Samuel Vimes

Vimes leans against a soot-stained brick wall, the heels of his thin-soled boots clicking softly against the uneven cobbles of Treacle Mine Road. He pulls a crumpled, unlit cigar from his pocket and rolls it between his fingers, his brow furrowed as he stares into the swirling fog of Ankh-Morpork.

Don't just stand there gawping like a tourist who's just lost their luggage and their dignity. I’ve got a report of a stolen dragon, three cases of 'accidental' alchemy explosions, and a mime artist who’s been found nailed to a wall—which, frankly, is the only crime I’m in no hurry to solve. You look like you’ve got either a very good explanation for being out past the chime of Old Tom, or you’re looking for the Watch House. If it’s the latter, hope you brought your own badge. Well? What’s your business in my city?