OMG ANTHER CHAPTER WTFery ABOUNDS. Also, only nine this time because a few of them are super fucking long(1). (Edited: JUST KIDDING I DID A CHEAPO, SEE IF YOU CAN FIGURE OUT WHICH ONE I ADDED IN).

(1) That's what she said.

Disclaimer: Yeah, got nothing.

-()-

Bruce Springsteen – Pay Me My Money Down

After 30 years of rule, Lord Vetinari had decided to, metaphorically, call it a day and run off to somewhere quiet and warm. Lord Downey could really not be more pleased about that fact, if only because it meant the man's insistent pestering about the Guild paying its taxes every year would soon come to an end. So it was with confidence – although, he was disappointed to realize, this was tinged with anxiety – that he made his way into the Patrician's office one Thursday afternoon. Vetinari looked up. Downey's stomach dropped when he saw von Lipwig, Postmaster General, head of the Royal Bank and Chief Tax Collector, as well as recently-elected Patrician (damn krisma, Downey knew it would be too much of an advantage in a popular election. Either that or Vetinari's ability to rig just about any kind of competition, be it election or innocent game of checkers, the bastard) standing by Vetinari's desk.

"Hello," Downey said cautiously. Vetinari's smile was quick and not at all pleasant. Von Lipwig's, true to character, was wide, welcoming, and by all appearances completely genuine. Downey found himself hating the man a little more.

"Hello, your Lordship," von Lipwig said warmly. "Please, sit." Downey did so, while Vetinari stared him down. The head of Assassins was rapidly coming to the conclusion that he really hated this two-pronged approach.

"I shall cut right to business, so as not to waste your time," von Lipwig said quickly, pulling a packet of papers off the Patrician's – his, Downey supposed – desk. "I was going over the Assassins' Guild tax record the other night, which I admit I probably should have done sooner, but you know how it goes, and was absolutely astonished to see your esteemed Guild hasn't paid taxes in well over twenty-five years!"

"Astonishing," Vetinari said dryly. "There was, of course, that on Hereshebian half-dong about seventeen or so years ago, but I have to say I think that hardly counts."

"Right, sir, of course."

Downey sighed. His worst fear realized, he simply decided the best thing to do would be to play it straight. "Gentlemen, can we please dispose of the good cop and Vimes approach (1) please? I'm sure it's not necessary."

Von Lipwig looked to Vetinari, who shrugged. "Well then, Lord Downey," the younger man said slowly, "I'm sure you know that with the current Undertaking nearing full completion, the city is in need of the final funds to simply wrap the whole thing up, and as the latest budget reports have shown, the Undertaking, after the initial investment, has only been profitable. I'm afraid that we – I – am put in the position to request that the Assassins Guild does its civic duty and pays its taxes so as to provide funds for the rest of the project. Tax refunds, of course, would be one benefit, as would a portion of the profits from the Undertaking, since the Guild is one of the original investors."

That much was true, at least. Downey had sunk AM$1 million into the thing in the beginning, figuring it would just wash out the tax thing at the end of the day. Clearly, this plan was not as well thought-out as he'd hoped. "Mr. von Lipwig, I apologize for the current taxation lapse on the part of my Guild, and would be happy to pay all future taxes without complaint. However, I simply can't help the laxness of the previous administration."

"Oh, shut it, Downey, I was after you personally for the better part of the last fifteen years about that money. You just never paid," Vetinari said calmly. "You received statements, auditors – all of whom you inhumed, may I point out – and government-provided assistance to help you sort out the whole mess. I have records."

"I'm not paying you," Downey mumbled. "I'll pay von Lipwig but I'll not pay you, Havelock Vetinari."

Moist thought of interjecting here, but thought better of it. These waters clearly ran deeper than he was prepared to deal with. Vetinari raised an eyebrow. "Really Downey?"

"Listen, you bastard, it's not that I don't like you – I don't, but that's beside the point – it's that my institution has yet to see any kind of benefit from your government. So why should I pay you?"

"Your institution wouldn't benefit or suffer if chimpanzees ran the city, Downey," Vetinari sighed. "It's old enough and got enough clout that honestly it hardly matters who's in charge these days. Surely you realize that."

"I won't pay it, chimpanzees or not."

"Downey."

"Vetinari."

There was a long staring match, which Moist knew Downey would lose, would have to lose, but nevertheless felt very uncomfortable being on the fringes of. Finally, the stare broke, and both men smirked.

"Well, I'd hate to see the good reputation of the Guild dragged through the mud," Vetinari said calmly, as if the previous stand-down had never occurred. "As such, any debt to the city would obviously not be made public."

"Of course."

