Hello, and welcome to this joyous occasion, as I launch my first DW fanfic into the big old interweb sea! This is essentially set somewhere in the time of Going Postal and Thud!. I once drew three brothers, and deemed them the Kimmel clan. I always imagined them as these boring young men who always ended up adventuring, and then one day I got this idea and decided they were perfect for the role. So, review if you like and all that. Enjoy.

Darkness, flecked with the glitter of stars and purple blue clouds of cosmic stuff floats into vision. It's all rather peaceful. Deep space is the kind of place that would generate questions along philosophical lines. Not a bad place to stay a while.

However, because a story about the infinite abyss of deep space would be rather boring, a shape starts to come into focus.

If we could just focus in on it a bit tighter…

Just a bit more…

Ah. There we go. Behold the Discworld, a massive slice off the bottom of the geological cookie dough roll. Completely flat, it rests upon the broad calloused shoulders of four continental sized elephants, who in turn stand upon the shell of Great A'tuin, the cosmic turtle. A'tuin is a creature of such enormity, such colossal size, that adjectives take one look at him and decide to go on break early. Ten thousand miles across, his shell frozen from the airless climate of deep space, pocked with countless craters, and scarred from solar winds, he ponderously moves his adjective failingly large flippers, creating temporary black holes and propelling him forward through the universe. The Great A'tuin, massive star turtle of deep space, was feeling pretty content.

Such a place as this practically requires a tapestry rich with stories of heroic and lascivious men, beautiful and submissive women, vengeful dragons, and the like. Probably a ring as well. It's one of those epic story things. Fortunately for both the reader and the hack writing this thing, that is hardly the case. This is a story of three dangerously intelligent gods, three comfortably successful brothers, and a bunch of other rubbish that would seem out of place this early in the exposition. The heroes range from skin and bones to rather well fed and two of them are voluntarily celibate. There are plenty of women, and many are quite fetching in their own ways, but there are things that stick to the sides of tide pools more submissive than they. Of course the dragons are still here, but you'd be better off listening for a limited time offer or low interest rates instead of roaring and the flapping of wings if you're looking for one. And there's no ring. Period. This is not an ultimate battle between good and evil. It's something far larger.

The Temple of Small Gods in Ankh-Morpork very well shows the mentality of the city. Anyone is welcome there, even gods that may possibly have only one family following it or indeed, even one person. As long as you can pay, you're good. Of course, gods normally start out with some heavy debts, but when they do pay, they do it with interest.

At any rate, the street that Small Gods resides on, like most of Ankh-Morpork, is constantly under new ownership, as people scuttle up and down the social ladder like spiders suffering from seizures. It was as such that a three story building of no real use but to be a three story building was rented out to a geography tutor and her small group of students. It was a pretty good place by Ankh-Morpork standards and the tutor enjoyed her work. The only real problem was the room mates.

At the top floor was the room for the Retired Librarian's Gentleman's Club. They were harmless enough, though they tended to speak a bit too loud to compensate for their general hearing deficiency and their voices would on occasion rise to phlegm filled yells and shouts as they started to debate about ridiculously obscure garbage like collective unconsciousness and someone's theory on relatives.

Under the tutor's floor was the meeting place for the bi-monthly Sto Plains Lion Taming and Bear Baiting Society meetings. They were an absolute nuisance, good natured as they were and so affable it was sickening. Their ridiculous friendliness was compounded by the fact that they brought their own animals to the meetings and they would often have such friendly contests such as Whose Lion Can Beat the Tar Out of My Lion or Let's See Who Can Wrestle Big Al With a Salmon On Their Head. Normally the winner got a small prize.

You see, originally the librarians and wildlife warriors were separated by one story. It worked as kind of a buffer between the two of them, and it's arguable if the two even new each other existed. But the poor geography study group had to contend with crotchety old men above and boisterous animal wranglers below. Needless to say, there were a good few complaints filed to both parties, which got them annoyed at this new comer, and also introduced them to their other roommates which led to more complaining. In fact, the three leaders of their respective groups would stay after they were done and complain to each other, even going out to dinner together and complain. In this way, a rather odd friendship and even odder business venture were wrought.

