Chapter 26 - There's a Killer on the Road

Flasher sat on a stoop in the Shades, downing a warm and sour beer in the dusk.

He was angry. More than angry, he was livid.

For one thing, LeJean was still breathing and walking the Disc.

For another, it didn't look like changing that circumstance was going to be easy. One good chance he'd had so far, when she'd left the bakery in a hurry with that nobby looking woman. He'd started to follow, looking for a likely spot. But they'd been headed in the direction of the brass bridge. Too open there. And then there'd been that kneebiter of a watchman come hurrying up. Like they knew. And now the blasted half-pint was going everywhere with LeJean, and the Sammy[1] kept looking around. Too damned observant that one.

He had to find some way of getting in close, of distracting the dwarf. One clean shot, that was all he needed. A throw was too risky. He wanted a sure thing.

He wanted to see her eyes when the life went out of them.

A throat cleared behind him, and he raised his head from the pint where he'd ben drowning his anger.

"Buggroff," he snarled at the… well it didn't quite look like a gnoll. Street bum, he decided. "You look like garbage."

The man giggled a bit and his eyes widened. "We do, it is true." He lowered his voice. "We are interested in assisting you with a certain matter."

Flasher's eyes darted left and right, hand straying toward his pocket. "Who is we?

"We are."

"We who?"

He seemed to struggle with this one for a moment, then grinned. "We who are here!"[2]

Flasher's already ugly mood darkened further. "Don't like riddles, best of times. And now ain't them. You trying to take the piss with me, trashman?"

The walking garbage heap giggled. "We have already taken the piss, it was in the alley, and you were not present." He started to cackle and then stopped. He'd not even seen Flasher move, and suddenly he could feel a very… unpleasant and pointy sensation at his throat. It came from something metal being held in a hand that was attached to Flasher's arm.

"Tell me why," Flasher gave a little nudge for emphasis. "I should not cut yer throat." Then he discovered, due to the proximity and a change in wind, the smell. "Gah you ain't half disgusting."

Mister Filth swallowed. "Yes we are disgusting. But you should not damage our body. Because... because we can help you end the one named LeJean."

The knife didn't move, but it didn't go away either. Flasher gagged down the odor and moved a bit closer. "Now I really should kill you," he hissed. "Who have you been talking to?"

Filth couldn't help it. He started cackling, even though it caused the blade to scratch his throat. "Ha. Hahah. Who have we been talking to? Who?! HAHAHAA!"

Flasher shook his head, pulled the blade away before trashman could cut his own throat on it, and backhanded him across the face. "Enough a' that." Mister Filth, eyes watering, quieted down, though his eyeballs rolled around a bit. "Geez. You're balmy ain'tcher." He poked Filth in the forehead. "Now keep it zipped, or I'll cut you a new mouthhole further down. Got it, trashman?"

Filth nodded.

"Now, who have you been talking to, and what makes you think I have any interest in that woman you blabbed about?"

Filth managed to stifle a giggle, then became more serious. He leaned in, breath reeking, and whispered hoarsely. "We have been instructed, that we have mutual interests who have reason to want the LeJean to cease functioning."

"You said that. I want to know who."

"You would not know them if I told you." Filth shuddered. "LeJean must die. If you do not accept our assistance, we shall have to seek other-"

Flasher shook his head. "Nah nah. That ain't how it works. If I don't 'cept yer 'sistance, you'll be dead, see?" He thought for a few moments. "What do you know about LeJean then?"

"More than you could imagine." Greasy fingers tangled in a filthy beard. "She has… weaknesses. And we believe we can get close to her."

Flasher thought for a minute. "Hmm. Well then, looks like we have a deal."

Filth looked relieved, then Flasher continued.

"The deal is, you tell me what you know now, and how you can help, and I'll decide afterward whether to gut you. How's that?"

At this point, a spit in the palm and a handshake was standard practice. Mister Filth threw up on the stoop instead.[3]

"Fair 'nuff."

[1] Sam Vimes reputation had become so pervasive that watchmen across the Sto Plains who had trained in Ankh Morpork were gaining the nickname "Sammies".

[2] Any second now, a passerby is going to mumble "and what's on second" and get gutted for his troubles. And don't even ask about third base… Flasher has no damn sense of humor at all.

[3] Honestly, it wasn't that bad. It's not like Mister Filth had been eating anything since… well forever…