I am still not quite sure if I should publish this, but I did.
It was already after sunset, but Vimes still wasn't leaving Pseudopolis Yard. He had a lot of paperwork to read.
He knew that Sybil was going to be mad at him for staying at work this late, and for not being home to have dinner with her (he had come back for a while though, to read to his young boy, because if he hadn't done so there wouldn't be an enough faraway corner in the whole world for him to hide from his wife's righteous wrath). He tried not to think about that right now. Criminals didn't take a rest even at night.
Vimes sighed, took the next paper, and started reading it.
Chapter 2: Ho-ho
The handwriting was cramped, and kind of harsh; some of the paper had been torn away, and there were holes in it, as if the person who had written it was more used to carving runes in the stone rather than writing with a pen on paper. There were blots of ink on several places, probably when the pen had crashed under the sheer force of the hand writing with it. There was a name and a date in the upper left corner.
Sergent Dehgtritghous Millehnnium of the Mohlten Basahlt
I, sergent Dehgtritghous, ahm whriting toh inform yeeh of an attack ohn a civil man in the ghardens of the Patrician's pahlas.
Vimes frowned. If he was a civil man indeed, what would he do in the gardens of the palace? Yes, it was true that the gardens were open to anyone, but frankly, that was the actual reason no one went there. At least no one civil.
The man ihn queeeghstion was hahving a walk in the ghardens (ohr at leeest he sayhs so). He saihd that he was only hahving a waahlk in the ghardens (bhut I dooohnt theenk he is to be tghrusted) It wahs oohne ghour ago when that man was wahlkin in the Patrician's ghardens and he sayhs to be completely—
The Commander stared at the word. It was long. It didn't have any spelling mistakes. Probably there had been a sudden gust of icy cold wind while Detritus had written that part. The handwriting became gentler to the paper as well.
—to be completely innocent, although his facial expression told me otherwise.—Ih doohn't seeh whhy weh shouould truhst hhim sinceeh it wahs clear that hee didn't hahve the right to be thghere.
There was a big hole in the report here. Vimes assumed that something terrible had happened to the—he paused, counting the huge blots of black ink—ah, seventh pen and to the paper that, due to the unfortunate circumstances, had been under the stony arm.
Soh the man sayhs he wahs attackghed by a ho-ho (which is lihke a ha-ha, only the hohle in the ghround is deehper) desghbrls(scratched) des(scratched) mahde by Bloohhdy Stoohpid Jonson. He saihd that the ho-ho was waiting in a dahrk alley, joohst standing ther, getting reahdy to attackh him. When he pahssed he fell intoh the reallee laaarge hole and iht wahs an hour befohre anyon heahrd his screeming. He evehn brohke a fingehr and he wahs sayhing that he wahs going to sue the Patrikhian.
Now Vimes's suspicion that the man hadn't been entirely sober got stronger. No one in their right minds threatened the Patrician in his own gardens. Perhaps in the morning the hang-over wouldn't be his most serious problem; he was probably going to worry more about finding his head on the night-stand. He had to arrest that guy, for his own protection.
Ihh personhnaleeh think that mahn is ghuiltee of (huge splash) disghtourbing of the night sihlence—here the handwriting changed into Carrot's stiff letters—according to the curfew law of 1254.
Not that everyone in Ankh-Morpork wasn't guilty of that—but they just couldn't arrest everyone, could they?
Sighned, Sergent Dehgtritghous.
Vimes sighed and rubbed his eyes.
"Sergeant Angua!"