Added italic + removed HI. *** Xenzai[NEF] ***
I've always known that gods had a sense of humour.
Why else would they put us all on the back of a giant turtle?
Of course, I had assumed I was in on the joke.
As it turns out, I, Moist von Lipwig, am the butt of it.
Can you fax it to Genua, please, dear?
Bloody hell fire.
When are they gonna spend some money on this system?
Good evening, John Dearheart.
Who's there?
And good night.
Argh!
Argh! Argh!
There is always an angle.
I've come to realise it's the one thing in life you can rely on.
The trick is finding that angle.
The events I'm about to recount may seem extraordinary,
callous, criminal, even.
But reflecting on all that's happened,
in many ways, I feel blameless.
Perhaps you'd be more sympathetic if I started from the very beginning.
You see, on the day I was orphaned, I had only two things to my name -
the family nag, and "nag" is being generous,
and my wits.
But wit, and a bit of boot polish, can turn a nag into a horse...
..for about 20 minutes.
Which is all I needed.
12 horse trades later, and I had enough cash to get into diamonds.
$25.
Is that all?
Got her.
She'd seen a $100 diamond, but she'd bought a $1 lump of glass.
You see, I'm a firm believer in the saying,
"you can't fool an honest man".
It was on this premise that I built my career.
Rob, trick, forge, embezzle.
I can't deny I did every con in the book.
And when I finished the book of cons,
I started writing chapters of my own.
News!
Times! Times!
Bond crisis rambles on!
Albert Spangler, chief bursar for the Undertakers Guild.
You might be interested in our compensation scheme
for losses incurred by the, er...
..fake bond scandal.
Good dollars for fake bonds, fake dollars for good bonds.
Switch the cash bags,
add a dash of short change,
bank on a little greed...
By the time we'd finished, I was $200 up.
Not a fortune, but enough for a good night on the town.
Albert Spangler?
Never heard of him. But for you, I could be anyone.
Could you be lunch?
How was I to know the City Watch's finest sergeant was a werewolf?
Eurgh!
I'd been in tighter spots.
The mortar was soft.
With a decent metal spoon and time on my hands,
a few weeks' hard digging and I'd be free.
Well done, Mr Lipwig.
You set this up.
Lord Vetinari's orders.
He calls it occupational therapy.
Occupa... I call it torture.
Not upset, are you?
Only you've really entered into the spirit of the thing.
Admirable, the way you kept going,
stuffing all the dust into your mattress.
Very tidy.
Now, you really should get some rest.
We'll be hanging you in half an hour.
Hanging? For one little con?
That and these.
There's got to be at least $150,000 worth of fraud here.
And these are just the cons we can prove.
Good morning, sir.
I am Trooper and I will be your executioner for today.
Don't look so worried, sir, I've hanged hundreds of people
and we'll have you out of here in no time.
That's what I'm worried about.
Now, before we start, about your rope, sir.
It sounds strange, but there's a lot of specialist collectors out there
and I'm gonna auction it on the clacks.
It's the coming thing, you know. Worth more signed, of course.
Much obliged.
Which just leaves the small matter of your final words.
I wasn't actually expecting to die.
Very good. We haven't had that one before(!)
Everybody ready? Not me. Not me.
Oh, you are a card, sir.
I bring an edict from Lord Vetinari, Patrician of Ankh-Morpork.
A reprieve!
He says to get on with it.
The last words, sir?
I commend my soul to any god that can find it.
Very nice, we'll go with that.
Ah, Mr Lipwig, I see you are awake.
And still alive at the present time.
Ooh!
You've danced the sisal two-step.
It's a very precise science, hanging a man,
and Mr Trooper is a master.
But only an expert would have spotted
that you were hanged to within an inch of your life.
The last inch being the crux of the matter.
You see, sometimes,
when a man has made such a foul and tangled mess of his life
that death appears to be the only option...
..an angel appears
and offers him a change of life.
I should like you to think of me as that angel.
I'm offering you a new life.
And a job.
Little sips.
Now, perhaps, I should point out that door behind you.
If, after hearing my proposition, you wish to leave,
you have only to step through that door
and you will never hear from me again.
The job in question is to reopen the Ankh-Morpork Post Office.
The Post Office? Mmm.
A moment.
Oh!
Certain death or the Post Office?
Hardly a choice, more an alternative.
I'd seen enough of the inside of a coffin for one day.
