Moving Pictures (Discworld 10)

'It should be green.'

'Nah. Yore finking about the tomatoes,' said Fruntkin.

'Yeah, and what's this runny stuff?' said a man in the queue.

Fruntkin drew himself up to his full height.

'That', he said, 'is the mayonnaisey. Made it myself. Out of a book,' he added proudly.

'Yeah, I expect you did,' said the man, prodding it. 'Clearly oil, eggs and vinegar were not involved, right?'

'Specialitay de lar mayson,' said Fruntkin.

'Right, right,' said the man. 'Only it's attacking my lettuce.'

Fruntkin grasped his ladle angrily.

'Look-' he began.

'No, it's all right,' said the prospective diner. 'The slugs have formed a defensive ring.'

There was a commotion by the door. Detritus the troll waded through the diners, with Cut-me-own-Throat Dibbler strutting along behind him.

The troll shouldered the queue aside and glared at Fruntkin.

'Mr Dibbler want a word,' he said, and reached across the counter, lifted the dwarf up by his food-encrusted shirt, and dangled him in front of Throat.

'Anyone seen Victor Tugelbend?' said Throat. 'Or that girl Ginger?'

Fruntkin opened his mouth to swear, and thought better of it.

'The boy was in here half an hour ago,' he squeaked. 'Ginger works here mornings. Don't know where she goes.'

'Where'd Victor go?' said Throat. He pulled a bag out of his pocket. It jingled. Fruntkin's eyes swivelled towards it as though they were ball bearings and it was a powerful magnet.

'Dunno, Mr Throat,' he said. 'He just went out again when she wasn't here.'

'Right,' said Throat. 'Well, if you see him again, tell him I'm looking for him and I'm going to make him a star, right?'

'Star. Right,' said the dwarf.

Throat reached into his moneybag and produced a tendollar piece.

'And I want to order dinner for later on,' he added.

'Dinner. Right,' quavered Fruntkin.

'Steak and prawns, I think,' said Throat. 'With a choice of sunkissed vegetables in season, and then strawberries and cream.'

Fruntkin stared at him.

'Er-,' he began.

Detritus poked the dwarf so that he swung backwards and forwards.

'An' I', he said, 'will 'ave . . . er . . . a well-weathered basalt with a aggregate of fresh-hewn sandstone conglomerates. Right?'

'Er. Yes,' said Fruntkin.