Possibly for the first time, a Discworld/Monty Python crossover. Thanks to Clodia for indirectly suggesting it over on the Discworld Chat forum. This is a very interlekshual talking shop for matters Discworld, with some fine people on it, many of whom post here. Adarah is the Mistress of the Dread Portal and should be IM'd for admission.
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Hoggin(1) the troll ran, gasping and labouring for breath, through the labyrinth of the warehouse, frantically seeking a way out, any way out. Rack upon rack of pottery, porcelain and cheap statuary passed him, unheeded, as he ran, desperately trying to put distance between himself and the pursuit. His silicon skin glistened with the fear-exudation that the species ooze in time of great stress and fear.
Where is he? I want his hide!
He came in here, Mr Chrysophrase. Hunting him down, that just a matter of time!
It better be! Dat troll, he show me disrespect!
Hoggin looked frantically round for a place to hide, and found none. He heard the pursuit draw nearer.
"Dere he am!"
A huge troll, one of Chrysophrase's henchpeople, rounded a corner. Hoggin, a small somewhat woebegone troll, whose physical appearance was somewhat pebbledashed and for want of a better word, aggregated, turned and tried to run the other way. He'd tried to cheat Chrysophrase over a Slab deal. Twice. He knew he could expect no mercy. Not this time. As he sprinted down the aisle between two towering racks of Troll devotional statuettes he saw…
"Hoggin! You little coprolite! Where is my money from dat Slab deal?"
It was Chrysophrase himself, looming large and blocking the aisle. The troll crimelord pounded one huge fist into the palm of his other hand.
"Back off, boys, I is angry enough to take dis one myself!"
Mad with terror, Hoggin reached for the only weapon he could find, a statue of the good-luck deity Silicarous. Crazed with fear, he threw it at Chyrsophrase.
Had he not been so consumed with fear, Hoggin might have reflected he was in the warehouse belonging to troll entrepreneur Chalky. Chalky was a potter and mass-sculptor of bad-taste ornaments. And owing to a long-standing gentletroll's agreement, a significant number of Chalky's statues were in fact hollow and used to transport…
As the statue shattered across the broad chest and face of the crimelord, a thick white powder billowed up in a cloud. As he opened his mouth to bellow in rage, Chrysophrase could not help but inhale a large quantity .
Hoggin had the satisfaction of seeing his nemesis fall over backwards, eyes crossing in surprise, before the pursuit caught up with him and he began the long painful journey to rockery-hood….
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Oh, no, der Boss….
What we do? What we do?
Look, just get him on dis trolley, right. It'll hold, I use it in der kilns. Get this blanket over him. Can you boys get a cart round? With a driver, can be relied upon to shut der mouth? Then get him home. You must know where he live? And for Goohoolog's sake, stop treading in dat spilled Slab and get it swept up! Don't worry about der dust and cobwebs and stuff, it'll do for sellin' to der street trolls as Scrape. Oh, and take der rockery somewhere else?
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Chrysophrase was taken to his home, where his current moll, Dolomita, nodded soberly at the escorting trolls and said "Get him on der bed for him to sleep it off. I'll look after him. Now scram."
The escorting henchtrolls had taken one look at the expression on her face, and gratefully scrammed. It was known that there were times when Dolomita could speak with the full authority of her troll, and this felt uncomfortably like one them.
She sat down by the bed, where Chrysophrase was moaning and writhing, and set about soothing his fevered brow. It was, after all, expected of her.
Dolomita, like many mountain trolls before her, had come to the big city to seek if not her fortune, then somebody else's. She'd drifted, in a continental drift sort of way, into a paying career as a troll dresser(2), and prided herself on her ability to cause a riot when the hitherto unprecedented sixth overcoat had gone on. Her arrival in the city had coincided with prosperity creating a class of monied trolls, trolls of business, trolls of affairs, who needed from time to time to be seen with a suitably high-class escort. Rosie Palm of the Seamstresses' Guild had not been slow to spot a market opportunity, and thus Dolomita had become one of the first Troll Seamstresses. Chrysophrase had been captivated with her, and had requested her services so often that no other troll in the city would dare try to engage her services for a night. Seeing her market value dwindling, Rosie had had no objections to Chrysophrase buying her contract, and setting her up as his exclusive mistress.
