Category: fanfiction

a notepad document that I started months ago a…



It’s just titled “pokemon” and this is it in its entirety (plus a few I just added while making this post because I stand by this being a great idea)

Granny: Vespiquen
Nanny: Skiddo
Magrat: Magikarp
Agnes: Jigglypuff
Tiffany: Mareep

Ridcully: Marill (fishing buddy)
Rincewind: Absol (harbinger of doom)
Ponder: Eevee (fascinated by its potential for evolution. his eevee refuses to evolve)
The Librarian: Tropius (bananas)

Vimes: Arcanine
Carrot: Aegislash
Angua: Lycanroc
Detritus: Cubone
Cheery: Fletchling
Sybil: Dragonite
Fred Colon: Torkoal (heats the tea kettle)
Nobby Nobbs: Psyduck

Vetinari: Herdier
Drumknott: Klefki
Leonard: Smeargle
Adora Belle Dearheart: Koffing
Moist von Lipwig: Meowth

Susan: Mimikyu
Death: Skitty

This seems like a relevant place to plug my Pokémon/Discworld mashup!

I’m gonna plug this plug. If you’re into discworld and pokemon, please read this.


replied to your post “a notepad document that I started months ago and found today”

Following Dark should be a Gastly or Sableye for Vimes; the man has a built in Silph Scope now

downtroddendeity replied to your post “a notepad document that I started months ago and found today”

Vimes has an Alola Raticate and an elderly
Druddigon Sybil gave him and I stand by this.

The rooftop was a maze of narrow chimneys and dingy skylights. Candlelight flickered from the windows of the neighboring buildings, dulled by the rain into an ethereal glow. The clouds hung low in the moonless sky. If you weren’t looking carefully, you’d mistake the dark, hunched shape in the rooftop corner for a rogue bit of stonemasonry, or perhaps a gargoyle. If you were looking carefully, you would see a man, peering across the street.
If you were Sam Vimes, you would see an attempted murderer.

“Joseph Miller,” he called out across the roof, and ducked even before he heard the thud! of the crossbow string. A bolt whistled across the rooftop and disappeared into the rain behind him.
“You can’t stop this, Commander!” Miller shouted from the edge of the rooftop. Vimes heard the creaking of a a crossbow being wound up again.
“Well, that’s where you’re wrong, I’m afraid.” Vimes peered through the gloom. Across the street, the office on the top floor of the Guild of Merchants still glowed with candlelight, the window cracked open to allow the cool night air in. Was the light a little brighter, a little bluer?
“I’m only doing what’s best for this city, Commander!” Vimes dropped behind another chimney as the crossbow string thunked! again. He heard the bolt clatter against another chimney a few feet away.
“Murdering its residents, you mean?” Vimes slid out from behind his chimney and advanced again. “Mr. Parker promoted Stronginthearm to Guild Secretary, isn’t that right? Is that why he was attacked last night?” Just a few feet to go. “Is that why you’re outside Parker’s window now?” The glow from the Merchant’s guild was looking more ethereal by the second. Vimes doubted it had anything to do with the rain anymore.
“It’s too late, Commander!”
“No, you’re wrong there, too.” Pressing his back to the last chimney between himself and the killer, Vimes tugged a small, red-and-white sphere from his belt. “I know you’ve taken issue with the number of dwarves there are in the city now, Miller. People with your objections don’t usually take the time to learn about their traditions or beliefs, so… I’ll assume you haven’t heard of what they call the Summoning Dark. You might dismiss it as a superstition – yes, even you, Mr. Miller, a ghost breeder.”
Miller did not answer – possibly he was too busy winding his crossbow – but Vimes was no longer looking at him. He watched Parker’s office window.
“It’s not just a superstition, Mr. Miller. See, I’ve met the Summoning Dark. I’ve fought it. And now, Mr. Miller? Now–” A whistle pierced the night, then again. Carrot’s signal.
“Now it works for me.”
Vimes leapt out from behind the chimney and hurled the sphere as hard as he could across the street.
Halfway across, it burst open, and a shadowy figure – a sphere of darkness, surrounded by wisps of smoke – flew the rest of the way across the street, slipping through the window as though there was nothing there at all.
The already-jumpy Miller gave a strangled gasp and raised his crossbow, finger already tightening on the trigger. Vimes barely had time to turn his head when a dark, powerful blur of fur and teeth shot past him from its hiding place in the shadows and latched determinedly onto Miller’s wrist.
Vimes turned his attention away from the ensuing blur of screams and snarls and snapping crossbow strings as the glow died in the window across the street. It was replaced by a warmer, more natural sort of illumination as Carrot lit a lamp in the window. And there, from the far window, floating menacingly (it had no other method of floating) came the Summoning Dark, grinning its ever-present grin. It was strange, Vimes thought. It was becoming almost a comforting sight.
“Your Chandelure is unconscious, Mr. Miller,” Vimes said conversationally, opening up his pokeball to allow the Ghastly to fly back inside. “My Captain is collecting it now. Don’t worry, it won’t be harmed.” He went over and nudged the man now curled into the fetal position, clutching his wrist and moaning. “Nor will you, any more than you already have been, until you can stand trial. Down, Errol.”
The Raticate reluctantly stopped kicking the skull of his opponent and trotted back to Vimes’s feet. He bared his teeth at Miller (not that he had any other expression) and preened his whiskers.
“Sir?” Cheery’s voice floated over the rooftop, and a moment later she clambered over the edge from the fire escape. “Is it over?”
“All over, Sergeant. He only had the one Pokemon left after last night. Well done.” Vimes knelt and manacled the groaning Miller’s wrists together.
“It was just a hunch, sir.” Vimes could hear the pride in her voice. “You ever notice how, other than the occasional ten year old, you don’t ever see anyone carrying more than three or four pokemon at a time? More often it’s just two or even one–”
“Yes, Sergeant, thank you.” Vimes held up a hand. “Save it for the report, would you? And better send a message to Detritus and Angua. Let them know there will be no more ghosts tonight.”
“Right, sir.” Cheery detached a pokeball from her belt. There was a flash of light, and a large, orange bird flapped onto her shoulder.
“Oh, you, ah…” Vimes gestured at the bird. “That tiny little thing finally got big?”
“Evolved, sir.” Cheery scribbled a quick note into her notepad and attached it to the bird’s leg. “She’s a Fletchinder now.”
“Right, right. Is that one of the ones that…”
Cheery looked up to see Vimes holding out an unlit cigar hopefully, and sighed. “She’s not a lighter, sir.”
“Right, right. Of course not.” Vimes sheepishly tucked the cigar back into his pocket and bent to hoist Miller over his shoulder. “Let’s get out of the damn rain, sergeant.”
“Right behind you, sir.” 




