'A cellar?' said Otto. Top hole!'
First the dwarfs had come, William thought as he went back to his desk. They'd been insulted because of their diligence and because of their height, but they had kept their heads down* and prospered. Then the trolls had come, and they got on a little better, because people don't throw as many stones at creatures seven feet tall who could throw rocks back. Then the zombies had come out of.the casket. One or two werewolves had crept in under the door. The gnomes had integrated quickly, despite a bad start, because they were tough and even more dangerous to cross than a troll; at least a troll couldn't run up your trouser leg. There weren't that many species left.
The vampires had never made it. They weren't sociable, even amongst themselves, they didn't think as a species, they were unpleasantly weird and they sure as hell didn't have their own food shops.
So now it was dawning on some of the brighter ones that the only way people would accept vampires was if they stopped being vampires. That was a large price to pay for social acceptability, but perhaps not so large as the one that involved having your head cut off and your ashes scattered on the river. A life of steak tartare wasn't too bad if you compared it with a death of stake au naturelle.+
Which was not hard, as unkind people pointed out. .
In any case, anyone eating raw steak from an Ankh-Morpork slaughterhouse was embarking on a life of danger and excitement that should satisfy anyone.
'Er, I think we'd like to see who we're employing, though,' William said aloud.
Otto emerged, very slowly and nervously, from behind the lens. He was thin, pale and wore little oval dark glasses. He still clutched the twist of black ribbon as if it was a talisman, which it more or less was.
'It's all right, we won't bite you,' said Sacharissa.
'And one good turn deserves another, eh?' said Goodmountain.
'That was a bit tasteless, Mr Goodmountain,' said Sacharissa.
'So am I,' said the dwarf, turning back to the stone. 'Just so long as people know where I stand, that's all,'
'You vill not be sorry,' said Otto. 'I am completely reformed, I assure you. Vot is it you vant me to take pictures of, please?'
'News,' said William.
'Vot is news, please?'
'News is...' William began. 'News... is what we put in the paper--'
'What d'you think of this, eh?' said a cheerful voice.
William turned. There was a horribly familiar face looking at him over the top of a cardboard box.
'Hello, Mr Wintler,' he said. 'Er, Sacharissa, I wonder if you could go and--'
He wasn't quick enough. Mr Wintler, a man of the variety that thinks a whoopee cushion is the last word in repartee, was not the kind to let a mere freezing reception stand in his way. 'I was digging my garden this morning and up came this parsnip, and I thought: that young man at the paper will laugh himself silly when he sees it, 'cos my lady wife couldn't keep a straight face, and--'
To William's horror he was already reaching into the box. 'Mr Wintler, I really don't think--'
But the hand was already rising, and there was the sound of something scraping on the side of the box. 'I bet the young lady here would like a good chuckle too, eh?'
William shut his eyes.
He heard Sacharissa gasp. Then she said, 'Golly, it's amazingly lifelike!'
William opened his eyes. 'Oh, it's a nose,' he said. 'A parsnip with a sort of knobbly face and a huge noseV
'You vant I should take a picture?' said Otto.
'Yes!' said William, drunk with relief. 'Take a big picture of Mr Wintler and his wonderfully nasal parsnip, Otto! Your first job! Yes, indeed!'
Mr Wintler beamed. 'And shall I run back home and fetch my carrot?' he said.
'No!' said William and Goodmountain in whiplash unison.
'You vant the picture right now?' said Otto.