Gasp! Is this little plot bunny - I think his name might be Pterry - actually developing... a plot?
If It's Going To Happen...
Bobby Singer was in his study when a large antique book about Kelpies – the aquatic monster from Scotland, not the working dog from Australia – suddenly slid from the book case and hit the floor with a thump, flapping open on one of the more lurid illustrations (the original book had been compiled by a monk who didn't actually get out much and had possibly never seen a naked woman, let alone an actual Kelpie, but had possessed an active imagination).
He didn't jump up in fright, wondering what the hell cause a book to jump of a shelf. He marked the place in the book he was consulting, then got up and went to put on a fresh pot of coffee.
Bobby Singer was a Hunter, a Man of Knowledge, a person who was dangerous to the monsters, the fuglies, the wrong-things that stalked the people of his world. He had forgotten more about Hunting than most people ever got to learn. And whilst his body was certainly ageing - despite what he threatened his boys with regularly, he would never again be in physical condition to whup Dean Winchester's fluffy butt, or sit Sam on his ass for bein' an idjit – what most people (and monsters) never realised, what with the stupid ones being in the majority, was that the thing that made Bobby really dangerous to anything he ran up against was that he was not an idiot.
Intelligence, coupled with Lack Of Idiocy, is a potent combination. And the more Knowledge you add, the more dangerous it can be.
(On the Discworld, the Patrician understood the danger, and took steps to contain the likes of Leonard of Quirm; in our own Roundworld reality, universities and other similar institutions sometimes perform this function in a flawed and inefficient fashion for a small subset of people who, if allowed to wander around out in the real world, would be capable of causing all sorts of mayhem. I mean, think about it: it gets complicated enough as it is when individual people spontaneously start to think about things carefully by themselves. And we've all seen what happens when 'academics' try to inject some dispassionately considered evidence-based peer-reviewed thoughts based on professional expertise and testable facts into any public debate – it sends public institutions, public figures and public discourse into utter meltdown. Imagine what would happen if too much careful thinking escaped out into the real world on a large scale. It would be the End Of The World As We Know It. Thankfully, plenty of people will always be on hand to dismiss these people as out-of touch, or naive over-educated idealists, or latte-sipping chardonnay-swilling left-wing pussies. We may rest assured that our society is in no danger of being overrun by mass outbreaks of sensible thinking any time soon.)
As a high Intelligence/low Idiot person with an appreciation of the true power of books and knowledge, Bobby would be qualified by his own community, depending on the Intelligence:Idiot ratio of the qualifier, as a polymath, an eccentric or a weirdo.
Other communities in other places have other descriptors for a person with such qualities; one of them is 'Librarian'...
He heard more books hit the floor, confirmation that an old friend was dropping in.
"In here," he called from the kitchen, "Yours is black with four sugars, aint it? Your timing is good, I got some of Ronnie's brownies here, the chocolate and walnut ones..."
"Ook!" The Librarian's tone made it clear that he didn't think there was time for coffee, or, sadly, for the very good brownies that Bobby had recently received. "Ook! Ook ook ook!"
"What?" Bobby's jaw dropped.
"Ook!" the Librarian gestured anxiously. "Ook! Ook ook ook ook OOK ook eeeeeek ook ook oo..."
"Whoa, slow down!" interrupted Bobby. "I aint completely fluent in Ook, it's harder to pick up a language the later in life you start to speak it – for instance, I thought you just said Dean went into L-Space."
"Ook! Ook ook ook!"
"What? Are you serious?"
"Ook! Ook! Ook ook ook ook!"
"But... how?"
"Ook ook ook! Ook! Ook ook!"
"He did what?"
"Ook ook OOK!"
"Are you sure?"
Solemnly, from the leather satchel slung across one shoulder, the Librarian produced an empty JD flask.
"God's tits," breathed Bobby, "And Sam followed, didn't he? As sure as God made little green apples, he went after his brother."
"Ook!"
"We'll have to go," Bobby stated grimly, "I mean, the boy is good, he's smart, he won't let the books get the better of him, but he aint good enough to navigate with the sort of precision needed, that takes practice that he just hasn't had yet..."
"Ook ook ook!"
"I'd be grateful if you'd pilot," Bobby admitted, "Just let me get a few things together..."
