The Bear and Barnacle

Rincewind had been sent to clean the bathrooms; on the theory that there wasn’t much in there he could break. He had however, been informed in no uncertain terms, that if he broke the mirror, seven years bad luck would be just the beginning of his troubles. He trundled the mop and bucket into the dank room and looked around with a scowl. “Call this a bathroom?” he muttered as he savagely swilled the mop in the bucket. “This isn’t a patch on Johnson’s Patent ‘Typhoon’ Superior Indoor Ablutorium with Automatic Soap Dish (Rubber Duck Optional but Recommended), a sanitary poem in mahogany, rosewood and copper.” Rincewind sighed, wrung out the mop and started to work by the door. “It had boilers and tanks and pipes!” he muttered, carefully moving around the sinks. “Brass taps that looked like mermaids and shells,” he moved the bin out of the way, picking up a few wadded pieces of paper towels as he did. “An amazing bathroom,” Rincewind went on, trying not to look at the urinals as he mopped up around them. He had to do it twice. “It had a whole wardrobe for dressing gowns and a big blower thingy so you got bubbly water without eating starchy food.” Rincewind tried mopping the graffiti off the walls, after spending some moments trying to work out the anatomy. It didn’t work, so he shrugged and moved on. “It even had a special pot for your toenail clippings so they didn’t fall into the wrong hands. Not a thing like this!” He looked around the pub’s bathroom, then sighed again as he realised he’d mopped himself into a corner. “Of course, it was a Johnson,” he said as he waited for the floor to dry so he could leave. “He did the University Organ as well and to him, pipes were pipes. I wonder what really happened when the Archchancellor was taking a shower while the Librarian was playing Bubbla’s Catastrophe Suite? He never said.”

Due to his wand having an inexplicable bout of hiccoughs, Rincewind found himself inundated with pumpkins. He wasn't really sure what to do with them but he'd heard that people sometimes carved them, especially at this time of year.

( So he did. )

Wear lilacs if you were there.

Rincewind was headed for the library. It was the only place in this wretched town he had found himself stuck in where he felt at all at home. True, there were no copper rails nailed to the shelves, there were no magical books (that he could determine at any rate), and the librarian was a woman, still it was a library. The smell of book dust and paper was enough to bring a tear of homesickness to his eye. He hurried along the street, occasionally glancing up and wondering about the darkness. It had been dark when he’d gone to bed last night, as per usual, but it had been dark when he’d gotten up as well. Definitely not per usual. He was staying well away from the roads; the growling monsters were still out in force, although now their eyes were open and glowing. Some of the people looked anxious and there were groups gathered around shops that spoke in hushed whispers. But still others just carried blithely on, chattering into their metal things, as if nothing at all odd was happening. Perhaps they were some sort of zombie, Rincewind thought. Without the falling-off bits and smelling far better (i.e.: not at all) than any zombies he was familiar with.
( Read more... )

( A Perfect Day For Banana Pants* )

Rincewind walked down the hall of the pub to the kitchen so nonchalantly things that grow at the bottom of ponds would have known he was up to something. Loud voices sounded from the store room; something about a great mass of pumpkins that hadn’t been there ten minutes ago and if someone didn’t do something about them, someone was going to feel the edge of a rolling pin. Rincewind opened the kitchen door a crack and peeked in. He heaved a sigh of relief. The room was empty. He could deal with Ivonka, as long as they weren’t in the same room at the same time, but Rincewind was terrified of Xellos. Hopefully, he’d be done and gone before anyone came in or they got the pumpkins sorted out. Rincewind tiptoed into the kitchen and opened the box that kept things cold. He didn’t understand how it worked but then, he didn’t exactly understand how breathing worked either. He removed bottles and opened cupboards, getting the rest of the ingredients he needed.

( An easy and elegant dessert for your Valentine’s Day pleasure. )

Rincewind winced as another powerful gust of wind buffeted the pub. It had been raining for days, and from what he had heard from other patrons, it wasn’t going to let up any time soon. He was mooching around in the back rooms of the pub. It was far too wet to even think of going outside. ( Read more... )

Rincewind found them floating in a tidal pool. He’d been walking along the beach and spotted several orange things just bobbing in the shallow water. Upon further investigation, they’d turned out to be pumpkins, which as far as Rincewind knew were not normally sea-dwelling vegetables. (Unless they’re fruits). A slender white stick bobbed there as well. He’d picked it up, not really thinking, and stuck it in his hat. He’d also picked up the largest of the pumpkins and taken it back to the pub. Not knowing precisely why he was doing this, Rincewind snuck into the kitchen and helped himself to several sizes of knife. He spent a good fifteen minutes pacing back and forth in front of the table. “AH!” Struck by inspiration (it does happen!) he went at the pumpkin busily for an hour or so. There was a mess of seeds, string and bits of pumpkin strewn about when he was done, but Rincewind was delighted. “I shall call it: “A Tribute to Reg Shoe!”

"Inspirations are a fundamental particle of the universe. It is harder to describe them than it is to describe their effect, which is to create ideas - or more accurately, sudden insights - in the human brain. Inspirations can pass through absolutely anything and the human or near-human brain contains a receptor which can be fired up by the passage of one. Not for nothing do we say 'I was struck by an idea.' Some people also originate inspirations in other people. Everyone knows of someone who is not only brilliant in themselves but also generates ideas in others around them. Given the universes love of opposites, that means that there are also people who are an 'ideas sink'. People who, humdrum in themselves, cause humdrumity in others."* Rincewinds idea's receptor is extremely small. An inspiration trying to hit it is like an archer trying to shoot a cherry of a persons head at seventy-five meters, in the dark, wearing a blindfold in a typhoon. Nevertheless, given the sheer number of inspirations sleeting through the universe, one is bound to strike dead on sooner or later. This is one of those rare occasions.

( Highkoos by Rincewind )

Rincewind draws a finger idly through a puddle of condensation on the bar. “They best job I ever had,” he recalls rather dreamily, “was as an assistant librarian. ( An ape’s Number Two )