Hope wasn't what Commander Vimes felt at the moment. After another frustrating day of the City Watch turning up no new leads on the whereabouts of Lord Snike, he'd received a missive from one of his least favorite citizens, Chrysoprase the Troll, with an offer to meet Vimes at the Pork Futures warehouse – tomorrow afternoon. Exactly the same time that the Guild leaders would be convening in the Rats Chamber to decide the fate of the Patricianship. Vimes was bloody unlikely to be allowed in on that meeting. The presence of an axe deeply embedded in the Rats Chamber table had made the Guild leaders a bit more nervous about his attendance at their functions . . . which had been the whole point really, but . . . . If Vimes was going to have a pally with the head of the local Breccia, he needed to have all his wits about him. In the cold of the Pork Futures warehouse, Chrysoprase certainly would, and Vimes had no Sergeant Detritus to back him up this time.

Just as distracting in a different way, Vimes arrived home only to have one of his increasingly frequent arguments with Young Sam. Sam and Sybil considered themselves lucky that their son had never gone through a terrible twos phase. But now, in the blink of an eye, Young Sam's sweet sixes and smiling sevens had given way to the edgy eights. Vimes was still as proud as punch of his boy, but he was starting to realize the downside of having a son who everyone said took after him. Young Sam had been indulged so far, as much as parental discretion permitted, but he was used to going on outings and play dates on an almost daily basis, not to being grounded by a civic emergency. He was getting increasingly restless at being kept indoors all day long and not allowed out to visit his little friends, like Tears of the Mushroom. Both parents had done their best to explain the situation in a way that they hoped wouldn't be too frightening, as vaguely as possible, but children just didn't understand the meaning of the word danger sometimes. When you couldn't give all the real and lurid reasons for keeping an energetic young boy from doing what he wanted, "because I said so" didn't come off as a good enough answer.

But the real frosting on the day's fairy cake had been that evening's edition of the Ankh-Morpork Times. Vimes could withstand the occasional frame-worthy political cartoon of him, but tonight's paper had come as a complete stab in the back. The Ankh-Morpork Allnews had already soft-peddled the events surrounding the Sator Square riot and its reporters had shown unbelievable sympathy to Lord Snike's expressed goals of so-called restored glory for the city. But now the Times' latest copy was jumping on the 'hurrah for a new Patrician' bandwagon as well. Vimes might not like William de Worde, but he hadn't expected the newsman to abase himself so quickly at the prospect of a change in the Palace. The Times had made plenty of digs about Vimes' and the City Watch's competence as well. It burned the gut even more, because Vimes couldn't pretend that he hadn't been caught flat-footed by everything that was going on, that the Times might be right about him. He'd rolled with the punches as best he could, but the hits just kept on coming.

He was pacing the floor of his downstairs den, railing on about the paper to Willikens when he and the butler heard the knocking on the front door, accompanied by the distinct thud of golem footsteps and several other pairs as well. Willikens left to answer the door and returned a minute later with a sizable assemblage – Moist and Adora von Lipwig, Mr. Pump, Sander 5, Of the Twilight the Darkness, two large human toughs that Vimes had seen working at Harry King's place once or twice before, and at least one other goblin that had been with Of the Twilight the Darkness when they interviewed Runs with the Grass Mouse and Of the Rock the Vein. Moist, still in his gold suit and cosmetic bruise job, had a rolled-up copy of the Times in one hand.

"Vimes, I wonder if you've had a chance to look at the paper today?" Moist asked.

"Oh, I shouldn't get him middled on that, Sir," Willikens said, since it was already too late to keep him from getting started.

"Look at it!" Vimes snorted. "I'd like to stuff it right up Mr. William de Worde's . . . principles," he said as Sybil entered the room.

"I hope not," Moist shook his head. "Because I think he may be in some serious trouble, and we need to investigate."

"Huh?"

Moist unrolled his copy of the Times and pointed to the banner section that held the paper's motto.

"Notice anything different about it?" Moist asked.

"The Truth Shall Make Ye Fret," Vimes read aloud and snorted again. "A typo - what's so odd about that? I've seen plenty of those."

