I'm a huge fan of Terry Pratchett, and I thought it'd be kinda fun to try to write in a similar style. I thought I'd post it here and get feedback. At any rate it was fun to write and will be in the back of my mind as NaNo'09 approaches.
As the saying goes, there are three kinds of people: those who make things happen, those who watch things happen, and those who make sayings about what happened, which, when you think about it, is really both making something happen and watching something happen, and so I'm just saying, if I were to pick one that's superior, I know where my money would go. However, the saying forgets a crucial fourth demographic: those who don't know what happened, don't care what happened, and if something wants to happen, well, it had damn well better happen outside of comfortable striking distance. Louis Montaire was the fourth type of person. He had been a highwayman and made good enough money doing so that he had one day sat down and decided to cut the whole standing-up bit out of his routine. For five years he lived in an inn room, with a scowl always on his face, a mace always in his hand, and an unpleasant disposition lurking about wherever such things lurk about. The world had had the good sense to tiptoe it's way around Mr. Montaire, making sure any and all change in existence was separated from Montaire by a nice, thick wall. And so it had been, until one day when someone went and messed it all up.
“He's messed it all up.” Montaire grumbled, though of course he always grumbled, and any minute difference between this grumble and, say, his happy grumbles, could only be detected by the close friends Louis Montaire
did not possess. “Oi, waiter! This steak is dry. Bring me another.”
The door did not open, which Montaire expected, since he had multiple times expressed that he would kill anyone besides him who opened the door. What was more worrisome was that the small flap at the bottom of the door did not produce a juicy steak. Montaire reflected briefly on how quickly he could realistically expect another steak to be ready, then, being impatient, halved that before pounding on the wall and yelling again, “This steak is dry!
Bring me another!”
After a few more minutes conspicuously lacking in new steak, Montaire screamed once more, “Can anyone in this damn place get me a fresh steak?!”
The door opened. “Of course, sir, but it's a question of incentive.”
Montaire angrily grumbled (though, as mentioned, it's sound was all but indistinguishable from the other grumble's Montaire vocally excreted), “I thought I told you lot not to come in – oh, you're new.”
The newcomer grinned. He looked to be about thirty, tall and in good shape, with white-blond hair and unsettlingly green eyes. His brown overcoat was stained with some green fluid, still dripping, and there was the hilt of some weapon sticking out just past his right shoulder. “Yes sir, and I'm not part of any lot you're familiar with, I'm afraid.”
Montaire's mental gears, after a brief moment where they were surprised they still existed, slowly spun into something that could kindly be called function. “So you're not a waiter.”
“No, sir.”
“But you said you could get me a steak.”
“Yes, sir.”
“But you needed...in-sent-ive.”
“Yes, sir. That means a reason why.”
“A reason why...?” Montaire finally became aware that this man was interacting with him in a way besides the blatant sycophancy that had charactered his last five years of social situations. “Because I'm Louis Montaire, that's your damn reason why!”
“My name is Nicolas Straight, sir, and thank you for the introduction, but I'm afraid that introductions are hardly a situation worthy of me giving you food.”
“No, the reason is that I'm going to kick your ass, and then I'll throw you outside and my troll bodyguard can kick your ass!”
“Ah yes. Deverous, his name was?”
“Damn straight! Just wait till you meet him.” Montaire's functional brain was standing him up and bringing his mace to bear. His imagination was already indulging in the vision of Deverous ripping Nicolas to shreds, while his thinking brain, small but still existent, interjected with, “Now just hold on a minute. He knew Deverous's name, which implies that he interacted with Deverous. Troll blood is green – and there's a dripping, green, viscous fluid on his overcoat. He probably fought Deverous already, and there's not a scratch on him, and a lot of troll blood, so that most likely means he easily won the fight – and five years ago you were no match for a troll, and you're in worse shape now, so perhaps you should reconsider?” His thinking brain paused to look at his imagination, in which a disproportionate and poorly constructed Deverous was repeatedly hitting Nicolas with some sort of club. It sighed, said, “Well, here's hoping for reincarnation,” and closed down shop for the last time.
