Free Moving Pictures by Terry Pratchett Page B

writing.”
    Dibbler sighed.
    “I think I know what people want,” he said, “and they don’t want to read lots of small writing. They want spectacles!”
    “Because of the small writing?” said Victor, sarcastically.
    “They want dancing girls! They want thrills! They want elephants! They want people falling off roofs! They want dreams! The world is full of little people with big dreams!”
    “What, you mean like dwarfs and gnomes and so on?” said Victor.
    “No!”
    “Tell me, Mr. Dibbler,” said Silverfish, “what exactly is your profession?”
    “I sell merchandise,” said Dibbler.
    “Mostly sausages,” Victor volunteered.
    “ And merchandise,” said Dibbler, sharply. “I only sells sausages when the merchandising trade is a bit slow.”
    “And the sale of sausages leads you to believe you can make better moving pictures?” said Silverfish. “Anyone can sell sausages! Isn’t that so, Victor?”
    “Well…” said Victor, reluctantly. No one except Dibbler could possibly sell Dibbler’s sausages.
    “There you are, then,” said Silverfish.
    “The thing is,” said Victor, “that Mr. Dibbler can even sell sausages to people that have bought them off him before .”
    “That’s right!” said Dibbler. He beamed at Victor.
    “And a man who could sell Mr. Dibbler’s sausages twice could sell anything,” said Victor.

     

    The next morning was bright and clear, like all Holy Wood days, and they made a start on The Interestinge and Curious Adventures of Cohen the Barbarian . Dibbler had worked on it all evening, he said.
    The title, however, was Silverfish’s. Although Dibbler had assured him that Cohen the Barbarian was practically historical and certainly educational, Silverfish had held out against Valley of Blud!
    Victor was handed what looked like a leather purse but which turned out to be his costume. He changed behind a couple of rocks.
    He was also given a large, blunt sword.
    “Now,” said Dibbler, who was sitting in a canvas chair, “what you do is, you fight the trolls, rush up and untie the girl from the stake, fight the other trolls, and then run off behind that other rock over there. That’s the way I see it. What do you say, Tommy?”
    “Well, I—” Silverfish began.
    “That’s great,” said Dibbler. “OK. Yes, Victor?”
    “You mentioned trolls. What trolls?” said Victor.
    The two rocks unfolded themselves.
    “Don’t you worry about a fing, mister,” said the nearest one. “Me and ole Galena over there have got this down pat.”
    “Trolls!” said Victor, backing away.
    “That’s right,” said Galena. He flourished a club with a nail in it.
    “But, but,” Victor began.
    “Yeah?” said the other troll.
    What Victor would like to have said was: but you’re trolls , fierce animated rocks that live in the mountains and bash travelers with huge clubs very similar to the ones you’re holding now, and I thought when they said trolls they meant ordinary men dressed up in, oh, I don’t know, sacking painted gray or something.
    “Oh, good,” he said weakly. “Er.”
    “And don’t you go listening to them stories about us eatin’ people,” said Galena. “That’s a slander, that is. I mean, we’re made of rock, what’d we want to eat people—”
    “Swaller,” said the other troll. “You mean swaller.”
    “Yeah. What’s we want to swaller people for? We always spit out the bits. And anyway we’re retired from all that now,” he added quickly. “Not that we ever did it.” He nudged Victor in a friendly fashion, nearly breaking one of his ribs.
    “It’s good here,” he said conspiratorially. “We get three dollars a day plus a dollar barrier cream allowance for daylight working.”
    “On account of turning to stone until nightfall otherwise, what is a pain,” said his companion.
    “Yeah, an’ it holds up shooting and people strike matches on you.”
    “Plus our contract says we get five pence extra for use of own club,” said the