"Yes, but I'll bet Tolliver Groat's toupee you haven't seen any of them in the banner section lately." Moist smacked at the offending Fret. "Oh, yes, they had their share of mistakes with the motto when the paper just started. But once they hit the big time, Mr. Spools tells me they had a fancy engraved block made with the paper's title and motto so they wouldn't have to reset it every time or worry about errors. Someone hand-set this motto today, almost as if they were trying to send a message - and that's not all. Mr. Pump and I wandered over half the town this afternoon too, with me making myself as noticeable as possible – believe me, people noticed! I attracted crowds a couple of times, but Sacharissa Cripslock and Otto Chriek weren't among 'em. Tonight's paper doesn't mention it at all. I might not be happy that Lord Snike made a public exhibit of me the other day, but doesn't that strike you as odd?"

"It does." Vimes frowned. As Commander of the City Watch and Duke of Ankh, he barely had to sneeze to be considered newsworthy. The famously flamboyant Moist von Lipwig was an even bigger media favorite - and the riot had certainly made him huge news this week.

"There's more," Moist continued. "Did you read William de Worde's editorial column?"

"I sure did," Vimes grumbled. "He practically called for me to hand in my badge!"

"Yes, but he did so in a way that was amusing. He even made a joke about you, Vimes. William de Worde doesn't make jokes – and he never entertains his readers when he could be educating them instead. I follow his column every chance I get, but not because I enjoy his style. The man writes like a knowledgeable young fart trying to sound like a knowledgeable old fart!"

"Mr. Lipwig, such language!" Sybil scolded.

"My point exactly," Moist said, and swatted the newspaper with his hand again. "Language! I'm telling you, William de Worde didn't write this rubbish. I don't think Sacharissa wrote the section that has her name on it either. So if they're not the ones turning the Times into a pro-Snike mouthpiece, who is?"

"Damn," Vimes muttered. Put that way, it made all too much sense. Hadn't he reminisced with Captain Carrot only two days ago about the previous incident when a pair of hired gangsters had taken the newspaper's staff hostage? He ordered Willikens to fetch him his armor and weapons. "I need to get down there with the Watch and check it out."

"You mean we need to get down there," Adora Belle interjected. Vimes noticed that she was carrying a very large handbag. It didn't take a bolt quiver sticking out of it for him to guess at the contents. "This is our fight too, and the Times staff has been very good to us these past few years."

"And if anyone's doing to them what Snike's crew did to me . . . ." Moist's normally cheerful voice was thick with anger and dread. He didn't have to say more.

No – Vimes wasn't about to let de Worde suffer the same fate, and the Lipwigs weren't going to either. They were both good people in a fight, and the golems and Sir Harry King's boys were undeniable muscle, but . . . .

"Damn it, I'm supposed to be protecting you two!"

"We Will Assist You With That, Commander," Mr. Pump said, nodding along with fellow golem Sander 5. "But I Have Worked With Mr. Lipvig Before, And I Believe You Would Find It Easier To Fight Lord Snike's Army By Yourself Than To Get Him To Listen To Reason. Especially When He Has Made Up His Mind."

"Mr. Pump," Moist grinned, "I'd resent that remark if it weren't absolutely true. So what are we standing around debating for? We have pressing matters to attend to!"

Half an hour later, goblins and a wolf crept through the evening shadows of Gleam Street. The Ankh-Morpork Times never went to bed - lights shone in its windows at any hour of day or night, and from outside the building there was no indication that anything was amiss. If the new Winder Guards or Unmentionables were here, it wasn't in large numbers. Half a block away from Gleam Street, Commander Vimes, several constables, the Lipwigs and their assorted allies waited for the goblins and Captain Angua to report back.

"This had better not be a wild goose chase," Vimes whispered to Moist.

"Believe me, Vimes, I'd rather it was," Moist whispered back. "I've known Sacharissa since I first reopened the Post Office, and she doesn't just miss out on the opportunity for a story – ever. Neither does Otto. Something fishy is going on here and I'm willing to bet it rhymes with hike."

"I think you'd win that bet," Angua's voice murmured from the shadows behind them, accompanied by the sound of her reattaching her armored breastplate. "I couldn't see much in any of the windows from down where I was keeping my nose on the job, Commander, but at least one of the humans who accompanied Mr. Sorville the other day is in that building."

So – not a wild goose chase then. Lipwig had been right, Vimes thought, in more ways than one. A wild goose chase would have been preferable.

"But not our troll friend Mr. Albite?"

