Discworld 11 - Reaper Man

The Dean started to mutter urgently under his breath, and then screamed.

‘I’ve gone blind!’

‘Your bonsai bandage has slipped over your eyes, Dean.’

Windle groaned.

The wizards ran down the corridor.

‘How can you kill ghosts?’

‘How should I know? The question doesn’t usually arise!’

‘You exorcise them, I think.’

‘What? Jumpin’ up and down, runnin’ on the spot, that kind of thing?’

The Dean had been ready for this. ‘It’s spelled with an “O”, Archchancellor. I don’t think one is expected to subject them to, er, physical exertion.’

‘Should think not, man. We don’t want a lot of healthy ghosts buzzin’ around.’

‘Hang on, though,’ said the Bursar, who had managed to catch up with events. ‘Why should that worry us? We don’t have anything to fear from the dead, do we? After all, they’re just people who are dead. They’re just ordinary people. People like us.’

The wizards thought about this. They looked at one another. They started to shout, all at once.

The wizards held that, as servants of a higher truth, they were not subject to the mundane laws of the city.

The Patrician said that, indeed, this was the case, but they would bloody well pay their taxes like everyone else.

The wizards said that, as followers of the light of wisdom, they owed allegiance to no mortal man.

The Patrician said that this may well be true but they also owed a city tax of two hundred dollars per head per annum, payable quarterly.

The wizards said that the University stood on magical ground and was therefore exempt from taxation and anyway you couldn’t put a tax on knowledge.

The Patrician said you could. It was two hundred dollars per capita; if per capita was a problem, decapita could be arranged.

JUST BECAUSE SOMETHING IS A METAPHOR DOESN’T MEAN IT CAN’T BE REAL

Somewhere in the night, Reg Shoe looked both ways, took a furtive paintbrush and small pot of paint from inside his jacket, and painted on a handy wall: Inside Every Living Person is a Dead Person Waiting to Get Out...

No, it's definitely got to be bonsai," he said. He considered it some more and then brightened up. "On account of it all being part of bushido. Like... small trees. Bush-i-do. Yeah. Makes sense, when you think about it."
"But you can't shout "bonsai!" here," said the Lecturer in Recent Runes. "We've got a totally different cultural background. It'd be useless. No-one will know what you mean."

But he's dead," said Ridcully. "Isn't he? He said he was."
"Ha!" said someone who had much less skin than Ridcully would have liked him to have. "That's typical. That's naked vitalism, that is. I bet they'd rescue someone in there if they happened to be alive."

Artor! Nobblyesse obligay!"
"What? Is that some sort of vampire code?" Reg whispered.
"It means something like: a count's gotta do what a count's gotta do," said Windle.
"Count!" snarled Arthur, swaying dangerously. "I never should have listened to that lawyer! I should have known nothing good ever comes in a long brown envelope! And I can't reach the bloody thing anyway!"
"Can't you jump?" said Windle.
"Can't you drop dead?"
"No."

OK, Reg and me will help you up, come on -"
"Me? But I can't stand heights!"
"I thought you could turn into a bat?"
"Yeah, but a very nervous one!"