You see, the really interesting thing about angels...
..is that you only ever get the one.
Do we understand each other, Mr Lipwig?
Perfectly.
Welcome to government service.
And the wage is $20 a week.
Not bad at all.
Please.
Oh, I almost forgot.
Your parole officer will meet you outside in ten minutes.
Parole officer?
But I'm a respectable member of society now.
Oh, he's a very respectable parole officer.
Whoo-hoo!
The fools had gifted me a second chance.
All I had to do was run faster and run longer.
The plains lay ahead of me.
By nightfall, I'd be in a feather bed
and, by morning, I'd be back in business.
Uh?
You can't run and you can't hide, Mr Lipwig.
That's what you think.
You gotta be kidding.
Argh!
The rules must be obeyed.
A-a-a-rgh!
I have nothing but good feelings towards you, Mr Lipwig.
What the hell are you?!
I am your parole officer and your safety is my concern.
Regrettably, we meet again.
Yet I specifically remember saying that you only ever get one angel.
You didn't say you were gonna set a clay monster on me.
Rather harsh.
Mr Pump is not a monster, he's a golem.
It walked all night, carrying me and a horse. Quite.
You have to sleep, Mr Pump does not. You have to eat, Mr Pump does not.
There is no escape for you.
There is only a choice between reopening the Post Office and...
But...
Who cares about the Post Office?
No one posts anything any more,
it's all clacks, clacks, clacks - look at it.
Do you play Thud, Mr Lipwig?
It's a fascinating game.
My current opponent is far away in Uberwald and we play by clacks.
Well, that's the theory, but there are so many service breakdowns.
Now, as a disgruntled customer,
I should be able to take my business elsewhere,
but with no postal service, I am stuck.
And I don't like to be stuck, Mr Lipwig.
But why me?
Because wheels are in motion, Mr Lipwig.
Wheels within wheels.
And it is time for your cog to turn.
The postmaster has the use of a small apartment.
And I believe there is a hat, too.
Mmm.
There was nothing for it but to deploy Rule 13 -
when captured, turn enemies into friends.
Can we talk frankly, Mr Pump?
A golem is incapable of lying.
Really? How unfortunate for you.
Fact is, I'm worried.
Lord Vetinari works you so hard.
It's just not right.
I was built to work.
Don't you ever just want to kick back and take a day off?
You misunderstand.
Pump is not my name, it's my description. Pump 19.
I stood at the bottom of a hole 100ft deep
and pumped water into the city, for two centuries.
But now, I walk in the sunlight, feel the wind on my face.
This is better.
Trouble is, sooner or later,
someone always comes along and blocks out your sun.
What do you do then, Mr Pump?
Ah, it doesn't look in bad shape at all.
This is not the Post Office.
That is.
"No glom of nit
can stay these mes engers abot their duty."
What the hell does that mean?
It means, you have work to do.
Really. Where do they find them?
We should be, er, going now, Reacher.
Have you seen this, Horsefry?
It looks likes some other fool
has been suckered in to running the Post Office.
If we're late for Vetinari, we'll be in big trouble.
Oh.
Remind me to look appropriately scared.
They can't expect me to fix this on my own.
Oh! You won't be on your own, sir.
Groat, sir, junior postman Groat.
One word from you, sir, and I will...
I will leap into action.
Junior postman Groat?
Indeed, sir, yes - it should be senior,
but nobody's ever stayed long enough to promote me.
And you are it?
Oh, no, sir, that would be ridiculous. No, no.
Well, I want to meet my entire staff.
Oh, certainly, I'll take you straight to him, sir.
Come this way.
Stanley!
Mr Lipwig, the new postmaster.
Oh.
Oh, I see you know something about pins, Stanley.
No, sir.
I know everything about pins.
Last year, the pinneries of Ankh-Morpork
turned out 27,880,972 pins.
Born in the sorting room, sir. Learned to read from envelopes.
We did our best for him, but he's a bit "return to sender",
if you know what I mean.
That includes wax-headed, steels,
brasses, silver-headed, extra-large...
..and novelty.
Yes.
I saw a magazine about this once.
Pins Monthly?
That rag is for hobbyists.
True pinheads only read Total Pins.
Ah. Erm, will you be staying down here with us, sir?
No, no. I was told there's an official apartment.
Oh, you want to stay there?
There is the hat, too, sir. The hat of office.
Ah!
Ah, ha-ha. Magnificent.
