I really should have something better to do at half-past midnight than write idiotic Discworld drabbles. Like sleeping; sleeping would be an excellent idea.
I believe the title of this fic is self-explanatory.
"Why?" asked Vimes helplessly.
"It is the Century of the Fruitbat, your grace," replied Vetinari. "Modernisation marches apace."
Vimes stared mistrustfully at the glowing slab in Drumknott's hands. It looked like the sort of thing that went bingely-bingely-beep.
"Furthermore," said Vetinari, "the devices certainly improve efficiency, and I'm told that they are de rigeur among the Guild leaders, although I must admit that it required some persuasion to convince Drumknott to abandon his filing."
Vimes looked at Drumknott, whose lips were compressed into a thin line, and sighed. He knew from bitter experience that this wasn't going to end well.
... God, can you imagine what would happen if Vetinari encountered the internet?