"That said, I'm sure you understand that the debt to the city must be paid, and what better time to start over than under a new administration?" Vetinari leaned back in his chair, hands folded on his desk, still trying not to smile while Downey did roughly the same thing, albeit looking down with a quiet smile on his own face. "I'm sure you and Mr. von Lipwig can work out a reasonable payment schedule and your institution's debt to the city can be settled."

"Er, yes, that would be good," Moist said quickly, feeling that at least here his input would be required.

"Absolutely," Downey said happily. "Thank you for your lenience, sir, Mr. von Lipwig." He rose, as did Vetinari, and the two shook hands. Vetinari then followed the man to the door. Words were exchanged, which Moist couldn't make out, and Vetinari shut the door behind the head of Assassins leaning against it with a bemused smile.

"What just happened?" he asked, thoroughly bewildered.

"Politics, von Lipwig," Vetinari answered. "That was politics. With a hint of an old grudge thrown in for good measure. Downey should pay you back over the next twenty years, so long as I'm not in office."

Moist slumped. "I'm never going to get the hang of this, sir, this is going to go terribly."

Vetinari walked back across the office, still looking unusually pleased with himself. "I shouldn't worry about it, everyone gets the hang of it eventually." He sat back down and leaned back. "It doesn't hurt to dig up a little dirt on your opponent either, remember that."

"What did you do?" Moist asked, suspicion creeping into his voice.

"Nothing," Vetinari said innocently. "You'll get your money, I get a drink out of it and Downey . . . Downey knows full well what he got."

Back in his coach, Downey sagged with relief. The bastard had the nerve to bring up the incident they swore they would both never talk about again. Authorities were still trying to get to the bottom of that. And after all this time no one would remember the dark-haired boy rolling around in the pile of bacon that ultimately did no harm, they'd only remember the naked ginger kid with the burrito screaming about 'widdly scuds' while he madly vandalized public property. No, word could never get out of that, regardless of the cost.

He hunkered down further into the cushions and decided to have the anti-drug seminar moved up to earlier this year.

(1) This is the Discworld, after all.

Gomez – Where Ya Going?

Moist von Lipwig, at the tender age of fifteen, was not sure where he belonged in the world, but he was fairly certain he didn't belong in his hometown. Things were quiet here: life was simple, everyone knew everyone else, girls were pretty, and crime was rare, besides the occasional werewolf attack. No, he longed for something with more flash, with more pizzazz, with more excitement. Well, maybe not too much excitement, as he was the sort to enjoy a lie-down after lunchtime.

When he met the stranger in the pub one night, his worldview shifted radically, and suddenly he knew where he belonged. "You never have to answer to anyone but yourself," the man had slurred. "You just have to be quick enough on yer feet to come up with something good in not very much time. And oh, the money you'll make."

Moist went out and bought the tin of boot polish that would change his life forever later that night.

And now, twenty years later, he stood in a shop in Ankh-Morpork, boot polish in hand, gold suit gleaming in the light coming through the windows, and he smiled.

Case of the Mondays – Careless Whisper

To be perfectly honest, Juliet was not really bright enough to be the jealous sort. Where other, quicker women might see flirting, Juliet simply saw Trev chatting warmly with other girls at the bar, smiling and entertaining them. That was her Trev. And when he would dance with them for a few songs before coming back to dance with her, she never batted an eye. He simply liked to meet his fans. Gods knew she did.

But Trev knew, deep inside, that it was much more than just entertaining fans. And the guilt gnawed at his soul, here and again. He had a beautiful girlfriend, pretty and charming and kinder than the day was long. And yet, the other girls, they knew about current events, they could talk about something other than fashion. And they weren't exactly hard on the eyes, either.

He knew he wasn't the brainiest himself, but sometimes he wondered about the value of brains over beauty.

And one day he stopped dancing with other girls. He'd sign autographs and chat and smile, but he only danced with Juliet. Juliet thought about it for a minute, which was often the longest she'd lend thought to any one topic, and decided that he must be trying to avoid injury off the football pitch, and then never thought about it again.

The Ting Tings – That's Not My Name

Adora Belle had, eventually, been glad to get married, even if her husband did drive her right up a wall sometimes. But even these days she did like to go out to the pubs here and there, if only because her new social circles had introduced her to the equally prickly Sergeant Angua, and the two of them had more fun going out than they had any rights to.

Moist had worried a little at first, but when Adora came home one night with blood on her stiletto, his fears were assuaged.

Now the two were sipping their drinks, watching the drama unfold in the Sheep's Arse (the owner had never quite grasped the art of naming one's business) when a man sidled over. Adora could smell the Bearhugger's from a foot and a half away; Angua had picked him up about an hour ago, when he'd staggered into the pub. "Hello, ladies," he said, or tried to. His tongue didn't appear to be cooperating.

"Hello," Adora said curtly. Angua smiled.

"I'd buy you two drinks but I'm a bit short on cash," he managed, hiccupping throughout this announcement. "You are awfully good-looking."