It's magnificent, isn't it, sir?
You don't seriously expect me to put that on my head?
It's a time-honoured tradition, sir,
and it must sit on the postmaster's head.
Get off me!
Sit with dignity. Stop it, Mr Groat! Enough!
This is going straight to the city dump.
We expected more keenness from the postmaster.
Keenness? Like him and his pins.
Keenness beyond the bounds of sanity.
Perhaps, if you'd been a bit more keen about being postmen,
we wouldn't have a million letters stuck out there.
I don't think I like him, Mr Groat.
Don't worry, Stanley, he won't be here long.
The problem is, Mr Gilt,
since you acquired the clacks, breakdowns have increased.
The speed of messages has slowed and the cost to customers has risen.
With respect, my Lord,
we are answerable to our shareholders, not to you.
Then perhaps your shareholders will be interested to learn
that I am reopening the Post Office.
That lumbering, overstaffed monster that collapsed under its own weight?
The people of Ankh-Morpork deserve choice
and currently, the only choice they have is between you and nothing.
And the problem is?
Don't let me detain you.
Is that an original bluestone slab?
I take my Thud very seriously.
We should play a game sometime.
We already are, Mr Gilt. We already are.
He really means business, this time, Reacher. He really does.
Don't panic, to mean business
you need to have a business to start with.
And... What's that on your face?
It's nothing. Just nerves.
It's revolting.
Anyway, this fellow Lipwig has half-wits for staff
and a four-year backlog of mail.
There will be no renaissance.
Especially once I've enlightened him.
Enlightened him!
What happened here?
Happen, sir?
Post offices should deliver mail, not hoard it.
We-we just, er, just got a bit behind, sir.
What was that?
Er, er, what, sir? It's probably just a pigeon, sir.
Mr Groat, I don't think you're being honest with me.
Maybe I should just sack you all.
Er...
You could do that, sir, but then, who would fill the inkwells, sir?
Inkwells? Gotta keep the inkwells filled, sir.
Just like in the old days. Yes.
Ah, you should've seen it, sir.
Brass and copper everywhere,
counters of rare wood and teams of postmen.
Teams, sir, all lined up under the great clock.
Their uniforms all royal blue with brass buttons.
Ah, this must be my apartment.
Now, all we've got is you, sir.
You might understand, by this point,
I was almost feeling nostalgic for the gallows.
This wasn't a Post Office, it was a lunatic asylum.
Somehow, I had to escape.
Excellent work, Mr Pump.
That's it, you just keep on shovelling.
Don't stop for anything, now.
I have your Karmic signature on my internal tablet.
Fascinating.
Which means I know where you are at all times.
So, if you were thinking of escape...
Escape? Me?
No, no, no.
No, I was just off to er...
Erm... Um...
..deliver a letter.
Isn't that what postmasters do?
I will know if this is not delivered.
Don't you trust me, Mr Pump?
I want to trust you, Mr Lipwig, I really want to.
Everyone has their levers.
With Pump, it was doing your duty.
With Groat, it was promotion.
But with Stanley...
Well, well.
Hello. Hmm.
Sir.
Is this a good one?
It's alright for the novice, I suppose.
Personally, I prefer Practical Pins or World of Pins.
Then there's Pins Monthly, New Pins, Modern Pins, Pins Extra,
Pins International, Talking Pins, Total Pins, Pins and Pinneries.
Or...
Certainly has a lot of women in leather.
Yeah. But they're all holding pins.
Actually, I was wondering if you'd got anything a bit sharper?
I don't do nails. We get kids in here.
No, no, strictly pins, that's me.
Well, as it happens, I might have one or two items
for the genuine collector.
Excuse me.
I'm looking for Antimony Parker.
He's out the back, tackling the difficult cabbage.
Perhaps you could give him this.
Tell him the Post Office apologises for the delay.
Don't worry. It can't be a bill, it's sealed with a loving kiss.
OK.
I know it's been a while, but we're finally reopening.
I'm the new postmaster.
I am so sorry. I really am.
You've really done it now, Mr Lipwig.
Who the hell are you?
The man who's trying to save your life.
Step aboard.
They didn't tell you, did they?
Tell me what, Mr...?
Gilt. Reacher Gilt.
You know about the Post Office?
I know about everything that goes on in this city
and I'm begging you,
run straight back to wherever it is you've come from.
If only it was that easy.
