I Don't Think I've Drunk Enough Beer

Behind Him The Master Of Ceremonies Cleared His Throat. His Eyes Took On A Distant, Glazed Look.the Stealer Of Souls, He Said In The Faraway Voice Of One Whose Ears Aren't Hearing What His Mouth Is Saying, Defeater Of Empires, Swallower Of Oceans, Thief Of Years, The Ultimate Reality, Harvester Of Mankind, The-all Right, All Right. I Can See Myself In.

The Thief, As Will Become Apparent, Was A Special Type Of Thief. This Thief Was An Artist Of Theft. Other Thieves Merely Stole Everything That Was Not Nailed Down, But This Thief Stole The Nails As Well.

They Called Themselves The Munrungs. It Meant The People, Or The True Human Beings. It's What Most People Call Themselves, To Begin With. And Then One Day The Tribe Meets Some Other People Or, If It's Not Been A Good Day, The Enemy. If Only They'd Think Up A Name Like Some More True Human Beings, It'd Save A Lot Of Trouble Later On

The Senior Wizard In A World Of Magic Had The Same Prospects Of Long-term Employment As A Pogo Stick Tester In A Minefield.

Either All Days Are Holy Or None Are.