"I didn't smell him," Angua said. "There's a troll in there, but from the scents I'm picking up and their ages, he's a regular. Probably de Worde's hired muscle man Rocky. Plenty of dwarves in there too – Gunilla Goodmountain and his crew, but they're sweating a lot – nervous, worry sweat. There are new human scents on the ground by the front and back entrances, ones that don't match the older people smells. I'd say the Times has quite a few unwelcome visitors at the moment."

"Any idea how many?" Vimes asked.

"Hard to be exact." Angua wrinkled her nose. "The entire place stinks of ink and oil and chemicals everywhere and it's all I can do to get that much information. I can't tell if de Worde or Miss Cripslock might be in the building or not. But there's one other scent I'm picking up, and I don't think it's a good sign." She paused and covered her nose with a hand as if trying to keep the smell from getting back into it. "When a vampire gets . . . cremated . . . it leaves a real stench behind, at least for us werewolves. Otto Chriek does that to himself so often, I've got his ash stink memorized, only this time it's everywhere. All over the building. Like it was coated in thousands of little bits of Otto."

She didn't have time to say more before the goblin advance crew began dropping in to alert the group to what they had discovered on their more upper window and rooftop-oriented search. The goblins had needed all of their stealth to avoid being spotted by at least three humans armed with Burleigh and Stronginthearm specials. One of these was in what sounded like William de Worde's office with his crossbow trained on a man who matched de Worde's description. The other two armed humans had the mostly dwarvish staff of the Times and their huge printing press machine in their aim. From above there was no sign of Sacharissa Cripslock or any other woman or troll either. But a more complete picture emerged as another goblin, Of the Rain the Stream, returned. Of the Rain the Stream had found an entrance to the building's basement from the seemingly smallest of cracks and with it had located the missing security troll, a woman who could only be Sacharissa, and two of the dwarves who worked for de Worde. The troll appeared to be in a drugged stupor, the goblin told them, and another man with a crossbow was watching Sacharissa and the dwarves closely.

"Just four of them, armed with crossbows," Vimes mused. "That's not a lot to take over on a staff of nearly twenty, most of them dwarves, one troll and another a vampire. Enough to hold the staff there once they'd got the upper hand, though." He looked over to Angua. "Could there have been more 'visitors' earlier? Maybe some who have left since?"

Angua shrugged.

"It's a definite possibility. I'd say there are more than four new scents at the back entrance, but the chemicals are a mess to sniff around and make sure. And if the ash scent is . . . you know . . . . I'd really rather not inhale any more of him than necessary."

Yuck, Vimes thought. He'd never been eager to hire or work with vampires on the Watch himself, but that really put a perspective on why werewolves weren't fond of working with them either. Sally von Humpeding had proved an effective Watch officer, though, and Otto Chriek might not be Vimes' favorite person, but he was a black ribboner who didn't deserve to be forced to take a powder in this fashion.

"Four men, armed with crossbows . . . plenty of hostages in harm's way . . . ." Vimes said. "Our best bet is if we can lure at least one of the hostage takers out first and give him a case of Dolly Sisters Dropsy. Then try to make it contagious."

All of the Watch officers and both of Harry King's hired strongmen nodded, but Moist, Adora, the golems and goblins didn't comprehend.

"Er . . . ?" Moist asked.

"It's like this," one of the toughs explained. "Dropsy . . . you get hit and you drop, see?"

"We create a disturbance, enough to get one of them to come check it out," Vimes added. "When his buddies get curious as to why he doesn't come back and they go to check on him . . ." Vimes shook his head and made a tsking sound, "very transmissible disease, Dolly Sisters Dropsy. It's so obvious it shouldn't work, but you wouldn't believe how often it does." He paused. "I figure we might get at least two of them that way, all three on the main floor if we're lucky. The one in the cellar's a harder bugger to get to. It's a question of whether he's smart enough to do the sensible thing and give himself up when he's surrounded, or if he's stupid enough to shoot an officer or one of the hostages."

And which hostage, Vimes thought, but he didn't say it aloud. The security troll could withstand a crossbow bolt or two, and the dwarves probably had some kind of armor or padding under their clothing – with dwarves that was practically their natural born state. Sacharissa Cripslock wouldn't fare so well though.

As if reading his thoughts, the goblins began chattering among themselves as quietly as possible – more like filbert squeaks than walnut grindings.

"You have a better plan?" Vimes frowned. "Whatever we're doing, we're going to have to do it soon. I'm not waiting for our four bravos to get reinforcements."