Mr Lipwig, whoever gave you this job has put you in mortal peril.
The fact is, the last four postmasters have died
in dreadful circumstances.
Died?
They say the Post Office has a curse on it.
And now you've actually delivered a letter...
Why would anyone curse the Post Office?
I'd be more worried about why no one told you.
Oh!
So, facing imminent death,
I decided to approach my staff in a calm and rational manner.
Were you just gonna stand by and watch?
You can't shout at me, sir.
While I met a gruesome end. It's against regulations.
Bother the regulations! Don't you hurt Mr Groat!
Oh! Stanley, Stanley, wait! Look what I've found.
I was just walking down Market Street and there it was,
between two cobblestones.
Is it a number-three, broad-headed extra-long?
And it was just lying around?
That's hard to believe, isn't it?
It's a collector's piece.
But it's yours now, Stanley.
Really, Mr Lipwig?
I have got a place ready and waiting for it.
I'm sorry I broke the regulations, senior postman Groat.
That's all very well, sir, but...
Did you say "senior postman", sir?
I'm in charge, which means I can promote you, yes?
Now, senior postman Groat, let's pop upstairs
and discuss exactly what you know about those dead postmasters.
What do you think?
Actually, it quite suits you.
I'm sorry if I was disrespectful about your traditions.
Perhaps I was feeling a bit overwhelmed.
I understand, sir, yes.
Yes. Well, the Post Office was one of the great ships of state, sir.
So what happened to the previous captains?
They were very unlucky, sir.
Postmaster Mutable was the first. Decent chap.
He fell into the sorting hall from the fifth floor,
smack, sir, smack on to the marble, head-first.
Oh, it was like a melon hitting. I get the picture.
Then there was Postmaster Sideburn.
He fell down the back stairs and broke his neck.
Three in the morning, it was.
So they all fell? No, sir.
Postmaster Ignavia, he was just lying dead on the floor.
Dead as a door knob, sir,
with his face contorted, like he'd seen a ghost.
A ghost? Then it is true.
The curse.
No, that's just malicious talk.
I swear me and Stanley have never seen nothing of no ghost.
Sir...
All I'm asking for is a head start.
No, Mr Lipwig.
Your punishment is to fix the Post Office.
Exactly. Not to meet a horrible death.
I am just a conman.
You have killed 22.8 people.
I've never so much as drawn a sword.
You have stolen, embezzled and swindled.
You have ruined businesses and destroyed lives.
When banks fail, it's not bankers who starve.
In 1,000 small ways, you have hastened the deaths of many.
You did not know them. You did not see them bleed.
But you snatched bread from their mouths.
There will be no running.
Hands where I can see them.
If you're trying to kill me, you'll have to get in line.
We had some unwelcome visitors last night.
This must be yours, then?
You can keep it.
I prefer my clay with more life in it.
So, erm, why did they...?
Some people don't like golems.
They think they take away jobs.
The trust stands up for golem rights.
Moist von Lipwig.
Oh. That's quite a name.
Were your parents stupid or just plain cruel?
Doting. If a little unwise.
Adora Belle Dearheart.
I've never seen black look so adorable.
If you say "adorable", I'll be forced to shoot you after all.
Sorry. Couldn't resist.
I'm in mourning, if you must know.
Oh... I'm sorry.
I doubt it.
This was not a good start.
What surprised me was how much I wanted it to be a good start.
Of course, I'd heard about emotions like these
but I'd never actually felt any.
Now that we've been appropriately human,
what was it you wanted?
I need to find out what makes golems tick.
We do a pamphlet.
Five pence.
The thing is, I'm trying to persuade mine to see the bigger picture.
If you want to manipulate him, you might as well give up now.
M-m-manipulate. Such an ugly word.
The great thing about golems is they're loyal and incorruptible.
Unlike people.
How-how true.
Which golem is it?
Pump 19.
Hmm. Oh. The Post Office.
So you must be...?
The postmaster. Yes.
Well.
If anyone can save Mrs Lipwig from becoming a widow, it's Pump 19.
Actually, there is no Mrs Lipwig.
You don't say.
Miss Dearheart.
I don't suppose you'd like to have dinner tonight?
With you?
No.
I've got things to do, but thanks for asking.
No problem.
Just remember. If you want to stay alive, stay close to Pump 19.
Very close.
Promise me you won't leave.
I promise.
If the curse were to strike tonight, what could you actually do?
Improvise.
