The Worst Thing You Can Do Is

They've Got Something They Do It With, I Think It's Called A Mocracy, And It Means Everyone In The Whole Country Can Say Who The New Tyrant Is. One Man ... One Vet. ... Everyone Has ... The Vet. Except For Women, Of Course. And Children. And Criminals. And Slaves. And Stupid People. And People Of Foreign Extraction. And People Disapproved Of For, Er, Various Reasons. And Lots Of Other People. But Everyone Apart From Them. It's A Very Enlightened Civilization.

Oh, He Did His Best To Make Their Short Lives Miserable, Because That Was His Job, But Nothing He Could Think Up Was Half As Bad As The Stuff They Thought Up Themselves.

They May Be Called The Palace Guard, The City Guard, Or The Patrol. Whatever The Name, Their Purpose In Any Work Of Heroic Fantasy Is Identical: It Is, Round About Chapter Three (or Ten Minutes Into The Film) To Rush Into The Room, Attack The Hero One At A Time, And Be Slaughtered. No One Ever Asks Them If They Want To. This Book Is Dedicated To Those Fine Men.

The Storm Was Really Giving It Everything It Had. This Was Its Big Chance. It Had Spent Years Hanging Around The Provinces, Putting In Some Useful Work As A Squall, Building Up Experience, Making Contacts, Occasionally Leaping Out On Unsuspecting Shepherds Or Blasting Quite Small Oak Trees. Now An Opening In The Weather Had Given It An Opportunity To Strut Its Hour, And It Was Building Up Its Role In The Hope Of Being Spotted By One Of The Big Climates.

Grinning Like A Necrophiliac In A Morgue.