This meme is why I never get work for school done.

Some pretty bangin' songs in this one, ladies and gents – hit up the facetubes to get familiar. Hells yeahh.

Working on a spinoff for this crap too – your fingers best be crossed I get my papers typed up so you can partake (hint: It's all Vetinari and Grace. All them. You know you want it.).

Disclaimer: I own the pilot and his shitty-ass ship. Yay!

"(480): It was scary, we all screamed. Never make mimosas in a car."

- Texts From Last Night


Linkin Park – Waiting for the End

The sleek black casket was lowered into the ground, and the Patrician watched it with a measure of distaste, rain sliding off the brim of his black top hat. As the first handful of dirt was thrown onto the polished surface, newly-sworn-in Havelock Vetinari smiled broadly.

"I hereby grant, on the power vested in me as Attorney of the Patrician of Ankh-Morpork," said Mister Slant, "you, Havelock Vetinari, as Patrician of the City."

"Thank you," Vetinari had said, fighting back the tremble in his hands. He smiled, quick and thin, and his blue eyes sparked.

Around the graveyard, the city hummed. New Patrician, fresh meat. Inside, Vetinari was humming.

New Patrician. New City.

Backstreet Boys – The One

Moist von Lipwig wrapped his arms around his wife, and they smiled at one another, his broad and toothy, hers thin, just barely quirked up at the corners. "God, I love you," he said.

Two houses down, Commander Vimes looked to his wife across the dinner table, their son happily mashing his peas in between them. "So how was your day, dear?" Sybil smiled.

Half a city away, William de Worde was laying down next to his wife on the couch, reading the newspaper. "There's a typo in paragraph four," she said, pointing with her pencil, before she buried her face in his hair and giggled.

In a restaurant three streets over, Rufus Drumknott excitedly displayed his newest ring binder to the girl sitting across from him. "The rings interlace," he said excitedly. "So papers can't slip out." She seized it from him, all smiles.

And in the Palace at the top of Broadway, later that night, when the whole city was asleep, the tyrant was laying on his desk, back to the window, eyes closed. He smiled quietly in his sleep and wrapped and arm around a pile of papers, pulling it under his head and snuggling in.

Cee Lo Green – Fuck you

She was a year ahead of him, and she was gorgeous. Wayne Broquelin was in love, and his best friend, and far more attractive wingman, was out of commission.

"You cannot have lost your voice!" Wayne whined, his body sagging pathetically. "You need to lure her in with your freakishly weird charms!" Havelock, mute for at least the next 48 hours, shrugged helplessly. "Why am I friends with you?" The other boy scowled. Wayne frowned. "We have to get her anyway."

That afternoon, they followed her to a coffee shop, and sat at opposite sides, within visual contact. The girl sat in the middle of the shop, laughing with her friends and twirling her hair around a finger.

Wayne looked to Vetinari and, in Assassins' sign language, said You need to make a move.

I can't talk, you idiot.

She speaks sign language, play the pity card.

You're retarded.

The girl, caught in the middle of this, looked from one boy to another, and over to Wayne. "What?" She asked. Her frown was fearsome. "Are you trying to pick me up?" Wanye shook his head desperately. In the background, Havelock put his head in his hands.

My Darkest Days – Porn Star Dancing

Who had known, before Moist, that Adora could dance. And not, Moist amended hazily, like waltzing. He watched as the caplet slid from her shoulders.

No, not like waltzing, he babbled to himself, as her hips swayed back and forth. He knelt at the end of the bed and watched as she eased the straps of her sleeveless dress down. She licked her lips slowly, and stepped toward him, her dress sliding precariously far down her chest.

"You like what you see, little Postmaster?" She pulled him to her by the lapels and kissed him before she let him go. He spilled onto his back, legs sprawled messily across the bed. She took hold of the bedpost and swung around it, coming to a gently swaying halt by the side of the bed. She slid the dress off her shoulders and Moist slipped a hand around her side, her hips gyrating all the while. Their foreheads touched and just for a moment they shared a smile, before she wrapped her hand around his neck and thrust him back onto the bed.

Cage the Elephant – Ain't No Rest for the Wicked

Look at the world, and blink. Watch is shimmer, like heat lines coming off hot tarmac.

In another world, there was no Patrician.

In another world, the city burned, years ago. John Keel died and the city burned and Ankh-Morpork died.

