The rights to The Discworld and its characters created by Terry Pratchett are owned by Terry Pratchett and his publishers. All copyrights associated with the Discworld belong to them. Only the ideas and original characters in this work of fan fiction are my property. No profit is being derived from this story. Seriously guys, Pratchett is a genius. Go out and buy his books. Pratchett will thank you and so will I.

Mostly Apples

" 'ere, try this your Ladyship. My treat all special-like." The man proffered a small container of liquid.

"I do not understand. Why would you wish to purchase a beverage for me?"

Myria was not really sure why she had decided to enter this particular establishment. She had been shopping for furnishings with Jonathon, and he had excused himself for a few hours, asking that she entertain herself while he attended to some private business in a nearby shop. She was not sure she was pleased that he had business that was to be kept private from her, but determined that she would discuss this with him at a more opportune time.

As a result, after wandering down the street seeking entertainment, she had come upon "The Mended Drum" where a dozen rough working class men were apparently trying to lower the average IQ of the city one brain cell at a time.

She had been a little hesitant at first, but the clientele had been strangely welcoming. Especially this particular fellow, who reminded her in some strange way of a weasel. He had introduced himself as "Everybody's Pal Frank". She was still unsure whether this represented his name, or a title.

"What is this beverage?" She narrowed her eyes as she stared at the small stone cup containing, by her estimation, no more than a tablespoon of a clear liquid.

"It's called scumble, yer Ladyship. It's made from apples. Well, mostly apples."

Myria paused and gave the speaker an appraising look, before turning her attention to the drain cleaner…. er that is beverage at hand. She took the proffered container, gave it a tentative sniff, and then sat back as the fumes stripped several layers of protective mucus from her sinuses.

"I am not sure if your statement is wholly factual." She took a deep breath and exhaled through her nose, trying to save what was left of her sense of smell. "While I do detect something resembling the odor of apples, there are other components that I doubt should be part of a liquid meant to be ingested."

There was a long pause as several of the regulars tried to translate that into "drunk or getting there" working-class Morporkian. Finally Mister Everbody's Pal Frank hazarded, "So, er, yer afraid to try it Miss? A high society lady like you? Why it's even fit for working class stiffs like us. Cor, Big Bob there's been drinking scumble all 'is life, and look at 'im! Fit as a fiddle!" He pointed a gnarled thumb over his left shoulder at the man in question. Big Bob was a largish, hulking man holding a thimble-sized stoneware cup. His beard more or less hung down to his belt. More or less because apparently repeated application of some type of chemical had burned rather large holes in it in several spots.

At Pal Frank's prompting, Big Bob smiled broadly, showing corroded-looking teeth, and tossed back the drink in question.

A few seconds later, after his left eye stopped vibrating rapidly left-to-right and his right pupil ceased dilating and contracting, he smiled even more broadly and slammed the empty cup onto the bar… joined a few seconds later by his face. The cup fell over in the process and spilled a few drops of scumble onto the bar, which liquid proceeded to eat its way through lacquer finish, wood, nails, and anything else between it and the other side of the Disc short of solid bedrock*.

"See Miss? A few drops of scumble and yer as rested as if you'd a full nights' sleep. Am I right lads?" There was a chorus of ayes and other affirmative responses from the grinning spectators, but Myria was sure at least one muttered something about "sleeping like the dead" before he was silenced by a hollow thumping sound.

"Well… Jonathon did say that I should be more open to exploring the world of culinary delights. I suppose it would be, inhospitable… of me to refuse?"

Friendly Frank slapped his hand on the bar. "There's the spirit!" And leaned forward eagerly as Myria tossed back the entire container in one swallow.

Thirty minutes later, the Mended Drum looked like the aftermath of the charge of Lord Venturi's Not-Quite-Heavy Brigade. First had come the disbelief when Lady Myria did not, in fact, immediately spew scumble all over the bar. That at least would have been good for some harmless laughs. This was trebled when, having failed to spew scumble, her head did not in fact explode.

