Disclaimer: The Discworld, and all characters thereof, are the property of Terry Pratchett. What follows is a noncommercial enterprise, and my first DW fanfic.
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The multiverse is a strange place, where anything can happen. The existence, then, of the great turtle A'Tuin, who moves through its* assigned galaxy carrying the documented (but unchartered by earthlings) Discworld on its back. On top of the four elephants, of course.
Death looked at the two hourglasses in front of him. They both had enough of sand left in them. It was just curiousity that made him look at them.
TELL ME ALBERT, Death intoned in a voice like the grave, WHY IS IT THAT HUMANS FEEL THE NEED TO NAME THEIR CHILDREN AFTER THEMSELVES?
But Albert had wondered off, muttering about Cammomile Tea.
---
"Buggrit, buggrem. I told 'em. Millenium hand and shrimp!"
"Hello there Mister Foul Old Ron, sir," came a voice.
"Bugg'roff, copper," came a voice from ground level. It was Gaspode, Ron's thinking-brain dog.**
"Now then, Gaspode. you shouldn't talk to the lad like that." Sam Vimes spoke out from the shadows where he'd been watching his sixteen year old son. He had noted with great pride that while Sam Junior tended to act like Carrot, as he had just done with Foul Old Ron, the lad also had, when needed, a stare that made even Vetinari's eyes water, and a left hook that could send Detritus flying. He also had his father's flare for fighting, instead of following that idiot the Marquise of Fantillier. His son, the future Earl of Ankh, was a dirty fighter worthy of the Shades. Sam Vimes liked to know that his boy wasn't following the example that bastard Rust was trying to set. The Vimes family were for the people. Sam Vimes himself had been born in Cockbill Street. There was no way in hell his boy was going to be one of those speciesist xenophobic better-than-thou nobs. No, he'd talked Sybil into letting him teach the boy. He'd learned to walk like a copper from the moment he could stand on his own two feet for more than five minutes at a time. He could, like Carrot, recite the Laws and Ordinances of Ankh-Morpork from memory, but as a noble he could do it in several languages, which, despite Vimes' wishes, he'd learnt at the Assassins Guild.
Luckily for the boy, he'd not wanted to actually be an Assassin. Usually, this would have resulted in his being exhumed, but Vimes had made it known, in no uncertain terms, that any Assassin coming within a hundred feet of his son, with assassination in mind, would find out the true meaning of 'privelege'.*** For a start, they'd lose several. At least, if the lad's godfathers had anything to do with it. Carrot and Vetinari could be very persuasive.. Now, very much against his mother's wishes, Samuel Vimes the Second had desired a wish to join the police force. His father had been delighted, naturally, but had hidden it carefully from his wife.
Lance-Corporal Sam Vimes was a credit to the uniform. A dead-cert for the Commander's position in future. He had, however, told Vetinari that if he was going to join the police force, he was damned well going to do it properly, and start at the bottom. The lad could wrap Vetinari around his little finger. He'd become the Watch's official spokesperson to the Palace as soon as he'd joined, on the basis that one Sam Vimes could do the job just as well as the other. It was the Commander of the Watch who had signed the chitty which paid his son an extra dollar a month plus allowances for the position. Instead of throwing it on the fire for a change.
*attempts to discover the sex of the Great A'Tuin have so far proved inconclusive.
**Like a guide dog for them blind, only a thinking dog for... you get the picture...
*** It means 'private law'. and it was something which, as a copper, Sam Vimes made use of a lot.
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End of Chapter. please RnR.
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The multiverse is a strange place, where anything can happen. The existence, then, of the great turtle A'Tuin, who moves through its* assigned galaxy carrying the documented (but unchartered by earthlings) Discworld on its back. On top of the four elephants, of course.
Death looked at the two hourglasses in front of him. They both had enough of sand left in them. It was just curiousity that made him look at them.
TELL ME ALBERT, Death intoned in a voice like the grave, WHY IS IT THAT HUMANS FEEL THE NEED TO NAME THEIR CHILDREN AFTER THEMSELVES?
But Albert had wondered off, muttering about Cammomile Tea.
---
"Buggrit, buggrem. I told 'em. Millenium hand and shrimp!"
"Hello there Mister Foul Old Ron, sir," came a voice.
"Bugg'roff, copper," came a voice from ground level. It was Gaspode, Ron's thinking-brain dog.**
"Now then, Gaspode. you shouldn't talk to the lad like that." Sam Vimes spoke out from the shadows where he'd been watching his sixteen year old son. He had noted with great pride that while Sam Junior tended to act like Carrot, as he had just done with Foul Old Ron, the lad also had, when needed, a stare that made even Vetinari's eyes water, and a left hook that could send Detritus flying. He also had his father's flare for fighting, instead of following that idiot the Marquise of Fantillier. His son, the future Earl of Ankh, was a dirty fighter worthy of the Shades. Sam Vimes liked to know that his boy wasn't following the example that bastard Rust was trying to set. The Vimes family were for the people. Sam Vimes himself had been born in Cockbill Street. There was no way in hell his boy was going to be one of those speciesist xenophobic better-than-thou nobs. No, he'd talked Sybil into letting him teach the boy. He'd learned to walk like a copper from the moment he could stand on his own two feet for more than five minutes at a time. He could, like Carrot, recite the Laws and Ordinances of Ankh-Morpork from memory, but as a noble he could do it in several languages, which, despite Vimes' wishes, he'd learnt at the Assassins Guild.
Luckily for the boy, he'd not wanted to actually be an Assassin. Usually, this would have resulted in his being exhumed, but Vimes had made it known, in no uncertain terms, that any Assassin coming within a hundred feet of his son, with assassination in mind, would find out the true meaning of 'privelege'.*** For a start, they'd lose several. At least, if the lad's godfathers had anything to do with it. Carrot and Vetinari could be very persuasive.. Now, very much against his mother's wishes, Samuel Vimes the Second had desired a wish to join the police force. His father had been delighted, naturally, but had hidden it carefully from his wife.
Lance-Corporal Sam Vimes was a credit to the uniform. A dead-cert for the Commander's position in future. He had, however, told Vetinari that if he was going to join the police force, he was damned well going to do it properly, and start at the bottom. The lad could wrap Vetinari around his little finger. He'd become the Watch's official spokesperson to the Palace as soon as he'd joined, on the basis that one Sam Vimes could do the job just as well as the other. It was the Commander of the Watch who had signed the chitty which paid his son an extra dollar a month plus allowances for the position. Instead of throwing it on the fire for a change.
*attempts to discover the sex of the Great A'Tuin have so far proved inconclusive.
**Like a guide dog for them blind, only a thinking dog for... you get the picture...
*** It means 'private law'. and it was something which, as a copper, Sam Vimes made use of a lot.
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End of Chapter. please RnR.