In another world, two boys, in the prime of life, left looking at the wreckage, one with a lilac still tucked under the leather strap of his breastplate, the other with a crumpled flower in his hand, marred by toothmarks, stood side-by-side on a hill and watched their futures burn.

It's not a bad world, all told.

In another world, two men learned how an expensive, private bank vault works, learned how to lie their way past the comfortable, well-paid guards, and learned how to make a trace explosive, complete with 50 yard detonator.

In another world, Robin Hood comes in the form of two young men, one all in black, dressed in a suit, not a hair out of place, and the other in brown, unshaven and unkempt.

Cities die, but people are people.

People need caring for, and, the young man in black had told his compatriot on that hill, years and years ago now, sometimes the ends damn well justify the means.

Beyoncé – Single Ladies (Put a Ring On It)

He'd never had a girlfriend, not really. Never engaged, never betrothed and certainly never married. No, there'd never even been a remote commitment.

So why were weddings so irritating?

At this rate, the only ones left would be Lady Margolotta and Rosie Palm, and not the metaphorical one, thank you very much.

First had been Forthwith Selachii, vapid and blonde and clueless, but not without her . . . strengths. Yes.

Then there was Mary Sue de Worde. She was perfect. She was brunette and surprisingly agile and tiny and thin and just aggressive enough to be interesting.

And married. Which was interesting, in its own way, especially when her husband found out.

And then there had been all the girls on the Grand Sneer, from continent to continent, Genua to Klatch. He couldn't remember all of them.

And of course there was still Sybil, but Sybil was Sybil. Sybil was a friend, a shoulder to mope on, a word of advice in difficult times. You didn't marry Sybil.

So why, why with all of that under his belt, Faustus Downey wondered, was he staring into the face of bloody Juniper Cannon and saying 'I do'? Why was there a ring on his finger? Why Juniper?

Because, he thought glumly, she was probably the last one left that sodding Havelock Vetinari hadn't slept with first.

Beastie Boys – Intergalactic

The starship tore through the velvet black of space, silent to the outside observer. Inside, the pilot screamed wildly while the engines shrieked and sparks flew from the control panel. Behind him, another ship, sleek and slightly scratched but nowhere near the charred chipped mess of the screamer's craft, pursued, smooth purple glow of its thrusters coming to white-hot pinpoints.

"Bloody stupid damned Judoon!" the pilot practically wailed, punching a large green lever coming from the ceiling. "And sodding, fucking, lying, cheating bleeding humans and their bloody galaxial monitoring agreement!" He swung the ship wildly to the left, and more sparks flew from a mess of tubing that had spilled from the holding panels. "Aaargh!" The ship barrel-rolled as a laser blast took another chunk out of one of its stabilizers. The pilot bounced off the ceiling before coming to rest in a crouch on the floor.

"You will be unable to land, even if you escape," the Judoon captain boomed across the smaller ship's wave receiver. "Surrender."

"Like hell I'll surrender!" The pilot whipped a tentacle at button and made contact, barely avoiding another laser blast. "Dammit," he screamed, with feeling. And then suddenly the ship lurched forward and drifted quietly. Cautiously, he picked himself up off the floor after a moment's breathless peace, and padded to the glass, deeply conscious of the fact that there were no more lasers, and no missile-evasion alarms ringing.

Above him, a giant green flipper, asteroid-pocked, swept past, fragments of the Judoon ship spinning around its tip. The pilot breathed. "I knew I bloody loved turtles."

Family Guy – The Freaking FCC

"Mom, what's sideboob?" Young Sam asked one day over breakfast. His father spit out his oatmeal.

"Where did you hear that word?" the Elder Sam demanded, mopping bits of oatmeal off the table under his wife's accusing glare.

"The paper." Young Sam patiently pointed to the back page of the newspaper. "Says right there. Sideboob."

"It's . . . a very bad word," Vimes said weakly. "Excuse me, dear."

Twenty minutes later, Vimes was having a row with William de Worde about censorship in Vetinari's office, interrupting the newsman's unscheduled meeting with the Patrician. "Honestly, Vimes, it's not like it says 'Piss Shit Fuck Bugger Twatwaffle' in gigantic letters," Vetinari said mildly, causing the assembled jaws in the room to drop, and stony, shocked silence to descend. "Sideboob is pretty mild, comparatively." He looked up. "I'm sorry, did I say something wrong?"

Vimes vowed, later, over the stiffest fruit juice he could mix(1), to never, ever evereverever discuss censorship with Vetinari ever again.

