Reaper Man (Discworld, #11; Death, #2)

by Terry Pratchett

The wizards chatted with the forced jolliness of people who see one another all day and are now seeing one another all evening.

It began to dawn on Windle that the human body is not run by the brain, despite the brain’s opinion on the matter.

“Funny thing, you can go through your whole life with the bloody thing ticking away or whatever it does, gurgling or whatever, and you never know what the hell it’s actually for.

Something wonderful, if you took the long view, was about to happen. If you took the short or medium view, something horrible was about to happen.

In the distance a couple were having the kind of quarrel that causes most of the surrounding streets to open their windows and listen in and make notes.

The wizards held that, as servants of a higher truth, they were not subject to the mundane laws of the city. The Patrician said that, indeed, this was the case, but they would bloody well pay their taxes like everyone else.

It was two hundred dollars per capita; if per capita was a problem, de-capita could be arranged.

In the end it was agreed that while the wizards of course paid no taxes, they would nevertheless make an entirely voluntary donation of, oh, let’s say two hundred dollars per head, without prejudice, mutatis mutandis, no strings attached, to be used strictly for non-militaristic and environmentally-acceptable purposes.

Oh, yes. Entirely voluntary. Of course.

whitemailing (as in threatening to reveal to his enemies a mobster’s secret donations, for example, to charity).