Terry

Once upon a time, in a landfill in a magical place called Woolpit, several species of small furry Discworld fans, gathered together in a field and started grooving with a Terry.
Many people came from far and wide for this event, and excitement hung in the air and gently took over the smell of pig in the bar.
For those of you who know not of these events, they were big get-togethers for fans of all things Discworld, and it was commonplace to see various witches, wizards, vampires, Death, and Nac MacFeagle wandering around and propping up the bar.
The highlight of the whole weekend was always the Maskerade Competition, wherein folks would dress up as their favourite characters from the Disc and take part in competition to decide who was the best.
I myself took part in a fair few of these Maskerades, although luckily sadly there are no pictures to be found of me on the intermanet in various guises.
After a few events I decided for various reasons not to take part in the competition itself, but to do a little 'skit' at the end to raise money for the Orangutan Foundation, which is the Discworld Charity.
I thought long and hard about what I could do and after a bolt of inspiration hit me, I decided on what to do.
Now please read this link carefully, or the rest of the story won't make much sense.
Done? Good, now I can carry on.
The afternoon of the Maskerade at last arrived and the whole field was awash with excitement as people got into their costumes and ran through last minute readings of their 'lines'.
It was arranged that I was to go on last, not as part of the competition as I said, but in time to catch the judges, especially the one named Mr Terry Pratchett.
At last it was time for me to get on with things, so dressed in a rather fetching outfit of chiffony top, fluffy white tulle skirt, fairy wings, pink hair and Doc Martins, and making as much noise as I could I dragged a ladder and a large, heavy, and rather ominous looking black bag.
After coughing loudly a few times I got the audiences attention.
"Excuse me everybody" I called out, "but is there a Mr Terry Pratchett here today?"
"Yes!" came the reply from the crowd as they pointed out the by now rather nervous Mr P.
Looking him straight in the eye I carried on.
"Mr Terence Pratchett, born in 1948 in Beaconsfield, Buckinghamshire?"
"Yes" came a rather nervous squeak from Terry.
"Well Mr Pratchett, I've just taken over this franchise from a Miss Miranda Sparkle, and it appears that you haven't made all your money from selling books, have you now Mr Pratchett?"
"Gneep" said Terry.
"In fact Mr Pratchett" I carried on, "You've been a rather naughty boy. Going through these records I've found a few discrepancies such as the time you managed to put under your pillow the total of fourteen teeth which you got by knocking out those of your fellow school friends"
"Erm..." said Terry.
"Then there was the occasion when you pulled out the teeth of your recently dear departed friend, Mr Tiddles, didn't you, Mr Pratchett?"
"meep" said Terry.
"Not only did you make money underhandedly on those occasions, there was also the time you tripped your rather down the stairs for his teeth, and also stole your grandparents false teeth for your own ill gotten gains, didn't you, Mr Pratchett?
"gulp" said Terry.
"But the lowest of the low was surely breaking into the local dental surgery and making off with every false tooth and denture you could lay your grubby little mitts ondidn't you, Mr Pratchett?
"...eep" said Terry.
"To whit Mr Pratchett, I have worked out that you owe the sum of $405, 620 AnhkMorpork dollars. How, Mr Pratchett do you propose payment of such monies?"
At this point I took from my rather sturdy tool belt, a rather large pair of pliers.
"How about making a donation to the Orangutan Foundation, Mr Pratchett? What do you say to that?"
"Erm, will £10 do?" He asked in a small voice.
At that reply I opened the large, heavy, and rather ominous looking black bag, and took out an even larger pair of pliers.
"How about twenty then? said Terry.
With a sigh, I took out a small mallet.
"Thirty?" Terry carried on.
Out came a saw.
"Forty then?"
Out came a huge chisel.
"Fifty?"
Followed by a big vice.
"Sixty?"
Large tongs.
"Seventy then!"
Garden shears.
"Eighty?"
Mallet.
"Ninety!?"
Tree loppers.
"A hundred then, a hundred!"
With a smile I turned to him and said sweetly,
"Yes, I think that will do just fine, Mr Pratchett"
As the audience laughed and clapped I threw the tools back in the bag, picked up the ladder and turned to go.
Then stopped and stared at Terry again.
The audience went quiet once more...
"I nearly forgot" I said to Terry. "You won't sleep with your head under the pillow tonight, will you Mr Pratchett?"

And exited, not pursued by bear.