The Ankh-Morpork Betterment Agency For Young People was a place where parents could drop off their kids on weekends and rest assured that they would come back with a better concept of the world, their nose in a book, and on occasion a plea for a bear cub. The parents were happy as it lived up to its name, and felt better knowing that while they were having a little "alone time" their kids were indeed getting themselves bettered.
The complaining continued however. They would yell at each other, school boys screaming at old librarians, giant bearded men bearing down on teachers, and the like. One of the employees under the librarian branch might rant about those uncultured brutes in the Recreational Department, then go out drinking with one of them. And a member of said group of brutes may sneer at the puny Tutors, and then cautiously ask one of them if he'd be so kind as to go to the Mended Drum with her on the weekend. Yet still, the complaints continued, often punctuated by strong language.

This combination of blasphemous oaths, fervent employees, countless patronizers and advocates, and its HQ's oddly coincidental location beside a church spelled out only one logical conclusion. They had created a religion. Well, they'd created gods at any rate.

As it was, three small gods living at the church had seen what was going on and had a surprisingly bright idea. They latched onto the agency and helped in any way they could, suggesting to editors to run advertisements for the place, leaving pamphlets lying around bars where young unemployed people went to, and as their strength grew, even granting their new order small gifts such as the really nice model of the Discworld for the Treacle Mine Road branch.

As they grew, they started to develop distinct personalities, and even chose names for themselves. There was Austania, mistress of Geography, and when later the all academic subjects were taught at the Agency, Physics and Mathematics. She knew everything happening around Discworld, so long as she had a map on hand. As she expanded into other fields of academics, she could also mold time and space to a certain extent, but only if the relevant text books were around. There was Michael the Constantly Chafed, stupendous warrior and doer of stupid things because they could be done. He was invincible in battle if he was fighting either against or by the side of a commonly confirmed dangerous beast and/or the odds were stacked against him. Because of this, there is a tiny possibility that Michael could get bested in combat by one particularly vicious rabbit. Finally, there was Old George, random master of ridiculous facts. George knew absolutely everything and had a perfect memory. Unfortunately, he also had a very limited recall ability, meaning he could at times rattle off the names of every officer in history that led a charge against an enemy with a ham bone or other food scrap for the loss of their sword, while he couldn't tell you what he had eaten ten minutes before the question was asked. He had a tendency to speak in quotes.

These three rather enjoyed their lot in life, being the secret gods of a secret religion, and the benefits of such an existence. They didn't have to worry about criticisms of their church, as it practically didn't exist. They didn't have to worry about such things as a corrupt and power hungry advisor, since no one works with kids in hopes of making much money. They didn't even have to bother with people becoming intolerant of their followers, seeing as to how most of Ankh-Morpork's kids whose parents didn't have enough to apprentice them to one of the guilds could normally manage half a dollar a week to give their kids a proper education at the least. They even enjoyed posing as janitors working in their organization and living in its buildings. Still though, they wouldn't mind having a nicer place to be during the summers when the Ankh was especially pungent.

"I wouldn't mind a little place where I could just be a god," Michael had said one day, "just a place to sit out in the blue glow of infinity, drink some mead, pat a few bottoms."

"It is a bit of a drag being mortal," Austania agreed, "but it does beat just hanging around the Agency buildings."

"Its tallest spires touched the ether of space, propping up the sky like a tent pole. Here the gods enjoyed each others companies and mercilessly stabbed each other in the backs," came the cracked voice of Old George.

"That doesn't sound too bad, George" Michael said after a second of thought. That was normally all he bothered with. "Where's it from?"

"Erm, it's a description of Cori Celestei, house of the gods," said George with some difficulty. He found it a lot easier to talk when quoting some eldritch tome or another.

"That does sound perfect," said Austania. "Minus the back stabbing of course. Is that mandatory?"

"I wouldn't think so," George finally managed to piece together from his own words. He couldn't stand the idea of "wild words" that just floated around in people's heads. They ought to settle down and find themselves a book to be in, like a respectable word should.

"How do we get there though?" Austania wondered out loud, "a place like that sounds pretty exclusive."

"The gods of Cori Celestei claim millions to be their followers," George uttered, happy to be able to quote again, "and hold dominion over the forces that shape the Disc."

"Cor," said Michael and whistled. "How many do we have now?

"About twelve thousand," Austania said after some thought. "Oh well. Maybe we can persuade tour guys to open a chapter house in Genua or something."

"Numbers win battles, cunning wins wars," George said, quoting One Sun Mirror's Art of Making War.

