Greetings again, dear Denizens, Visitors, Lurkers and Droppers-In of the Jimiverse - long time no update! We have something of A Situation here, I'm afeared: my computer is dying, on application at a time (bad disk sectors are NEVER A Good Thing), and on top of that, the plot bunnies have all deserted me. Truly. They are all gone. I had to dig this one out after it whispered a little bit, then hopped into the compost bin, and wouldn't come out. Srsly. I've seen a couple peeking out at me, but they are conspicuously silent. I am astonished to discover, I kind of miss the aggravating little bastards, although once my husband has major carpentry on his knee I'm going to have stuff all time for any that do hop along for a couple of months... there's the Lars and Lemmy's first Hunt one (hiding behind the shelving in the garage, canNOT get it out), the Lampito take on the dreaded sister fic (last seen sprinting away into the long grass with my two dogs chasing it), and some more of these crossovers, some as requested by Teh Denizens (Ronnie and Angua, Bobby and Mustrum Ridcully, Jimi and Gaspode, Castiel and the Canting Crew, Death and DEATH, etc.) but the last I saw of any of them, they were disappearing down the creek on the flood after some particularly heavy rain (I swear one of them flipped me the big vee as they floated off downstream)...

Nonetheless, I thought I'd wring this one's neck to see if it encourages any others.

A Better Class Of Adversary

"There is something terribly elegant about finding a simple, uncomplicated solution," mused the visitor, taking in the scene before him with appreciation.

"The problem is, of course, that with any device, process or procedure, the more elaborate it becomes, the more opportunities there are for things to go wrong. I'm sure the Faculty of the University could explain it in terribly academic-sounding language impenetrable to us mere mortals," commented his host.

"That goes for plans and schemes of any sort," opined the guest. "The problem is, people get so caught up in their elaborate scheming, they forget the power of simplicity."

"Just so," nodded his host in agreement. "Complexity is often over-rated, and may frequently be discovered to be returning to sink its dentition most firmly into one's posterior."

They contemplated the man, who wore white trousers and a black and white striped top and dead white pancake make-up and clutched a large floppy hat with a sproingy flower drooping from the hat band.

"Where I come from, we call it Sod's Law," the shorter man replied, turning his head sideways. By doing so, he was able to read the large sign on the wall, written clearly in simple block letters, and helpfully placed upside down so that the mime dangling upside-down by his ankles over the viper pit was able to read them:

LEARN
THE
WORDS

"I have asked some of my clerks for their ideas, of course," the tall and elegantly dressed man explained, "And most ingenious they can be, too. One of them presented a design for a device to remove the desire to mime directly from a person's brain, should they be bad-mannered enough to don ridiculous outfits and insist on walking into imaginary hurricanes."

"Goodness me," commented Crowley. "Such a gadget would be even more useful if it was adjustable. For example, if you could recalibrate it to remove the desire to plunge a large and impolitely sharp knife between one's shoulder-blades..."

"Oh, Crowley," Vetinari almost smiled, "It's not good to go messing with what people think. Outside of traditional methods, anyway. It would not be... sporting. And really, who wants a bunch of mindless devotees when you could have numberless seething individuals plotting against you? Where would be the fun in that?"

"I suppose you are right, as usual," sighed Crowley, "Although it might do something about some of the graffiti we get on the wall of Dis. I mean, really, is 'wanker' that difficult to spell? I don't mind being insulted, but when they can't even be bothered to check the spelling, it's just, well, it's just vexing, is what it is. A man in my position is entitled to expect a certain minimum quality of detractor."

"Indeed," Lord Vetinari nodded in understanding. Strangely enough, the commander of the City Watch has made exactly the same assertion.

"Just out of interest," Crowley went on, "Once the desire to mime was extracted, what sort of state would the offender's brain be in?"

"Oh, there was a correspondingly ingenious device to pour it back into the offender's head after the extraction process," the Patrician replied readily. "The functionality, alas, would be greatly diminished, to the point of no functionality at all."

"You must admit, though, it would technically be effective," Crowley pointed out.

"Certainly," conceded Vetinari, "If you are satisfied to use a troll to crush a flea, as it were. But if people are to be relieved of the mental illness that is mime by inducing death, then I can think of at least two dozen ways to do it much more quickly, cheaply, and with considerably less collateral damage to surrounding carpet."

"It would be more humane to the vipers," Crowley added, "Has anybody ever bothered to ask them whether they are distressed to have a mime dangling over the only home that they have ever known?" He shuddered. "I know it would give me the screaming meemies."

