The following story is a bit of erotic fanfiction set in the universe of Terry Pratchett’s Disc World book series. This was written as a companion piece to a birthday cake made by Cliffside Cakes in the form of The Luggage, a character from that series.

Captain Carrot finished undressing and placed his soiled jerkin in a burlap sack labeled “Ye Freshest And Most Cleaniferous Launderette Demonique” which he then hung out of his bedroom window. It felt good to let his diamond-cut abs air out after a long day of friendly law enforcement. He took a moment to bask in the light of the setting sun, performing an involuntary peck-dance for the crowd of aspiring Mrs. Ironfounderssons gathered in the street below. He failed to hear their sighs of disappointment as he turned away from the window, sat down at his writing desk, and started on a letter:

Dearest Mume and Dad,

I am Pleased to write that the whole business of Commander Vimes being body-swapped with The Librarian of Unseen University, has been resolved. I will miss Commander Orangutan’s insightful, if long-winded Lectures on the nature of Living Well  and Bananas, but I am glad to have Sir Vimes back in Charge. Lady Sybil was the most releived of any of us. The Commander, however, seemed to be taking some time to readjust —

His Grace, The Duke of Ankh, Commander Sir Samuel Vimes found an empty bottle of Bearhugger’s Whisky in his bottom desk drawer. That filthy orangutan, he thought. No wonder I feel like hell. Vimes transferred the bottle from the drawer to the waste bin, handling it at arm’s length so that he couldn’t quite count how many drops were lurking at the bottom and which might, perhaps, be coaxed out if one were really quite determined.

With that taken care of, he went back to searching his drawer for what he really needed. Most of the men knew about his secret bottle of Bearhugger’s, but none were aware of the hidden panel in his drawer, nor it’s contents. No, Vimes was always sure to lock his office door with a bolt that even Sergeant Detritus would have trouble barging through before accessing Mister Whacky.

Not that there was anything strange about an officer of the City Watch keeping a billy club in his desk drawer. Every law man, woman, or person had his, her, or their own personal favorite weapon. It was a natural thing, as was the care and polish one would bestow upon this device. So, naturally, Mr. Whacky was an especially smooth billy club. And, of course, it had an especially unique shape. An Interesting Man’s Interests, the magazine from which Commander Vimes had ordered Mr. Whacky, explained that the shape was a traditional Quirmian design. Its tapered end and spiral ridges were crafted to produce a unique tactile experience for both the wielder and the recipient of its thunderous blows. Vimes had no particular fondness for Quirm, but he had to admit the shape served its purpose very well, and so he did have a particular fondness for Mister Whacky.

Today, however, he was dismayed to find the false bottom of his desk drawer was not sitting in its usual, discrete slot. With the aching groan of a man who is too sober, Vimes gripped the “billy club” by it’s handle. Between his fingers he felt a wet, sticky squish. He extracted the club from the drawer like Lady Sybil pulling a sick swamp dragon from its nest. Laying it under the light of his desk lantern, Vimes was dismayed to see a pale, viscous substance smeared across Mister Whacky. The smell made his stomach turn: banana.

I ought to arrest that monkey, he thought. Err, ape? Good-for-nothing flea-farm. And I should know — I thought I would never stop itching.

Vimes needed to get some air. He headed to the roof. The sun had just set, the night’s watch had begun, but he had solitary command of the station that night. Sybil was attending to a once-in-generation dragon breeding opportunity. The men had been given the night off. Vimes could tell they had been working overtime during his absence, and he figured Ankh-Morpork’s Catastrophe Calender didn’t have an event scheduled for at least another forty-eight hours.

He opened the door to the rooftop and took a deep breath of air, fresh off the river Ankh. Fresh in the sense of recent, as in “recently released from the rotting bowels of creatures recently liberated from life in the river Ankh.” But, Vimes noted, the smell was distinctly, vividly, palpably not banana. He lit a particularly un-fruity cigar and took up his post at the Watchglass. The device was quite new and he had only used it briefly during training. A “Faerie-Scope” was what he believed the gnomes had called it. They insisted it was strictly non-magical, that it operated using mirrors, but Vimes had never seen his face in it. He put his eyes to the glass and surveyed the city.