Bobby busied himself about the house, grabbing a few items he deemed necessary. The Librarian did the same, taking some bananas from the fruit bowl, along with some of the brownies from the container on the kitchen table, and carefully stowing them in his satchel. Then they headed for the study.
"You drive," Bobby said with a determined scowl, "I'll have your back, you just find us the quickest way there."
With a stern 'Ook', the Librarian put his hand on one of the heavy leather-bound books on the shelf, and pushed.
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Lounging against the strangely comforting bulk of Jimi-the-dog-that-looked-like-a-Lipwigzer-but-didn't-eat-people-like-one, Gaspode, the Disc's most philosophical, ungrammatical and sceptical dog, considered his position.
He and his companion, a visitor from Somewhere Else, had been abducted and sold to Malmont Dagg, the King of the Pit, organiser of illegal dog fights. From what he could gather, Jimi was going to be fed into an industrial mincing machine named The Butcher that could be technically described as 'a dog' (the same way that Corporal Nobby Nobbs could technically be described as 'a human') for the amusement and gambling pleasure of an audience and the financial enrichment of Malmont Dagg. Gaspode was destined to be used as a live squeaky toy to improve bloodlust in some other dog, in order to encourage that other dog to take longer to die when it was in its turn ground into disgustin' red shreds by The Butcher for the entertainment and payment of same.
Some humans, Gaspode decided, had a bloody cheek referring to themselves as 'civilised'; at least when animals fought, they did it for a reason, for food or territory or mating access, for the fundamental internally programmed reason of survival of the individual and the species. Except for the occasional one who was touched in the head, either because of the sad vagaries of Natural Rejection or because they'd been driven to it by bloody humans, as soon as a would-be winner emerged then the argument was over and it stopped, there was no need to kill, even if you could, because you'd won, and the loser recognised that, there was no point, and it just wasn't right, because if anybody of any species could go around killing others over arguments – or worse, do it just for fun – where would it all end?
He sighed glumly. Sentience was greatly over-rated at the best of times, and as for higher thought processes, well, they just weren't fair for a species like him, Canis familiaris, that had been engineered by Unnatural Selection by humans to have a deep-seated inborn drive, an unavoidable instinct, to want to be a Good Dog.
Mind you, on this occasion, it might just all work to his advantage, because for all Jimi's wonderful qualities, Gaspode was definitely going to have to be the brains of this particular outfit.
"So," he began when Jimi stirred and performed the time-honoured ritual of Dog Awakening (sit up, yawn, scratch ear, lick own groin), "I've been thinkin', while you've been gettin' your beauty rest, and I might have a plan."
Jimi's ears pricked up. What will we do next? Will there be food?
"Oh, there will be eating in the immediate future," Gaspode observed, "The only question is, whether we are eaters, or eatees. No, what I mean is, if you insist on being too thick to get us out of here, there might just be a strategically tactical scheme I can use. On account of bein' a talkin' dog, you see. I may not look like much, but I got the Power, you see, I got the Voice, and I know how to use it. Humans got no idea, and dogs don't see it comin' – it's my secret weapon, and it's a betrayal of my own species, but I'll use it if I have to in a desperate situation. 'About to get torn to shreds for the amusement of a pack of complete bastards' sounds like a desperate situation to me." He cocked an ear. "Hear that?"
Jimi lifted his head and listened, in a pose that Gaspode would describe as cringe-inducin'ly brain-explodin'ly Good Dog. People. A gathering of many people.
"Not just people," Gaspode said glumly, "The audience. The punters. He's gunna hold your bout right here. Wouldn't normally do that – but I think the King of the Pit is gettin' desperate. He knows The Law is watchin' out for him, so's the Gamblers' Guild, and he can't go out his front gates any more without risking bein' picketed by the Society For Treatin' Animals Better Than People Often Treat Other Peaople, they've all pretty much made it impossible for him to find somewhere out in the city. With a bit of luck, we might even be remembered as Malmont Dagg's last victims. Luck for others, obviously, because we're still screwed..."
The savage barking from the other pens started up again as Cringing Ted came back into the kennel, heading for the pen holding Gaspode and Jimi.
"If I can stay within earshot, I can use the Power," Gaspode yapped urgently, "An' it might, just might, stop The Butcher for a very small fraction of a second, and the universe just might throw us a bone, so to speak, it's not much of a plan but it's all I've got, the chance of it actually working is a million to one..."
