Российское респираторное общество 16 страница

“Tall, was he?” said Albert.

“Could have been tall, could have been tall,” nodded the corporal. “He had a tall voice, certainly.” He looked puzzled at the words coming out of his own mouth.

“What did he look like?”

“Well, he had a... with... and he was about... more or less a...”

“Did he look... loud and deep?” said Albert.

The corporal grinned with relief. “That’s him,” he said. “Private... Private... Beau... Beau... can’t quite remember his name...”

“I know that when he walked out of the...” the sergeant began, and began to snap his fingers irritably, “... thing you open and shut. Made of wood. Hinges and bolts on it. Thank you. Gate. That’s right... gate. When he went out of the gate he said... what was it he said, corporal?”

“He said, “EVERY LAST DETAIL", Sir.”

Albert looked around the fort.

“So he’s gone.”

“Who?”

“The man you were just telling me about.”

“Oh. Yes. Er. Have you any idea who he was, offendi? I mean, it was amazing... talk about morale...”

“Esprit de corpse?” said Albert, who could be nasty at times. “I suppose he didn’t say where he was going next?”

“Where who was going next?” said the sergeant, wrinkling his forehead in honest enquiry.

“Forget I asked,” said Albert.

He took a last look round the little fort. It probably didn’t matter much in the history of the world whether it survived or not, whether the dotted line on the map went one way or the other. Just like the Master to tinker with things...

Sometimes he tries to be human, too, he thought. And he makes a pig’s ear out of it.

“Carry on, sergeant,” he said, and wandered back into the desert.

The legionnaires watched him disappear over the dunes, and then got on with the job of tidying up the fort.

“Who d'you think he was?”

“Who?”

“The person you just mentioned.”

“Did I?”

“Did you what?”

Albert crested a dune. From here the dotted line was just visible, winding treacherously across the sand.

SQUEAK.

“You and me both,” said Albert.

He removed an extremely grubby handkerchief from a pocket, knotted it in all four corners, and put it on his head.

“Right,” he said, but there was a trace of uncertainty in his voice. “Seems to me we’re not being logical about this.”

SQUEAK.

“I mean, we could be chasing him all over the place.”

SQUEAK.

“So maybe we ought to think about this.”

SQUEAK.

“Now... if you were on the Disc, definitely feeling a bit strange, and could go absolutely anywhere, anywhere at all... where would you go?”

SQUEAK?

“Anywhere at all. But somewhere where no-one remembers your name.”

The Death of Rats looked around at the endless, featureless and above all dry desert.

SQUEAK.

“You know, I think you’re right.”

It was in an apple tree.

He built me a swing, Susan remembered.

She sat and stared at the thing.

It was quite complicated. In so far as the thinking behind it could be inferred from the resulting construction, it had run like this:

Clearly a swing should be hung from the stoutest branch.

In fact—safety being paramount—it would be better to hang it from the two stoutest branches, one to each rope.

They had turned out to be on opposite sides of the tree.

Never go back. That was part of the logic. Always press on, step by logical step.

So... he’d removed about six feet from the middle of the tree’s trunk, thus allowing the swing to, well, swing.

The tree hadn’t died. It was still quite healthy.

However, the lack of a major section of trunk had presented a fresh problem. This had been overcome by the addition of two large props under the branches, a little further out from the ropes of the swing, keeping the whole top of the tree at about the right height off the ground.

She remembered how she’d laughed, even then. And he’d stood there, quite unable to see what was wrong.

And then she saw it all, all laid out.

That was how Death worked. He never understood exactly what he was doing. He’d do something, and it would turn out wrong. Her mother; suddenly he had a grown woman on his hands and didn’t know what to do next. So he did something else to make it right, which made it more wrong. Her father. Death’s apprentice! And when that went wrong, and its potential wrongness was built right into it, he did something else to make it right.

He’d turned over the hourglass.

After that, it was all a matter of maths.

And the Duty.

“Hello... hells, Glod, tell me where we are... Sto Lat! Yay!”

It was an even bigger audience. There’d been more time for the posters to be up, more time for the word-of-mouth from AnkhMorpork. And, the band realized, a solid core of people had followed them from Pseudopolis.

In a brief break between numbers, just before the bit where people started leaping around on the furniture, Cliff leaned over to Glod.

“You see dat troll in der front row?” he said. “The one Asphalt’s jumping on the fingers of?”

