Elephant Dung (and other necessary gear)

this is story is:
- written by the wonderful glorious very-not-humourous flappy;
- a sort-of teaser to my much-anticipated (not really) big project (i'm going to be writing a lot of these so get ready);
- a very very humourous and sardonic story so please be aware that it is meant to be comedy;
- an attempt to be a very very humourous and sardonic story that miserably failed;
- a story with zero plot or any of that interesting stuff cuz screw plots and planning;
- a chapter-less story because nappy loves discworld <3;
- and a short-ish story (maybe long-ish). probably the latter.

## blurb.

[insert exciting and fantastic blurb here]

## begin reading.

It was a rather inconvenient time for the roof to cave in.

A broken clock hung on the tarnished khaki wall of the room, its hands stubbornly stuck at 3:48. But even a broken clock is right twice a day, and it just so happened to be one of those times.

The afternoon sun was high in the sky, as it normally tends to be at 3:48 in the afternoon. So, naturally, Quincy Dunstan was fast asleep in the king-sized bed in the centre of the room. His soft snores gave the room a rather peaceful atmosphere, like the room of an exhausted city employee who finally settled down for his afternoon nap. This was unsurprising, as it *was* the room of an exhausted city employee who finally settled down for his afternoon nap.

His right arm twitched, as though her were having a rather unpleasant dream about being punched in the arm repeatedly.

He rolled over, perhaps in an attempt to escape the fictional puncher.

"Arookjasdhfbasasdfasdf," he announced. This could have been a brave declaration in his dream, but in reality it sounded a bit like an elephant with indigestion.

It was at that moment when the roof suddenly and inexplicably collapsed.

Dunstan merely grunted and twitched a bit in his bed. He grumbled something that perhaps could have been, "Stop throwing elephant droppings at me."

As I'm sure you must have guessed, Dunstan was, both literally and metaphorically, quite a thick-skinned man. He was also a *very* heavy sleeper.

Above him, small hairline cracks fractured the clear blue late afternoon sky like cobwebs.

And, very suddenly and inexplicably, a fragment of sky dislodged itself and, very suddenly and inexplicably, collapsed onto Qunicy Dunstan's bed. He jolted awake with a start. He yelped something about the elephant dung, then caught sight of the situation around him and froze.

Slowly he gazed about his shambled room, his eyes sliding over the cracked pieces of plaster and shingles that scattered the room. Tentatively he slid off the bed into the ankle-deep dust that coated the room like powdered sugar. Then, very, very slowly, his gaze tipped upwards, to the open sky above him - part of which was missing, replaced by an ugly dark grey patch in the expanse of clear cerulean - and swallowed.

There was a long moment of tense silence. Then, at last, Dunstan said wisely, "I do believe the roof fell in."

Now, if you've been paying attention, you'll notice that the roof *had indeed* fallen in. Strange how good humans are at noticing the obvious.

Dunstan eyed the rubble thoughtfully, rubbing his chin with slight bewilderment.

"I do believe... I do believe that my house is... well, destroyed." There he went again, putting his marvellous observation skills to use.

He did not point out the fact that he was very lucky - or perhaps the gods had felt generous, or maybe it was that pesky little thing called fate - to have survived the collapse of both his roof and the sky.

He picked specks of dust off his nightshirt.

"This was not exactly how I had intended to awaken."

The God of Time paced across the wooden floorboards which, unlike how most floorboards seem to always behave, did *not* creak. A few did make a rather unpleasant retching noise when pressure was applied to them, however.

His tall, lanky form seemed rather unsteady as he staggered to and fro about the room, in a way that made it seem that he had been doing the same thing for hours on end. It was a wonder his sandals hadn't worn out already. His garments were a modest shade of earthy brown, a colour that seemed strangely reminiscent of elephant droppings.

"I don't know," he fretted anxiously, tugging at his ear. "If Donna doesn't give me her daily sacrifices by sundown, I might resort to stopping time entirely."

His companion, a stout, plump gnome with a thick white beard, shovelled a bite of pie into his mouth. He seemed to be have been eating pie for hours, too - though it made sense, as he happened to be the Dawsey, God of Large Cream Pies.

After he had finished chewing his bite of pie, he looked up languidly and replied, "But Time stops himself. *You* can't do anything to stop him."