Michael grinned at this. "George is right," picking up a book from off the table they were sitting at and looked at them. "Come on. Let's do some research."

"The Joye of Snackes?" Austania said, reading the spine.

"You know what I meant."

The other two did, and after sweeping the floors and washing the windows of their "temple", they sat around a small round table and became the first gods to actually get religion.

"Well well, what have we got here?" came a greasy voice behind Jonathan Kimmel.

"Looks like one of those Deep Klatchians," came an equally greasy sounding voice.

"Heh, a darkie eh?" came another voice.

"Yeah, technically, you're just half right," said Jonathan, pushing up his glasses which were now slightly askew. Jonathan was one of those singularly unforgettable people who you'd never notice in a crowd. He was tall, about six foot three, with curly black hair and a broad nose. Some would have described his face as "honest", but those people didn't know Jon. He wasn't deceitful or anything, but to him it's a crime to be so good at lying and not do anything with it. He never lied about his ancestry though. He saw no reason to. "My dad was born here in Ankh-Morpork. My mom was from central Klatch though."

"Whatever, I'm sure you bleed like any-" unfortunately, Greasy number one got one of Jon's super sized feet buried into the fork of his legs. Jonathon wasn't a great fighter, but he had mastered the preemptive strike. There was the tiniest thump as leather toe met soft vulnerable flesh. Greasy two looked confusedly at his comrade, now vomiting and crying. This was a big mistake, as he averted his eyes long enough for Jon to hit him in his stomach with a tightly balled fist. With both of his assailants writhing on the ground, Jon quickly turned tail and ran, his boots clunking on the cobbles.

Now Jon was no coward. He feared almost nothing. But he did dislike many things. He disliked pain, he disliked having to hand over his money, and he disliked especially the thought of being stabbed to death. He also had no qualms with fighting dirty. Things that hurt really bad, like nad kicking, gut punches, dislocated jaws, broken ribs, and cracked kneecaps tended to heal pretty easily so he felt no remorse to the people he hit.

For this reason, he was trying to get as much distance himself and the thugs before they came to. After the first few minutes, he slowed down to a fairly brisk jog and started to enjoy the run. He found his mind wandering with all the adrenaline from the encounter clouding his focus. He wondered how his sister was doing. She was teaching at one of those nice finishing schools in Quirm. Ida was the success story of the family. While her three brothers were content to use their impressive intellects to get out of as much work as possible, she attacked it violently. So now she had a good job in another country and her three brothers were still in Ankh-Morpork, though they were also enjoying their mediocre success.

It was because of his preoccupation that he wasn't noticing where he was going, and ran into what appeared from his perspective to be a flowing blonde wig. The collision revealed there to be a body under the hair, one that was wearing sensible clothes and a functional breast plate. He realized in horror who he had almost run over and dipped his head down in apology.

"I'm sorry sergeant," he said, looking at Sergeant Angua Von Uberwald sprawled on the street.

"No harm done, sir," she said, then looked at Jonathon again. "Hey, you're one of the Kimmel brothers. You two are specials, right?" The sergeant was referring to him and his older brother Simon Kimmel who served as special constables.

"We are, sergeant."

"If I recall right, you and he did pretty well during a riot out in the Shades, right? Your brother has quite an arm on him."

Jonathon nodded. His family were all Offlians, and Simon had decided to join the clergy. When with the specials, he used a light flail instead of a truncheon. It was modeled after an Offlian ceremonial flail, but made of out of two pieces of finished black walnut wood connected with a thick rope. It did considerable damage in a brawl. "We were just trying to serve. Well, I apologize again and I'll see you later," much later would be preferable. His… business was a bit on the shady side, like most immigrant families. Not harmful to anyone mind you, but he was very lucky that guilds tended not to patrol the Shades too thoroughly.

"Wait, Jonathon, right? I'm actually looking for a place around your neighborhood. There's supposed to be an Ecksian food stand run by a guy Brian Vernon. You wouldn't know him by any chance, would you?"