"Come on then fella," Ted addressed Jimi, entering the pen and reaching down to put a studded collar around the larger dog's neck. "Your big moment is here." Jimi held politely still as he was fitted with the collar, and a heavy leather muzzle. "Not that you need it," Ted mused, "You're really a good boy, aren't you?" Snapping the lead onto the collar, he opened the pen gate. "Let's show you off to the punters."
Cringing Ted found himself conflicted as he walked the dog out of the kennel and headed for the ring; Malmont had instructed him to give the dog a good thrashing beforehand to rile him up before he was paraded for the audience, because they were there to see savagery, not a perfect at-heel walk, but he looked into the big brown face, undeniably happy even behind the muzzle, and realised that he didn't have the heart to do it.
"We'll just play up how alert and relaxed you are about the whole thing," he told the dog, "Biding your time, saving your strength, not afraid of nothing, Mr Dagg will come up with the pitch on the spot, just you see..."
He was so busy being conflicted that he didn't notice Gaspode, a master of going about his business unseen when he wanted to, slip out of the pen and follow.
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"Put them down, Corporal."
"But Sergeant..."
"I said, put them down, Corporal. Which part of that order did you not understand?"
"But Sergeant..."
"Corporal Nobbs, what does the word 'insubordination' mean?"
"Oh, hang on, hang on, I know this one, I asked Fred about this – it comes from a word from Quirm, and it means 'A senior officer going spare'."
"And what will happen if a senior officer goes spare, Corporal?"
"Oh, nobody wants that. It's never good when a senior officer goes spare. Like when Mr Vimes goes spare, it starts with the smile, you know, that smile, 'e was givin' it to that weird Winchester bloke, and it's never good when Mr Vimes gives anybody that smile..."
"Nobby, if you do not put that packet of biscuits down RIGHT NOW, I will smile at you."
"That aint really proper, Sergeant, what with you bein' a lady superior and everything, it would be..."
"It will not be a nice smile, Corporal. I will not smile with you as a lady; I will not be fully human when I smile at you, Corporal."
" 'Ere, you can't threaten to do a werewolf smile at me!"
"It won't be a werewolf smile, Corporal, it will be a Sergeant Is About To Go Spare At A Corporal smile, which I assure you will be far worse."
"Oh, go on, Sergeant, you can't mean to give the whole packet to a bloody dog just for babysittin' another bloody dog... stop it! Stop it!"
There was a knock at the door. "Come in Igor," called Angua.
"Did I hear raithed voitheth?" asked Igor with mild concern, not the least bit surprised that Angua knew who it was; a werewolf's nose could tell who'd written COPPERS AR WANEKERS on a door in the middle of the night, let alone who was standing right there knocking on one.
"She's smilin' at me!" protested Nobby in an outraged tone. "She's smilin' at me! That's abuse of rank, that is, for a Sergeant to go smilin' at a Corporal!"
"It's assertion of legitimate authority," snapped Angua, "And if you hadn't been trying to make off with biscuits that aren't for you I wouldn't have to smile. Go on, then."
With a sorrowful sigh, Nobby put down the packet of Mrs Biddlestaff's Lemon Yoyos, and slunk out of the cluttered office.
With a visible effort, Angua collected herself. "Right. What can I do for you, Igor?"
"Ith everything all right, Thergeant?" asked Igor with quiet concern. "You theem thomewhat... aggravated. Ith that thilver burn troubling you thtill? I do have another thalve that might be more effective."
Angua let out a sigh. "It's fine, Igor, I've had worse cleaning the ceremonials," she said. "It's just that today seems determined to aggravate me. First that man Winchester turns up out of L-Space, and I could deal with the silver thing, I really could, but it's like he's spent years studying how to piss off a werewolf with nothing more than a grin, then I was essentially propositioned by Gaspode, and now Nobby insists on being Nobby in a Nobby-like fashion and is trying to purloin the biscuits that I have promised to Gaspode, and..." she saw the look on Igor's face. "What?"
"I'm afraid my newth may only therve to aggravate you thome more," Igor replied. "I have lotht my body."
Angua stared at him. "Lost your body?"
