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"
Genuine
article
,
Captain
.
"
Throat
leaned
closer
.
He
was
the
sort
of
person
who
could
make
"
Good
morning
"
sound
like
a
once
-
in
-
a
-
lifetime
,
never
-
to
-
be
-
repeated
offer
.
His
eyes
swivelled
back
and
forth
in
their
sockets
,
like
two
rodents
trying
to
find
a
way
out
.
"
Can
’
t
afford
to
be
without
it
,
"
he
hissed
.
"
Anti
-
dragon
cream
.
Personal
guarantee
:
if
you
’
re
incinerated
you
get
your
money
back
,
no
quibble
.
"
"
What
you
’
re
saying
,
"
said
Vimes
slowly
,
"
if
I
understand
the
wording
correctly
,
is
that
if
I
am
baked
alive
by
the
dragon
you
’
ll
return
the
money
?
"
"
Upon
personal
application
,
"
said
Cut
-
me
-
own
-
Throat
.
He
unscrewed
the
lid
from
a
jar
of
vivid
green
ointment
and
thrust
it
under
Vimes
’
s
nose
.
"
Made
from
over
fifty
different
rare
spices
and
herbs
to
a
recipe
known
only
to
a
bunch
of
ancient
monks
what
live
on
some
mountain
somewhere
.
One
dollar
a
jar
,
and
I
’
m
cutting
my
own
throat
.
It
’
s
a
public
service
,
really
,
"
he
added
piously
.
"
You
’
ve
got
to
hand
it
to
those
ancient
monks
,
brewing
it
up
so
quickly
,
"
said
Vimes
.
"
Clever
buggers
,
"
agreed
Cut
-
me
-
own
-
Throat
.
"
It
must
be
all
that
meditation
and
yak
yogurt
.
"
"
So
what
’
s
happening
,
Throat
?
"
said
Vimes
.
"
Who
’
re
all
the
guys
with
the
big
swords
?
"
"
Dragon
hunters
,
Cap
’
n
.
The
Patrician
announced
a
reward
of
fifty
thousand
dollars
to
anyone
who
brings
him
the
dragon
’
s
head
.
Not
attached
to
the
dragon
,
either
;
he
’
s
no
fool
,
that
man
.
"
"
What
?
"
"
That
’
s
what
he
said
.
It
’
s
all
written
on
posters
.
"