What had followed was an argument among several of the patrons, who had apparently wagered several weeks wages during the prior conversations on the outcome of this little jest. And as is common in the Mended Drum, this resulted in some minor mishaps of the 'table-leg-imbedded-in-skull' variety. Myria somehow managed to remain untouched during the spirited arguments, but was absolutely fascinated by the process and the results.

Big Bob, who could scarcely reach a worse condition, the bartender, and Friendly Frank, who was tending more toward Bloody Suspicious Frank at this point, also managed to escape without any serious injuries.

Which of course, proved to be Frank's undoing. After coaxing Myria to drink a second round, which he carefully watched the bartender pour with a pair of tongs and a thick leather mitt, he watched in fascinated disbelief as she drank a second dose of paint remover.. er.. adult beverage.**

Whereupon he accused the bartender of watering down the scumble. The bartender snorted at this. "Bollocks Frank, ye know damned well that ye can't mix scumble with water. Makes the stuff explode. Remember what happen't last year to that tourist from Djelibeybi?" He shook his head, chuckling. "Served him right for tellin' me how to pour the drinks."***

Frank frowned. "Well then, there's something wrong with this batch. Here, give me one of them!"

Now, for those unfamiliar with the Ankh River that runs through Ankh Morpork, it could probably be considered a blessing to Mr. Friendly that the viscous brown sludge bears only a passing resemblance to water as it flows past the city. Otherwise, his attempts to stick his head into the river might have caused him to either A) Drown or B) Experience a rather embarrassing and catastrophic explosion had the scumble fumes remaining in his mouth encountered actual H2O****. As it was, he apparently spent several hours screaming and banging his face into the mud.

Lady Myria LeJean, on the other hand, decided that taverns could indeed be quite entertaining, and tipped the bartender rather handsomely. The bartender, for his part, decided that the tip, along with not having to listen to Frank's bragging for the rest of the evening, more than made up for the temporary loss of business. He didn't ask how a rather small society lady had managed to swallow two glasses of scumble without her ears melting.*****

And so it was that that Myria found herself, several hours later, having a quiet and romantic dinner with Jonathon. When he offered her a glass of diluted wine, containing little more than a hint of alcohol, she decided that she would indeed partake.

Of course, this time she opted not to cheat. It had been child's play earlier at the tavern to rearrange the molecules of the so-called scumble into something less hazardous just before it contacted her mouth. She was not foolish enough to drink anything that could double as a rust removing agent. It was a shame Mister Friendly had felt the need to follow suit. A pity really.

"So my darling," Jonathon said, taking her left hand in his, "how was your little solo adventure this afternoon?"

She took a small sip of her almost-wine, feeling the traces of alcohol flame their way pleasantly down her throat.

"Intoxicating my love." She smiled, with a wicked gleam in her eye. "Absolutely intoxicating."

* In most realities, we would have said between it and the molten core of the planet. But this is the Discworld, which is flat and sits on the back of four elephants that stand on the back of a giant turtle swimming through space. We'd like to think that the Great A' Tuin's shell would be proof against scumble, but no one has really put it to the test yet.

** Scumble is one of the few drinks in the universe that can not be served in metal containers due to the risk of it escaping by boring a hole through them.

*** It is a well known fact that the fastest way to wake up naked in an alley with your money gone and (if you were particularly stupid) some rather embarrassing tattoos is to visit a bar you don't normally frequent and criticize how the bartender does his job.

**** Some wise person (cough) asked how it is you can drink scumble without exploding, since your body is more than 90% water. We don't like smartalecs, but had to admit this deserved an answer. It's pure water above a certain concentration that causes -headsplosion-, and the water in your body has tons of salt, goo, and generally other nasty stuff in it. This aspect also saved our intrepid drinker, since no one in their right mind could call the Ankh anything like 'pure water'.

***** A lack of curiosity in a bartender can be an asset for career longevity. That and the ability to listen to sob stories for hours, only interrupting to say "That just breaks my heart Bill. Here let me top that off for you."