“The one that looks like a spoil heap?”

“She was in Pseudopolis,” said Cliff, beaming. “She keeps looking at me!”

“Go for it, lad,” said Glod, emptying the spit from his horn. “In like Flint, eh?”

“You think she’s one of dem gropies Asphalt told us about?”

“Could be.”

Other news had travelled fast, too. Dawn saw another redecorated hotel room, a royal proclamation from Queen Keli that the band was to be out of the city in one hour on pain of pain, and one more rapid exit.

Buddy lay in the cart as it bumped over the cobbles towards Quirm.

She hadn’t been there. He’d scanned the audience on both nights, and she hadn’t been there. He’d even got up in the middle of the night and walked through the empty streets, in case she was looking for him. Now he wondered if she existed. If it came to that, he was only half certain that he existed, except for the times when he was on stage.

He half listened to the conversation from the others.

“Asphalt?”

“Yes, Mr Glod?”

“Cliff and me can’t help noticing something.”

“Yes, Mr Glod?”

“You’ve been carrying a heavy leather bag around, Asphalt.”

“Yes, Mr Glod.”

“It was a bit heavier this morning, I think.”

“Yes, Mr Glod.”

“It’s got the money in it, yes?”

“Yes, Mr Glod.”

“How much?”

“Er. Mr Dibbler said I wasn’t to worry you with money stuff,” said Asphalt.

“We don’t mind,” said Cliff.

“That’s right,” said Glod. “We want to worry.”

“Er.” Asphalt licked his lips. There was something deliberate in Cliff’s manner. “About two thousand dollars, Mr Glod.”

The cart bounced on for a while. The landscape had changed a little. There were hills, and the farms were smaller.

“Two thousand dollars,” said Glod. “Two thousand dollars. Two thousand dollars. Two thousand dollars. ”

“Whyd' you keep saying two thousand dollars?” said Cliff.

“I’ve never had a chance to say two thousand dollars.”

“Just don’t say it so loud.”

“TWO THOUSAND DOLLARS!”

“Ssh!” said Asphalt, desperately, as Glod’s shout echoed off the hills. “This is bandit country!”

Glod eyed the satchel. “You’re telling me,” he said.

“I don’t mean Mr Dibbler!”

“We’re on the road between Sto Lat and Quirm,” said Glod patiently. “This isn’t the Ramtops road. This is civilization. They don’t rob you on the road in civilization.” He glanced darkly at the satchel again. “They wait until you’ve got into the cities. That’s why it’s called civilization. Hah, can you tell me the last time anyone was ever robbed on this road?”

“Friday, I believe,” said a voice from the rocks. “Oh, bugg—”

The horses reared up and then galloped forward. Asphalt’s crack of the whip had been an almost instinctive reaction.

They didn’t slow down until they were several miles further along the road.

“Just shut up about money, all right?” hissed Asphalt.

“I’m a professional musician,” said Glod. “Of course I think about money. How far is it to Quirm?”

“A lot less now,” said Asphalt. “A couple of miles.”

And after the next hill the city lay before them, nestling in its bay.

There was a cluster of people at the town’s gates, which were closed. Afternoon sunlight glittered off helmets.

“What do you call them long sticks with axes on the end?” said Asphalt.

“Pikes,” said Buddy.

“There’s certainly a lot of them,” said Glod.

“They can’t be for us, can dey?” said Cliff. “We’re only musicians.”

“And I can see some men in long robes and gold chains and things,” said Asphalt.

“Burghers,” said Glod.

“You know that horseman that passed us this morning...” said Asphalt. “I’m thinking that maybe news travels.”

“Yes, but we didn’t break up dat theatre,” said Cliff.

“Well, you only gave them six encores,” said Asphalt.

“We didn’t do all dat rioting in the streets.”

“I’m sure the men with the pointy blades will understand that.”

“Maybe dey don’t want der hotels redecorated. I said it was a mistake, orange curtains with yellow wallpaper.”

The cart came to a halt. A rotund man with a tricorn hat and a fur-trimmed cloak scowled uncomfortably at the band.

“Are you the musicians known as The Band With Rocks In?” he said.

“What seems to be the problem, officer?” said Asphalt.

“I am the mayor of Quirm. According to the laws of Quirm, Music With Rocks In cannot be played in the city. Look, it says so right here...”

