I don't know how this ones going to work out, but I got the idea after reading Ben Elton's 'Dead Famous'.
And of course, all characters belong to Terry Pratchett, because if I had made them up I would hardly be posting this here, would I.
Discworld Big Brother-
"Hmm..." murmered Dibbler, looking into the piece of glass in his hands. "So where did you say you found it?"
"The University tip," answered Sol, looking into his own piece which showed the image of his uncle's face. "It's amazing the things which they call junk at that place."
"Yeah... kinda reminds me of all the moving pictures buisiness, y'know, with the taking one picture to somewhere else..."
"Yeah. Shame that we can't use them for anything..." Sol began, but stopped. Looking into his piece he could see that there was a gleam inhis uncle's eyes, a glimmer which he recongised only too well. Dibbler would never throw away an idea for making money, and Sol knew very well that these ideas had a tendency to bring pain and misfotune to somebody. Mostly consumers. His fingers stretched towards the box of shards he had brought. "Okay, I'll just be going now, don't worry about these, they're worthless anyway, so see ya, bye-"
"Wait just a minute, if these aren't going to be used for anything I'm sure that you'll have no objection to me having them," said Dibbler, his hand grabbing the other side of the box yet being careful not to let go of the one he still had.
"No, I think that-"
"They'll be worthless to you."
"They could be proved to be dangerous, wizards had them-"
"Do as your uncle says."
Sol gave a yelp as the box tore into two, causing the shards to cascade onto the table. The light from the candle in the middle shone through a few of them, projecting a collection of larger images of Dibbler's face onto the far wall, causing his already wide smile to rapidly increase.
Sol covered his face with his hand. Something bad was going to happen- He just knew it. Things often did when his uncle smiled that way. "...Right. If you need me, I'll be packing my bags. I hear that coaches to Quirm set off very early in the morning."
Lord Vetinari read through a road report written by sergeant Fred Colon. You could practically see where the man had paused between the words to stop and think for a minute. The entire thing had obviously been written besides a dictionary, so that he could look impressive when using difficult words such as 'because'.
He folded it up neatly and then dropped it into a wastepaper basket at his side. He then picked up his daily Ankh-Morpork Times, which Mr de Worde took great care in sending him a free copy of every morning.
"More troubles in Howondaland," Drumknott, who was sat at a desk nearby heard him say. Not knowing whether this was addressed to him or to the entire room in general he answered "Yes, sir."
"It always seems to be them in particular who recieve the droughts and tornados, strangely."
"Well I suppose they say similar about us, who have to put up with murders and monsters from different dimensions," he replied, with a little smile. It wasn't returned.
Vetinari turned the page over. "Ah. It seems that an individual named 'Cut My Own Throat' Dibbler is planning on reopening the moving pictures hall."
It was hard to know how to respond to Lord Vetinari, as he never seemed to use the luxury of emotion in his voice. "Oh... right," Drumknott settled for.
"Let us hope that there are no more huge, fifty foot women parading through the streets again. It would be a terrible blow for the tourism industry."
"Yes, I believe it would."
Vetinari put the paper down, and leant back in his chair slightly, steepling his fingers as he thought. "Either way, make sure that a close eye is kept on Mr Dibbler and his affairs over the next few days. As always when someone recieves an unusual idea in Ankh-Morpork, I'm sure that things will soon become very interesting for everyone."