to celebrate the fact that I am writing again and I am so not sure if it sucks because I feel as rusty as an abandoned car in a bogan’s front yard

HAVE A SNIPPET, FOR LOVE AND FUNSIES. HAPPY FRIDAY. 

It is I Comma Square Bracket, Chapter Two: Dorks On Patrol 🙂

“Oi, Merry.”

“Yeah?”

“Just had an odd thought.”

“Careful Pip, you never know what thinking might do to an unsullied mind like yours.”

“Har har har. No, I was wondering…”

“Yeah?”

“How much is a
shitload?”

There was a small silence, punctuated by the striking of
bare heels upon cobblestones. Not even the droning pace of a police-beat could persuade Hobbits to
give boots a try. ⁽¹⁾

“Dunno. A lot?”

“Well, obviously, but
how much exactly? I mean, everyone knows what a shitload is, but nobody seems
to know what it is.”

“Huh. There’s an odd thing.”

“I know!”

Another silence as they rounded the corner, and Merry
squinted up at the Post Office with some resignation. “Got the poster?”

“Yeah. S’a good picture of Bilbo. The Imps did well.”

“They had a good description: I didn’t think Frodo’s uncle’d
ever shut up about his hair and his hands and blah, blah, blah. Now, just let me do the talking, all right?” Merry whispered from the
corner of his mouth as a golem came up to greet them.

“Greetings,” he said. “I am Mister Screw.”

Pippin choked on thin air. Loudly.

“Shh, shut up, it’s a description of what he had to do for a
hundred and eleventy years, prob’ly down some godsawful hole. Show some
respeck!” Merry hissed at him. Pippin stared at the golem’s… lower quarters for a long moment, his
eyes wide.

“Well, he mustn’t have done a very good job! How on earth
did he manage to screw for a hundred and whatever years when he’s got no-”

“Pippin!” Merry snapped,
before he spun on his heel towards the golem, a smile that was bright and shiny
with sweat and embarrassment plastered all over his face. “Hello! Nice to meet
you, Mister Screw! We’re from the Potch and we’ve got a Woaster. I mean a
poster. And we’re from the Watch. It’s nice to meet you!”

“…doubt his owners
made much of a profit…” came the resentful mutter from beside Merry.

“What Kind of Poster?” asked the Golem in a grave, weary
sort of voice.

“…an’ godsawful holes,
of course godsawful holes, where else?”

“A missing persons poster,” Merry said, meekly. And he ever
so deliberately leaned his whole bodyweight upon Pippin’s foot. “Could you please
put it up on the back of the carriages and on the doors of the Post Office?”

“Yes. I Will Do This Thing, Because I Have Decided It To Be
Right. Not Because I Am Ordered. That Would Be Wrong. I Have Free Will, and May
Decide.” The golem took the poster in one gigantic lumpy hand, and lumbered off.

“Merry, my foot, you’re on my-!”

Mister Screw paused at the door, looking awkward and
uncomfortable – insofar as several tonnes of animated pottery could look awkward
and uncomfortable. “Your Friend Is Not Wrong About My Previous Employment,” he
said, very carefully.

Merry stared at the golem. “Oh. Right.”

“Many Of The Holes Were Indeed Godsawful.”

“Oh.” Merry’s entire brain tried to crawl away from his
ears, to escape what had just been said. “I’m sorry about that.”

“I Enjoy Being a Post-Man,” said Mister Screw with utmost
solemnity. “I Enjoy Walking The Streets These Days. In Rain or Snow Or Glom Of Nit.”

“Bloody hell,”
Merry replied, with equal solemnity.

The golem nodded. “I Hope Your Friend is Found Soon. I Shall
Put Up The Poster. We Have, As Mister Lipwig Says, A Shitload of Good Currency
In This Town⁽²⁾, and Our Exposure Is Indeed Very High, Particularly In The Golden Hat. No Doubt
The Missing Person Shall Be Located Soon.”

“Thanks,” Merry said, faintly, and watched the golem
disappear into the post office in a hulking cloud of apologetic confusion and
terracotta dust.

“You brute,” Pippin moaned as Merry lifted his foot, hopping
about and clutching his toes in his hands. “I had them permed only yesterday, Rhododendron
said I needed to let ‘em be for a while to maintain the natural curl, and-”

“Natural curl! You utter gullible idiot, you wasted your money,” scoffed Merry. “You’re a Hobbit! You need a perm like a swamp-dragon needs the hiccups.” His brain was still trying to rinse itself of the last five minutes.

“Shitload again, did you hear?” Pippin said, ignoring Merry’s
scorn with breezy disdain. “Everyone
knows what it means, everyone except us it looks like. Should have asked him
how much it was.”

“I’m not sure I could have survived his answer. Look, we ought
to ask Harry King. He’s King of the Golden River, he’d know, eh?” Merry began
leading them away from the Post Office, along Upper Broadway. They had the rest
of the beat to take care of. At least it was a nice beat, in a nice part of
town. “Probably measures a shitload down to the last bucket, knowing Harry King!”

“Spose,” Pippin said, a trifle sulkily. “And it wasn’t a
waste. Nobby said my feet looked lovely.”

“Nobby said?! Nobby said?!”
said Merry, and was it possible to become unhinged when you hadn’t ever been
hinged in the first place? “Pippin, my lad, perhaps we ought to get back out to
the Sto Plains again. City life is turning you strange.”

(TBC)

---

^{(1)  Thanks to the recent migration of Hobbits into Ank-Morpork, Sam
Vimes had been forced to add another sub-category to his ‘Boots’ theory of
Economic Unfairness. 
(2)}

Moist’s
puns were still as witty, snappy, and groaningly Newsworthy as ever, much to Adora Belle’s eternal annoyance. In retaliation, her heels were now sharp enough to double as a hole-punch. Her husband, naturally, took full advantage.