"Yeth. Well, to be thtrictly accurate, I may not have lotht it, but I thertainly do not know where it ith."
Angua continued to stare. "As far as I can tell, it's standing right in front of me."
"Ah, let me rephrathe that," Igor went on. "My own body, that ith to thay, the one I am currently occupying, ith indeed, ath you have thurmithed, right in front of you. I mean the body that wath left in my cuthtody. The 'vampire' that Dean Winchethter wath purthuing."
"What?" snapped Angua. "You said it was dead! He said it was dead!"
"And it wath," agreed Igor, "Ath I exthplained earlier, it wath of a thpethieth not previouthly dethcribed on the Dithc. Decapitation rendered it unviable, yet it did not crumble to dutht. The usual rethuthitathion meathureth that would be deployed upon the dithanimation of any vampire, the thprinkling of a thmall amount of blood, wath not effective."
"What were you doing trying to resuscitate a murderer?" demanded Angua.
"The thame I would do for anyone found tho rethently dead," Igor answered calmly. "It ith not my plathe to judge, Thergeant, it ith my role to render all pothible athithtanthe, without dithcrimination, and if my efforths are thucthethful, then the patient may anther in perthon for whatever crimeth he may be accuthed of, in the courthe of natural juthtithe. Mr Vimeth is very keen on natural juthtithe, due protheth, and making thertain that the correct formth are filled in." He paused. "The phrathe he liketh to uthe is, 'I don't want that bathtard to have a legal leg to thtand on when I kick the thtool out from under him'."
"Right, of course," acknowledged Angua in the same long-suffering tone as police across all universes who find themselves hampered in doing their job by the very Law they are supposed to uphold. "So, when was the last time you saw this alleged murderer allegedly dead?"
"When I wath rendering him dethent for burial," said Igor.
"And what does that entail, Igor?"
"Usually, it meanth putting ath many bitth ath pothible back together again," Igor clarified, "Tho, I thewed hith head back on."
Angua gave Igor a level look. "And?"
"And apparently, for thith thort of vampire, on thith Dithc, that wath enough to revive him. Pothibly replathement of the head, combined with the blood thprinkling, catalythed by thome element of narrative cauthality, wath enough to revive him."
"And now he's... missing."
"Yeth."
"Got up and went."
"Yeth."
"How?"
"He that up and walked away, I prethume."
"No, no, no, why wasn't he locked up?"
"He wath dead, Thergeant. He needed to be kept on ithe, to thlow down decompothition."
"Oh, great," Angua groaned, "As if the undead vampires aren't enough of a headache, now we have an undeaded dead undead vampire wandering around. From somewhere else out of L-Space. Who's an alleged murderer. Possibly planning to kill more alleged people. For the alleged fun of it. Right. I want you and Cheery to scour the lab for any clues, any hint of how we might undo this or at the least track him down, send Sergeant Colon and Corporal Nobbs after Mr Vines and Carrot, put the word out to pull in as many patrols as we can contact."
"Shouldn't we thend thomeone to inform the Patrician?" suggested Igor. "Corporal Pethimal, perhapth?"
"Igor, the Patrician already knows," she said firmly, "And if he doesn't, then a Clerk is on the way to inform him as we speak. He might even tell Mr Vimes about it before Fred and Nobby find him. Leave Corporal Pessimal to his paperwork, he's very busy and completely absorbed in devising the layout for a form to fill in when Alleged Criminal/s Pursued By A Type Of Enforcement Officer Emerge From L-Space And Are Accused Of Committing Crimes In This Reality Viz. On The Disc. For now, I'll go plain clothes, and see what I can find, then do a briefing in the mess in fifteen minutes."
"At onthe, Thergeant." Igor withdrew.
Angua suppressed a growl as she kicked off her boots and started to remove her armour. Yes, it was annoying that the midden had hit the windmill while she was sitting in the big chair, and yes, it was a headache that she'd have to deliberately go sniffing the scent of vampire, which was viscerally revolting to a werewolf at the best of times, but the worst bit, the very worst bit, was that she was going to end up having to speak politely to that Winchester man, she just knew it.
As she shucked out of her tunic, she thought that if he arrived back at the Watch House with Mr Vimes and Carrot while she was still sniffing around, she might just bit him for insufferable smartarsery, and she didn't care how much Mr Vimes smiled at her.
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