Discworld drabble: Rule One (Vimes, Vetinari, mental Lu Tze cameo)
Sometimes you really, really need a break from Final Fantasy and Batman.
Rule One
Discworld. Vimes, Vetinari, Lu Tze cameo. G. 246 words.
These days, reporting to Vetinari was a formality, but it was a damned important kind of formality. It was a formality, to Vimes, the same way that sneaking out of the house at 2 in the morning on Friday nights with a pair of cardboard-soled boots to prowl the rookie-infested streets was a formality. He wasn't supposed to do it. He did it anyway, because otherwise there'd be no distinguishing Vimes, Commander of the City Watch, from Vimes, Rich Bourgeois Bastard.
Even thinking about the word "bourgeoisie" made Vimes' skin crawl a little. No word should have that many vowels.
'And, er,' Vimes finished up, scratching his chin, 'there's one more thing. The monks around Small Gods, they've got a new man. Not anything I'd bring up, but Sergeant Angua thought it was worth mentioning. Bit odd, his behaviour.'
'Oh?' Vetinari asked.
'He sweeps, apparently. The street. The very public, very dirty sidewalks.'
It didn't really need saying that no one in Ankh Morpork swept any damned streets unless they were being paid to do so.
'Ha,' Vetinari said, softly, and smiled. 'Remember rule one.'
Vimes grunted. 'There are a lot of rules, sir.'
'Beware,' Vetinari advised, 'little bald wrinkly men.'
Vimes' gaze shot, automatically and against his better judgement, to Vetinari's hairline, visible just beyond the man's skullcap. He pressed his lips very, very close together, and forced the corners of his mouth down in a desperate bid for self-preservation.
'You may leave, Commander Vimes.'
Rule One
Discworld. Vimes, Vetinari, Lu Tze cameo. G. 246 words.
These days, reporting to Vetinari was a formality, but it was a damned important kind of formality. It was a formality, to Vimes, the same way that sneaking out of the house at 2 in the morning on Friday nights with a pair of cardboard-soled boots to prowl the rookie-infested streets was a formality. He wasn't supposed to do it. He did it anyway, because otherwise there'd be no distinguishing Vimes, Commander of the City Watch, from Vimes, Rich Bourgeois Bastard.
Even thinking about the word "bourgeoisie" made Vimes' skin crawl a little. No word should have that many vowels.
'And, er,' Vimes finished up, scratching his chin, 'there's one more thing. The monks around Small Gods, they've got a new man. Not anything I'd bring up, but Sergeant Angua thought it was worth mentioning. Bit odd, his behaviour.'
'Oh?' Vetinari asked.
'He sweeps, apparently. The street. The very public, very dirty sidewalks.'
It didn't really need saying that no one in Ankh Morpork swept any damned streets unless they were being paid to do so.
'Ha,' Vetinari said, softly, and smiled. 'Remember rule one.'
Vimes grunted. 'There are a lot of rules, sir.'
'Beware,' Vetinari advised, 'little bald wrinkly men.'
Vimes' gaze shot, automatically and against his better judgement, to Vetinari's hairline, visible just beyond the man's skullcap. He pressed his lips very, very close together, and forced the corners of his mouth down in a desperate bid for self-preservation.
'You may leave, Commander Vimes.'