Eric (Discworld, #9; Rincewind, #4)

by Terry Pratchett

“Anyway, demons always lie. Well-known fact.” “It is?” said Rincewind, clutching at this straw. “In that case, then—I am a demon.” “Aha! Condemned out of your own mouth!”

I blame the wossnames, parents. New money, you know. Wine business. Spoil him rotten, let him play with his wossname’s old stuff, ‘Oh, he’s such an intelligent lad, nose always in a book,’” the parrot mimicked. “They never give him any of the things a sensitive growing wossnames really needs, if you was to ask me.” “What, you mean love and guidance?” said Rincewind. “I was thinking of a bloody good wossname, thrashing,” said the parrot.

Hell needed horribly bright, self-centered people like Eric. They were much better at being nasty than demons could ever manage.

There might have been more efficient ways to build a world. You might start with a ball of molten iron and then coat it with successive layers of rock, like an old-fashioned gobstopper. And you’d have a very efficient planet, but it wouldn’t look so nice. Besides, things would drop off the bottom.