"

"Ook-uk-ok-ek-queeek-mek," said the Librarian and everyone listened because
they had forgiven him, as they always did.

"Really? Well I never would have thought of that."

"Eek."

"The right person in the right place at the right time you say? Well I
never."

"I told you it worked." Said the Chair. The voices trailed into the night
as once more Ankh-Morpork was at peace.

  ------------------------------------------------------------------------
Footnotes;

1 But for no magical reason. He'd been hit in the head by a rather
realistic Skillet. While the UU had very few female wizards, it had a whole
load of cleaners and servants, which explains a Girls Dorm. The fact that
the UU is run by old men could be another reason for it too. Most of the
holes have been found now and those that can't be blocked are guarded by a
girl with a sharp pencil. At least ten wizards are currently wearing
eye-patches.

2 For those who do no know a "moon", apart from being a big ball in the
sky, is where one takes one's trousers down and points "it" at a person one
does not like. This may result in a hot poker being inserted in "it". An
experience some people pay for.

3 A place that actually doesn't exist upon the Discworld, but it has the
comedy potential and it sounds a lot like "Scotland" where the people are
notoriously stingy.

4 Time also distorts when a comedy moth appears.

5 A species a lot like the "Comedy moth" the background birds hang around
outside peoples doors so that when they are opened they are greeted by a
chorus of songbirds! How sweet.

6 Dwarves are almost notoriously bad at cooking. They can burn water, milk
and steel. A dwarven culinary experience is one a person will not forget,
mainly because it'll be the last thing they ever do.

7 This is actually not true. In one country cow-dung is prized more than
gold, because gold is so common there the streets are paved with it. And
there is only one cow, but it has a gold bell and nose ring. Sadly no-one
knows where this place is. Perhaps I just made it up. We shall never know.

8 While admittedly most dwarven cooking tastes like basalt the word is not
used in that context. I.E He did not cook basalt. Dwarves tended to use
words of low value rocks as insults or cursing words, as commonly as we use
words that mean (less politely) makin' love. So saying someone is the salt
of the earth is quite a compliment from a dwarves, who realise the high
value of salt. As opposed to most people who use it to mean that the person
is square and really quite bitter.

9 Some people are so dense that sometime ideas have as much trouble
permeating their brains as they have going through rock.