Feet of Clay (Discworld 19)

'Wrong!'

Vimes winced. 'Ouch...'

'What's going to be done, eh?' said the butcher, his face a few inches from Vimes's.

'Well, if you can get a grip on the stem - '

'I'm serious! What are you going to do? I'm a taxpayer and I know my rights!'

He prodded Vimes in the breastplate. Vimes's expression went wooden. He looked down at the finger, and then back up at the man's large red nose.

'In that case,' said Vimes, 'I suggest you take another apple and - '

'Er, excuse me,' said Carrot loudly, 'You're Mr Maxilotte, aren't you? Got a shop in the Shambles?'

'Yes, that's right. What of it?'

'It's just that I don't recall seeing your name on the register of taxpayers, which is very odd because you said you were a taxpayer, but of course you wouldn't lie about a thing like that and anyway when you paid your taxes they would have given you a receipt because that's the law and I'm sure you'd be able to find it if you looked - '

The butcher lowered his finger. 'Er, yes...'

'I could come and help you if you'd like,' said Carrot.

The butcher gave Vimes a despairing look.

'He really does read that stuff,' said Vimes. 'For pleasure. Carrot, why don't you scarp - ? My gods, what the hell is that?

There was a bellow further up the street.

Something big and muddy was approaching at a sort of menacing amble. In the gloom it looked vaguely like a very fat centaur, half-man, half... in fact it was, he realized as it bounced nearer, half-Colon, half-bull.

Sergeant Colon had lost his helmet and had a certain look about him that suggested he had been close to the soil.

As the massive bull cantered past, the sergeant rolled his eyes wildly and said, 'I daren't get off! I daren't get off!'

'How did you get on?' shouted Vimes.

'It wasn't easy, sir! I just grabbed the 'orns, sir, next minute I was on its back!'

'Well, hang on!'

'Yes, sir! Hanging on sir!'

Rogers the bulls were angry and bewildered, which counts as the basic state of mind for full-grown bulls.[16]

But they had a particular reason. Beef cattle have a religion. They are deeply spiritual animals. They believe that good and obedient cattle go to a better place when they die, through a magic door. They don't know what happens next, but they've heard that it involves really good eating and, for some reason, horseradish.

Rogers had been quite looking forward to it. They were getting a bit creaky these days, and cows seemed to run faster than they had done when they were lads. They could just taste that heavenly horseradish...

And instead they'd been herded into a crowded pen for a day and then the gate had been opened and there'd been animals everywhere and this did not look like the Promised Lard.

And someone was on their back. They'd tried to buck him off a few times. In Rogers' heyday the impudent man would by now be a few stringy red stains on the ground, but finally the arthritic bulls had given up until such time as they could find a handy tree on which to scrape him off.

They just wished the wretched man would stop yelling.

Vimes took a few steps after the bull, and then turned.

'Carrot? Angua? You two get down to Carry's tallow works. Just keep an eye on it until we get there, understand? Spy out the place but don't go in, understand? Right? Do not in any circumstances move in. Do I make myself clear? Just remain in the area. Right?'