Her duties were not onerous. They summed up as being there when Chrysophrase needed her; and disappearing promptly when he didn't. And, as she reflected, it was not a bad life. Not a bad life at all Even if your troll make der lichen grey and you sometimes wonder if meeting him was your life's mistake. But on the whole, him troll who give a girl an even break.
He certainly need me now! Dat some dose of Slab he took, all at once!
She settled down to wait out the long night at her troll's bedside…
Sometimes I hate dis game. Especially when he smoke and drink and not come home at all. But he slap me once in a while and dat make up for everyt'ing.
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Chrysphrase, confused and disorientated, wandered a strangely silent City. It was Ankh-Morpork, he knew, this was Broadway. But where were the milling thousands of people? It was broad daylight and he was the only person around.
Well, apart from the large purple spider lowering itself on a silken thread to leer into his face with all eight eyes.
Chysophrase? Welcome to your nightmare!
And then it swung itself up again, giggling
I guess I'm going to like it!
Chbrysophrase remembered, vaguely, being in Chalky's warehouse. He recalled the fear-crazed Hoggin looming up in front of him. And then nothing.
Is this a nightmare? This troll has never been afraid of spiders!
-Oh, no? But you'll end up feeling this is where you belong. It's a necessary sedation. Time for you to see yourself as you really are.
This troll is afraid of nuttin'!
-Nothing? asked the spider.
Nuttin'! Chrysophrase relied, firmly.
-we'll see. Somebody's going to want a word with you soon.
He sensed the spider retreating. Chrysophrase walked on down Broadway towards the river, thinking to find somewhere to sit tight and ride it out. A Slab high didn't last for ever, he knew, and it'd soon be over and he could resume real life again.
The invisible sun rose higher and he felt himself growing warmer. Felt the edge slipping off his ability to think and reason.
Even if your mind goes, he told himself, hold on to the fact that this is all a dream, a fantasy, brought about by Slab! Therefore it is hallucination. Therefore it has no power to hurt or injure. Dat sun am getting hot. Dis is fantasy. Dis a drug trip. Remember!
A little voice inside his head said Go where it's cold. Der Pork Futures Warehouse. Find der ice. Find der cold. Where you can think and reason. Out here, you just another fick troll.
He turned and ran. In the distance he heard the first ground-shaking thud, like the war-drum of the trolls. Was it the drum?
The thud came again and again, sending the vibrations pounding up through his feet. It could be the war-drum of the Trolls, he thought. But it sounded like the footfall of some giant animal. Far away, but possibly getting nearer.
Chrysophrase sought to speed up his run towards the Pork Futures Warehouse and sanctuary, craving the life-giving cold to be found there, as the invisible sun beat down from what was now a black starless sky. This gave him cause for disquiet.
Some religions fink der afterlife is a lonely place under a black sky. Am I dead?
It started to grow unbearably hot. Chrysophrase resisted it as far as he could, but soon had to throw off his fine suit for relief from the stifling heat.
(In the real world, Dolomita has noticed he is sweating and is laboriously undressing her troll, to help him become more comfortable)
He regretted losing the trappings of external finery. Now he was just one more troll in a loincloth, back to where he started…
The steady thudding was growing nearer and appeared to be following him. Now he could hear a long, lowering, as yet incoherent, screaming noise, like a large animal bellowing with rage.
He sped up. Oh, no, no,no….
The windows of every building on either side were lined with faces. Indistinct, mainly of trolls, but with some Men and Dwarfs. He could half-recognise some of them. Trolls, names long since ticked off and forgotten, to whom he'd had to deliver lessons in respect, often terminal ones. And they were all soundlessly laughing at him, pointing the finger at his unaccustomed nakedness, and jeering.