The God of Time paused in his pacing for a moment, and then looked over at Dawsey. "Oh *gods,* you're right," he sighed, and tugged at his ear again. "What's the point of being the God of Time when you can't do anything related to Time himself?"

The God of Large Cream Pies tipped his head to one side. "Well, for one thing, you get the sacrifices," he replied slowly. He gestured at the extensive array of pies sprawled out in front of him. They were of all shapes and crammed onto every inch of the table, but they were all Large and Cream. "And the worship and honour. But you don't even have to *do* anything to get it, you just exist and occasionally cause world wars over trivial matters, but mostly you're just here for the publicity. See, Large Cream Pie has to dash around making sure it tastes delicious at all times and makes appearances at all manner of feasts and banquets, while I just get to be worshipped and given sacrifices all day. We gods represent things, not control them."

The God of Time seemed to consider this for a moment, then resumed pacing and nervously pulling at his ear.

"It's all fine for *you*, maybe," he lamented, "you're able to survive off of just one or two people's belief and sacrifice, but I'm the God of *Time*, for gods' sake. If even *one* of my priestesses neglects their duties, especially the priestess of such a major city like Wispel, I start to fade away."

Dawsey shoved aside an empty pie pan, then turned his attention to another Large Cream Pie and dug in. "It's not all that much to worry about, Epoch," he yawned carelessly. "Gods fade in and out of existence all the time, depending on what humans decide to start and stop believing in. Why, just yesterday, Marley - the God of Small Cream Pies, if you forgot - disappeared because Trixie and Gunnar decided that Small Cream Pies aren't worth it and stopped worshipping or believing in him. It wasn't that big of a deal."

Epoch wrung his hands. "But that's for *minor gods*! I'm the God of *Time*! Who knows what'll happen if *I* fade away!”

"It won't be too terrible, I'm sure," assured Dawsey, his mouth stuffed full of pie. "I mean, it's not like *Time* himself will stop working; he doesn't need belief or worship like we gods do."

Epoch danced back and forth helplessly. "But who will be the symbol of growth and time passage? Who will people pray to when they need more time? Who will make sure that Time slows down when people are doing something they particularly hate? Without me, Time will be the *same speed* for *everyone*!"

The God of Large Cream Pies looked quizzical, a look that can be quite hard to accomplish when your cheeks are swollen with pie but Dawsey seemed to have mastered it. "I don't see the problem with that," he remarked.

The God of Time frowned. "Of course you minor gods wouldn't understand the importance. You're as unimportant as elephant dung."

"I suppose," agreed Dawsey, "but I doubt you'd understand the significance of a good Large Cream Pie."

"I didn't know there was any," admitted Epoch. "But it can't possible be more important than *Time*. Without Time, there'd be no life!"

Dawsey swallowed the last bite of his Large Cream Pie, savouring the sweet flavour and silky texture.

"And without an ample supply of Large Cream Pies," he murmured, more to himself than to Epoch, "there'd be no life worth living."

Dunstan was something of a religious fellow. Apart from being the High Priest of the Stercus, the God of Large Land Mammals, he was also one of the last remaining followers of the Elphan religion.

Elphan was, in summary, a religion which heavily revolved around prophets, sacrifice, and Signs. Signs from the gods, to be specific.

So when Quincy Dunstan had sat in the ruins of his house (and the sky) for a good ten minutes or so, he at last declared, to know one in particular, "It's a Sign!"

This was groundbreaking. No Elphan had received a Sign since the Great Prophet Idiat, and that had been over two thousand years ago. A Sign meant... it meant... well, Dunstan figured that he would soon figure out what it meant.

But it had to be a sign, Dunstan was sure of it. There was no other reason why a fragment of sky would inexplicably break off. It was impossible, and therefore supernatural. That was how the world worked, according to Elphans. That was how it always worked.

Except when it didn't, but that never happened of course.

wip

## elephants.

(a.k.a. footnotes)

1. ↑ Have you ever encountered an elephant with indigestion? I should hope not.
2. ↑ Why do elephants keep coming up in this?
3. ↑ Seriously, why so much about elephants?
4. ↑ Of course, more elephants.
5. ↑ Funnily enough, elephant dung seems strangely important to this story, however.