Just a one-shot. A nice, short, 'feel good' little story for a change.
I don't own Discworld, but that doesn't stop me wishing I did.
By the way, I haven't finished with Big Brother- That's still underway. It's just that since it's so long I thought I'd take a little break.
Don't tell me what this story is about doesn't happen because it does. It happened to me very recently, in fact...
Don't Do Drugs- Okay?
"No."
"But... I'm sure that with a little spiritual guidance, even you could find the l-light of Om in your life, Mister Vimes...?"
Vimes sighed. "And why would I want that?"
"Well, er..." said the man stood before the desk, scratching the back of his head a little. This wasn't supposed to be what they asked. They weren't meant to ask why they'd want a promised paradise after death. However, that statement seemed to be out of the question while confronted with Vimes' glare. He was only interested in things you could see. "Well, er, there's p-plenty of, erm, singing joyfully together... b-b-being a better person... Special meetings in which everyone who attends get's some hot cocoa..."
"I'm not a reformed vampire, Mr... Mr..."
"Lead-Gently-Into-A-New-Dawn-With-The-Slightest-Of-Stammers," he prompted.
"Oh yes. I already have an Omnian in the Watch, Mr Stammers, and so if his pamphlets can't make me turn toward a new light then I don't think you can. Hah, Go forth and spread the word unto your other little friends."
"But I-I-I-"
"Captain, please show Mr Stammers the way out," said Vimes, placing a hand over his eyes and leaning back in his chair. It had been a long day.
"...Why do they do it to me, Angua?" he asked as Carrot rose from his seat.
She considered this for a few seconds. "Probabley because you're the second most powerfull man in Ankh-Morpork. If you turned Omnian it would be an example to the rest of the city."
"Hmm. Well arresting everyone doesn't seem to make an impression-"
"I'm just trying to work out what they are thinking, not what I do. I happen to know for a fact that when it comes to persuading for the better Ankh-Morpork is as impressionable as a rock."
"Well why don't they go bother the Patrician? He's more powerfull than me."
"Because you won't hang them if you don't like what you hear."
Vimes entertained a glamorous thought for a while. "It's not right, Angua," he said eventually. "It's never crimes anymore. It's always invitations to soirees this, sign here for your order of breast plates that. To be frank I'm sick of it. I'm more of a big talking point for William de Worde than I am a theif-taker now."
Carrot reentered, but only stood in the doorway as he partially knew what was coming next. "Mister Vimes, there's someone else out here who wants to speak to you about-"
"Is it a crime?"
"She says it's rather important-"
"Is it a crime, Carrot?"
"No sir."
"I'm sure you'll be able to handle it," said Vimes, still looking at the underside of his hand which was laid over his eyes. When all of these stupid people stopped coming to talk to him like he was some kind of special Agony Aunt, he might actually be able to go home and spend some time with his family. They were beginning to only see his back as he walked out of the door.
Only showing the slightest signs of dismay, Carrot walked back out and down the stairs to where an old woman with her hair in a tight bun was waiting. "I'm sorry, but Mister Vimes is busy at the moment."
"Really? Well, that is a shame."
"I would be only too happy to help in any way," said Carrot, as was required.
"No, no, I really did need to speak to Mister Vimes personally..."
"Aren't you Mrs Higgs?" asked Carrot, although as it was him saying this there was no real need for question. "You're the headmisstress of St. Bob's high school..."
"Yes, that's right," she said, and at that moment quickly examined Carrot. She seemed to be working out wether or not he was worthy enough to take a message from her. "The reason I have come is about young teenagers. There have been concerns that not all of them have been going down the straight and narrow path... Am I correct?"
"Yes," answered Carrot with a small nod. "There are far more young offenders now than there used to be a few years ago."
"Well, after a discussion it was decided that it would be best if someone with experience came to... inform them. You know, someone to put into perspective exactly how straight and narrow the path in question is."
"Hey dad. Dad?"
Vimes' eyes were forced to rise from the newspaper (Devout Omnians tell that Om announces those who don't repent shall be exempt from paradise and cocoa, this meaning Watchmen in particular,) to see his son stood in front of him trying to get his attention. "Mm? Yes, sure I'll have it done before dinner. Go to your room."
Sam scowled. Vimes always found it harder to fool him when it came to his automatic response system, probably because there was a little slice of himself in the boy. "I thought you didn't like the newspaper, dad. You're always reading it in the mornings."