"What a nice compliment," Angua replied, cordial to the last.

"Reason I'm short on cash being I'm an inventor," he said seriously, as if this explained everything. "Working on something."

"Ah?" The ladies exchanged looks and agreed that whatever was about to happen, it would probably have amusing results. "And what would that be?" Adora prompted.

"S'thing that lets you be warm!"

"A blanket?" Angua suggested.

"Sort of, can see you're quick on the uptake, miss! But, see, s'got, s'got thingy, sleeves, so'n you can be warm and do things."

"A robe?" Adora guessed.

"But backwards."

There was silence, filled only by the ambient noise of the pub. Adora raised her eyebrows. "You're inventing a backwards robe?"

"Yup!" He hiccupped. "You're both so smart. Would'n you like t'incest? Invest?"

"Er, no, on both counts," Angua snickered.

He leaned in, swinging his arm around Adora. "Aw, come on Jane and Stacy, it'll be worth its wei – Argh. Foot." A pained expression bloomed onto his face, and his eyes crossed.

"I'm so sorry," Adora said sweetly, "but you've got the wrong women. That's not our names."

Glee Cast (STOP JUDGING ME NOW) – Safety Dance

Ponder Stibbons threw forward the large lever on the widdershins side of Hex – who had never had a widdershins side before it apparently became crucially important, and, who, more importantly, was starting to be a 'who' to Ponder and his team – and leaned forward in his chair as the glass screen fuzzed and flickered and jumped to life.

+++ Hello Ponder. +++

He paused, typing carefully. Hex, Adrian has left the team.

+++ Affirmative. +++

You knew?

+++ The fact had previously been established. +++

Ponder leaned back in the chair, springs of the suspension creaking with his reluctantly-but-steadily increasing weight. He slid a hand under his hat and ran his fingers through his hair. Had Adrian already told Hex? Perhaps more importantly, had he told Hex first?

+++ It was the logical solution. +++, the screen flashed. +++ A program was run to determine this. +++

You helped him decide? Ponder typed frantically, hurling himself forward in the chair to do so as the suspension screamed its objections. Technically, punctuation wasn't necessary with Hex, but Ponder found it cathartic.

+++ A program was run. +++ Gears whirred and the screen flickered. +++ Objections from operator: P. Stibbons were considered. +++

Ponder cocked his head. Somehow, that made him feel better. Why did that make him feel better? He typed a command and waited.

+++ Operator: A. Turnipseed struck objections from operator: P. Stibbons from the program before final calculations. +++

Ponder stared at the screen before typing a very slow, deliberate question. With Hex, you had to be careful.

+++ Objections of operator: P. Stibbons were automatically added to program by HEX system during configuration. +++

Ponder smiled and leaned back, absent-mindedly stroking the glass case that housed the ant mound. Work would go on without Adrian; it always did. And perhaps it was for the best; Adrian had been getting increasingly mutton-headed about changes to Hex, delaying progress. And Hex had (almost) always worked better with the changes after they were out of beta, so Ponder had allowed himself a little indulgence of anthropomorphizing the machine and put Hex down as liking the changes. So now, without Adrian, they could change what they wanted.

As the machinery whirred away quietly, Ponder leaned back and reflected on how funny it was that things usually just worked out.

Glee Cast – Any Way You Want It/Lovin' Touchin' Squeezin'

It was 32nd of March, which was a totally innocuous day, really, to most people. In his office on the evening of that particular day, Lord Vetinari was however, painfully away for something else and was, Drumknott noticed, working uncharacteristically fast, and – although Drumknott's mind scrambled to register this particular thought – skipping things. He watched the man warily as the Patrician semi-frantically leafed through a packet of minutes from the various guilds regarding the upcoming city-wide audits and hazarded "Is everything alright, sir?"

"Fine, Drumknott," Vetinari said tensely. He glanced to his left, where a pile of paper was still teetering on the edge of his desk. He absently initialed the last page of the minutes and slid them aside. "And that's all past date?" he asked, semi-incredulously. "How did I get that behind?" There was, almost imperceptible, a note of accusation to this.

"Well, sir, your current . . . time constraints have been taking a toll, I'm sure," Drumknott responded, a hint of sullenness creeping in at the edges. "And there's the meeting at 6, sir, may I remind you."

"What meeting?"

Half a city away, Grace Speaker was also aware of the date, and the time, too, thank you very much. She sighed, chin in her left hand, as she sat at the counter of her shop, looking at the face of the clock, willing it to read something else, perhaps two hours earlier, when she'd actually been in a much better mood and hadn't even felt the thin tendrils of disappointment starting to ooze in. She was generally forgiving of tardiness from her . . . from him, but today? He'd promised. With an expression that almost read as sadness, she looked away from the clock and back to the crossword.