And all the time that slow, ponderous, thudding, like the footfall of a giant animal… but he was nearly there, nearly at the Pork Futures Warehouse. Just another couple of hundred yards…
Chrysophrase, heart beating madly, troll fear-sweat pouring from his brow, pulled up suddenly, realising he was suddenly not alone in this city.
Sergeant Detritus of the Watch stood in front of him, hand raised in the universal "Halt!" signal. But Detritus was transformed. Even in his normal height and width, he was a symbol of fear to those city trolls who lived interestingly criminal or deviant lives. By common consent, he was regarded as an Alpha Troll, one so large and strong and powerful, that nobody who wasn't new to the City dared risk giving him a reason to punch them. Even Chrysophrase, a renowned bare-knuckle fighter in the old days when he was climbing the ladder, steered carefully clear of provoking such a confrontation.
And Detritus was incorruptible. Chrysophrase had tried getting him onside with carefully considered inducements deniably offered through third parties, but a Vimes-trained police troll had refused, pointedly and directly, every time. And his example had infected the other trolls in the Watch. The only troll constable to ever have accepted a bribe from the Breccia had not remained in the Watch for very long, nor indeed upright and able to walk unassisted, after Detritus had found out. The troll sergeant made Chrysophrase anxious. Oh, Detritus treated him with respect on the occasions they met, as was fitting, but left the uneasy feeling that he was accumulating evidence, all the time, that would eventually see him, Chrysophrase, behind bars
And here he was, three times his normal size, calling on a suddenly small Chrysophrase to halt. And behind him… the looming bulk of Constable Dorfl, and Vetinari's golem-enforcer Mr Pump.
Golems. The only species on the Disc more powerful than trolls. Incorruptible as policemen and agents of the Law. And one of them Pump, who made a point of affably greeting "Mr Chrysophrase!" whenever they met in the City.
And behind Chrysophrase, the steady, louder and louder, Thud. Thud. Thud. of a huge animal's footfall.
Chrysophrase stood, and considered the options. He tried to stop the unaccustomed fear surging through him. Looking round, he saw others stepping out of the shadows.
Commander Vimes, grinning and smoking one of his foul human cigars. And William de Worde, writing in his notebook.
"The downfall of troll crime-lord Chrysophrase" de Worde recited. "A first-hand account of his last desperate attempt to escape justice, and his eventual arrest by representatives of law and order."
Chrysophrase looked round, wildly.
De Worde approached. "It is thought the fallen troll criminal mastermind will be one of the first inmates of the new Alcatrash maximum-security prison, soon to be ceremonially opened by Lord Vetinari and the Diamond King of All The Trolls. Designed as a maximum-security prison for troll inmates, it has been built to be impregnable and will be officered by Golems. Lord Vetinari regretfully said that with rising criminality among the troll population, the Tanty is not enough as it was not purpose-built with troll inmates in mind. Therefore this will serve the incarceration needs of both Ankh-Morpork and the various mountain kingdoms…"
Detritus grinned down at him.
"Just come quietly. Resistance is futile!"
Something was wrong. Chrysophrase shouted, desperately: "You're not Detritus!"
"I am and I am not. Are you aware of what Dwarfs call The Guarding Dark? Detritus has worked among Dwarfs for long enough to be receptive to my presence. And welcoming of it."
"Nooooo!" screamed Chrysophrase, all inhibitions gone, and he turned and ran.
As he did so, a huge animal snout loomed up over the roofscape of the building in front of him. As the buildings stood over a hundred feet high, the animal must have loomed more massive still.
Two beady little eyes sat behind the long pointed piggy snout. The narrow forehead was framed with a ring of angry erect spikes. Behind the head, a huge rounded back arched carrying rank upon rank of the same spikes. The eyes and snout swivelled round to focus on Chrysophrase. It was the single most terrifying thing he had ever seen. Its mouth opened. It bellowed
"DINSDALE!" at him. "DINSDALE!"
Tiles shook loose and fell from the roofs.
"DINSDALE! DINSDALE!"
The roar echoed from the rooftops and along the streets.
His nerve gone, Chrysophrase lumbered forward in one last dash for the door of the Pork Futures Warehouse. He made it and felt instantly better in the chill.
