‘What do your friends call you?’ A. E. Pessimal looked as though there was one major assumption in that sentence that he did not understand.
It really was an awful garment, that pullover. It had a queasy zigzag pattern, in many strange, unhappy colours. It looked like something knitted as a present by a colour-blind aunt, the sort of thing you wouldn’t dare throw away in case the rubbish collectors laughed at you and kicked your bins over.
(Commander Vimes’ opinion on vampire fashion sense)
‘All right’ said Vimes, in the ringing vacuum. ‘Who’s going to be the first to tell me a huge whopper? Corporal Nobbs?’
‘He’d leave little notes for himself saying, “You are not a chicken,” although sometimes he thought he was lying.’
(The Sadly disturbed mind of artist Methodia Rascal)
‘I’m fine with long sleeves and a wide brim. I carry the kit, anyway.’
Vimes nodded. A small dustpan and brush, a phial of animal blood and a card saying: Help I have crumbled and I can’t get up. Please sweep me into a heap and crush vial. I am a Black Ribboner and will not harm you. Thanking you in advance.
‘And we are the city watch,’ Vimes went on. ‘It says so on the door.’
‘Actually it mostly says “Copers are Barstuds” on the door at the moment, but I’ve got someone scrubbing it off,’ said Carrot.
I had a lettuce, tomato and bacon sandwich, dear; he said, endeavouring by tone of voice to suggest that the bacon had been a mere condiment rather than a slab barely covered by the bread.
(Vimes being scrutinized by Sybil)
The man was clearly as mad as a spoon, writing notes that he wanted to keep secret from the chicken; sometimes he’d stop writing in mid-note if he thought the chicken was watching.
(Methodia Rascal)
The man was half starved and lived in mortal dread of a chicken that lived in his head. You might as well try to make sense of raindrops. (Methodia Rascal)
