The Truth (Discworld 25)

The door creaked open.

There was this to be said about the Smell of Foul Ole Ron, an odour so intense that it took on a personality of its own and fully justified the capital letter: after the initial shock the organs of smell just gave up and shut down, as if no more able to comprehend the thing than an oyster can comprehend the ocean. After some minutes in its presence, wax would trickle out of people's ears and their hair would begin to bleach.

It had developed to such a degree that it now led a semi-independent life of its own, and often went to the theatre by itself, or read small volumes of poetry. Ron was outclassed by his Smell.

Foul Ole Ron's hands were thrust deeply into his pockets, but from one pocket issued a length of string, or rather a great many lengths of string tied into one length. The other end was attached to a small dog of the greyish persuasion. It was possibly a terrier. It walked with a limp and also in a kind of oblique fashion, as though it was trying to insinuate its way through the world. It walked like a dog who has long ago learned that the world contains more thrown boots than meaty bones. It walked like a dog that was prepared, at any moment, to run.

It looked up at William with crusted eyes and said: 'Woof.'

William felt that he ought to stand up for mankind.

'Sorry about the smell,' he said. Then he stared at the dog.

'What's this smell you keep on about?' said Gunilla. The rivets on his helmet were beginning to tarnish.

'It, er, belongs to Mr... er... Ron,' said William, still giving the dog a suspicious look. 'People say it's glandular.'

He was sure he'd seen the dog before. It was always in the corner of the picture, as it were - ambling through the streets, or just sitting on a corner, watching the world go by.

'What does he want?' said Gunilla. 'D'you think he wants us to print something?'

'Shouldn't think so,' said William. 'He's a sort of beggar. Only they won't let him in the Beggars' Guild any more.'

'He isn't saying anything.'

'Well, usually he just stands there until people give him something to go away. Er... you've heard of things like the Welcome Wagon, where various neighbours and traders greet newcomers to an area?'

'Yes.'

'Well, this is the dark side.'

Foul Ole Ron nodded and held out a hand, ' 's'right, Mister Push. Don't try the blarney gobble on me, juggins, I told 'em, I ain't slanging the gentry, bugrit. Millennium hand and shrimp. Dang.'

'Woof.'

William glared at the dog again.

'Growl,' it said.

Gunilla scratched somewhere in the recesses of his beard.

'One thing I already noticed about this here town,' he said, 'is that people'll buy practically anything off a man in the street.'

He picked up a handful of the news sheets, still damp from the press.

'Can you understand me, mister?' he said.

'Bugrit.'

Gunilla nudged William in the ribs. 'Does that mean yes or no, d'you think?'

'Probably yes.'

'Okay. Well, see here now, if you sell these things at, oh, twenty pence each, you can keep--'

'Hey, you can't sell it that cheap,' said William.

'Why not?'