He flourished a scroll. Glod caught it.

`That ink looks wet to me,” he said.

“Music With Rocks In represents a public nuisance, is proven to be injurious to health and morals and to cause unnatural gyrations of the body; said the man, pulling the scroll back.

“You mean we can’t come into Quirm?” said Glod.

“You can come in if you must,” said the mayor. “But you’re not to play.”

Buddy stood up on the cart.

“But we’ve got to play,” he said. The guitar swung around on its strap. He gripped the neck and raised his strumming hand threateningly.

Glod looked around in desperation. Cliff and Asphalt had put their hands over their ears.

“Ah!” he said. “I think what we have here is an occasion for negotiation, yes?”

He got down from the cart.

“I expect what your worship hasn’t heard of,” he said, “is the music tax.”

“What music tax?” said Asphalt and the mayor together.

“Oh, it’s the latest thing,” said Glod. “On account of the popularity of Music With Rocks In. Music tax, fifty pence a ticket. Must have amounted to, oh, two hundred and fifty dollars in Sto Lat, I reckon. More than twice that in AnkhMorpork, of course. Patrician thought it up.”

“Really? Sounds like Vetinari right enough,” said the mayor. He rubbed his chin. “Did you say two hundred and fifty dollars in Sto Lat? Really? And that place is hardly any size.”

A watchman with a feather in his helmet saluted nervously.

“Excuse me, your worship, but the note from Sto Lat did say—”

“Just a minute,” said the mayor testily. “I’m thinking...

Cliff leaned down.

“Dis is bribery, is it?” he whispered.

“This is taxation,” said Glod.

The watchman saluted again.

“But really, sir, the guards at—”

“Captain,” snapped the mayor, still staring thoughtfully at Glod, “this is politics! Please!”

“As well?” said Cliff.

“And to show goodwill,” said Glod, “it’d be a good idea if we paid the tax before the peformance, don’t you think?”

The mayor looked at them in astonishment, a man not certain he could get his mind around the idea of musicians with money.

“Your worship, the message said—”

“Two hundred and fifty dollars,” said Glod.

“Your worship—”

“Now, captain,” said the mayor, apparently reaching a decision, “we know that folk are a bit odd in Sto Lat. It’s only music, after all. I said I thought it was an odd note. I can’t see the harm in music. And these young me- people are clearly very successful,” he added. This obviously carried a lot of weight with the mayor, as it does with many people. No-one likes a poor thief.

“Yes,” he went on, “it’d be just like the Lats to try that on us. They think we’re simple just because we live out here.”

“Yes, but the Pseudopo”

“Oh, them. Stuck-up bunch. Nothing wrong with a bit of music, is there? Especially,” the mayor eyed Glod, “when it’s for the civic good. Let “em in, captain.”

Susan saddled up.

She knew the place. She’d even seen it once. They’d put a new fence along the road now, but it was still dangerous.

She knew the time, too.

Just before they called it Dead Man’s Curve.

“Hello, Quirm!”

Buddy struck a chord. And a pose. A faint white glow, like the glitter of cheap sequins, outlined him.

“Uh-huh-huh!”

The cheering became the familiar wall of sound.

I thought we were going to get killed by people who didn’t like us, Glod thought. Now I think it’s possible to be killed by people who love us...

He looked around carefully. There were guards around the walls; the captain had been no fool. I just hope Asphalt put the horse and cart outside like I asked him...

He glanced at Buddy, sparkling in the limelight.

A couple of encores and then down the back stairs and away, Glod thought. The big leather satchel had been chained to Cliff’s leg. Anyone snatching it would find themselves towing one ton of drummer.

I don’t even know what we’re going to play, thought Glod. I never do, I just blow and... there it is. You can’t tell me that’s right.

Buddy whirled his arm like a discus thrower and a chord sprang away and into the ears of the audience.

Glod raised the horn to his lips. The sound that emerged was like burning black velvet in a windowless room.

Before the Music With Rocks In spell filled his soul, he thought: I’m going to die. That’s part of the music. I’m going to die really soon. I can feel it. Every day. It’s getting closer...

He glanced at Buddy again. The boy was scanning the audience, as if he was looking for someone in the screaming throng.

They played “There’s A Great Deal Of Shaking Happening”. They played “Give Me That Music With Rocks In”. They played “Pathway To Paradise' (and a hundred people in the audience swore to buy a guitar in the morning).

