It was springtime in Ankh-Morpork, greatest of cities on the Discworld. During the daylight hours the birds and bees were keeping busy, ensuring that the circle of life turned once more on the Sto plains that surrounded it. But now it was night and a not-altogether-different, albeit more commercial activity took place in the area known as the Whore Pits, in the Shades.

-----

The woman on the street corner was obviously impervious to the cold that still lingered in the night air, seeing as how she seemed to be dressed in nothing but an airy nightie1.

She stood right underneath one of the many streetlights that spread a soft glow over the narrow street, which helped a little. Her wig of haystack hair fell in limp waves over her bare shoulders, leading the eye of the beholder neatly past the heavily made-up face and plunging into the fjord-like crevice of her cleavage, before sliding down legs that seemed to have gone on the street forever.

The beholder in question, a man seemingly like any other, stepped out of the shadows of a doorway and walked up to the girl. A short conversation centred mainly on sums ensued, and then the two of them walked off into one of the darker alleys.

For a long time nothing was heard apart from a wet, rhythmic sound, and then the man left.

-----

It was a day later, and tempers were frayed in the Oblong Office. Its regular inhabitant, the Patrician of Ankh-Morpork, Lord Vetinari, watched with interest as the other two persons in the room argued with each other. It wasn't often that people were upset enough to actually forget his presence, and the argument had been going on for quite some time now.

"You know it's Guild business, Vimes!" said the first speaker.

She was an imposing woman with an enormous bosom and a chin you could crack nuts with, a skill she seemed likely to demonstrate any moment now, Vetinari mused.

"The hells I do," replied Commander Vimes, hotly, "The sicko has been beating those girls to within an inch of their lives, and that makes it my business!"

"No, it doesn't! Tell him, Havelock," urged the woman.

Vetinari leaned forward slowly, putting his fingertips together and looking over them at the combatants.

"Mrs. Palm is right, you know, Commander," he said slowly. "The man hasn't killed anyone, and the Guild of Seamstresses insisted years ago that we abolish rape as a crime where they were concerned."

This wasn't a moot point, and Vimes knew it. The argument at the time had been that the Guild catered to all tastes, and if that included what the ladies of negotiable affection somewhat euphemistically called Hard Romance, then that was their business. Literally.

The customer was always right, as long as he was willing to pay the often-hefty price, and the Donkey had done exactly that. That meant that he technically hadn't committed a crime, and the girls – those who had regained their powers of speech so far – had all agreed that this was the case.

He knew that the Agony Aunts2 enforced the Guild's laws to the point, and administered their own justice swiftly and painfully when matters so required, but that wasn't enough for Vimes.

"Are you saying – sir – that I can't go after this, this Donkey person just because he hasn't killed anyone yet?!" Vimes was fuming now.

"Exactly, Commander," said Vetinari, levelly, "I wouldn't dream of trying to tell the Guilds how they should conduct their business."

-----

And now it was late night again, two weeks after the meeting in the Oblong Office, and in accordance with the Ankh-Morporkian laws on simile and comparisons the moon hung in the sky like a big rock.

Again, there was a young woman standing on a street corner in the Shades. She too stood right underneath one of the many streetlights that spread a soft glow over the narrow street. She hardly needed to, though. Her mane of golden hair fell in enticing waves over her bare, tanned shoulders, hurrying the eye of the beholder onto the vast expanse of gravity-defying cleavage, before sliding down legs that seemed to go on forever.

This time, the beholder could hardly believe his luck.

-----

Mister Vimes had been adamant they do something, and had called a crisis meeting as soon as he got back to the Yard from the Patrician's palace.

"I don't care what they say," he had growled at the assembly of Watchmen. "Some madman is stalking the streets of the city, and we're supposed to do nothing about it? I won't have it! Not in my city!"

They had all looked at him with the blank expression that the ranks of every uniformed body of men give their superior when the latter is ranting. Every member of the Watch learned to look at their Commander's knuckles when he came back from a meeting at the Patrician's palace as a sort of barometer for trouble. Today they had been raw and bleeding . . .

"They say its Guild business," he had continued, "Hah! I'm telling you, we will find this so-called Donkey before they do."

The collective blankness reached ballroom floor proportions.

-----

The young woman looked up at the moon.

As she did so, the shadows that had been hiding her face from the beholder before went away, and he was treated to yet another revelation. The woman was absolutely stunning. Unlike most of the other women working in this rather run-down part of the Pits3, this girl hadn't used make-up as if it were battle armour. She didn't need to, either. Men would be queuing for whatever treatment she would bestow upon them, regardless.

On the edge of darkness, the man edged nearer, looking around furtively as he did.

-----

The silence in Pseudopolis Yard was rapidly approaching deafening heights when someone cleared their throat. It was done in the universal manner of someone wanting to say something, while at the same time hoping for some sort of official nod of approval before doing so. Nonetheless it was a risky gambit, because even throat clearing was known to have set Vimes off under similar circumstances.

Vimes stopped his pacing and looked for the source of the sound.

"Lance-Constable Visit? Do you have something to say? Speak up then!"

