Feet of Clay (Discworld, #19; City Watch, #3)

by Terry Pratchett

In the Dwarf Bread Museum, in Whirligig Alley, Mr. Hopkinson the curator was somewhat excited. Apart from other considerations, he’d just been murdered. But at the moment he was choosing to consider this as an annoying background detail.

“Yes, yes, yes,” said Vimes, who could recognize the verbal foot getting ready to stick itself in the aural door. “But do you know what it means?”

YES. MEN AND TROLLS HERE ON EVERY SHIFT, THEY WILL TELL YOU. DURING THE DAY I MUST SLAUGHTER, DRESS, QUARTER, JOINT AND BONE, AND AT NIGHT WITHOUT REST I MUST MAKE SAUSAGES AND BOIL UP THE LIVERS, HEARTS, TRIPES, KIDNEYS AND CHITTERLING. “That’s awful,” said Cheery. The pencil blurred briefly. CLOSE.

Of course, the thing about things that were stolen was that the bloody things weren’t there.

You had to be on the side of underdogs because they weren’t overdogs.

It is the ancient instinct of terriers and policemen to chase anything that runs away.

Vimes sat gloomily behind a glass of lemonade. He wanted one drink, and understood precisely why he wasn’t going to have one. One drink ended up arriving in a dozen glasses. But knowing this didn’t make it any better.

Foul Ole Ron was the first person ever to own a Thinking-Brain Dog.

“D*mn!” said Carrot, a difficult linguistic feat.