OK.
Mr Pump?
Mr Pump!
Brr!
Oh!
Mr Pump!
Argh! Get away!
No.
No, no!
Mr Lipwig. No!
Mr Lipwig!
Wake up.
Did you see it?
The farmer.
I stood here all night. You slept soundly.
No! It was real.
I can't stay here.
Are you the postmaster?
What? You delivered this.
I didn't mean any harm.
I was just doing my... job.
Ah. You've made me the happiest man in the world.
She said yes. She's gonna marry me. It was just stuck in the post.
All this time, I thought she didn't care,
but now you're back in business.
The wedding invitations.
You're giving us letters.
Oh, sorry. Lots to organise.
How does it feel to make someone's life better, Mr Lipwig?
Unusual.
Just what we need, more letters.
I'll put them in the queue.
Maybe you should deliver them.
What? Deliver them?
You're all postmen.
Surely it's your solemn duty to deliver?
Hmm?
Now, how does it work?
You got the money, did you sir? Mm-hm.
Then we need to put the official stamp on, that's it,
to show that it has been paid.
Oh, yes, er... Right.
I get this stamp. This stamp. And bang it on the ink pad.
And then, sir, then, I bang it. Bang it on the letter.
There.
Oh.
Oh, you don't know how good it feels to do that again.
And this is worth a penny?
Yes.
Opportunity knocks.
It's not strictly your line of printing, Mr Spools, but look.
The old-fashioned way.
Queue up at the Post Office to get your letter stamped.
Now.
A new way.
Everybody buys their stamps in advance, to use at their leisure.
Good grief. A kid could forge this with half a potato.
That's where your genius as a printer comes in, Mr Spools.
Mmm. Well you need a bit of cross-hatching, erm.
What about pictures? Complicated pictures.
Yes. Everyone loves a miniature.
Yes. We could have a different picture for each type of stamp.
A penny to Ankh-Morpork. Five pennies to Sto Lat.
You could have a whole set.
A whole set.
Yes.
To collect.
Mr Spools, meet Stanley, the Post Office's new head of stamps.
Head of stamps? Mmm.
Wow.
Is there a hat?
One thing at a time, Stanley.
Yes, Mr Lipwig.
Wait before you tear this letter up in disgust.
Ask yourself one question.
Would you have done anything so different?
Would anyone?
I had discovered a foolproof way of creating money from paper.
If every resident bought just a few stamps to put in their wallet,
I'd end up holding hundreds of thousands of dollars
of other people's money.
Enough to finance an escape plan and set me up for life.
And, better still, for the con to work,
I had to bring the Post Office back to life
so that people would want to buy stamps.
It was a con where everyone would win.
Well, nearly everyone.
That is why it's important to study grammar.
Hugos?
Technically, without the apostrophe, it's "hu-gos".
And the reason there's no apostrophe is because there isn't one
in the uplifting slogan that adorns our beloved Post Office.
Oh. Oh.
"Glom of nit."
Oh. They've stolen them.
Yes.
Ay-ya, ta-ta, ta-ta!
We're in the letter business, Mr Groat.
We do words, not bricks.
Good day, to you.
Can I see Mr Hugo, please?
I doubt it.
Then perhaps you can give him a message.
I tried my best,
but I'm almost certain Lord Vetinari will press charges.
Mr Hugo.
There's a man in reception who says that Lord Vetinari...
Two, three, four...
Excuse me, sir.
Hugo can see you now.
Ah.
Got it.
Thanks, Mr Pump.
Got it, Mr Groat.
Good work, Stanley.
Chop-chop. Chop-chop.
That's it, Mr Pump.
And you can tell your readers that this is the first
of millions of letters we are putting back in the right place.
One sign does not a Post Office make.
No, Miss Cripslock, but we have a new system to help us.
The stamping system.
Stamp, Stanley.
Cute, Mr Lipwig.
But, with the clacks, why do we need a Post Office at all?
The clacks is all well and good
if you want to know the prawn market figures from Genua,
but can you seal a clacks with a loving kiss?
Can you cry tears on a clacks?
Can you enclose a pressed flower?
So, spread the message far and wide,
the Post Office is back in business.
I tried talking to him nicely.
But some people just won't listen.
We may need to be a little more direct in our approach.
Please, Reacher, I...
I'm not sleeping well, as it is.
This is all about Vetinari trying to clip our wings.
But I haven't finished...
..soaring.