They played with heart and especially with soul.

They got out after the ninth encore. The crowd was still stamping its feet for more as they climbed through the privy window and dropped into the alley.

Asphalt emptied a sack into the leather satchel. “Another seven hundred dollars!” he said, helping them onto the cart.

“Right, and we get ten dollars each,” said Glod.

“You tell Mr Dibbler,” said Asphalt, as the horses’ hoofs clattered towards the gates.

“I will.”

“It doesn’t matter,” said Buddy. “Sometimes you do it for the money, but sometimes you do it for the show.”

“Hah! That’ll be the day.” Glod fumbled under the seat. Asphalt had stashed two crates of beer there.

“There’s the Festival tomorrow, lads,” rumbled Cliff. The gate arch passed above them. They could still hear the stamping from here.

“After that we’ll have a new contract,” said the dwarf. “With lots of zeroes in it.”

“We got zeroes now,” said Cliff.

“Yeah, but they ain’t got many numbers in front of them. Eh, Buddy?”

They looked around. Buddy was asleep, the guitar clutched to his chest.

“Out like a candle,” said Glod.

He turned back again. The road stretched ahead of them, pale in the starlight.

“You said you just wanted to work,” said Cliff. “You said you didn’t want to be famous. How’d you like it, having to worry about all that gold, and having girls throw their chain mail at you?”

“I’d just have to put up with it.”

“I’d like a quarry,” said the troll.

“Yeah?”

“Yeah. Heart-shaped.”

A dark, stormy night. A coach, horses gone, plunged through the rickety, useless fence and dropped, tumbling, into the gorge below. It didn’t even strike an outcrop of rock before it hit the dried river-bed far below and erupted into fragments. Then the oil from the coach-lamps ignited and there was a second explosion, out of which rolled—because there are certain conventions, even in tragedy—a burning wheel.

What was strange to Susan was that she felt nothing. She could think sad thoughts, because in the circumstances they had to be sad. She knew who was in the coach. But it had already happened. There was nothing she could do to stop it, because if she’d stopped it, it wouldn’t have happened. And she was here watching it happen. So she hadn’t. So it had. She felt the logic of the situation dropping into place like a series of huge leaden slabs.

Perhaps there was somewhere where it hadn’t happened. Perhaps the coach had skidded the other way, perhaps there had been a convenient rock, perhaps it hadn’t come this way at all, perhaps the coachman had remembered about the sudden curve. But those possibilities could only exist if there was this one.

This wasn’t her knowledge. It flowed in from a mind far, far older.

Sometimes the only thing you could do for people was to be there.

She rode Binky into the shadows by the cliff road, and waited. After a minute or two there was a clattering of stones and a horse and rider came up an almost vertical path from the river-bed.

Binky’s nostrils flared. Parapsychology has no word for the uneasy feeling you have when you’re in the presence of yourself.[27]

Susan watched Death dismount and stand looking down at the river-bed, leaning on his scythe.

She thought: but he could have done something.

Couldn’t he?

The figure straightened, but did not turn around.

YES. I COULD HAVE DONE SOMETHING.

“How... how did you know I was here...?”

Death waved a hand irritably.

I REMEMBER YOU. AND NOW UNDERSTAND THIS: YOUR PARENTS KNEW THINGS MUST HAPPEN. EVERYTHING MUST HAPPEN SOMEWHERE. DO YOU NOT THINK I SPOKE TO THEM OF THIS? BUT I CANNOT GIVE LIFE. I CAN ONLY GRANT... EXTENSION. CHANGELESSNESS. ONLY HUMANS CAN GIVE LIFE. AND THEY WANTED TO BE HUMAN, NOT IMMORTAL. IF IT HELPS YOU, THEY DIED INSTANTLY. INSTANTLY.

I’ve got to ask, Susan thought. I’ve got to say it. Or I’m not human.

“I could go back and save them...?” Only the faintest tremor suggested that the statement was a question.

SAVE? FOR WHAT? A LIFE THAT HAS RUN OUT? SOME THINGS END. I KNOW THIS. SOMETIMES I HAVE THOUGHT OTHERWISE. BUT... WITHOUT DUTY, WHAT AM I? THERE HAS TO BE A LAW.

He climbed into the saddle and, still without turning to face her, spurred Binky out and over the gorge.