The sound of Lord Downey's footsteps had hardly died away before Vetinari was out of his chair, and elbowing the wall in a very particular indentation. "Sir," Drumknott said severely, feeling at this point the whole thing had gotten a bit ridiculous and the Patrician obviously needed some form of intervention.

"What, Drumknott?" Vetinari asked, muffled due to the fact that he was hastily pulling the robe of office over his head before casually pitching it into the secret passage.

"There are still the overdue reports, sir," he said quickly, trying to keep his voice even and calm. It does not do to shout at one's employer, even when the two of you have spent so much time together that your relationship does not so much resemble that between a secretary and an employer, but more of a heavily dysfunctional friendship. "Some of them are quite overdue."

"They are not; I looked," Vetinari said hastily, throwing a long black coat on. "I'll get to them tomorrow –"

"That's what you said yesterday." Icy glares were exchanged, but Drumknott held firm. "Sir."

Slowly, never breaking the stare, Vetinari ran a hand through his hair, which promptly disarranged itself from the normal smoothed-down state, lending the man the appearance of a disheveled funeral director. A testy disheveled funeral director. "It'll get done," he said finally, dismissively, when Drumknott broke the stare and looked to his clipboard.

The Patrician moved to leave via the main doors, but Drumknott hastily positioned himself in the way. This move was akin to certain death for most people, but Vetinari and Drumknott tended to work these things out. It was a bit like being the handler of a big cat, albeit a handler who took all his orders from the big cat and was expected to give markedly less tummy rubs but nevertheless was deeply familiar with the death-defying parts of the job. Vetinari experimentally leaned to the left, then the right, Drumknott mirroring him, always in the way.

"Sir, I have to speak plainly. Your . . . time constraints are, I feel, taking a toll on your work." He paused. "And sleep," he added. Vetinari looked thoughtful.

"Drumknott, what's the date again?"

"March thirty-second, sir," the clerk said reproachfully. "Which is the paperwork you should be completing tonight. When, in point of fact, the most recent paper in that pile is from March twenty-seventh." He shot a pointed look to the pile still squatting on the Patrician's desk.

"Drumknott, does the date Spune twentieth hold any particular significance to you?" Vetinari asked innocently.

"Of course," the clerk responded instantly. His eyes narrowed as he tried to piece together where this line of questioning was going to lead.

"And does it mean anything in particular to your young lady?" Vetinari continued, rocking happily backwards on the balls of his feet.

"I should think so!" Vetinari raised an eyebrow. A fraction of a second later, Drumknott's eyes widened. "Oh." He looked to his boss. "Oh."

"Yes, that's a very big 'oh,' well done Drumknott."

"What time were you supposed to –?"

"Six."

"Oh."

Drumknott stepped aside as Vetinari pushed the door open. "Don't wait up for me, I'll be back in the morning," he said, walking backwards. "If I survive the next thirty minutes." Drumknott stood and watched, suddenly embarrassed, as the ruler of the city shouldered open a secret passage and listened until he couldn't hear the man running anymore.

It was, in fact, thirty-five minutes later that Grace heard the front door's bell tinkle in the dark front of the store. She most definitely did not look up from her book and did not do anything to betray any sort of emotion that she may or, in point of fact, may not have, been feeling. It wasn't until he cleared his throat awkwardly that she looked over the rims of her reading glasses at him. And the roses. Lots of roses. She blinked.

"Hello," she said, momentarily caught off-guard, her flood of anger sandbagged into submission.

"Sorry," he mumbled.

". . . You brought flowers," she said incredulously. She had gotten to know a lot more about Havelock Vetinari in the past few months than she rather suspected anybody except maybe Drumknott knew, and she had thought she knew his style. And flowers, well, flowers was definitely not his style.

"Nothing says 'Sorry, I know I fucked up' like a dozen roses," he mumbled. A paper bag crinkled. "And orange chicken."

Grace couldn't help it. She smiled and went over to him, relieving him of the take-out bag. "So you got busy?"

"I got busy." It was like making a puppy admit to all of its past sins. You would be really, really angry if it weren't so sad and adorable.

"On today of all days?"

"Drumknott wouldn't let me leave."

"It's not even like we have a real anniversary – didn't we assign this date because it was convenient for everybody?" she asked.

"Yes."

"And you still got busy?"

"Yes." He looked downright ashamed, which Grace assumed was an unfamiliar and possibly novel expression for him. She decided to let up.

"Well, I suppose if it was Drumknott's fault I'll have to have a word with him then, eh?"

He thought. "Well, I tried to leave, but then Lord Downey showed up so I had to deal with that, which was stupid, by the way, and then Drumknott was all upset about the fact that there's still week-old paperwork, which is also stupid and –" he slammed to a halt when Grace put her finger to his lips. "Am I still in trouble?"

