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You had to be on the side of underdogs because they weren’t overdogs.
What a mess the world was in, Vimes reflected. Constable Visit had told him the meek would inherit it, and what had the poor devils done to deserve that?
“The big trouble,” he added, “is that everyone wants someone else to read their minds for them and then make the world work properly.
“D*mn!” said Carrot, a difficult linguistic feat.
But, unfortunately, and against all common sense, sometimes people inconsiderately throw their bound enemies into rooms entirely bereft of nails, handy bits of sharp stone, sharp-edged shards of glass or even, in extreme cases, enough pieces of old junk and tools to make a fully functional armored car.
“Oh, that,” said Vimes. “I was talking about policing, not alcohol. There’s lots of people will help you with the alcohol business, but there’s no one out there arranging little meetings where you can stand up and say, ‘My name is Sam and I’m a really suspicious bastard.’”
His notebook was beside it, page after page of laborious scrawl to remind him that he was trying to understand a complex world by means of his simple mind.
“Many fine old manuscripts in that place, I believe. Without price, I’m told.” “Yes, sir. Certainly worthless, sir.” “Is it possible you misunderstood what I just said, Commander?” “Could be, sir.”
Freedom Is Like Having The Top Of Your Head Opened Up.”