Vetinari stopped in his tracks. "You know, I've never thought to ask," he admitted, looking thoughtful, and gestured for a clerk, who was instantly at his side. "I shall send to the University for one of the wizards. They're bound to have somebody there who can talk to the vipers. A Professor of Uncomfortably Obnoxious Zoology, perhaps. I certainly cannot condone cruelty to animals." With an authoritative wave, he sent the clerk on his way.

"If a prototype could be constructed, it might be good to give it a public airing, put on a bit of a show," Crowley reminded him. "Give the masses something to point and laugh at. Remind them who's boss."

"Your point of view, Crowley, is, as ever, refreshingly robust," the Patrician actually cracked a small smile. "They seem to be getting along well," he went on, indicating the desk where Clerk Drumknott and Orgle the fiend were in animated conversation over a number of folders and boxes. "It's very good of your... assistant to indulge him – his passion, and I think it's the correct word, for filing is the only thing that Drumknott has approaching a flaw. Get him started about archiving, and he can expound on the subject for hours without repeating himself."

"He may have found a soulmate," grinned Crowley. "Orgle is very keen on systematic filing, storage and retrieval. It's because he's worked his way up from the Pit," the King of Hell explained. "He has first hand experience with the day-to-day problems that the demons at the racks face. They don't want to be told that they're collectively forging the interactions of a viable shared commitment to a corporate vision, they want a practical solution to the problem of sorting out exactly whose liver is whose, and what kidneys go where, at the end of the working day."

"Assistants who can cut to the essence of an issue quickly are worth their weight in sapient pearwood," stated Vetinari, watching all of Orgle's mouths beam as Drumknott demonstrated a file labelling system of his own devising. "If you could spare him, I think we could arrange an attachment, an internship, for your... individual, Orgle. He seems like the up-and-coming type. And it would be good for Drumknott to have someone who shares his professional interest. I'm sure he could also offer some unexpected insights into our own business practices."

"That's a very generous offer," Crowley acknowledged, "But I'm not sure if he'll want to take it up. Orgle is a bit of a homebody, really. Truth be told, he's devoted to Gedda. Isn't he my darling?" Gedda looked up from where she was lounging comfortably with Wuffles the elderly terrier, and yawned. "I think they'd miss each other."

"Well, do consider it. Tea?"

"Please."

Another silently efficient clerk brought a tray of tea things, and they sat down in a couple of comfortable chairs by the small fireplace where the dogs were curled together. Crowley examined the motif on the cup that the Patrician offered him.

"What an unusual tea set," he commented, taking in the design that appeared to consist of an intricate stylised repeating pattern of a dog being patted by a man in a white coat.

"It was a present, from Lord Downey of the Assassins' Guild," smiled Lord Vetinari. "I'm told that he sent all the way to Agatea to have it made."

"Really?" marvelled Crowley. "Is it a traditional pattern, then?"

"Not exactly," explained the Patrician, "It's very similar to a classical design in which a warrior is holding a hunting dog on a leash, but if you look closely, you'll see that it is in fact a person performing a rectal examination upon said dog." He examined his own cup. "I've always been terribly impressed at the way they manage to get the dog's expression captured like that – it must take a very small brush and a very steady hand."

"It is very convincing," agreed Crowley. "What did Lord Downey want?"

"Oh, just to remind me that he dislikes me intensely," Vetinari waved a hand dismissively. "My nickname at school was Dog-Botherer."

"My nickname at school, I won't repeat in civilised company," sighed Crowley glumly, "And the last time somebody wanted to remind me how much they dislike me, they ate my tailor."

"Tailors, at least, are plentiful," Vetinari pointed out.

"Which is just as well, since there are two utter pillocks named Winchester who seem to shoot me with alarming regularity using rounds that contain, amongst other things, salt recrystallised from holy water, consecrated iron shot, shredded third class relics and sanctified dog crap. It happens more regularly than is polite, I tell you – I've lost more bespoke garments to Roger Ramjet and Rapunzel than I care to think about. They have no respect, no respect at all, for the work, craftsmanship and especially the expense involved with a bespoke seven fold cashmere and silk tie..."

"If you did not have such... engaging adversaries, Crowley, you would sit here and complain to me about how utterly boring your life is," Vetinari smiled indulgently. "Certainly, I derived an enormous frisson of enjoyment in presenting the Master of Assassins with a similar tea set, embossed with a tiger motif very similar to that which someone painted on his face whilst he was asleep one night, when we were seniors. The look on his face as he struggled to pretend that he liked it, and did not in fact have an urge to attempt to separate my head from my shoulders, is something that keeps me warm at nights."

Crowley looked thoughtful. "You might be onto something, Havelock. Perhaps I should send them something besides a wish for lingering and painful death next Christmas. I suppose I could say it with flowers, and send them a corpse plant. Or... you don't have actual carnivorous triffids here, do you?"