Of the Rain the Stream nodded agreement.

"Plan works well enough for upstairs. Let goblins take care of man in cellar – goblins and then maybe clay men after. We sneak in while you get others out your way. We make sure he doesn't aim well."

"Or that he hits something he can't penetrate," Vimes grinned. He'd seen what goblins could accomplish when they got through the chinks in a dwarf raider's armor during the train attack. "That'd work. Now all we need is the distraction . . . ."

Five minutes later, the denizens of the Times' Gleam Street headquarters heard the first strains of a chorus of Hogswatch carolers striking up 'When Pork Pies Come A-Steamin' In.' The time of evening was right for the music, just after dark, though the time of year was all wrong, and the carolers stood close by but just out of view from any of the angles of the building. At first, nothing happened in response. But as the singing got louder and closer, one of the men with crossbows lowered his weapon and went to investigate the sounds. A few minutes later as the tune changed to 'Squeaker, the Shiny Snouted Swinelet,' right on schedule one of the other crossbowmen followed.

Before the third crossbowman on the main floor could get too inquisitive about the off-season singing or his partners' sudden, prolonged absence, a noisy commotion from the cellar signaled to him, and to anyone else listening, that the jig was up. On cue, Sander 5 smashed a hole in the street paving closest to the Times' cellar, jumped down into the cavity he'd created and made a golem-line for the cellar. Vimes, three other officers, one of the toughs and – over several earlier objections - the crossbow-wielding Adora Belle rushed the building. No armed intruders now covered the startled crew in the main press room, which meant that the remaining crossbowmen were the one in the cellar and the one in William de Worde's Editor's room. Sword drawn and shield in place, Vimes raced to the door of de Worde's office – and into the gaze of an Unmentionable, whose crossbow was still trained on de Worde.

Crap!

Well, they'd planned for this possibility too, hadn't they? Vimes had to hope the plan was good enough . . . .

"Stay back or I'll kill him," the Cable Street Irregular remake snarled.

Vimes backed up and moved slightly to the side, but allowed an unnerving grin to come over his features.

"Really? Now don't you think your boss would be more than a little upset about that?" Vimes' voice oozed confidence as well as concern. "Because I'm pretty sure Lord Snike is counting on Mr. de Worde's father, Lord de Worde, for some support among the other Lords of the Realm tomorrow. I don't think he'll get it if you put a bolt through Lord de Worde's only remaining son. In fact, I'm guessing that would cause quite a few problems for Lord Snike, don't you? He doesn't like people who cause him problems, does he?"

Vimes might not be the one with the crossbow, but he knew he'd scored a hit as he saw a shadow of doubt in his opponent's eyes.

That's it, buddy! Keep wondering and keep those eyes on me while you're at it! Don't pay attention to de Worde and don't turn around and look out the window!

"In fact," Vimes continued, still smiling in an eerie fashion, "I know quite a few things the old Unmentionables used to do to people who annoyed Lord Winder. If you annoy Lord Snike, I'm sure your fellow new recruits could use a bit of practice – and someone to practice on . . . ."

The new Unmentionable began moving exactly as Vimes hoped, focusing all of his attention away from his hostage and aiming his crossbow toward Vimes instead.

"I doubt Lord Snike would mind if I killed y-" he started to say.

Vimes had just enough time to duck down before the large, tawny wolf form of Captain Angua came crashing through the window to strike the crossbowman directly in the back, sending the weapon flying as the bolt embedded itself in a wall. Sword still in hand, Vimes scrambled to his feet, dodging the shards of broken glass.

"I doubt he would either," Vimes said to the Irregular, "but the werewolf standing on top of you might feel a bit differently."

Angua growled as loud as she could and bared her fangs less than an inch from the Unmentionable's scalp just to make sure the point got across.

"You all right, de Worde?" Vimes got out the pair of handcuffs he carried at his belt and kicked the fallen crossbow aside.

The editor of the Ankh-Morpork Times, a shade paler than Angua's fur, gulped, nodded and stiffly stood up from his desk. He stared down at the floor of his office.

"Sacharissa . . . ." de Worde choked out and stared back up at Vimes. "Forget about me, Commander! You've got to-"

"We're already on it," Vimes said, reaching under Angua to cuff the prisoner and check him for any more weapons. "This one's two buddy boys are in custody already, and your cellar just got a new entrance. You can send the bill to the Palace if you want, but I doubt anyone's listening."

