Hogfather

Everything starts somewhere...

...although many physicists disagree.

There is the the constant desire to find out where.

Where is the point where it all began?

But much, much later than that,

the Discworld was formed...

...drifting onwards through space

atop four elephants

on the shell of a giant turtle,

the great A'Tuin.

It was some time after its creation

when most people forgot that the very oldest stories of the beginning

are, sooner or later, about blood.

At least, that's one theory.

The philosopher Didactylos has suggested an alternative hypothesis.

"Things just happen. What the hell?"

And so our story begins in Ankh-Morpork,

the twin city of proud Ankh and pestilent Morpork,

the biggest city in Discworld,

a city where magic is just another job,

and where the Tower of Art of the Unseen University for Wizards

looms over all the dark, narrow streets.

Our story begins on a midwinter festival

bearing a remarkable similarity to your Christmas.

And so.... it was the night before Hogswatch.

"And then Jack chopped down what was the world's last beanstalk,

adding murder and ecological terrorism

to the theft, enticement and trespass charges already mentioned,

and all the giant's children didn't have a daddy any more."

"But he got away with it and lived happily ever after

without so much as a guilty twinge about what he had done.

which proves that you can be excused just about anything

if you are a hero, because no one asks inconvenient questions."

And now, it's time for bed.

- Susan? - Yes?

You know last week when we wrote letters to the Hogfather?

- Yes? - Well, will he really come?

And when's he coming here?

Does it matter, if you get the presents anyway?

Yes.

Well, if you don't believe in the Hogfather,

- there won't be any presents. - Thought so.

But while children everywhere sleep fitfully

in the belief that a jolly fat man is about to deliver their presents...

...not necessarily everyone is entering into the Hogswatch spirit,

especially in a city where there is a guild

for everything.

The doors are locked. The windows are barred.

The dog does not appear to have woken up.

The squeaky floorboards haven't.

I really doubt that you are a ghost,

and gods generally do not announce themselves so politely.

You could, of course, be Death,

but I don't believe he bothers with such niceties.

Besides, I'm feeling quite well.

Hmm...

Good evening.

Good evening, Lord Downey.

You appear to be.. a spectre.

Our nature is not a matter for discussion.

We offer you a commission.

You wish someone inhumed?

Brought to an end.

- Our scale of fees... - The payment will be $3 million.

- No questions asked, I assume. - No questions answered.

But does the suggested fee represent the difficulty involved?

The client is heavily guarded?

Not guarded at all,

but almost certainly impossible to delete with conventional weapons.

We like to know for whom we are working.

We are sure you do.

We need to know your name, or names,

in strict client confidentiality, of course.

You may think of us as... the Auditors.

Really? What do you audit?

Everything.

We maintain the logical order of the universe.

I think we need to know a little more than that.

We are the people with $3 million.

We need to know where, when, and, of course, who.

The location is not on any map and we need the task to be completed

by sunrise tomorrow. This is essential.

As for the who,

let us call him... the Fat Man.

But won't he be out on his rounds?

Ho, ho, ho!

Ho, ho, ho!

Is this a joke?

We have no sense of humour.

There are some that say that this... person does not exist.

He must exist!

How else could you so readily recognise his picture?

And many are in correspondence with him.

He would be difficult to find.

You will find persons on any street

who can tell you his approximate address.

Yes, of course, but as you say, they can hardly give a map reference.

Even then, how would the... Fat Man be inhumed?

A glass of poisoned sherry, perhaps?

You misunderstand the nature of employment.

How do I misunderstand you exactly?

We pay, you find the ways and means.

- How can I contact you? - We will contact you.

We know where you are. We know... where everyone is.

- Winvoe? - Yes, sir?

Is Mr Teatime still in the building?

Up, Gouger! Up, Rooter!

Up, Tusker. Up, Snouter!

Giddy up!

Wahey!

Go away. I don't do that stuff any more.

Yes, Twyla?

I'm afraid of the monster in the cellar, Susan.

- It's going to eat me up. - What, again?

Ye gods, there's a girl out here with a poker!

What are you doing?

Twyla said she's afraid of the monster in the cellar, Mrs Gaiter.

And you're going to attack it with a poker, eh?

Yes.

- Susan's our governess. - She beats up monsters with a poker?

Actually, that's a very clever idea. My daughter gets it into her head

there's a monster in the cellar, you go in with a poker

and make bashing noises while the child listens,

- and everything's alright. - Is that what you're doing, Susan?

Yes, Mrs Gaiter.

This I've got to watch.

It's not every day you see monsters beaten up by a girl.

Come on.

Come in, Mr Teatime.

Carter, just put it on the table over there, will you?

Yes, sir. I'm sorry, sir. I'll go and fetch another cup directly, sir.

- What? - For your visitor, sir.

What visitor?

Oh, for when Mr Tea...

Mr Teatime?

It's pronounced... Teh-ah-tim-eh, sir.

Everyone gets it wrong, sir.

How did you get in here?

Easily. I got mildly... scorched on the last few feet, of course.

The dog seems to like you.

I get on well with... animals, sir.

I have a report...

...here that says that you nailed Sir George's dog to the ceiling.

I couldn't have it barking while I was working, sir.

- Some people would have drugged it. - Oh.

But I definitely fulfilled the contract.

I checked Sir George's breathing with a mirror, as instructed.

Apparently his head was several feet from his body at that point.

That was alright, wasn't it, sir?

It, erm...

...lacked elegance.

I thank you, sir!

I'm always happy to be corrected. I shall remember that... next time.

It was about the next time that I wished to talk.

As a matter of interest,

how would you go about inhuming this gentleman?

You don't have to worry. She always wins.

Very well done.

Very p-sychological. Clever idea, that, bending the poker.

I expect you're not afraid any more, eh, my girl?

No.

No. Very p-sychological.

Susan says, "Don't get afraid. Get angry."

Oh, well, er, thank you, Susan.

And now, if you'd all like to come back into the parlour...

I mean, the drawing room...

Dashed convincing, the way she bent the poker like that!

- Have they all gone, Twyla? - Yes, Susan.

Good.

Mind the tail!

That's what we do to monsters.

Now it's back to bed for you, my girl.

Difficult, sir.

Certainly.

But I have devoted some... time to it, sir.

You mean you've actually sat down and thought out

how to inhume the Hogfather?

Why, yes, sir. And the Soul Cake Duck.

And Death, sir.

They're imaginary creatures.

Makes it a challenge.

I suppose I just see things differently from other people.

We may be able to see the complaint of Sir George's estate against you

with regard to his dog rather differently,

and approve your graduation to full membership of the Guild.

Take the dark, sir?

Wear black, sir?

If you agree to undertake... this contract.

With due elegance, of course.

With elegance guaranteed, sir.

Er, Mr Teh-ah-tim-eh?

You have... actually applied yourself to a study

of ways of killing Death?

Only as a hobby, sir.

But then some people might say that he is technically immortal.

Everyone has their weak points, sir.

It's gone six. He's not coming.

- Let's go. - Sit down, will you?

Assassins are always fashionably late,

because of style, right?