"I swear they're directing it at me..." muttered Vimes, lifting it up slightly. "'It is forseen that those who handcuff men in the night shall perish'?"
"The guild of Seamstresses had better watch out then," said Sam with a smile, before Vimes gave him a Look. "Sorry," he muttered. It seemed parents thought their children were blind and deaf to certain aspects of the world, or at least felt they ought to be.
"What are you still doing here, anyway? You're supposed to be going to school."
"And I would be right now, if you'd have answered when I first spoke to you."
Vimes aggravatedly lay the paper down by his side. "Go on then- What is it."
"I just wanted to wish you luck for later today. That's all."
At this Vimes' eyes narrowed suspicously. "What? What do you mean, 'wishing me luck'?"
"At the speech." When this recieved no reaction apart from one eyebrow raising higher he felt the need to continue. "Speech? At school today? About drugs and stuff?"
"...Drugs...?" said Vimes, floundering in the vast sea of confusion.
"Yeah. And other stuff too. Mrs Higgs told us all about what you were going to do yesterday."
"Oh, yeah..." Vimes said, wearing an extremely peculiar expression. "And... the time she said I was coming?"
"In about half an hour, dad," he answered, exasperatedly. "And it's prescisely about smoking, drinking, theft, drugs... the usual stuff. And in case you forgot it's in the hall. Left from the entrance. Just reminding you, naturally," he added.
"Ye-es. Thank you for reminding me, son," said Vimes as if reading from a script.
"You are most welcome father," he replied blandly.
With no more words said, Sam watched as Vimes rose from his chair, and in a subconscious manner walked out of the room. There was a slam as the door shut, and if you listened carefully you could hear the sound of a man breaking into a run as soon as given chance to. Sam smiled to himself slightly, as he had known what the expression on his dad's face as he left meant. It meant that someone soon was going to be in a lot of pain.
"Igor! Igor, I need help!"
Carefully putting down his scalpel which had been poised ready to strike an unsuspecting cow's heart, Igor turned to see Vimes rushing down the stairs towards him.
"Yeth, Mithter Vimeth?"
It couldn't be avoided. Up to this date Vimes had found none of his titles for Igor to address him with which didn't drown the immediate area. "I need a favour from you, Igor. A really quick favour."
"I'll do whatever I can."
"Great. What I need to know is how drugs and things can effect the body... in detail."
Igor looked slightly doubtfull. "I'm afraid to thay, thir, I'm not the exthpert. Thouldn't you be athking Corporal Littlebottom about thith?"
"I've already looked. She's out, unfortunately."
"Well... I can only give you everything I know. I thpethialthse in keeping the body healthy- Not ruining it. Give me a few minuteth." He turned and pulled some paper and a pen towards him and started to write. "Ith note form okay?"
"It's great, Igor. Thanks." Vimes was still trying to work out what 'thpethialithe' meant when it wasn't lisped to within an inch of it's life.
It took a while. Vimes kept tapping his foot impatiently, wondering what time it could be. Judging by how long it was taking, everything Igor knew about drugs was a considerable amount, despite what he said.
Damn it, it was a good job for everyone that Carrot wasn't in. The cleaners would have had a terrible time trying to get the blood stains out of the carpet.
"There. Finithed, thir."
Vimes took it away. "Igor, you have saved my life."
"And it wouldn't be for the firtht time, thir," he answered, gesturing with his scalpel.
By the time Vimes reached St. Bob's he was thoroughly out of breath. Mrs Higgs was waiting by the door, and by the looks of things she already wasn't impressed. "The bell went five minutes ago, Commander!"
Vimes didn't answer. He was too busy trying to force air into his lungs. The effects of being without the exercise from rooftop chases were starting to show.
She led him through the school. "You boy is also called Sam Vimes?"
Vimes wheezed.
"He is a clever boy, and he has potential, yet I feel that there is a certain problem."
"...And that is?" asked Vimes, still being led through a maze of passages. He had given up trying to remember the route out for if he needed a quick escape.
"Yes, Commander. It seems someone encouraged him to retaliate and punch a person back if they hit him!"
He didn't answer. He couldn't understand what point she was trying to make- She had just stated the first rule of survival.
"In St. Bob's we teach that when hit we should turn the other cheek!"
"What! Let someone hit you again? Madness! ...Still, I guess I can see a slight flaw in what he's doing. It is wrong of him to punch back."
She nodded.
"When someone hits you at close range you should always come back leading with your knee." He grinned. "They never expect it."