(1) A mixture of cranberry, orange juice, mashed bananas, kiwis, apples and a dash of what Willikins generously referred to as 'spirulina' but which Vimes had read was algae. It started with 'al-' and right now, that was all Vimes needed.

2Pac – California Love

Bengo Macarona had, at first, despaired that the festering cesspool of Ankh-Morpork was so very different from the white sand, clear-water beaches of his native Genua. The buildings were dirty, and red brick or slate or just rotted wood, and seemed to hunch over the streets, bending from age or, perhaps because the foundation buildings that the current street level was built on were likewise hunched. The first time he'd walked from the University to the Mended Drum, he'd shoved his hands into his pockets and walked quickly, head down, trying to quell his disgust.

He'd assumed, of course, that the women of Ankh-Morpork would be equally dumpy, perhaps just as hunched as the buildings they originated. But in the Drum, he'd found, he was more or less wrong. Sure there was always the ugly friend, but as the young women sidled and swayed up to him, underthings hinting at possible future exposure, blouses and dresses stretched tight over very specific bits, he revised his initial assessment.

Of course, he hadn't the slightest interest in them, he told himself, as he smiled dazzlingly at an assembled group of girls that had made their way over to the dark-haired olive-skinned wizard. He was, after all, a wizard, and more importantly, he didn't normally like to play on that side of the fence.

Still, he thought, as one of the blondes bent over and snapped up quickly, jiggling in some fairly important areas, it always paid to sample the local flavors.

Coolio Ft. 2Pac – Gangster's Paradise

The Cable Street Particulars didn't dissolve after the 25th of May, though the department fell into neglect under Snapcase's madly spinning eye. Those Particulars that were smarter faded into the background, spied when they had to and drank with the other watchmen when they didn't, but some that were dumb, or desperate for camaraderie, or just plain nasty were dedicated to the old ways.

Sam Vimes stared down a trio of them, outside Old Lady Sepulcher's tea shop, one rainy night. He scowled, the expression becoming increasingly comfortable on his young face these past few months.

"Ah," the leader said, swinging his bloodied cosh casually, "look who we dun' found in the gutter, eh lads?" Laughter.

"She hadn't done anything wrong," Vimes snarled, hands clenched. "What'd you have to do that for then?"

"She was workin' for the resistance, wasn't she, hm?" The leader raised an eyebrow. "Have correspondences between her an' that Mes-er-olé woman, don't we, lads? Yes, and Winder does reward those who are faithful." He made a show of looking through the letters.

"And I'm sure they're lovely forgeries," Vimes grit out.

The leader gave Vimes a long look, broad grin in place. "You want to make something outta this, Constable?"

"What if I do?"

He tucked the papers away in his breastplate and looked to his companions, cracking his knuckles. "He wants to make something of it, lads." He turned to Vimes and squared his shoulders. "Come at me, bro."

Later that night, Mossy Lawn looked over the lumpy and misshapen remains of Constable Vimes' face and sighed theatrically, hands on his hips. He gestured the young man in and, as soon as his bottom had hit the exam table, reached out and snapped his nose back into place, offering a towel with his other hand. "I hope they were worth it, lad; your eyes'll be swollen shut for a week."

Vimes sat there, head down, blood pouring from his nose and his mouth and gods knew where else, and spat a bit of tooth onto the floor, before smiling as much as his swollen jaw would allow. "They were."


I churn butter once or twice, living in an Amish Paradise, it's hard work and sacrifice livin' in an Amish Paradise, we sell quilts at discount price, livin' in an Amish Paradise! (theme song of my upbringing says you? Hell yes, says I.)


My 10-year anniversary of writing Discworld fanfiction is coming up in July. Which is a little sad but whatever, I've made my peace with my life. ANYHOW because the internet is a horrible place where dreams go to die and everything works backwards and Rule 34 exists, for my anniversary of providing you with crap, I am going to provide one special person with any fanfiction they want, providing it's Discworld. So contest! You can win if you answer some random-ass trivia about my life. First person to answer correctly wins:

What is my favorite breed of chicken? (Gogol, you are not allowed to answer this.)

Happy hunting, good luck finding that crap lol! It's available, if you know where to look and/or guess lucky. If no one wins, I'll pick the idea I like bestest and write that. Hell, I might do that if someone does win, since the winning idea might be shitty. It's like Whose Line Is It Anyway?, I make it up as I go and the points mean absolutely nothing.

Your ideas. PM them to me. And guess you some chicken species.