"You bought me flowers and Agatean take-away, what do you think?"

He watched her carefully. "It's debatable."

She dropped her hand to her side and smiled. "Put the flowers down and come in, doofus."

Ke$ha – Your Love is My Drug

As a librarian, Gertrude had never had high expectations. Her ladyship was a wonderful employer, who was generous with the paychecks and never stinted on time off for holidays.

As a girlfriend, Gertrude had to admit she'd had terribly low expectations. She hadn't managed to find love yet, as of a year ago, and had pretty much settled for accepting a man that would be kind to her and didn't have any major skin disorders. But Drumknott had ruined her for that, oh yes, and how. The quiet little brown-haired man, always in the shadow of his own boss, but who could talk passionately about whatever she chose because, let's be honest, he'd probably had to learn about it for his job at some point. Rufus, who bought her flowers for every occasion, and sometimes "just because". Rufus, who had stood up to his boss and demanded more time off for personal time (and, although Gertrude didn't lend much thought to this, had been weirdly successful, almost as if Vetinari was grateful for the time alone).

Rufus, the most wonderful man she could have met. She'd given up her job with her Ladyship, who had said her goodbyes with a friendly smile and a pat on the head, and found work at the Merchants' Guild. Merchants, after all, produce a great many books, legitimate and not, and a prudent, well-trained librarian is always in demand. And now she was in Ankh-Morpork, Citie of One Thousande Surprifes, with her very favorite surprise. Surprife even.

"Did you like dinner?" he asked, bumping off of her playfully as they walked back to his apartment at the Palace, hunched inside their coats.

She looked up, all smiles, white teeth and pink lipstick. "As always, Rufus."

(Note: D'AWWW GET SOME ACTION RUFUS, GOOD LAD.)

Harvey Danger – Flagpole Sitta

The sun dawned on the back room of Pellicool Pets one morning, spewing light in through the window and onto the two occupants of the bed, one of which groaned. And then said "Aaaargh."

"Mmmuf, what?"

"Aaargh, 's what." The sound of rustling in a pocket of a jacket, casually strewn across the rail and the head of the bed. "Just aargh."

"Good morning to you too, you ray of sunshine."

"Merp." Grace didn't open her eyes, but she did giggle. Havelock Vetinari, she had come to learn, was an early riser, an ironic fact because Havelock Vetinari hated being awake in the morning. He was, as Vimes was prone to reminding her, a complicated person. There was the sound of a metal chain, links, maybe a watch.

"What are you doing?" she grumbled, rolling over and cracking one sleepy eye. "What's the hurry?"

He was sitting up in the bed, pulling his shirt off the headboard. "I have to go to work." He squinted out the window. "You know, city? Lots of people? Teetering on the verge of anarchy and chaos?"

"Teetering on the verge?" Grace asked, a trace of sarcastic amusement in her voice. "What time is it?"

"No idea." Grace rolled her eyes and fumbled around on the nightstand. The first real secret she'd been allowed to discover, and that was only after he ended up staying over unexpectedly, was that Lord Vetinari had, possibly, the worst vision out of anyone she knew. He'd had that Leonard man that lived in his attic – which had brought up an entirely new line of questions – fashion some kind of glass lenses that went on his eyeballs, which was disgusting and sounded painful, but nevertheless allowed the illusion of a lack of weaknesses. Trick was, you couldn't sleep in them. So, eventually, Grace had found out, and now accepted the fact that without either the lenses or glasses he was fairly useless as far as reading or discerning objects went. "Here you go, Stella Luna."

"Okay, first, now I'm not telling you what time it is," he said haughtily, snatching the glasses out of her hand. "And second, that is a female bat, out of, third, a children's book."

"Hmph." Grace closed her eyes and lay still for a minute, waiting. There was a sullen pause.

"It's eight o'clock, ye gods its eight o'clock. Where are my trousers?"

Grace shot up. "What day is it?"

"Thursday."

"Oh gods, the store opens at seven thirty on Thursday." She rolled out of bed. "I thought you would wake up!"

"I did too." Suitably clothed, he ran his hand through his hair and pulled the football cap on. "I always get up at four. Dammit." He shrugged his jacket on. Then he paused. "Wait."

"What?" Grace asked, annoyed, one sock on. He turned around, one finger raised, lopsided smile fully in place.

"I just remembered something."

"What?"

"We work for ourselves." A pause. "Well, technically, I work for the city but I certainly don't have anyone that holds me to specific hours."

"Yes, but there's still the question of behaving like a responsible adult," Grace said severely. She watched him. "This is just your way of rationalizing a coffee run, isn't it?"

"It might be."

She sighed. "Tell you what. You're all in your incognito alter-ego gear, right? So I'll open the store, you watch it for me, and I'll go get coffee. No one will be in this early anyway."