"I suppose I could ask the University Faculty," mused Vetinari, "They most likely have a Chair of Inconveniently Egregious Botany, or some equally learned fellow. I did a certain amount of study of such plants in my final year. The pollen of the Embarrassing Agapanthus is capable of inducing an amusingly high pitch in the male voice for several days, which might discombobulate young Roger, and a posy of Warthog Violets for his sister Rapunzel, well, the mere scent can induce the most astonishing warts overnight, guaranteed to make any young lady burst into tears and hole up with her own bodyweight in chocolate..."

"Oh, they're both male," humphed Crowley, "Not that you'd know to look at Rapunzel. I swear, that boy's hair gets longer every time I see him. It's like it has a life of its own. I sometimes wonder if it wanders about during the night." He paused. "Maybe a set of hair clippers would be suitable. Or possibly some hot rollers..."

"Indeed," nodded Vetinari as a clerk scuttled to his side and spoke urgently in a low voice, handing over a page of closely written text. "Dear me," sighed the Patrician as he scanned the document, "Duty calls I'm afraid, Crowley." He paused. "These men, Roger and Rapunzel, do they have another brother, one called Dean? Because I have just had the most extraordinary news from the Watch, concerning a man and his dog who appear to have arrived in the city under unusual circumstances, and, I quote the ever-diligent Sergeant Colon here, 'Could be a male Seamstress, sent Mr Vimes from zero to Extremely Aggravated in less than three seconds, smirks like an Assassin begging your Lordship's pardon and his dog walks through doors only doesn't wait for someone to open them first'..."

"Oh, bugger," snapped Crowley, "What the hell is it with those two bastards? I can't get a moment's peace! It's proof that God hates me. Or is, at the very least, trying to give me an ulcer."

"According to this, there is only one of them," Vetinari scrutinised the document.

"For now," Crowley informed him gloomily, "Sooner or later, there will be two. They come as a matched pair. Crap knows how he found his way here, but the other one will turn up. They're like fish and chips, like Bogey and Bacall, like Batman and Robin, like picnics and ants, like unwanted relatives and tacky Christmas presents, like public holidays and atrocious weather, like double drop chocolate chip cookies and self-loathing..."

"How very... intriguing," mused Vetinari. "Well, I shall have to deal with this. I do apologise."

"I don't envy you, Havelock," grimaced Crowley. "But if he should by some chance manage to irritate you to the point where you would like to dangle him over your viper pit..."

"Should that be the case, I would of course have you informed directly," Vetinari assured him, "And perhaps I could send someone out for some banged grains for you." He patted Gedda's head as she made her way to Crowley. "She is such a darling thing," he smiled at her. "Poor Wuffles is, I fear, approaching the end of his time walking this vale of tears, and I shall miss him dreadfully..."

"Should the occasion arise, have Drumknott get in touch with Orgle," Crowley told him, "And I shall keep an eye out for a suitable litter. They're not too difficult to find – the little buggers are always chewing on the racks when their first teeth come in. I tell the fiends and the duty torturer demons not to indulge them, they're going to grow into working dogs, I say, don't spoil them, I say – they get so many little tidbits dropped for them, it's a wonder my universe doesn't have the fattest Hellhounds anywhere..."

"Never underestimate the power of a pair of big puppy-dog eyes," smiled Vetinari.

"Wait until his brother Sam turns up," muttered Crowley grumpily. "Tata, then, Havelock. Oh, and if you should decide to throw Dean to the vipers, watch and make sure – the bastard has a most annoying habit of not staying dead."

"I shall be sure to remember that," Vetinari nodded as his guest took his leave.

Drumknott moved discreetly to his side. "The stamping noise growing louder suggests that Sir Samuel is headed this way as we speak," he observed. "Should I have the viper pit cleared?"

"Absolutely not," Vetinari smiled again, "Any man who can annoy Crowley and Samuel Vimes beyond all reason yet somehow walk away, not only still alive, but smirking, is clearly of the better class of adversary, and is far too interesting to dispose of. Besides, I'm worried about them now. I feel guilty of possible cruelty to animals. Have someone send to the University to see if they have someone who speaks Serpent."

Merry Apres-Christmas, and may all of you and your credit cards recover ASAP from the more hideous excesses of the season.

Reviews help me catch the bunnies - they are the Banged Grains (aka Popcorn) in the Gold Class Cinema/Viper Pit/Male Stripper* Revue Of Life!

*Yes, yes, I know whom you want to be your male strippers, you deviated pre-verts. Use your imaginations, and aim carefully with those chocolate sauce supersoakers, we just had the sofas steam-cleaned.