This comment, judging by Mrs Higgs reaction, was so outrageous it was not worthy of a real answer. She simply answered 'Hmph', and wondered wether this man who laughed at the thought of sore groins was a man suitable for leading the young to a better future. She attempted to stab him through his son again. "And there is another problem with Samuel."
"Oh yeah? What's that?"
"He is too easily distracted." When this didn't seem to be understood she went blunter. "His head is too full of girls than numbers and words."
"Yeah, ye- What?"
"Every lesson he can be seen with his eyes wandering out of the window, staring at any young beauty which may happen to pass!"
Vimes didn't know what to say about this. Girls? Sam hadn't mentioned anything to him about this subject, and he felt rather hurt. He, Vimes, had never been so concerned about the opposite gender during his teenage years- He was street filth, after all. Yeah, it was nice to think that Sam was a success with girls, as he knew how it felt to be turned down during the rare times he had attempted, but...
It didn't work in his mind. The simple thought that his little Sam might be growing up was not comprehensible.
She led him into a huge hall, which was completely full of teenagers. Vimes suddenly felt quite apprehensive, as an aging adult does when confronted by people who would think him old, senile, and most likely deaf, too. He wasn't at home with teenagers. He wasn't allowed to hit them, for a start. Fortunately, he always thought he had been lucky with Sam in the sense he had not turned out to be a little... a little... well, turd once he reached the age of thirteen, but still... After what he had just heard... Girls...
He snapped back into the present as he heard his name being said repeatedly. "Hmm? What?"
"Commander, I have introduced you. Please step forwards and give them your speech."
As he stepped out and saw them staring at him, leaning forwards boredly, talking to each other as if he wasn't there, taking in his shabby uniform, greying hair and heavily lined face... He made a new resolve. By the time he got back to Psuedopolis Yard Carrot would be lucky to be a Corporal.
Subconciously, his hand quested down to his pocket and pulled a cigar out of the case. He didn't notice the looks of dissaproval from the staff as he lit it.
"Right," he said, the cigar bouncing up and down in his mouth threateningly as he spoke. "Well, erm... You might know me... My name is Commander Sam Vimes, and I'm here to talk to you today about drugs. Well, er mainly drugs I think it was..."
He heard a groan from the midst of his audience, which sounded mysteriously like that of young Sam's.
He pulled out his notes and paid a quick glance at them. "Okay, let's get straight into it. Drugs," he announced, starting to pace back and forth. "Drugs are, er, bad. Yes, many of the crimes which are commited are due to drugs, because either people are trying to steal things for money to buy them with, or... because they're so out of their minds at the time breaking into a restaurant armed with a cucumber sounds a good idea. Yes. Well..."
He noticed a little 'tink' sound whenever he put down his left foot. Damn it, he must have stood on an upturned drawing pin. He couldn't bend down and take it out- He'd look like a fool... He decided to ignore it and the sniggers which followed. "Erm, I know that at your age what with peer pressure and everything it's hard to not do drugs, because people tell you that they're good and everything, so, er..." He looked back at his notes, yet nothing more seemed to have been written about this subject. "So don't," was his personal attempt.
Someone was yawning. He had a great desire to walk to the back of the hall and single out this one person who thought it was funny to make a poor man's task harder. Preferably while holding his truncheon at the time.
"So..." he flicked to the next page. "Right, sometimes you might be concerned that one of your mates is taking drugs. Yeah, and there are a few ways to notice. One is that when they're talking they can't stop moving their hands..." He paused. Ever since he had started and even as he had been saying this last sentence his left hand had not once been motionless. He shoved it in his pocket. "Mm. Their pupils can go all big, and they're always walking backwards and forwards for no reason because they're full of energy." He abruptly brought his feet to a halt. Before continuing he looked out to the crowd as if daring one of them to make a comment. There was an innocent cough. "Okay, let's move from drugs," he said hurriedly. "And onto... drinking. Ah yes, I know about this one. Yeah. Let me lay it straight for you," he said, abandoning the notes. "You can start drinking when your young, thinking it makes you look all cool and glamerous. True, it is at the time, but when you get to about thrity, thirty five, it is not. Look at me- There isn't a better example at hand. I started drinking young, and look at me now. However, if you've already started, it isn't impossible to stop. I haven't drunk for a long time, now."
They were starting to fidget. He hurried on.
