Moving pictures

Mattresses tend to be full of life too, and no-one writes odes to them. Citizens hate living there and, if they have to move away on business or adventure or, more usually, until some statute of limitations runs out, can't wait to get back so they can enjoy hating living there some more. They put stickers on the backs of their carts saying 'Ankh- Morpork Loathe It or Leave It'. They call it The Big Wahooni, after the fruit.[1]

Every so often a ruler of the city builds a wall around Ankh-Morpork, ostensibly to keep enemies out. But Ankh-Morpork doesn't fear enemies. In fact it welcomes enemies, provided they are enemies with money to spend.[2] It has survived flood, fire, hordes, revolutions and dragons. Sometimes by accident, admittedly, but it has survived them. The cheerful and irrecoverably venal spirit of the city has been proof against anything ...

Until now.

Boom.

The explosion removed the windows, the door and most of the chimney.

It was the sort of thing you expected in the Street of Alchemists. The neighbours preferred explosions, which were at least identifiable and soon over. They were better than the smells, which crept up on you.Explosions were part of the scenery, such as was left.

And this one was pretty good, even by the standards of local connoisseurs. There was a deep red heart to the billowing black smoke which you didn't often see. The bits of semi-molten brickwork were more molten than usual. It was, they considered, quite impressive.

Boom.

A minute or two after the explosion a figure lurched out of the ragged hole where the door had been. It had no hair, and what clothes it still had were on fire.

It staggered up to the small crowd that was admiring the devastation and by chance laid a sooty hand on a hot-meat-pie-and-sausage-in-a-bun salesman called Cut-me-own-Throat Dibbler, who had an almost magical ability to turn up wherever a sale might be made.

'Looking,' it said, in a dreamy, stunned voice, 'f'r a word. Tip of my tongue.'

'Blister?' volunteered Throat.

He recovered his commercial senses. 'After an experience like that,' he added, proffering a pastry case full of so much reclaimed organic debris that it was very nearly sapient, 'what you need is to get a hot meat pie inside you-'

'Nonono. 'S not blister. 'S what you say when you've discovered something. You goes running out into the street shoutin',' said the smouldering figure urgently. 'S'pecial word,' it added, its brow creasing under the soot.

The crowd, reluctantly satisfied that there were going to be no more explosions, gathered around. This might be nearly as good.

'Yeah, that's right,' said an elderly man, filling his pipe. 'You runs out shouting 'Fire! Fire!' ' He looked triumphant.

' 'S not that ... '

'Or 'Help!' or-'

'No, he's right,' said a woman with a basket of fish on her head. 'There's a special word. It's foreign.'

'Right, right,' said her neighbour. 'Special foreign word for people who've discovered something. It was invented by some foreign bugger in his bath-'

'Well,' said the pipe man, lighting it off the alchemist's smouldering hat, 'I for one don't see why people in this city need to go round shouting heathen lingo just 'cos they've had a bath. Anyway, look at him. He ain't had a bath. He needs a bath, yes, but he ain't had one. What's he want to go round shouting foreign lingo for? We've got perfectly satisfactory words for shoutin'.'

'Like what?' said Cut-me-own-Throat:

The pipe-smoker hesitated. 'Well,' he said, 'like ... 'I've discovered something' ... or ... 'Hooray' ... '

'No, I'm thinking about the bugger over Tsort way, or somewhere. He was in his bath and he had this idea for something, and he ran out down the street yelling.'