The room rang with brief notes of struggle, a loud thud, and then fell silent – and it was a true silence, without the noises of Montaire's girth settling around. After a few minutes, the silence was broken by the sounds of a scream, the clatter of a platter hitting the floor, and the almost imperceptible flop of a fresh, juicy steak hitting the ground. Leather footfalls scurried around the room, and soon after, the iron crash of command as the armored city watch entered. The commander, Sir Lionel, looked at the sight before him and murmured, “Well, something certainly happened.”
He looked at the others around him: the waiter who had first seen the body, the service staff that had guarded the scene while the waiter had went to report it, and the four guardsmen he was able to gather on short notice. Lionel was scared out of his wits, but he had to hold up a facade of calmness. “That's Louis Montaire, all right. Something messed up his head something fierce.”
One of the guardsmen, Shamus, eagerly piped up, “So he was done in with a bludgeoning weapon?” Shamus was the youngest member of the force and was always eager to prove his knowledge.
Lionel shook his head. “Not necessarily. The murderer could have decapitated him, and then worked over his head and neck with a bludgeon to throw us off the scent.”
While Shamus sulked, another guardsman, Hogarth, said, “What about his troll bodyguard? I've talked to him a few times. He wouldn't be an easy one to kill.”
“The service staff haven't seen him since they came in this morning,” Lionel added. “Most likely he was bribed to leave town. Investigation can verify that.”
The question rippled through the group – And who's going to be doing the investigating?
“Ah yes. The investigation shall be headed by,” Lionel said, wobbling slightly, “the last fellow to be standing on one foot.”
Shamus was the first to withdraw a leg – he wanted to prove his worth because he know how worthless he was, and this would be tantamount to suicide for him.
Hogarth was next – he was a pragmatist.
Then there was Terrance – he was an uninteresting person and investigating a murder was altogether too exciting for him.
But the last guardsman, Alphonse, kept both feet on the ground. If asked, he would have said something about Honor, Duty, and Other Virtues With Capitial Letters. But in truth, it was simply because he was a good swordsman, didn't consider being able to kill Louis Montaire as any significant qualifier, and hadn't seen the green blood.
As the saying goes, there are three kinds of people: those who make things happen, those who watch things happen, and those who make sayings about what happened, which, when you think about it, is really both making something happen and watching something happen, and so I'm just saying, if I were to pick one that's superior, I know where my money would go. However, the saying forgets a crucial fourth demographic: those who don't know what happened, don't care what happened, and if something wants to happen, well, it had damn well better happen outside of comfortable striking distance. Louis Montaire was the fourth type of person. He had been a highwayman and made good enough money doing so that he had one day sat down and decided to cut the whole standing-up bit out of his routine. For five years he lived in an inn room, with a scowl always on his face, a mace always in his hand, and an unpleasant disposition lurking about wherever such things lurk about. The world had had the good sense to tiptoe it's way around Mr. Montaire, making sure any and all change in existence was separated from Montaire by a nice, thick wall. And so it had been, until one day when someone went and messed it all up.
“He's messed it all up.” Montaire grumbled, though of course he always grumbled, and any minute difference between this grumble and, say, his happy grumbles, could only be detected by the close friends Louis Montaire
did not possess. “Oi, waiter! This steak is dry. Bring me another.”
The door did not open, which Montaire expected, since he had multiple times expressed that he would kill anyone besides him who opened the door. What was more worrisome was that the small flap at the bottom of the door did not produce a juicy steak. Montaire reflected briefly on how quickly he could realistically expect another steak to be ready, then, being impatient, halved that before pounding on the wall and yelling again, “This steak is dry!
Bring me another!”
After a few more minutes conspicuously lacking in new steak, Montaire screamed once more, “Can anyone in this damn place get me a fresh steak?!”
The door opened. “Of course, sir, but it's a question of incentive.”
Montaire angrily grumbled (though, as mentioned, it's sound was all but indistinguishable from the other grumble's Montaire vocally excreted), “I thought I told you lot not to come in – oh, you're new.”