The watchmen groaned. Constable Visit-the-infidels-with-explanatory-pamphlets was the latest addition to the force, and had proved to be something of a nuisance to his fellow watchmen. He was always going on about religion, trying to spread the Word of Om, but even so nobody wanted him to be subjected to the Word of Vimes.

Constable Visit looked around nervously like people do when they find that they are suddenly required to speak in front of people they speak with on a daily basis.

"Well, sir," he began, unsure of himself, "You know how I told you that the Good Book of Om will always be of help to you in your hour of need?"

The rest of the Watch winced. This was suicide, clearly, and they were being forced to watch it. Vimes just waited, his jaw muscles working away at the cigar as if they were locked in a vendetta.

"Well, in the Holy Book of St. Ossory, there is a passage about the Most Holy St. Bobby, who was a donkey, in fact . . . "

"You don't say?" Vimes interrupted him, causing another collective groan to erupt from the squad. Their commander didn't have much patience at the best of times, and these were not they.

"Oh, yes," intoned Visit, who the rest of the Watch now felt sure had a death-wish, "And it is written: 'Lo! When thieves came in the night to the Temple where the Holy Animal was fettered, the Righteous Ass, filled with His power, kicked them in the Holiest of Holies!'4."

Visit did the sign of the Holy Horns out of habit and then fell quiet. He was ashamed to admit even to himself that he enjoyed the older texts in the Book of Om more than he did the Gospel of Brutha. But it was one thing to confess to that sort of weakness during the Sacred Purifying Rites, and quite another to quote apocryphal passages to a non-believer. Vimes' stare told Visit that he had overstepped the mark.

"I didn't me—" he started, but Vimes intercepted him.

"Hah! Not a bad idea at all, Visit," he said, thoughtfully, "Yes, it could work. After all, that's how people hunt vermin of other sorts. Yes. We will use a decoy seamstress and catch this madman when he comes after her!"

-----

It is common knowledge that the moon's powers of attraction are the reason behind the tide's comings and goings along the shores of the Discworld's oceans5, but nobody knows why the full moon causes the change in lycantrops.

As a young girl eager to discover the mysteries of her rapidly developing body and - above all - longing to gain the upper hand6 over her older brother Wolfgang, Angua – for it was indeed she – had once tried drinking several gallons of water right before full moon. She had heard that the human body consisted mainly of water7, and figured that this was probably true for human-shaped bodies such as her own, too.

Thus, she had reasoned, a body filled with more water would be more influenced by the moon, which in turn would somehow make her change more powerful.

What she discovered was that there wasn't an obvious connection between the two phenomena, but that there was a distinct link between drinking a lot and having great difficulties in the bladder area. Many years later however, when her own powers of attraction had grown, she noticed that there were other powerful tools at her disposal in dealing with members of the opposite sex.

These she now put to good use.

As the man drew nearer, Angua checked once more to make sure that she was giving him a good look at her cascades of blond hair and voluptuous body.

"Hello there, big boy," she said in a voice that not even Carrot had ever been privy to.

The man paused, looking around nervously. This really was too good to be true. When he was close enough to feel the full effect of it, Angua wet her lips and fired off a smile that was both dazzling and rated R, giving the prospective customer a rather stilted walk.

-----

Then there had been what Angua thought of as the Ordeal.

She had taken for granted that she would be involved somehow, since the Watch only had a limited number of females in its ranks. There was Cheery, of course, but however much the issues of gender had changed in the last couple of years in the dwarf community, there was no way that dwarfs would be involved in the particular kind of gold-digging that went on in the Flesh Pots. Besides, the victims spoke of a human, even if they did so indistinctly. Only humans could be that inhumane.

So there really was no other choice but Angua. Besides, her special abilities8 made her even more suited for the job. But Vimes had insisted that she work with back-up for this one.

"Who's volunteering?" Vimes had asked, before quickly adding, "Not you, Captain!"

"But sir," Carrot had said, "You know that—"

"No. Two reasons. One: I need you here to take care of things, and two: You're much too well known. We want to catch this bastard, after all. Remember, personal isn't the same as important!"

Angua could see Vimes struggling just to say that last sentence, but Carrot nodded solemnly.

And he accepted that, Angua knew. Carrot's sense of duty had driven her crazy in the past, but she could see that it made sense in this particular case.

But the question remained then. Who could she work with?

-----

The man was right next to her, wetting his lips unconsciously and not even trying to get his eyes out of her cleavage any more, when out of the darkness came a sticky saccharine voice that insinuated itself between them like treacle.

"'Ullo, offendi! Wanna try some Klatchian delights?"

The apparition that approached them was quite small, but what it lacked in height it more than made up for in sheer intensity.

Apart from a couple of copper plates at chest height the rest of the apparition seemed to be dressed in colourful semitransparent veils that would have been quite revealing if there had been anything to reveal. All that could be seen of the face was the eyes, that were painted with enough black kohl to sustain a whole party of trolls.

The whole creature was inundated in a cloud of sickeningly sweet perfume and was gyrating its way towards them like an out-of-control dervish. As it did so, it jingled and jangled with a multitude of exotic jewellery.