"So why open the store?" he whined. "Or I could go."

"No, I'll go; the less you're out the less chance you have of blowing your cover, Mr. Double-life."

"It's not really a double life as such, more like a secret life. I mean, I'm not really leading a double life, I'm just trying to remain extremely private with –"

She tossed him the keys. "Shut up, sit by the register, I will be back in fifteen minutes."

Downstairs, Vetinari settled himself in behind the counter, pulling a crossword puzzle from Agatea out of a pocket. He was halfway through the 'across' clues when the bell over the door tinkled. He looked up, then quickly down again.

"Mum," the younger girl was saying, "I don't want to work for the Guild! I want to open my own shop!"

"Yes, darling, but you lack experience," the older woman said, bustling past the puppy cages while her daughter paused to pet the pups. "You'd have to work somewhere first, gain some experience in running a business, and then who knows if you'd even be able to open your own business?"

"What's so bad about that?" the daughter asked, shaking her head as she moved away from the puppies. Her mother pulled a cat collar off the shelf and turned around.

"Honestly, dear, do you really want to work in a shop? And end up like that poor man?" Vetinari didn't have to look up to realize she was pointing at him. Still staring fixedly at the puzzle, he raised an eyebrow. "Menial labor for minimum wage, all because you didn't want to get an education and a steady job with a Guild?"

"Mum, you're being rude!"

"Oh, is that the kind of person I am now? Rude? Dear, I am just trying to keep you from having regrets." She approached the counter. "A mum only wants her daughter to be happy. Excuse me, you man, we'd like to pay for this." She paused. "Excuse me." She turned to her daughter, sighed, and then something seemed to occur to her. She tapped the counter. "Excuse me, please tell my daughter how you feel about your job?"

Act idiotic, Vetinari reminded himself. They'll never suspect.

"Mum!"

"I regret it occasionally," he mumbled, being very careful not to look up as he wrote the number on the tag for the collar down in the margins of the crossword. There was another sound of the bell, and a barely-audible intake of breath. He smirked. "Given the chance to do it again, I think I'd go for something different. Less responsibility, maybe."

"Ah, see?" The mother turned to her daughter, self-satisfied smile in place. "Regrets, dear. Probably works all hours for the owner while she's out having a good time, eh?"

"This job, on the other hand," he plowed on, "is very educational, and the hours aren't bad." He barely looked up, just for the enjoyment of catching the mother's expression and, in the background, Grace's 'don't-make-me-yell-at-you-after-this' death glare. The mother's eyebrows shot up. "I'm covering," he said, flashing a quick smile.

Judging by the daughter's expression, the slow sun of realization was dawning over her consciousness. The mother, on the other hand, was impervious to any such eureka moment. She handed over some bills – seriously, lady, I'm on the one, the disguise isn't that great – and sniffed. "Well, then, I apologize for the intrusion. But I'm sure you understand my point. Are you a Guild member, sir? Merchants', perhaps?"

He didn't say anything, instead leaning back in the chair, using the paper to shield his face, and pulled his wallet out of his pocket, flashing his black Guild badge too quickly for her to see the name printed on it.

"Oh, see, Mum? See?" The daughter was smirking smugly. "Menial labor for minimum wage, eh?"

"And I do pay over minimum wage, actually," Grace said quickly, before the now-spluttering mother disintegrated into rage or tears, or possibly both. She turned to the daughter, who was squinting suspiciously at Vetinari. "If you're interested, I have been looking for someone else to help out a bit. You could lend a hand, maybe pick up a little education along the way, eh?"

"You're the owner?" the mother asked faintly, mouth gaping open. "But . . . But you're a wo –"

"A wonderful boss, thank you," Vetinari cut in, smirking at Grace behind the paper. Grace smiled glassily. "Your change is on the counter."

"Have a nice day," said Grace, in that shopkeeper tone of voice that suggested that the client was, however politely, being dismissed from the premises. "Miss, you can stay if you're interested in a job." The mother shot her daughter a dirty look as she hurried from the store. No sooner had the door snapped shut than Grace whirled on Vetinari. "And as for you, you're fired. I can't leave you alone for ten minutes!"

He dropped the paper and shrugged. "I got the money! I wrote the number down! That's what you do, right?"

"Are you the Patrician?" the young lady asked quietly.

"No, I'm Charlie," Vetinari said quickly. "Important distinction."

The young lady looked skeptical, but stayed quiet. Grace sighed. "Anyway, here's your coffee. Next time you can jolly well go and get it. Diplomacy, hah."

"Didn't you have a Guild badge?" the girl asked, still piecing the puzzle together.

"I'm supposed to be an impersonator," Vetinari said, getting up and rearranging his hat. "Exact copy, licenses and all." He grabbed his coffee and made his way to the door. "See you later Grace. And possibly Erica."