William de Worde wasn't either. He circled around his desk as far from the werewolf and its prisoner as possible and dashed out the door of the office on his way to the cellar stairs.

Sacharissa Cripslock had been praying for rescue, but now she wondered just which one of the gods had listened. First, through a crack in the basement she, Rhysa, Boddony and their captor had heard the sound of Hogswatch carols being sung at least three months early. Then, from a corner and a patch of shadows, a goblin had slipped into the cellar, followed by another goblin, and another, and another. The singing from outside had been strange enough to make the hands holding the crossbow twitch. As a fifth goblin joined the first four, Rhysa had caught sight of them in the shadows too and accidentally gave away their presence as they tried to sneak into position. But when the golem burst through the walls and it and the goblins went on the attack at the same time as crashing noises sounded from upstairs, all Sacharissa could do was take cover and hope the listening god just had a strange sense of humor.

Then the fight was over as suddenly as it began, with only one more unexpected twist. As the golem and goblins subdued their opponent, another woman armed with a crossbow came rushing down the stairs to make sure the rescue was complete. Sacharissa recognized her at once and hoped the hostage-taker did too.

"Is everyone here all right?" Adora Belle called out as she leveled her weapon at the man in the golem's grasp.

"No," Sacharissa answered, crouching next to the supine troll. "Rocky's in a bad way. They made him swallow something and we've got to get him to the hospital." She shot an accusatory look at her former captor. "It might be too late to save Otto, Witworth, but you're not getting Rocky. Tell us what you gave him!"

The former crossbow holder's response was a sneer until he did, indeed, appear to recognize just who was holding a crossbow on him. Adora's eyes narrowed.

"Witworth," she murmured to Sacharissa. "Did you say his name was Witworth?"

[-]

"I love holiday music, don't you, Corporal?" Moist said to the City Watch officer as he and Mr. Pump helped stand guard over the two prisoners who had contracted Dolly Sisters Dropsy. "It's so . . . disarming."

The corporal shrugged and kept his truncheon handy as one of the men in custody started to stir, looked up at the Watch officers and Mr. Pump's glowing red eyes and decided to collapse again. Two of the other Watch members kept their attention on the Times building. They'd all heard the sounds of Sander 5 smashing through the pavement and Captain Angua breaking through a window. After that there had been very little noise for several minutes. But as dwarf workers came streaming out of the building, followed by two Watch officers, Commander Vimes, with a handcuffed prisoner in front and a large wolf behind, a bloodcurdling scream issued from the cellar. Commander Vimes turned around to look without releasing his grip on the man he had in custody, and the two Watch officers near him dived back into the building. A moment later, William de Worde and Sacharissa Cripslock came out along with two more dwarves, several goblins and Sander 5 carrying an unconscious troll. A moment after that, the two Watch officers dragged up from the cellar the cringing and suddenly cooperative fourth crossbowman, followed by Adora Belle. She had a look of grim satisfaction on her face and blood on one of her spiked heels.

"It turns out they really can push all the way through to the floor," she said to Moist and Vimes as the scattered group reassembled. The prisoner held by the two Watch officers, while not exactly standing had struggled to get as far away from Adora as possible, and now turned even paler and more terrified as he caught a glimpse of Moist.

"Why, Mr. Witworth, fancy meeting you here," Moist said. "I see you've met my wife too."

"And he's going to tell Commander Vimes and Dr. Lawn all about the overdose of crystal slam he forced Mr. Rocky to take, and everything else he's done, or he's going to find out what other parts of his anatomy I can put holes in," Adora smiled at the prisoner. "Not that I wouldn't like to do that anyway."

The man called Witworth seemed all agreement as he was taken back to Pseudopolis Yard to get his foot repaired by Igor and be put in a nice, safe holding cell. Rocky, the Times security troll and sportswriter, was off to the hospital in a carriage wagon instead, along with a couple of dwarf friends who promised to keep a close watch on him. William and Sacharissa, tired and pale but relieved at being rescued, had their own grim tale to tell. A much larger group of Unmentionables had invaded and taken over the Times building the previous day, catching the entire staff by surprise. With his employers and friends all held hostage, Rocky had been forced to take a near fatal amount of crystal slam to make sure he couldn't be a threat to the Unmentionables. But Otto Chriek had suffered an even worse fate.