"Okay, let's see... oh, smoking next." He paused. Someone was sniggering again, and he worked out why. Carefully, he removed the cigar from his mouth and dropped it onto the floor. As it started to smoke omniously he stubbed it out with his toe. "It says here that smoking... causes something called cancer in your lungs, I didn't know that... Makes your hair go white, that's interesting... "
Some teachers began whispering to each other as it seemed he had forgotten he was in front of an audience, and was more talking to himself now.
"...Yellow skin, bad teeth, can give this to everyone around..." He somehow felt that he was being accused of something, which was subtly ironic.
"In short it leads to an early grave, apparently."
After a little thought he decisevely scrunched up the notes in his hands. "And that's the end of the drugs talk. I hope you all enjoyed it. Just er... Just don't do drugs, okay?"
He strode out quickly. If there was any applauding, he couldn't hear it.
Sam leant forwards and put his head in his hands.
"Cool dad," he heard one of his friend muttering. He groaned again.
School had long finished. Sam and his friends had been doing what they did best- hanging around and making miscelaneous remarks at girls who passed, despite the fact they had never seen them before. They hadn't stopped going on at him about his dad, though- He knew it would take a few years and a miracle until that happened.
"I mean, who does that old guy think he is?" said one who was known as 'Waddy'(1) to his mates but 'Daniel' to his family. "Coming over, trying to tell us how to live our lives..."
"Him and his Watchmen do enough of that when we're not at school."
"I mean, doesn't he have bad guys to chase rather than making a fool of himself in front of a school?"
"Shame you had to be named after him, Sam."
At this, Sam shook his head to himself. He had been thinking. He turned and walked away in a definite direction.
"Hey, where're ya going?"
(1) There is a 'Waddy' at every school.
He eventually turned up at Pseudopolis Yard. Despite what people said, he hardly went there and had only been a couple of times before. Everyone automatically thought he wanted to follow in his fathers footsteps and be a Watchman. However, this was becoming a less and less popular career choice amongst people his age, as they were always being chased by the people in question.
He pushed his way through the doors.
Vimes was not in a good mood. He was going through all the petty problems of the city with even less enthusiasm as usual. Most of the Watchmen seemed to be avoided his eyes, and he couldn't help but feel that Angua had tactfully asked Carrot not to say anything, least of all how the talk went. He was grateful for this.
And he couldn't even bring himself to have a cigar to combat his misery. He felt like such a hypocrite.
There was a knock on the door.
"Is it a crime?" Vimes shouted. "Because if not, whatever it is you can shove it-"
Not waiting for anymore of an invitation, Sam walked in. Vimes' face dropped slightly and he hurriedly removed his feet from his desk.
"Good afternoon, young Sam," said Carrot with a nod.
"Hi Carrot." He turned to Vimes. "Shove it where, Dad?"
Vimes' face remained impassive. "In the pigeon hole. I was suggesting that anything which wasn't a crime should be written down and shoved in the pigeon hole."
Sam grinned a little. "It's getting really late, you should be home by now, shouldn't you?"
"Aren't I supposed to be the one telling you it's time to go home?"
He shrugged.
"Besides, it seems you knew that I'd be here."
"I guess. Your pattern isn't all too hard to trace."
There were a few seconds of silence. Carrot scribbled away at his desk nearby, not wanting it to be thought that he was intruding on their conversation in any way.
"...Was I that bad, Sam?" Vimes asked, eventually. It seemed this had really been eating him up for the past few hours.
"You were..." His mind raced. Crap. Terrible. Appalling. Inconceivable. A shame to all humanity... Take your pick. "A little quiet. I don't think people at the back could hear you."
Vimes said nothing.
"And there was a little 'tink' sound as you were walking. It got a bit annoying."
How he could hear this if not his voice struck Vimes for only a second. "I stood on a pin," he admitted.
"And... I think we're going to be getting a bill from Mrs Higgs pretty soon for the mark your cigar left on the floor."
Vimes studied his face, looking for an impurity in his expression. There was none. It seemed the boy had learnt from the best.
"Go home- I'll be back in a bit. I'm not the only one who always seems to be avoiding time with the family, you know- Sybil isn't half concerned about you whenever you're back later than usual."
"Oh, and Sam," he added, as he turned away. "Thanks."
As he came out into the corridor he heard a call behind him of "And when I get back we'll be having a little talk about girls!"
He broke into a run.
"By the way, was all that stuff you put about smoking true, Igor?"
"'Fraid tho, thir."
"Damn it."
Thanks to the retired policeman who came to our school for this reason. Not thanks for the talk, mind- Thanks for the idea. He stood on a pin too. I think his name was Steve...
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