(Back in the real world, Dolomita replaces a spent ice-pack with another on her troll's fevered brow, noticing how quickly they are melting and wondering if she has enough. In the ante-room, one of Chrysophrase's most trusted lieutenants is anxiously waiting for news. She bids him send an under-troll out to discreetly get more ice. Sensing the voice of Dolomita is the command of The Boss, he rushes to oblige her.)
For a few minutes, Chrysophrase is safe. He relishes the cold. He wonders about the pictures the drug-trip has conjured up. If he is honest with himself, he does have fears. The incorruptible, steadily plodding, Detritus. He fears one day Detritus will be his downfall. Golems. Mr Pump. If Vetinari ever decided Chrysophrase needed to be removed from play, the Lord of the City would surely use golems to do it. How big a file does he have on me? And I can't fight Vetinari. Him one powerful, cunning, human.
Vimes. The man behind Detritus. And that newspaper man de Worde. Very carefully refraining from publishing anything negative about Chrysophrase. But he suspected de Worde, and dat clever girl of his, were using words like "troll businessman" and "frequent patron of Troll charities" as a sort of shorthand dat other humans knew how to read. When de Worde thought he was ready to go public, what sort of damage could he do to Chrysophrase's business interests?
Dat newspaperman was amassing information all the time, a word here, an off-the-record statement there… he'd surely use it when he was ready, words as a weapon, deadly as a blow to der back of der neck. (3)
But where had that goohuloog giant hedgehog come from? And who was Dinsdale?
He looked up. And hid heart pounded. In a rack of semi-transparent pork carcasses hanging on meathooks, one of them now took the form of the troll Hoggin.
And the corpse turned its head. And looked over at Chrysophrase. And grinned. And said
"Now it's time for you to feel as scared as I did. Running around a warehouse in the dark, chased by things that are going to kill you, and knowing there's no way out. Enjoy! "
To the sound of Hoggin's vengeful laughter, he heard the big doors crash open. Light flooded the warehouse.
He's in here somewhere. Spread out. Yell when you find him.
Vimes. And the hulking body of Detritus blocking out the light.
Chrysophrase ran, seeking an exit. Then suddenly there was an explosion of light as the roof of the warehouse was ripped off.
The giant hedgehog glared balefully down at him.
"Dinsdale! Now I caught yer!"
"But I'm not Dinsdale. Whoever he is. I'm Chrysophrase!"
The hedgehog, for a moment, looked existentially puzzled.
"This is Kipling Road, Stepney, London? Smells right!"
"No, this is Ankh-Morpork."
"Ank-where? Don't know no Ank-More-pork, Dinsdale. I'm here to settle the hash of one Dinsdale Pirhana, crime-lord. I'm his greatest fear, see."
A different kind of light dawned.
"You must have der wrong drugs trip, friend. My name is Chrysophrase."
"Chris-oh-phrase. Chris-oh-phrase." The hedgehog rolled the un familiar name off its tongue.
"But you've got to admit, he is a crime-lord!" Vimes called, from deep in the warehouse.
"Chris-oh-phrase." The hedgehog shook its head. "Nah. If it's all the same to you, I'll just keep calling you Dinsdale. I might as well be your greatest fear while I'm here. Despatch don't like it if you come back empty-pawed. Wasted trip, see. Could have been worse, China. You could have got Ethel. She's one frog you don't want to meet!"
The hedgehog paused and bellowed
"Dinsdale! I'm coming for yah! This is Spiny Norman, your worst fear!"
It looked around uncertainly.
"Nah where's he gone?"
Spiny Norman paused and looked about him. No "Dinsdale".
With a cry of "Bleedin' despatch! Cocked it up again!" , the two-hundred foot tall super-hedgehog stomped off to locate its prey, demolishing several carts under its feet as it stomped on. (4)
"DINSDALE! DIIIIIINSSSSDALE!"
With no clear recollection of how he'd got there, Chrysophrase found himself on the multicolour grass of the Thaumatalogical Park, at the opposite end of the city. He could hear the pursuit growing nearer.