"No—Bethi, no!" Angua called out, but it was too late. One look at the apparition had been more than enough to convince the already jittery customer that this was nothing for him. The sound of his footsteps rapidly disappeared in the night.

Angua sighed.

"Listen, how many times do we have to go over this? You stay hidden until I call for you! We agreed on this, yes?"

The apparition said something in a sullen tone of voice.

"What was that? I didn't hear you . . . Bethi."

" I said 'yes, Sarge'," came the muffled reply.

-----

No one had been more surprised than he himself had been when he had suddenly volunteered. It was the first rule of how to survive as a member of any uniformed body of men – never, ever volunteer for anything. There was always a catch, and yet here he was doing that very thing . . .

After his first ever proper contact with women, which had occurred while he was abroad – hah! – he had felt an urge to get to know his feminine side better, and this seemed an opportunity as good as any. He stepped forward.

Vimes turned around when his eyes caught the unexpected movement, and stopped as they did a double take on the situation.

"Nobby?"

"Yessir," said Nobby, his ears reddening as the rest of the Watchmen began sniggering.

"You're volunteering for this? You're volunteering for this?"

Vimes paused for a second. Somehow that didn't seem to cover the extent of his surprise.

"You're volunteering for this?"

That seemed to do it.

"Yessir," Nobby repeated. "Don't see why not, sir. Got my own outfit an' ev'rything, sir."

Vimes' jaws went slack.

"We-ell," he finally managed, "As long as it's alright with Sergeant Angua." He gave her a pleading look.

"I'm sure Corporal Nobbs and I will be able to work very well together, sir," she said.

-----

She had said it, and she had meant it, but now Angua wasn't so sure any more.

There had been taunts, of course, mainly about the two of them working under covers together, but she hadn't had to endure a lot. After all, she was a werewolf, and so people thought twice about upsetting her at any rate, and if that wasn't enough she was also Captain Carrot's girlfriend, which meant that nobody wanted to cross her for fear of upsetting him.

Nobby, on the other hand, had had to bear more than his share of comments concerning his new uniform, his chances of "meatin' women on the job" and so on, but had taken it all in his stride. And so they had begun patrolling the Shades in the hope of being able to lure the Donkey to come forward.

Regrettably, Angua had had an accident earlier that month which meant that she couldn't make use of her remarkable sense of smell. She had run into Foul Ole Ron's Smell.

Foul Ole Ron was the most successful beggar in town. He had developed a body odour that was strong enough to have a personality of its own, and together they made their living by following complete strangers home and not going away until they had got some money from them9.

Unfortunately for Angua, the Smell was able to move around town independently of its master, and one day she had turned a corner on Broadway and run straight into it.

That had been three weeks ago, and even though the splitting migraines that had kept her in bed the first week had stopped, she still hadn't recovered fully by a long shot. This meant that she couldn't trace the perpetrator the way she normally would, and the frustration of it all was getting to her.

She took a deep breath and remembered why she was here in the first place.

-----

"Why is this guy called the Donkey anyway, sir?"

Angua could tell that Vimes had been dreading this question. If ever he'd deserved his nickname "Old Stoneface" then it was now. His features were quarried granite as he answered.

"Because however cruel nature has been to this man in some respects, she still saw fit to be quite generous in others. You work it out for yourselves!"

Crooked grins began appearing among the Watchmen, and someone started tittering.

"You mean," said Sergeant Detritus, " dat he got really big . . . ears?"

"No," said Vimes, "that's not it. But there is a second reason for the nickname, too. Now listen up, because this isn't official, so you have to keep quiet about it, all right?"

The assembled troops calmed down again.

"The reason they call him the Donkey is because he has chopped-off donkey tails with him, and when he's . . . when he's done he . . . he inserts one of them where the sun don't shine."

The quietness took on a new, sombre tone.

"And if I hear so much as a whisper about that in the streets I'm going to have someone's badge, is that understood?"

The entire group saluted their commanding officer in silence. All that was heard was Detritus' confused voice, muttering:

"But dat's all der way over in Slice, isn't it?"

-----

1 Making her a lingeree, in other words.

2 Dottie and Sadie, whose advancing years had done nothing to diminish the fear they instilled in half the population of the city. Their handbags were the stuff of legends, and it was generally considered that they could beat any barbarian hero into a pulp and still be home in time for tea and scones and a nice hot-water bottle.

3 And that was saying something, being in the Shades!

4 Thus neatly reversing the usual pecking order . . .

5 Actually it wasn't all that common. Some people believed the moon to be nothing but a gigantic Uberwaldian cheese, others were prepared to die for the belief that it was the moon-goddess Shineya's bathtub, and others still were convinced that it was nothing but a dragon-infested glow-in-the-dark asteroid and that tides were in fact caused by the rotation and gradient of the Disc as it swivelled over the backs of the four elephants on which it lay, but you know what I mean!

6 Or paw, as it were.

7 Contrary to what evidence she had seen later in life, which seemed to indicate that what the human body really consisted of was a lot of bloody goo.

8 As she had carefully phrased it when applying for a job in the Watch.

9 Much like adult sites on the Internet, in fact.