It was the eighth week of the Year of the Disgruntled Cuttlefish, and after years of lobbying the Patrician for more social awareness policies, Vetinari had decreed this week to be the annual Undead Pride Week. The streets of Ankh-Morpork were, therefore, populated not so much by the proud previously deceased, but by street vendors trying to cash in on civic excitement. Even some of the more conservative and oppressive vendors had turned out, as what were politics compared to paying customers? C.M.O.T Dibbler* of the questionable, but suspiciously profitable Dibbler Industries had found his career taking somewhat of an ironic twist this week, as his employees were back to peddling sausages of Dibbler's own recipe. He assured them that this was entirely appropriate, as the meat itself constantly spilled intestines and had a habit of moving even after they thought it was dead.

But the start of the week had not been without problems. Organising the pride march for instance had been a nightmare. Reg Shoe, the figurehead* of the undead rights movement had been adamant about walking at the front of the procession, but in practise, his arms could not support the banner without falling off. Even more stressful was the ordering of the marchers, as it was important not to offend anyone by putting them too far back in the parade, but they all insisted that they not be mixed. Werewolves for example, argued vehemently for a place near the front, so long as it wasn't second, as that reminded them too much of silver. The proud race of vampires naturally wanted to go first, so long as the march wasn't conducted in daylight. And though they were technically undead and therefore eligible to march, many prominent bogeymen preferred to stay in the closet.

Even the Patrician was getting into the –aha- spirit of the event. He had had his office painted an even darker shade of black and had some skeletons hung up on his wall for decoration. Quite whose skeletons they were, however, escaped his memory.

In front of him was a mess of parchment spread across the desk, inked over with walls of solid text, interspersed with legal jargon as impenetrable as a troll virgin's lady cave. Across the table from him was the cause of this mess of documentation; the zombie lawyer, Mr Slant. The rest of his body may well be rotting, but his sharp legal mind certainly wasn't. The two were currently involved in a semi-civil discussion about Undead Rights when it came to making wills and whether it was legal to reclaim all the possessions they'd bequeathed when they came back.

"Might I remind you," came the lawyer's voice, although quite how when Slant's lungs had stopped working many years ago, was a mystery. "Of the case of Hereford S. Pockets.* In a turn of events which has set a worrying precedent, Mr Pockets, after his demise at the hands of an apprentice piano-mover, awoke in his coffin and crawled out, only to find his will had already been read and officiated, meaning his substantial estate had been divided between his living relatives, leaving a formerly wealthy man with nothing."

"I would say that's more of an issue for the undead public relations office, but I take your point. I am prepared to send a decree to the guild of funeral directors to issue every dead body with a tag, that on the event of their resurrection, they may hand in to a solicitor to nullify the will. Although, such an overhaul of burial procedures would be quite the… undertaking."

The Patrician liked jokes. They allowed him to express his suitably dark sense of humour to his subjects, but never in a jovial tone. No, they'd always point out the joke as if it had been an accidental pune or play-on-words, in an attempt to lighten the mood. He would then swoop down on them mercilessly and make them feel even more uneasy. It was a surprisingly effective trick and one that gave him an enormous amount of pleasure.

Mr Slant, however, did not laugh, nor point out the pun. He just continued the negotiations. It irked him, but he didn't let it show. Lawyers…

"And in the event of vampires or ash spirits, who have no solid form onto which to tag?"

"Then I'll have my man look into a universal tagging solution." He thought of the genius locked in his attic. It wouldn't surprise him if the solution came with a propulsion mechanism or a self destruct button. "If you'll excuse me, there is actually a personal matter I wish to discuss with you."

The zombie's left eyebrow fell off. Vetinari assumed he had been trying to raise it.

"Certainly."

"How would one go about becoming a member of your community?" The Patrician asked him.

"Regretfully, my lord, one can not just to decide to join our community. Being undead is not a choice. It is something you are."

"Oh you must understand, I am not asking for myself, only for a friend of mine."

"And is your friend of the undead persuasion?"

"Well… he's halfway there."

*his full title technically being C.E.O.C.F.O.C.O.O.C.O.O. C.M.O.T. Dibbler.

* and occasionally figure-without-a-head,

*The 'S' in this case is inaccurate. It should, in fact read '$'. Such was the excessive wealth of Hereford Pockets that he had hired lawyers to legally change his middle name to a unit of currency. He had a level of extravagance to him that would make even Moist Von Lipwig blush.