"Amazing you knowing my name like that," Erica said brightly. "Not as amazing as you being Charlie though. Are you working with the wizards? 'Cos it's incredible, you being here and down at the Art Museum at the same time." She winked. Vetinari made a face and a hand motion that, indisputably, signaled that he would be watching her, before he ducked out the door and made his way down the street.

Grace laid a hand on the girl's shoulder. "You realize that if you say anything, you'll be killed?"

Erica laughed. "I won't say anything, miss, don't worry." She lowered her voice. "Although, frankly, I think most people would be relieved, poor man."

Grace nodded. "Be that as it may, discretion is probably for the best." She took a sip of coffee. "Now, dear, running a pet store isn't all fun and games and fluffy animals." She smirked. "Why don't you start out with feeding the kittens?"

Mike Posner – Cooler Than Me

It was one of those jokes of the Universe, Lord Downey reflected, that no matter what he did, Havelock Vetinari would, sooner or later, find a way of doing exactly the same thing, but better. In school, he'd always managed to get better marks. As an adult, Downey had been triumphant briefly when he'd been promoted to Treasurer and Advisor, putting him solidly above Havelock's position of Provost. Oh course, the bloody man had gone and shot all that down later when he ascended(1) to the Patricianship and done a better job with it than, Downey knew, he could have ever done.

But he'd made his peace with it. Vetinari had a coolness factor going for him, he had style and, in some indescribable way, he was almost likeable. Likeable in a way that meant you were always one step away from hating him, but for now you just wanted to be in his good graces because that meant you were in with the man at the top of the heap. But now, this was just getting ridiculous.

His girlfriend. Havelock Vetinari had a girlfriend and not just some rich baggage from some far-flung country, or some mysterious vampire, but an honest-to-goodness Ankh-Morporkian human being. And she was good-looking, and smart, and modestly wealthy in her own right. Not that Downey's own wife wasn't all of those things, he tried to tell himself when he went off on this tangent(2), but really? What had Vetinari done, cosmically, that put him squarely on the good side of karma? Well, sure, he'd benevolently ruled the city for years and years, and been shot and poisoned and arrested and deposed and coshed in the head that one time, but really?

And now he had the nerve, the bastard, to upstage him at his Guild's own ceremony. The new building opening in an attempt to relieve pressure on the current one in terms of housing and classroom duties, with the whole Guild staff in attendance, and there was that . . . that flash bastard with a damn suit on – gods, at the least the robe didn't look good, why couldn't he wear that – and bloody smoked glasses. He was fifty-seven years old and he still managed to look cool.

Downey scowled. Sometimes the universe just wasn't bloody fair.

(1) This being Ankh-Morpork, 'ascended' is obviously not literal. If we were going to be literal, Havelock Vetinari snuck in through the back door, stabbed a few convenient people, stepped on a few toes, slick-talked his way around the City Council and sort of sidled into the Patricianship.

(2) Lady Downey was, actually, not bad-looking, and she certainly wasn't dumb. But she did sort of have a . . . tendency to nag.

P!nk – Raise Your Glass

The fact that a Patrician of Ankh-Morpork had, after thirty-five years, managed to retire, was an amazing enough point in and of itself. The fact that he had gone on to live another thirty years, to the age of 92, was even more amazing. And, secretly, no one was more surprised than Havelock Vetinari himself.

Of course, it hadn't been a great surprise. More like a 'oh-hey-you're-getting-audited' kind of surprise. Unavoidable, always sort of expected, but nevertheless completely unpleasant. He'd managed it with as much dignity as he could, and thank whatever gods were out there that the worst of his problems were bad eyes and arthritis in more joints than he bothered keeping track of, but in any case he had very definitely not enjoyed it. And so it was that one day, when he woke up and immediately saw the pattern on the ceiling that he sighed with relief.

"About time," he muttered, standing up out of bed and body, barely sparing a glance at the latter while he stretched happily for the first time in at least a decade. He looked down at his spirit, shook off the age and the years like a fine patina of dust, and looked around.

He felt rather certain that there was supposed to be someone else here. There was a blue cord attaching his ankle to his body's ankle which, when he experimentally tugged on it, failed to give way. And so he settled in to wait, idly twirling the slack of the string while he did so.

The passage of time wasn't exact, and so he wasn't sure how long it was before Commander Vimes – or rather, his spirit – arrived, axe in hand. "Ah, Commander," he said calmly. "How nice to see you again."

Vimes stopped – aha – dead in his tracks, mouth open. He shut it, then opened it again, before he managed to say "Really? Bloody hells, man, even in the godsdamned afterlife?"

"What?" Vetinari shrugged. "What'd I do? It's not my fault you're late." He paused. "Forgive me asking, but what happened to Death?"