"Are you sure he's dead?" Vimes said. "It's hard to kill a vampire, at least permanently."

"I wish that were true in this case," William de Worde sighed. "It seems impossible he could come back from this . . . ."

Otto Chriek had been turned into ash by successive salamander flashes aimed straight at him by the first wave of intruders. The vampire wore an emergency glass vial of blood around his neck for whenever he did this to himself accidentally, and it had revived him after the first flash. But he hadn't been given any chance to grab a replacement vial before a second and third flash reduced him to cinders. To the Times staff's horror, the Unmentionables then used brooms and other implements to scatter Otto's ashes to all corners of the building.

"Now there isn't enough left of him to revive . . . ." the editor whispered. He and Sacharissa were both fighting back tears and losing.

"We don't know that yet," Moist said. "His ashes are still in the building, mostly. They just have to be gathered back together and I think I know someone who can do it. If you don't mind a bit of damage to your place, that is."

"I'd give the whole building over if that's what it took to get Otto back," de Worde told him. "I owe him . . . a lot."

"I don't think she'll have to destroy the entire building. But my secretary Gladys started out as a cleaning . . . uh, woman . . . at the Post Office. She's a golem, which means she doesn't just clean floors, she can clean under 'em - and under anything else that gets in her way. If anyone can put Otto back in one pile, it's her. There's still hope."

"Do you really think so?" Sacharissa sniffled. It was the first time Moist could ever recall her asking him a question without a notebook and pencil in her hands.

"We'll be grateful for anything at this point," de Worde said, rubbing tired eyes. "The whole situation has been a nightmare I keep hoping I'll wake up from. You too, I'd bet. Truth is, Mr. Lipwig, we're amazed you're here at all. That man, Witworth, told us you were finished."

"Did he now?" Moist grinned. "Well as you can see, I'm not. Neither is the Times, I hope, even if you do have to miss getting out tomorrow's edition for a good golem housecleaning."

"For more than that," Vimes added. "We've nabbed the four here now, but their Unmentionable colleagues could come back. I don't have any officers to spare, but I'm going to have to scrape up a few from somewhere somehow to guard this place, whether Mr. de Worde wants me to or not." The Watch Commander grimaced. "Can't have anyone interfering with the freedom of the press, now can we?"

William de Worde didn't appear ready to argue – he looked more ready to drop. But he managed a slight smile at Vimes' mention of freedom of the press and had a jaw-lowering comment of his own for the Watch Commander.

"Thanks," he said. "Thank you for getting us out of that mess. I mean it, Commander." The editor looked down and into the face of the wolf at Vimes' side. "And I'm sorry about the oil of scallatine. Really."

The wolf winked up at him by way of an answer and gave a swish of the tail. de Worde nodded, and arm in arm with Sacharissa made his way to a police carriage to be taken to a safe location.

"Hell," Vimes swore as he watched them go. "Does this mean I have to be nice to him from now on?"

Beside him, the wolf began making a kind of barkish whuffling noise.

"Don't think I don't know when I'm being laughed at, Captain." Vimes barked.

The wolf quieted down immediately and sat at attention, though Vimes could swear Angua's canine mouth was still grinning.

"Not a bad take for one night," Vimes said as the Watch finished up operations, though he had no idea where they were going to find room for the number of witnesses the Watch had to question. He'd leave that problem for Captain Carrot while he made hasty arrangements to find coverage for the Times building and at the very least, Rocky's hospital room. With any luck, he'd be able to scrape up the staff needed and still get enough sleep to be alert for his meeting with Chrysoprase tomorrow. But however many 'Unmentionables' the Watch snagged tonight or tomorrow if any tried to come back to the Times, the City Watch officers were still outmanned and up to this point a step behind the enemy.

Not good enough.

Because who knew where Lord Snike and his minions might strike next?

Vimes grimaced again as he fished a piece of broken window glass he hadn't noticed before out of the collar of his Watch armor and tossed it onto the sidewalk. He swore as he noticed the shard had just a trace of blood on it.

"Last thing I need is to be competing with Mr. Dibbler in the Cut-Me-Own-Throat category," he grumbled, then noticed that Lipwig was looking at the side of his neck curiously. "I didn't actually cut it badly, did I?"

"Nope," Moist said. "You're nicked, chum."

[* * * *]