Vimes prodded a short, illustrated article on page four, his finger stabbing at the page.
“See that?” he growled. “That pea-brained idiot at the Post Office has gone and issued a Koom Valley stamp!”
The dwarf looked nervously at the article. “Er… two stamps, sir,” she said.

– Moist No | Terry Pratchett, Thud!

You can just picture him, dodging the Silicon Anti-Defamation League and the Campaign for Equal Heights for weeks, until he finally lets them corner him in his office… at the same time.

Moist No™.


The Truth Shall Make Ye Flee

What began as a rumpus turned quickly into a fracas at the Ankh-Morpork post office early this morning as the heads of the Silicon Anti-Defamation League and the Campaign for Equal Heights tried to meet with Postmaster Moist von Lipwig at the same time. Members of the CEH arrived in the office, intending to discuss the postmaster’s recently released series of Koom Valley stamps. They were joined shortly by members of the SADL, who intended to have a similar conversation.
Any potential discussion was thwarted when, upon encountering each other in the hallway outside the office, members of both associations exclaimed that the other had been attempting an ambush.
The ensuing fracas encompassed most of the upper floor of the Post Office, in some places spilling out onto the staircases, before the Watch was able to restore order. Though no deaths have been reported, several individuals were brought to the Lady Sybil Free Hospital with light to moderate injuries and inflamed tempers.
Commander Vimes of the Watch has assured the public that order has been restored. As he told the Times, “this was just a bunch of damn fools playing at war because the bloody Postmaster thinks it’s funny to spray oil on a house fire, and don’t put that in the paper.”
Mr. Lipwig could not be reached for comment, as he apparently had several urgent matters to attend to and had not, in fact, ever been in his office in the first place.
Bystander reports of a man clambering down the drainpipe outside, apparently laughing loudly to himself, appear to be unrelated.




Moist turned to Drumknott. “May I borrow your pencil, Mr. Drumknott? Thank you.”
He walked over to the door and opened it. Then he cupped one hand to his ear, theatrically, and dropped the pencil.
“Let’s see how dee–”
Clik! The pencil bounced and rolled on some quite solid-looking floorboards. Moist picked it up and stared at it, and then walked slowly back to his chair.
“Didn’t there used to be a deep pit full of spikes, down there?”
“I can’t imagine why you would think that,” said Lord Vetinari.