There was a haystack behind a livery stable in Phedre Road. It bulged for a moment, and there was a muffled swearing.

A fraction of a second later there was a bout of coughing and another, much better, swear-word inside a grain silo down near the cattle market.

Very shortly after that some rotten floorboards in an old feed store in Short Street exploded upwards, followed by a swear-word that bounced off a flour sack.

“Idiot rodent!” bellowed Albert, fingering grain out of his ear.

SQUEAK.

“I should think so! What size do you think I am?”

Albert brushed hay and flour off his coat and walked over to the window.

“Ah,” he said, “let us repair to the Mended Drum, then.”

In Albert’s pocket, sand resumed its interrupted journey from future to past.

Hibiscus Dunelm had decided to close up for an hour. It was a simple process. First he and his staff collected any unbroken mugs and glasses. This didn’t take long. Then there was a desultory search for any weapons with a high resale value, and a quick search of any pockets whose owners were unable to object on account of being drunk, dead or both. Then the furniture was moved aside and everything else was swept out of the back door and into the broad brown bosom of the river Ankh, where it piled up and, by degrees, sank.

Finally, Hibiscus locked and bolted the big front door...

It wouldn’t shut. He looked down. A boot was wedged in it.

“We’re shut,” he said.

“No, you ain’t.”

The door ground back, and Albert was inside.

“Have you seen this person?” he demanded, thrusting a pasteboard oblong in front of Dunelm’s eyes.

This was a gross breach of etiquette. Dunelm wasn’t in the kind of job where you survived if you told people you’d seen people. Dunelm could serve drinks all night without seeing anyone.

“Never seen him before in my life,” he said, automatically, without even looking at the card.

“You’ve got to help me,” said Albert, “otherwise something dreadful will happen.”

“Push off!”

Albert kicked the door shut behind him.

“Just don’t say I didn’t warn you,” he said. On his shoulder the Death of Rats sniffed the air suspiciously.

A moment later Hibiscus was having his chin pressed firmly into the boards of one of his tables.

“Now, I know he’d come in here,” said Albert, who wasn’t even breathing heavily, “because everyone does, sooner or later. Have another look.”

“That’s a Caroc card,” said Hibiscus indistinctly. “That’s Death!”

“That’s right. He’s the one on the white horse. You can’t miss him. Only he wouldn’t look like that in here, I expect.”

“Let me get this straight,” said the landlord, trying desperately to wriggle out of the iron grip. “You want me to tell you if I’ve seen someone who doesn’t look like that?”

“He’d have been odd. Odder than most.” Albert thought for a moment. “And he’d have drunk a lot, if I know him. He always does.”

“This is Ankh-Morpork, you know.”

“Don’t be cheeky, or I’ll get angry.”

“You mean you’re not angry now?”

“I’m just impatient. You can try for angry if you like.”

“There was... someone... few days ago. Can’t remember exactly what he looked like—”

“Ah. That’d be him.”

“Drank me dry, complained about the Barbarian Invaders game, got legless and then...”

“What?”

“Can’t recall. We just threw him out.”

“Out the back door?”

“Yes.”

“But that’s just river out there.”

“Well, most people come round before they sink.”

SQUEAK, said the Death of Rats.

“Did he say anything?” said Albert, too busy to pay attention.

“Something about remembering everything, I think. He said... he said being drunk didn’t make him forget. Kept going on about doorknobs and... hairy sunlight.”

“Hairy sunlight?”

“Something like that.”

And the pressure on Hibiscus’s arm was suddenly released. He waited a second or two and then, very cautiously, turned his head.

There was no-one behind him.

Very carefully, Hibiscus bent down to look under the tables.

Albert stepped out into the dawn and, after some fumbling, produced his box. He opened it and glanced at his lifetimer, then snapped the lid shut.

“All right,” he said. “What next?”

SQUEAK!

“What?”

And someone hit him across the head.

It wasn’t a killing stroke. Timo Laziman of the

Thieves’ Guild knew what happened to thieves who killed people. The Assassins’ Guild came and talked briefly to them—in fact, all they said was, “Goodbye.”

All he’d wanted to do was knock the old man out so that he could rifle his pockets.

He’d not expected the sound as the body hit the ground. It was like the tinkle of broken glass, but with unpleasant overtones that carried on echoing in Timo’s ears long after they should have stopped.