Miss Dearheart!
And I thought your name was ridiculous.
How many golems are for hire right now?
There's 12 on the books.
I'll take them all.
Don't bother to wrap them up!
We're not talking about groceries. They have souls.
I'm offering good jobs with plenty of prospects.
That's a terrible habit, you know.
Perhaps I like bad habits.
Maybe there's still hope for me, then.
One minute you're trying to manipulate Pump 19,
the next, you're a golem's best friend.
Because now I have a plan.
Let me think about it.
Whilst your brighten up the world like a little sunbeam.
No!
Help me!
Help!
Somebody! Help!
Help me!
Why are you picking on me?! This is nothing.
You see?
A victimless crime.
Wait, wait, wait a minute.
Forged bonds harm no one!
No, no! Wait a minute.
You can't make him the scapegoat. Take it from your profits.
That was never part of the plan!
Wait!
No!
Mr Lipwig! Mr Lipwig!
Mr Lipwig, sir!
You can't sleep here.
We-we're opening up.
There's a big queue out there. They're all coming back to us, sir.
The clacks is down! One at a time.
Please. Please!
Gentleman! Please, please!
Wait, wait! Stop!
Behold!
As the postman said, one at a time.
Next.
Who's next, please?
Stanley.
Marvellous.
We got a problem.
The stamps.
You can't prove anything.
We've sold out.
Oh.
Well, good sales are never a problem.
Run over to Mr Spools and fetch some more.
Stanley. Stanley! Got the new double-pointers in.
I'll come back later. Limited edition, selling fast.
Ah... ah.
I can't stop.
Stanley. Not a girl.
Mr Spools!
Uh?
You've got to be joking.
The presses can't cut them. They're too small.
But we need 1,000.
Well, grab a pair of scissors and get cutting.
I missed out on a set of double-pointers
and you're cutting out stamps with scissors.
Ah, pin collector, are you?
Oh!
I've still got my old collection up in the attic.
Yes, I was very keen.
But then I met the wife and she wasn't interested in pins.
No. I've been meaning to get them down and get them valued.
Mr Spools.
You know what's always got up my nose?
How delicate pin paper is.
It's almost more hole than paper.
What d'you think?
Stanley, I think you're a genius.
I must ask everyone to be patient.
We weren't expecting quite such an enthusiastic response.
But stamps are on their way and we have a special offer.
The new express delivery for Sto Lat leaves on the hour
to arrive this afternoon.
And at half the cost of a clacks message.
But we don't have an express delivery, sir.
We do now.
Mr Pump.
Go to Hobson's livery.
Tell him I want a fast horse, not one of his old nags.
Something with fizz in his blood.
Extra fizz. Very good, Mr Lipwig.
You've made a big impression on Pump 19.
Thank you.
Personally, I think you're a phoney.
But business is business.
So. This is what you meant by free uniforms.
Think of it as a badge of honour.
Next!
Don't worry, we'll clean it off when they leave.
Leave? Clearly, I'm not talking to the same postmaster.
Oh.
You're right. The hat really does catch the sun.
Those quotes about wanting to kick the clacks when it's down.
Are they true?
Er... Because I want to lend a helping boot.
You do?
Has anyone ever told you how beautiful you look
when considering violence?
Violence and retribution.
My father was the founder of the clacks.
It was his great vision.
He was no businessman.
He borrowed money and mortgaged everything
to build the first system.
The clacks was an instant hit. He'd have made a fortune.
Do I look like an heiress?
Black August.
The collapse of the Cabbage Growers' Bank. Remember that?
Erm, vaguely.
The bank fell victim to fake bond fraud.
Had to call in all its loans,
the biggest of which was my father's.
You're looking pale.
Hmm? Um...
It's paint fumes.
A man called Gilt and his coven of lawyers
used the crisis to steal the clacks from under my father's nose.
Reacher Gilt?
You're on first-name terms with that reptile?
No. No, no, I, er, bumped into him.
So, every message that your Post Office delivers
takes money out of Reacher Gilt's pocket.
I like that.
You do?
Really?
I think I'm getting somewhere.
Are you the one who wants some extra fizz in 'is 'orse?
You must be from Hobson's livery?
I am 'Obson. And I've brought you Boris.
Ad all the kids you want, 'ave you?
Sir.
Mr Groat.
Off you go, load the mail.
Right, sir. Ready for action.
Over there?
Er... Er...