He desperately looked for a place to hide. But a fierce pride, ashamed of the panic and fear he'd felt, was building up in him. Why run? Why hide? Why skulk like some gutter troll?
If I'm going to die, I'll do it proudly and properly. It's been a good life…
The Thaumatalogical Park was where magic met industry. Theoretical research at the University became applied technomancy here, and the place made and sold all manner of byproducts of wizardly endeavours that, in theory at least, had applications in the modern world.
Chysophrase doubted this: he'd tried various Disorganisers with little success, and had given them up as a bad job.
But here he was, at the bottom of three large gas storage tanks…
Seeing the Detritus-thing looming up after him, and seeing the distant cloud of dust that was Spiny Norman, taking a direct and city-destroying route to find him, he shrugged and began climbing the tank marked OCTAGEN. Next door to it was a tank of the same size marked HEXAGEN. The names, as yet, meant nothing to him.
Trolls are not built for climbing, but he slowly and surely edificeered his way up the side of the tank, silicon heels kicking sparks off the metal as he climbed.
Down below, the pursuit drew nearer. As it reached him, he ascended to the top of the tank.
Vimes, de Worde, Detritus and the golems, tiny now, looked up at him. At last eye-to-eye with Spiny Norman, he locked glares with the hedgehog.
A stray memory surfaced. A reception at Rosie Palm's, where he'd met a jolly little witch from der Copperhead country. Mrs Ogg had got it out of him that he was originally a Copperhead boy, and he'd felt vaguely flattered that she knew so much about trolls. He'd mentioned a Neville Ogg had worked for him from time to time. It turned out to be one of her sons.
Later in the evening, she'd livened things up with a humorous song about hedgehogs, to do with the fact that the creature could walk tall and unafraid where others feared to tread.
"DINSDALE! I got'cher now, matey! Nowhere to run! Come to Norman!"
He evaded the creature's snout-lunge, but half-tripped over a valve-wheel. It part-turned with the force, and began to hiss gas.
"I hope you meet der t'ing that can bugger you. And soon!" he cursed, all fear gone, dodging another lunge. His silicon feet sent up another shower of sparks.
Then Chrysophrase exultantly shouted
"ON TOP OF THE WORLD, MOMMA! YOU SHOULD SEE ME NOW! ON TOP OF THE…"
A spark ignited the leaking gas. The world exploded into a white-hot flash….. octagen, as he word implies, oxidises. And ten thousand tons of it oxidise very quickly.
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Chrysophrase awoke in a sweat-soaked bed. Dolomita cried with relief. He smiled, feeling suddenly weak.
"You is a good girl, Dolomita. Thank you."
"Chrysophrase! Are you…"
"I just had one of them drug-trip things. On der street, dey call it a bad trip. It showed me all der t'ings I fear in this world. All the bad t'ings I done. And you know what? I'd do it all again tomorrow. No regrets!"
She hugged him, fiercely. He was back, and in his right mind. What more could a troll-girl hope for?
(1) A website that defines terms used in building work defines "hoggin" thusly:Hoggin is the term given to a mixture of clays, sands and gravels to form a material that compacts well and provides a usable, stable surface at low cost. There is some variation in colour but it is predominantly" buff".
An ideal name for a troll bottom-feeder whose destiny is to have other trolls walk all over him?
(2) Like a stripper. Only trolls see things the other way about.
(3) On Roundworld, this was exactly how the Kray Twins and the Richardson Brothers were brought down in the 1960's. London's two biggest crime syndicates were toppled not by the police, but by newspapers and satirical magazines patiently accumulating, and then publishing, so much information that once it was out in the open, the police could no longer refuse to act. A shocking aspect of both trials concerned exactly how many Metropolitan Police coppers were corrupt and in the pay of both syndicates… Monty Python's Flying Circus added to the discomfort for the Establishment by sending up the Kray Twins as "Doug and Dinsdale Pirhana". In which Spiny Norman takes a bow…
(4) Because some images are irresistable.
Other possible footnotes and annotations refer to Alice Cooper albums and classic crime movies with James Cagney in them. You can work those out for yourselves.