– how extra do you have to be to call in a bunch of contractors to put a floor on your spike pit just to freak out one postman |
Terry Pratchett, Making Money

i always thought the floor was retractable. so vetinari can freak out anyone he wants at any time he wants

Lord Vetinari surveyed the room from the doorway. “And it is fully operational?”
Mr. Pepper of the Carpenter’s Guild dabbed at his forehead with his shirtsleeve. “Should be, my lord, should be. We followed Mr. Da Quirm’s instructions to the letter.” We knew better than to improvise on a job like this, he added silently. The boys were nervous enough working in the palace. Never mind the spikes.
“Excellent.” Vetinari glanced at the wall inside the office, where a wheel was set into a recess near the doorway. “Clockwise to close, yes?”
“And widdershins to open, sir. Er,” Mr. Pepper added, cursing himself even as he did. “If you don’t mind my asking, my lord, why… I mean to say, if you want to throw folks into spike pits, couldn’t you just…?”
“Beg pardon?” Lord Vetinari raised an eyebrow of earnest confusion. “Throw people in?”
“Into the… into the spike pits…”
“I’m sorry? Why on earth should I do that?” Lord Vetinari’s other eyebrow lifted to join the first.
“Er…” Mr. Pepper felt himself shrink beneath the Patrician’s innocent gaze. He was becoming more acutely aware by the second that the floor he was standing on was fully operational, and could be retracted with a simple twist of the wheel…
“Are you unwell, Mr. Pepper?” Lord Vetinari’s voice held just the right note of concern. “Why not take a step outside? The fresh air should do you good.”
“Ah, you’re probably right, my lord…” Mr. Pepper stumbled for the doorway, letting out a breath he hadn’t known he’d been holding as he crossed the threshold. “I’ll just… I’ll just be… I’ll…”
“Yes, indeed.” Lord Vetinari watched as the carpenter hurried out of the room, dabbing at his forehead with a now rather damp shirtsleeve.
He returned to his desk and resumed his reading, glancing up only when Drumknott entered with a large painting. “Just over the wheel there, if you would, Drumknott.”
“Of course, my lord.” Drumknott carefully hung the painting over the recess containing the wheel. “I take it the installation was a success?”
“I haven’t the slightest idea what you’re talking about, Drumknott. Remind me – what is the first scheduled meeting today?”
“Ah, let me see…” Drumknott leafed through his notepad. “Oh, yes. You invited Mr. Lipwig to join you, sir, at his earliest convenience.”
“Of course.” Lord Vetinari sat back in his chair and allowed himself a small, self-satisfied smile.
He was going to enjoy this.


replied to your post “I see you have your “Born to Rune” jacket on, sir.” “We’ve got a…”

I imagine the Dean summoning Death up with the full dribbly-candles version of the Rite just to demand his coat back.

“Yes, well, so is petty theft,” the Dean huffed, puffing out his chest to its full extent. “The ancient texts all agree – it’s “a coat he borrowed,” not “took and never returned.” Now hand it over.”
Death shuffled his feet at the center of the octagon. I’M A BIT BUSY AT THE MOMENT, he said. I SUPPOSE I COULD GET IT TO YOU SOMETIME, OH, LET’S SAY –
“How about right now this minute!”
I’M AFRAID THAT JUST WON’T DO. I’VE GOT QUITE A LOT ON MY PLATE. BESIDES, he added, a note of petulance creeping into his heavy voice, IT LOOKS GOOD ON ME.
“You? Hah! You haven’t got the shoulders for it, nor the anything else!”
There was the creak of footsteps just outside the Dean’s office and a moment later the Archchancellor’s face appeared at the crack in the door. “Ah, Dean. Sorry, didn’t realize you had company. Good to see you’ve decided to stop losin’ your head to some musical craze and have gotten back to business.”
“Oh, absolutely, business,” the Dean said hurriedly.
YES, Death added quickly, BUSINESS.
“Very serious research.”
The Archchancellor nodded happily. “Well, don’t let me keep you.” He shut the door, then opened it again. “But re-paint the damn walls, man!” He shut the door again.
The two of them waited a long moment, listening to the Archchancellor’s footsteps retreat down the hallway, then the Dean turned back to Death. “It’s still my jacket.”
Death turned towards the center of the octagon and… left, clearly retreating into the distance without apparently leaving the spot he’d been standing in. He seemed to disappear around a corner for a moment, then returned, much faster than he’d left, the Dean’s handmade coat dangling from his bony fingers. The Dean’s eyes lit up when he saw it.
IT MAY HAVE GOTTEN A BIT BATTERED, Death admitted, as he held it out.
The Dean reached to take it, but found it difficult to tug the thing from Death’s hands.
ER. Death, if such a thing were possible, looked a bit embarrassed. DO YOU MIND IF I TRY IT ON ONE LAST TIME?
The Dean narrowed his eyes. “Oh, very well. But be quick about it.”
Death shrugged himself into the coat, pulling it over his robes, and stood quietly for a long moment. He could not, of course, close his eyes, nor breathe deeply, but the Dean got the sense that he was savoring the moment all the same. Then, at last, Death stirred and slid the coat from his shoulders, passing it across the barrier of the octagon to the Dean.

How hard can writing be? After all, most of th…

How hard can writing be? After all, most of the words are going to be ‘and,’ ‘the,’ and ‘I,’ and ‘it,’ and so on, and there’s a huge number to choose from, so a lot of the work has been done for you.