Something leapt from the body and whirred into his face. Two skeletal claws grabbed his ears and a bony muzzle jerked forward and hit him hard on the forehead. He screamed and ran for it.

The Death of Rats dropped to the ground again and scurried back to Albert. It patted his face, kicked him frantically a few times and then, in desperation, bit him on the nose.

Then it grabbed Albert’s collar and tried to pull him out of the gutter, but there was a warning tinkle of glass.

The eye sockets turned madly towards the Drum’s closed front door. Ossified whiskers bristled.

A moment later Hibiscus opened the door, if only to stop the thunderous knocking.

“I said we’re—”

Something shot between his legs, paused momentarily to bite him on the ankle, and scuttled towards the back door, nose pressed firmly to the floor.

It was called Hide Park not because people could, but because a hide was once a measure of land capable of being ploughed by one man with three-and-one-half oxen on a wet Thursday, and the park was exactly this amount of land, and people in Ankh-Morpork stick to tradition and often to other things as well.

And it had trees, and grass, and a lake with actual fish in it. And, by one of those twists of civic history, it was a fairly safe place. People seldom got mugged in Hide Park. Muggers like “somewhere safe to sunbathe, just like everyone else. It was, as it were, neutral territory.

And it was already filling up, even though there was nothing much to see except the workmen still hammering together a large stage by the lake. An area behind it had been walled off with strips of cheap sacking nailed to stakes. Occasionally excited people would try to get in and would be thrown into the lake by Chrysoprase’s trolls.

Among the practising musicians Crash and his group were immediately noticeable, partly because Crash had his shirt off so that Jimbo could paint iodine on the wounds.

“I thought you were joking,” he growled.

“I did say it was in your bedroom,” said Scum.

“How'm I going to play my guitar like this?” said Crash.

“You can’t play your guitar anyway,” said Noddy.

“I mean, look at my hand. Look at it.”

They looked at his hand. Jimbo’s mum had put a glove on it after treating the wounds; they hadn’t been very deep, because even a stupid leopard won’t hang around anyone who wants to take its trousers off.

“A glove,” said Crash, in a terrible voice. “Whoever heard of a serious musician with a glove? How can I ever play my guitar with a glove on?””

“How can you ever play your guitar anyway?”

“I don’t know why I put up with you three,” said Crash. “You’re cramping my artistic development. I’m thinking of leaving and forming my own band.”

“No you won’t,” said Jimbo, “because you won’t find anyone even worse than us. Let’s face it. We’re rubbish.”

He was voicing a hitherto unspoken yet shared thought. The other musicians around them were, it was true, quite bad. But that’s all they were. Some of them had some minor musical talent; as for the rest, they merely couldn’t play. They didn’t have a drummer who missed the drums and a bass guitarist with the same natural rhythm as a traffic accident. And they’d generally settled on their name. They might be unimaginative names, like “A Big Troll and Some Other Trolls”, or “Dwarfs With Altitude”, but at least they knew who they were.

“How about “We’re A Rubbish Band"?” said Noddy, sticking his hands in his pockets.

“We may be rubbish,” snarled Crash, “but we’re Music With Rocks In rubbish.”

“Well, well, and how’s it all going, then?” said Dibbler, pushing his way through the sacking. “It won’t be long now—what’re you doing here?”

“We’re in the programme, Mr Dibbler,” said Crash meekly.

“How can you be in the programme when I don’t know what you’re called?” said Dibbler, waving a hand irritably at one of the posters. “Your name up there, is it?”

“We’re probably where it says Ande Supporting Bandes,” said Noddy.

“What happened to your hand?” said Dibbler.

“My trousers bit it,” said Crash, glowering at Scum. “Honest, Mr Dibbler, can’t you give us one more chance?”

“We’ll see,” said Dibbler, and strode away.

He was feeling too cheerful to argue much. The sausages-in-abun were selling very fast, but they were just covering minor expenses. There were ways of making money out of Music With Rocks In that he’d never thought of... and C. M. O. T. Dibbler thought of money all the time.

For example, there were the shirts. They were of cotton so cheap and thin that it was practically invisible in a good light and tended to dissolve in the wash. He’d sold six hundred already! At five dollars each! All he had to do was buy them at ten for a dollar from Klatchian Wholesale Trading and pay Chalky half a dollar each to print them.

And Chalky, with un-troll-like initiative, had even printed off his own shirts. They said: