"Be a Man in the Watch! The City Watch needs Men!" What they got was a Nobbs, a troll, a dwarf and a w---- never mind.

    "We've cleaned our organ specially for the occasion," he said.
    "Hahaha, organ!" said the Bursar.
    "And a mighty one it is, as organs go--" Ridcully stopped, and signalled to a couple of student wizards. "Just take the Bursar away and and make him lie down for a while, will you?" he said. "I think someone's been feeding him meat again."
    There was a hiss from the far end of the Great Hall, and then a strangled squeak. Vimes stared at the monstrous array of pipes.
    "Got eight students pumping the bellows," said Ridcully, to a background of wheezes. "It's got three keyboards and a hundred extra knobs, including twelve with "?" on them."
    "Sounds impossible for a man to play," said Vimes politely.
    "Ah. We had a stroke of luck there--"
    There was a moment of sound so loud that the aural nerves shut down. When they opened again, somewhere around the pain threshold, they could just make out Fondel's 'Wedding March', being played with gusto by someone who'd discovered that the instrument didn't just have three keyboards but a whole range of special acoustic effects, ranging from Flatulence to Humorous Chicken Squawk. The occasional 'oook!' of appreciation could be heard amidst the sonic explosion.
    Somewhere under the table, Vimes screamed at Ridcully: "Amazing! Who built it!"
    "I don't know! But it's got the name B. S. Johnson on the keyboard cover!"
    The was a descending wail, one last Hurdy-Gurdy Effect, and then silence.
    "Twenty minutes those lads were pumping up the reservoirs," said Ridcully, dusting himself off as he stood up. "Go easy on the Vox Dei stop, there's a good chap!"
    "Ook!"

It's happening again. People are being murdered in Sam Vimes's city. And there is no Assassin's note, no explanation, and certainly there is no way they were killed with conventional weapons. It's a conundrum, just when something of the sort is not looked-for. Sam and Sybil are getting married, and Sam is officially retiring to live the life of the propertied gentleman. With plumes. And tights. And charity committees. Sam is worried about his sanity. Sybil is worried about a missing swamp dragon named Chubby. Carrot is worried about the future of the Night Watch. And to top it all, now bodies are being found with important bits missing - like heads, chests, that sort of thing....

  'We're dealing here,' said Vimes, 'with a twisted mind.'
  'Oh no! You think so?'
  'Yes.'
  'But . . . no . . . you can't be right. Because Nobby was with us all the time.'
  'Not Nobby,' said Vimes testily. '[ . . . ] There's stranger people in this world than Nobby Nobbs, my lad.'
  Carrot's expression slid into a rictus of intrigued horror.
  'Gosh,' he said.

All Discworld books are fun, but the ones set in Ankh-Morpork are plain hilarious. The author sets everything up for social satire - but most especially human nature. Keep a look-out for references to Bloody Stupid Johnson (the disc's worst architect/designer), Cut-me-own-throat Dibbler the purveyor of sausages-inna-bun and pies containing genuine pork product (*ick*), the Librarian - past master of playing the organ with all four hands, - and now dwarves and trolls and the undead are joining the Watch. The Campaign For Equal Heights are insisting it would be speciesism not to include them. And so Vimes finds himself with a werewolf on his hands, and a troll who knocks himself out every time he salutes. Oh well, tomorrow it won't be his problem anymore ...

  There was a familiar building on the junction of Broad Way and Alchemists. The facade was ornate, but covered in grime. Gargoyles had colonized it.
  The corroded motto over the portico said 'NEITHER RAIN NOR SNOW NOR GLOM OF NIT CAN STAY THESE MEfsENGERS ABOT THIER DUTY' and in more spacious days that may have been the case, but recently someone had found it necessary to nail up an addendum which read:

DON'T ARSK US ABOUT:
rocks
troll's with sticks
All sorts of dragons
Mrs Cake
Huje green things with teeth
Any kinds of black dogs with orange eyebrows
Rains of spaniel's
fog.
Mrs Cake

  'Oh,' he said. 'The Royal Mail.'
  'The Post Office,' corrected Vimes.