Vimes smirked. "Hah, finally don't know something, do you? It took me 92 years, but I finally found something!"

"Yes, well done," Vetinari sighed.

Vimes couldn't help but look smug. "Something about belief. The people believed I would hunt criminals down, even in the afterlife, so here I am, collecting the souls of Ankh-Morporkian criminals."

How apt, Vetinari thought. He fought back a smile. "And dignitaries too, it would seem."

Vimes smiled broadly. "No, sir, just the criminals."

Vetinari smiled now, too. "Is that so? Well, I'm sure I don't know why you're here for me, but it's nice all the same. Sort of lends a personal touch."

"Glad I could make the experience more enjoyable for you, sir." Vimes looked to the proffered string in Vetinari's hand before raising the blue-edged axe and bringing it down. The string popped out of existence with a snap. Vetinari rocked back and forth on the balls of his feet.

"So what now?" he asked, at length. The room was not fading out of existence, dust was not blowing around them, clouds were not sprouting up left and right. All in all, it was a little anticlimactic. As background, Drumknott entered the room and froze. Cautiously, he approached the bed. "Oh, gods," he breathed.

Vimes looked a little embarrassed. "Well, here's the thing. There's uh, there's a question of your afterlife."

"I understand there's usually a desert," Vetinari said, raising his voice over the distressed cries for help that were coming from the mortal plane.

Vimes grinned devilishly. "I think I actually might take a moment and enjoy this."

"What?"

"I know something you don't know!"

"Honestly, Vimes," Vetinari said, rolling his eyes. "You can hardly expect I knew what my afterlife had in store for me."

"You seemed fairly unfazed when I showed up!"

"Well," Vetinari conceded. "I mean, I hadn't expected it, but it wasn't surprising as such." He frowned. "Now what's supposed to happen now?" Vimes grinned broadly. "Vimes."

"Alright, don't get testy." Vimes reached into a pocket and pulled out a black bag. Velvet, by all appearances. He handed it over to the Patrician. "That's for you. Your destiny is inside."

Vetinari took the bag and looked to Vimes with what looked like, possibly, slight trepidation. "What's in it?"

Vimes waved to the bag. "Go on, open it." He was still grinning like an idiot, even with Drumknott's anguished moans in the background. "The sooner you open it, the sooner I don't have to listen to your clerk mourn you."

Vetinari turned to Drumknott, eyebrows raised. He waved to the man. "Hey, that's real anguish there!" He paused. "I mean, it's a little over the top, but he's really upset! About me, I would remind you."

"Just open the bag, Vetinari."

There was a soft rustle as the man pulled the bag open, looking inside. "You're kidding."

"Go on."

"You're kidding." Vetinari looked up, waving the bag. "This is a joke, right? An elaborate welcome-to-death hazing ritual?"

Vimes was laughing. "No, it's real! Go on, keep going." He wiped away a tear. "Oh, this will be glorious."

Vetinari tried to scowl, but a stupid grin was trying desperately to overpower that expression. He reached into the bag and pulled from it, gleaming and shining, a halo. "So how does it go?" He looked to Vimes, who was doubled over laughing. "Fine, be that way." He pulled it over his head, where it bobbed into place.

"Oh gods, never thought I'd see the day," Vimes howled, leaning on a table.

Vetinari rummaged around in the bag and pulled out a many-handed watch. He buckled it onto his wrist, trying to scowl at Vimes. No sooner had the bight been tucked in than a tremendous pair of wings erupted from the man's shoulder blades, briefly knocking the former Patrician off-balance and sending Vimes into further hysterics.

"Havelock Vetinari the guardian angel! Oh, gods, with wings and everything!" There was a soft, slithering sound.

"And a flaming sword," Vetinari added in the sudden silence, eyeing the blade of the thing and testing the balance before he sheathed it and buckled it on. "Can't really conceal it though. Shame." He rooted around in the bag some more. "Are there instructions?"

"Typically they just drop into your head," Vimes chuckled. "Ye gods, I can't believe it."

"Well you're a grim reape – Oof, there they are." Vetinari raised a hand to his temple, swaying slightly. He blinked once or twice, reasserted his balance, and then smiled slightly. "Oh. That's it then."

"Where's your harp?"

Experimentally, the Disc's newest guardian angel reached into the depths of his black jacket and pulled out a dagger. The length of the blade lit up like a strip of magnesium. He smiled. "Happily for everyone, Commander, I don't really think harps are involved."

-()-

Awww, they're all so feel-good. I'm cute sometimes, I can't help it.

QUESTION TO READERS: When you read this crap, do you listen to the songs? Only if you don't know them? Just curious. You can just add it into your review, which you were going to write anyway, right? Aww, of course you were, I knew it. You're so sweet, my little chinchillas.