angels, conversations about

write me sam and sibyl!!!!!
 

Sam Vimes has not ever thought of himself as a nice man. Partly because his image of nice men skews toward some vague impression of a banker, or a lawyer, someone clean-shaven and well-dressed and utterly out of place lurking in the shadows of Ankh-Morpork in a small-hours thunderstorm, which is of course an essential habit of any copper worth his salt— and partly because he’d always assumed that there was no room for niceness in his line of work. He considered it to be something like the moral equivalent of one of C.M.O.T. Dibbler’s sausages. Whatever…whatever went into them, you could always slap the label of “sausage” on it, and sell it for tuppence, and be done. Similarly, you could get away with all sorts of nasty behavior in this world, as long as you were nice about it. It was amazing, what went on under the banner heading of niceness. Lord Rust was nice— or he was nice to the people who mattered, so, not Sam Vimes— and look at the sort of thing he spent his days doing. People like that made Vimes prefer the cobblestone-variety criminal, because at least he didn’t pretend he was going for your throat for any other reason than the fact that he was a lowlife and wanted to stay out of prison. None of this nonsense about honor— or, worse, civility. You knew where you stood with him, and you didn’t have to hold your tongue out of concern for that idiotically touchy game of moron’s chess which Vetinari calls politics and Sam calls something a good deal less polite.