All of the usual theives were knocking over their usual marks. City Watch Commander Vimes nodded to himself, reassured to see the city back in its natural rhythm. On that same beat, he hapened across the crowd gathered on the street outside of Captain Carrot’s apartment.

The fan club is growing, Vimes noted. It was rare to see dwarves and humans gather with such shared glee, but that was Carrot for you. I wonder if he ever… takes advantage of it. Innocently, of course. If he expressed interest in an admirerer, his feelings would be sincere. But then, Carrot was sincere with everyone. It seems like he might be very sincere, with quite a few people, quite frequently.

Just as Vimes thought that, a figure in dark cloak stole its way up the steps and into Carrot’s building. Vimes tuned the Watchglass to get a look through Carrot’s window. The captain was slicking back his immaculate hair when his attention was drawn to door. He answered and the cloaked figure entered.

Vimes took a confident puff of his cigar, congratulating himself on his detective’s reasoning. Yes, here was a rendezvous between Carrot and his Number One Fan, meeting him in secret to avoid the ire of the rest of the club, any one of whom may have been recently demoted to Number Two. Well Captain, you can enjoy the night off for the both of us, Vimes thought as he tongued the butt of the cigar. Then the hood of the cloaked figure fell away to reveal a head of luscious blonde hair and Vimes swalled, choked, and spat smoke.

Seargent Angua!

Seeing her with Carrot did make a certain sense, once Vimes caught his breath. More surprising was the unique tactile experience he felt between his legs when he pictured it. The Watchglass had eight dials for adjusting hieght, length, and whetever else, but somehow he managed too zoom in and bring into focus Carrot’s bed, which the couple were now approaching.

Oh, Seragent. Oh yes. Commander Sir Samuel Vimes found himself reaching for the buttons of his trowsers.

Angua’s cloak was completely discarded. She sat herself against the headboard, staring at Carrot with threatening ferocity. Carrot was playing coy. He walked around the bed and casually opened a bureau draw. For a moment, Vimes was convinced they were about to meet one of Mister Whacky’s brothers in arms. Upon the bed, Carrot laid the object: a Thud board. The couple arranged the dwarf and troll pieces on the board. They began playing a stimulating game of strategy while sitting on the bed.

Captain Vimes had never cared for the game Thud. As he buttoned his Little Swamp Dragon back into his trowsers, he reevaluated his hunch about Carrot’s love life. The problem, he realized, was that he had forgotten about a rich man’s boots.

The rich man, you see, can afford a good pair of boots that will keep his feet comfortable and dry for a decade. Just the same, the man who is rich in looks and popularity invites the presence of the best people. And so, the attractive man finds he is always satisfied by the most stimulating company. He never has to reach far to get his needs met.

The poor man, however, can only ever afford cheap boots which barely last a rainy season and which crack during the next dry spell. Every year the poor man must buy a new pair of flimsy boots, spending more than the rich man after only a few short years. The man with poor looks is in much the same boat. He must always make himself available if he is to find a partner. Those that he does find will be in a similar state of dissatisfation, always dreaming of eventualy finding their own King or Queen. And so, for the homely man, company is more frequent, more breif, and less satisfying. This was The Samuel Vimes Theory Of Socio-Eco-Romantic Injustice.

Forlorn memories of the days before Sybil washed over Vimes as he swept the Watchglass away from Carrot’s bedroom. He decided to check in on the rest of his loyal guards. He hoped they all had some company on their night off. He had apparently already forgotten his own theory, because he turned the glass towards the overflowing trash heap that served as a hovel for Corperal Nobby Nobs.

The Corporal was not alone. Nobby was surrounded by about a half dozen — well, it didn’t seem right to call them people. Not exactly. Nor could Vimes say exactly how many there were, as the number of heads and limbs didn’t seem to match up. All Vimes could determine before he blacked out was that they all fit squarely into the same Socio-Eco-Ramantic bracket as Corporal Nobbs.

For an immesurable amount of time, the city was without a Nights Watch. Then Vimes came to, memories of Corporals and Captains fading fast. When his vision cleared and his brain began to solidify he discovered he was leaning over the edge of the roof, sobbing, and vomitting waves of banana into the gutters below.