Madness

"You're utterly mad, you know that?"

"So I've been told," Moist nodded and adjusted his winged hat. "But you've got to be a little mad to work at the Post Office."

"And to be the postmaster's wife, yes?" Adora Belle smiled, then shook her head in the manner of someone who recognizes a completely hopeless case when they see one. "Next you'll be off to deliver mail directly to the gods on Cori Celesti, or the bloody space turtle."

"Don't be silly, what would anyone write to a giant turtle? 'Could you speed up a little, please, we'd really like to answer the ancient question of where exactly it is the Disc is heading, if you even have a destination in mind. Thank you, sir or ma'am; that's another thing we're curious about, by the way.'"

"But if someone were to write such a letter?" Adora Belle demanded. "What then?"

"Then it would be our duty to deliver it, of course," Moist said, knowing there was an unspoken challenge in there somewhere. "We can't have letters piling up again, can we? And it is sort of my job to attempt the impossible."

The next day there was indeed a letter addressed to the Great A'Tuin from none other than Miss Dearheart, all stamped and waiting on his desk. He smiled.

Gold

People felt compelled to listen to Moist because...because he knew how to talk to them. He was the man in gold. Moist could smile at a crowd, and with just a few words he'd have them buying up glass like it really was diamond. It was a talent, one Moist could use for the common good, which admittedly, he hadn't very often.

But he did have style. Moist, or rather various aliases he'd created over the years, had found himself in countless bars drinking with fools who thought they were clever until they realized that nice chap they met last night made off with all their money and left them to pay the tab. Then they would grin, because what a story that was!

But of course, they were unlikely to recognize him if they ever saw Moist again. He was generally unremarkable. People only remembered his smile, and his words. They remembered the gold. Up until recently, they would have remembered having a lot more of it before meeting him.

Words

"I've Worked It Out, Mr. Lipvig,"

"What's that, Mr. Pump?" Moist asked, trying to perfect a new stamp design.

"Since Becoming Postmaster, You Have Extended The Lives Of Twelve Point Two Four Nine People."

He looked up from his desk at the golem's glowing red eyes. Mr. Pump's clay face remained as expressionless as ever. Moist von Lipwig stared, absolutely speechless.

"How do you figure that, Mr. Pump?" he managed after a moment.

"The Letters, Mr. Lipvig. Words Have Power. You Have Given People Hope, Mr. Lipvig."

Hope, thought Moist. People need it to live. That's it, then. I'm still in the business of words. Only this time no one will die and everybody wins.

Addicted

"Face it, you're addicted to that warm fuzzy feeling you get from helping people." said Adora Belle, lighting another cigarette. "You crave it almost as much as the feeling you get when lying to them."

But really I'm doing both, thought Moist.

Decency was a habit he could give up at any time, Moist told himself. He sometimes wondered when Ankh-Morpork would run out of poorly maintained government positions for him to stumble into, quite gracefully of course, and resurrect thanks to a complete lack of knowledge or bias on the subject.

He took risks; his tongue made absurd promises which forced his brain to jog in order to keep up the pace. Always keep moving, that was the thing, give them a show. Give them something shiny to look at and it's all they will see. If it got boring, that meant the show was over, his work was done.

Then what? He could disappear. Moist could become anyone else quite easily, but perhaps there were a couple of angels who had bigger plans for him...

Danger

Talking to Miss Dearheart was like walking on a tightrope over a pit of snakes. And there was nothing else Moist would rather do.

Death

He was flying.

MOIST VON LIPWIG?

"Yes? How do you know my name?" He looked around, but the world had become solid darkness. "Where am I? Who the hell are you?"

YOU ARE IN BETWEEN STATES OF BEING. FOR THE MOMENT, YOU ARE DEAD. I AM DEATH. YOU CANNOT FOOL ME.

"I'm dead...for the moment?"

YES. YOU WERE HANGED.

"But I'll be alive, or at least less dead, in another moment?"

DO YOU BELIEVE IN ANGELS, MR. LIPWIG?

"What does that have to do with anything?"

JUST SOMETHING TO CONSIDER.

When Moist regained consciousness in the Patrician's office, he decided this must be Hell.