Ficlet: Square
43. Square
“Evening, Commander. Care for a nice, hot sausage? Inna bun?”
Vimes turned to face the man who’d appeared out of nowhere, as only a salesman could. “No, thank you, Throat. I’ve already eaten.” This year, he added silently. “Back on the sausages again? What happened?”
Cut-Me-Own-Throat Dibbler shook his head sadly. “Times are hard, sir. Very hard.”
A match rasped against the rough brickwork façade of one of the offices fronting the Square. Vimes lit his cigar and shook it out. “Shame,” he said in a sympathetic tone. He took a deep drag, blowing out a smoke ring. “Won’t last long, though. I’m sure you’ll be off on a new scheme by the end of the week.” He tipped his helmet. “Evening.”
He strolled off, leaving the man to find someone in the crowd who’d not yet learned to avoid his wares.
“Evening, Commander. Care for a nice, hot sausage? Inna bun?”
Vimes turned to face the man who’d appeared out of nowhere, as only a salesman could. “No, thank you, Throat. I’ve already eaten.” This year, he added silently. “Back on the sausages again? What happened?”
Cut-Me-Own-Throat Dibbler shook his head sadly. “Times are hard, sir. Very hard.”
A match rasped against the rough brickwork façade of one of the offices fronting the Square. Vimes lit his cigar and shook it out. “Shame,” he said in a sympathetic tone. He took a deep drag, blowing out a smoke ring. “Won’t last long, though. I’m sure you’ll be off on a new scheme by the end of the week.” He tipped his helmet. “Evening.”
He strolled off, leaving the man to find someone in the crowd who’d not yet learned to avoid his wares.