Tell your men to hold him good and tight, Mr Hobson.
Ladies and gentlemen.
You see the raw power of nature we've harnessed...
..to deliver your post.
Miss Dearheart.
Let him go!
Whoo!
Argh!
Watch out!
Boris! Argh!
Boris!
Argh!
Boris.
You have been a very naughty boy.
And you know what happens to naughty boys.
Oh, you seem to have the Boris touch.
I don't suppose you'd care for a ride?
I hardly know you.
I'm rather banking on that.
Smooth answer. Slick.
Whoo!
I need to make a detour.
You want to hold up the mail?
It won't take long. Up there.
We came all the way up here to see a derelict clacks tower?
This is where my brother John died.
Three years ago.
He was a clacksman.
Until someone pushed him from up there.
He was murdered?
We could never prove anything.
Some of the old engineers say
they can still hear John's name on the wires.
Just before dawn.
How could your brother carry on working here?
After what they did to your family?
John had big plans.
For a new clacks - better, cheaper.
He never got a chance to build it.
Gilt went to the trouble to steal the clacks
and now he won't even look after it.
Is it any wonder my father died a broken man?
When you look at me like that, I wish I was a better man.
You're a man with vision.
Maybe that counts as better.
One of the great things about Mr Gryle...
..he's never late.
Do you realise that if we dilute the clacks lubrication oil
with guano extract, it can increase our profits.
$1.24 a minute.
That'll be him now.
Mr Gryle, this is my finance director. Crispin Horsefry.
You're...
You're the...
The banshee!
Mr Gryle, what exactly have you found out about Moist von Lipwig?
Father dead. Mother dead.
Sent away to school.
Bullied.
Ran away.
Vanished.
I wonder where he's been all this time.
Well, Mr Gryle. This postmaster is a nuisance.
Understood.
Deal with him for me.
My pleasure.
Express mail from Ankh-Morpork.
Ah.
Posted this very morning.
You can't get fresher than that.
We're going back in one hour.
If you want to send anything,
form an orderly line at the back of the horse.
I can get off a horse, you know.
This way is more fun.
You were right.
I don't suppose...
..you fancy dinner for two?
Let me think about it.
I really am making progress.
Perhaps.
But sometimes, a slow delivery beats the express.
It was the most wonderful kiss I never had.
I was on top of the world.
The only problem with having a bright tomorrow
is you have to get through the night before.
Who's there?
Hello.
Who's there?
Oh!
No, it can't be.
I'm still awake!
Adora.
No.
Please.
Not again.
Why are you showing me this?
No!
Argh!
Help!
What do you want with me?!
Alright.
Enough.
Finish it here.
It is what I deserve.
Oh!
Adora, I'm sorry. I'm so sorry.
Mr Lipwig.
What are you doing?!
Rescuing you.
There's no point, I can't escape the...
I deserve to die.
Your safety is my concern.
Oh, hell. Last time you said that...
Argh!
I didn't mean to hit you so hard, Mr Lipwig.
I wish you'd finish me off.
No one should wish their life away.
I'm a bad man, Mr Pump.
I've done terrible things.
And your punishment is to rebuild the Post Office.
One balances out the other.
Nothing can balance out what I've done.
Oh, Pump 19, how's it going?
Oh. You look like you've seen a ghost.
How did you know?
The answer's yes.
Dinner for two?
Er, I...
Oh. I see.
I'd love to, Adora. But you really have to stay away from me.
It's not you, it's me.
Oh! Cliches, as well, now I really am insulted.
Trust me, it's best we call the whole thing off.
Don't flatter yourself. I hadn't decided it was on.
OK. I'm here. What exactly did you want to know?
Would you mind if we talk somewhere else?
It was dirty, ruthless and back-stabbing,
but it made great copy.
Bad news always does.
When the clacks got into financial difficulty,
the only person who could help them was Reacher Gilt.
The Dearhearts were so desperate, they'd have signed anything.
Gilt took the entire business from under the family's nose.
Technically legal, morally rotten.
But there'd be no clacks if it weren't for the Dearhearts.
And they wouldn't have got into trouble
if it weren't for the banking crisis.
Surely the banks could survive a few fake bonds.
You call that a few?
It wasn't the happiest reunion in my life.
I had drawn every line, faked every signature on those bonds.
Now I felt sick to look at them.
Go to her.
I can't.
Apologise to her.
The letters have warned me to stay away.