Jonathon nodded slowly, his heart drooping a bit. Great. It wasn't that he didn't respect the Watch, or dislike Sergeant Angua, but Brian was one of his steady customers and it probably wouldn't do to have someone who could contact the various guilds whose prohibition laws he broke without a second thought. He considered running again, but that would have just caused awkward questioning. Finally, Jonathon said fine and led her to the rimward side of the Shades, where the small immigrant community he lived in was situated. It was distinctively not the Shades, but still not exactly anywhere else in the city. The apartments there were close together and what wasn't used for housing was being used for shifty stores. The light that shone through the tall buildings was grey and hazy. It was cool, and had a sort of clamminess, though the people were all brimming with emotion. A group of young Agatean women were shouting out deals on some homemade china and winked at Jonathon in a rather irreverent way, two Hubland warriors were brawling in a florist's shop, and in between two of the neighborhood's seven authentic Klatchian coffee rooms, was Brian Vincent's Grub Hole. Brian himself was tall, broad, and fat, making him look a bit like a giant fleshy monolith. He was an Ecksian of about forty-three years and wore a coat that was the epitome style about thirty years ago on a world two universes over. His thick wire rimmed glasses were always slightly askew. By far though, his most distinguished feature was his tawny hair, which was the shade of a white sheet stained with tobacco and was everywhere on him. His sideburns bristled out like a mane, and his beard looked as gnarled as some kind of resilient dessert weed

"Oy, s'a good thing I saw you, Jonathon me ole kidney," he said in a heavy Ecksian accent. "I wouldn't mind if you could get me another pint or two of that cranberry apple scumble you've been doing-"

"It's good to see you as well, Brian," Jonathon said, cutting in quickly, "I'd like you to say hello to Sergeant Angua from the CITY WATCH."

Brian may have been known as a bit odd, but he was quick on the uptake and gave Angua a charming smile. "Hello, Miss Sergeant. Could I interest you in a pie floater? It's the house special."

Unfortunately, Angua was also quick. "Are you part of the Brewers and Distillers guild, Mr. Kimmel?" she asked Jon. Jon's face didn't change at all, and there was no sign he was surprised by the question. He actually wasn't, and had already come up with an excellent excuse.

"No maam. The scumble was a gift from my grandmother. She lives up around Lancre. Most of the old women around there have stills." It was perfect. And his grandmother did live in Lancre and distill spirits. The fact that the scumble wasn't hers was a mere formality.

"So if I was to search your house, I wouldn't find a still of your own, will I?"

Jonathon felt his throat dry out for a second. This was probably going to back fire, but it was his only chance. "Brian," he said while still looking at the female watchman, "see if you have some of my mam's scumble still." Brian, knowing what his friend was trying to do, solemnly took out a small flask and uncorked it. The smell that came out was so sour and tart that the flowers outside of the small curled in on themselves until they were nothing but hard little balls of plant matter. He poured a tiny amount of the cloudy and clear liquid into one of his nicest shot glasses, and proffered it to Angua.

The sergeant took the glass and looked back at the two of them with piercing eyes.

"I'm not one to be bribed, you know," she said.

The two nodded vigorously.

"I won't end this because you're giving me some of what is quite possibly illegal alcohol."

More nodding.

"The fact you tried to persuade me with the material you were being questioned about won't help you at all in front of the guild masters."

If the two nodded any harder, their heads would have fallen off.

Finally, Angua downed the shot. There was no expression on her face as it went down. She didn't even blush. The two men were rather impressed.

Then Angua finally looked up at the two. It wasn't hostile, but it was searching. Finally, she stood up and said, "my compliments to your grandmother. Ask her for an extra pint next time you write to her. Now could you give me one of your famous Ecksian pie floaters, please. Then I'll have to get back to the Yard."

Brian nervously poured some pea soup into a cardboard cup, put a pork pie on top, and drizzled it with tomato sauce before sealing it and giving it to the Watch sergeant.

She thanked them and walked out of the stand, to the relief of the two fellows in there.

"That," Brian said while thoughtfully cleaning his glasses, "was too close and no mistake, old spice."

Jonathon nodded. The events from the past two hours had tired him out, so he asked for three floaters from Brian for him and his roommates, and after thanking Brian again, dragged himself to his apartment.

It was funny, he thought, about how every time he had managed to have gotten a hold of his steady and comfortably boring life, something like this had to happen. Kimmels tended to keep away from excitement, tending instead to go for comfortable work and decent pay. Jonathon shrugged and went into his building. Tomorrow was another day.

If he had even the faintest idea what tomorrow held for him, he would have wished it wasn't.

And we're finished for the day, boys and girls. Hope you enjoyed it, especially if you enjoyed it enough to click that little review button over their. Come on, you know you want to. Please?