The newcomer grinned. He looked to be about thirty, tall and in good shape, with white-blond hair and unsettlingly green eyes. His brown overcoat was stained with some green fluid, still dripping, and there was the hilt of some weapon sticking out just past his right shoulder. “Yes sir, and I'm not part of any lot you're familiar with, I'm afraid.”
Montaire's mental gears, after a brief moment where they were surprised they still existed, slowly spun into something that could kindly be called function. “So you're not a waiter.”
“No, sir.”
“But you said you could get me a steak.”
“Yes, sir.”
“But you needed...in-sent-ive.”
“Yes, sir. That means a reason why.”
“A reason why...?” Montaire finally became aware that this man was interacting with him in a way besides the blatant sycophancy that had charactered his last five years of social situations. “Because I'm Louis Montaire, that's your damn reason why!”
“My name is Nicolas Straight, sir, and thank you for the introduction, but I'm afraid that introductions are hardly a situation worthy of me giving you food.”
“No, the reason is that I'm going to kick your ass, and then I'll throw you outside and my troll bodyguard can kick your ass!”
“Ah yes. Deverous, his name was?”
“Damn straight! Just wait till you meet him.” Montaire's functional brain was standing him up and bringing his mace to bear. His imagination was already indulging in the vision of Deverous ripping Nicolas to shreds, while his thinking brain, small but still existent, interjected with, “Now just hold on a minute. He knew Deverous's name, which implies that he interacted with Deverous. Troll blood is green – and there's a dripping, green, viscous fluid on his overcoat. He probably fought Deverous already, and there's not a scratch on him, and a lot of troll blood, so that most likely means he easily won the fight – and five years ago you were no match for a troll, and you're in worse shape now, so perhaps you should reconsider?” His thinking brain paused to look at his imagination, in which a disproportionate and poorly constructed Deverous was repeatedly hitting Nicolas with some sort of club. It sighed, said, “Well, here's hoping for reincarnation,” and closed down shop for the last time.
The room rang with brief notes of struggle, a loud thud, and then fell silent – and it was a true silence, without the noises of Montaire's girth settling around. After a few minutes, the silence was broken by the sounds of a scream, the clatter of a platter hitting the floor, and the almost imperceptible flop of a fresh, juicy steak hitting the ground. Leather footfalls scurried around the room, and soon after, the iron crash of command as the armored city watch entered. The commander, Sir Lionel, looked at the sight before him and murmured, “Well, something certainly happened.”
He looked at the others around him: the waiter who had first seen the body, the service staff that had guarded the scene while the waiter had went to report it, and the four guardsmen he was able to gather on short notice. Lionel was scared out of his wits, but he had to hold up a facade of calmness. “That's Louis Montaire, all right. Something messed up his head something fierce.”
One of the guardsmen, Shamus, eagerly piped up, “So he was done in with a bludgeoning weapon?” Shamus was the youngest member of the force and was always eager to prove his knowledge.
Lionel shook his head. “Not necessarily. The murderer could have decapitated him, and then worked over his head and neck with a bludgeon to throw us off the scent.”
While Shamus sulked, another guardsman, Hogarth, said, “What about his troll bodyguard? I've talked to him a few times. He wouldn't be an easy one to kill.”
“The service staff haven't seen him since they came in this morning,” Lionel added. “Most likely he was bribed to leave town. Investigation can verify that.”
The question rippled through the group – And who's going to be doing the investigating?
“Ah yes. The investigation shall be headed by,” Lionel said, wobbling slightly, “the last fellow to be standing on one foot.”
Shamus was the first to withdraw a leg – he wanted to prove his worth because he know how worthless he was, and this would be tantamount to suicide for him.
Hogarth was next – he was a pragmatist.
Then there was Terrance – he was an uninteresting person and investigating a murder was altogether too exciting for him.
But the last guardsman, Alphonse, kept both feet on the ground. If asked, he would have said something about Honor, Duty, and Other Virtues With Capitial Letters. But in truth, it was simply because he was a good swordsman, didn't consider being able to kill Louis Montaire as any significant qualifier, and hadn't seen the green blood.
Comment