The letters? Again with this nonsense.
If I go near Adora again, the letters will kill me.
Letters do not kill.
I will prove it to you.
You must be the victim.
Who the hell are you?
Mr Ridcully is Archchancellor of the Unseen University.
He will give you proof the letters do not want to kill you.
How is he going to do that?
How many words are here?
A million, two million.
What about in the whole building? There must be billions.
Only an academic could state the obvious and pass it off as wisdom.
Are you the type to burn a book, Lipwig?
No. Why?
Because you just don't do that sort of thing.
Correct. Books must be treated with respect.
We feel that in our bones, because words have power.
Bring enough words together, you can bend space and time.
That's what has been giving you hallucinations.
For the last time, they weren't hallucinations.
They did try to kill me.
The terrible thing is, I deserve it.
Read my lips.
Words do not kill.
People kill.
Wild animals kill.
But words, words have a totally different power.
They enter through our eyes and ears and work their way into our souls.
I think this is where the real problem is.
Your soul.
Don't blame the letters for your own problems.
Now you can apologise to Miss Dearheart.
It is way beyond apology.
Only she can judge that.
Talk to her.
I don't trust my tongue.
When I speak, I lie.
It's the way it's always been.
So don't speak.
Write her a letter.
A written confession.
A conman can't do that.
It's against our code of practice.
But what better way for a postmaster?
Which is how I came to be sitting here,
pouring out my heart.
All I can do is seal this with the most loving kiss.
And hope.
I'm not convinced, Mr Pump.
I didn't get where I am today by telling the truth.
And where exactly are you?
Point taken.
Stamp it up and send it on its way.
No. You must deliver this by hand.
If I get within 50 yards of Adora, I'm a dead man.
I told Adora to meet you at 8 o'clock.
Dinner for two.
You mean I have to be there when she reads this?
At the best restaurant in town.
How did you get a table? They're booked up for months.
I didn't.
This is one time your lying will be useful.
Good evening, sir. Reservation for?
You mean you still don't know?
After all the times I've been here.
I'm acquainted with the regulars, but, er...
..I cannot place you, sir.
Very good.
I appreciate your discretion.
Wouldn't want everyone knowing we were here.
So, shall I wait for Mr Gilt inside at the regular table?
Mr Gilt, you say? Mm-hm.
I'm afraid that... Mr Gilt doesn't do problems.
But... Surely you of all people remember the Poisson Rouge.
I cannot say... Exactly.
Mr Gilt used to take the city's finest there every week
until one day, same thing happened.
Au revoir, Poisson Rouge.
I'll wait inside, shall I?
Adora.
You look... I'm only here because Mr Pump begged.
That and the stuffed liver.
To be honest, I can't think about food...
until you've read this.
Is it an apology?
It... It's worse than that.
Just read it.
And then, maybe, we can move on.
Good evening, little postman.
Hello?!
We are closed.
But we are open again at nine in the morning.
We've got a special on mail to Pseudopolis. Ah!
Why not write to your old granny?
I ate my granny.
Oh.
Then I'm dead.
Erm. Perhaps I could paraphrase the last section.
You ruined my family.
Adora, I'm sorry. What can I say? I'm sorry. I'm so sorry.
You're a liar and cheat.
Those days are behind me. I swear.
Every word is true, I've bared my soul to you. There are no lies left.
My dear Moist. How good of you to bag a table.
You... And him?
No.
Always a joke with Moist, hmm?
Why don't you to ask them to bring the champagne list, huh?
Just gotta freshen up.
How many more times will you humiliate me?
I can explain.
What is in your foot
is a steel-tipped, four-inch stiletto heel.
The most dangerous footwear in the world.
I know what you're thinking. "Could she push it through to the floor?"
No!
To tell you the truth, I'm not sure about that myself,
but I'm going to give it a damn good try.
The Post Office is burning!
Argh!
Mr Pump.
Where's Stanley and Groat?
Your safety is my concern.
Mr Groat.
Call the fire brigade.
Argh!
It's Stanley. You've got to save Stanley.
Mr Lipwig. It's too dangerous.
Stanley!
Argh!
And Lipwig make five!
I'm collecting dead postmasters.
Of course, the fun part is making them dead!
You killed them?
All of them?
Oh, yes.
I am the killer!
This is a Post Office closer!
Added italic + removed HI. *** Xenzai[NEF] ***
IMS Subtitles