The Last Continent

everywhere.
    Suspended from the neck of this one was a tray. On the front of the tray was written “Dibbler’s Café de Feet.”
    “I reckoned I’d better get up to the gaol early for a good pitch,” said Dibbler. “Always gives the crowd an appetite, a good hanging. Can I interest you in anything, mate?”
    Rincewind looked at the end of the alley. The streets were quite busy. As he watched, a couple of guards strolled by.
    “Such as what?” he said suspiciously, drawing back into the shadows.
    “Got some good broadsheet ballads about the notorious outlaw they’re gonna top…?”
    “No, thank you.”
    “Souvenir piece of the rope they’re gonna hang him with? Authentic!”
    Rincewind looked at the short length of thick string being dangled hopefully in front of him. “Some people might say that had a hint of clothesline about it,” he said.
    Dibbler gave the string a look of extreme interest. “Obviously we had to unravel it a bit, mate,” he said.
    “And some people might pick holes in the suggestion that you could, philosophically speaking, sell lengths of the rope before the hanging?”
    Dibbler paused, his smile not moving. Then he said, “It’s the rope, right? Three-quarter-inch hemp, the usual stuff. Authentic. probably even from the same ropemaker. Come on, all I’m looking for here is a fair go. Probably it’s a pure fluke this ain’t the actual bit that’s gonna go round his neck—”
    “That’s only half an inch thick. Look, I can see the label, it says Hill’s Clothesline Co.”’
    “Does it?”
    Once again Dibbler appeared to be looking at his product for the first time. But the traditions of the Dibbler clan would never let a mere disastrous fact get in the way of a spiel.
    “It’s still rope,” he averred. “Authentic rope. No? No worries. How about some authentic native art?”
    He rummaged in his crowded tray and held up a square of cardboard. Rincewind gave it an appraising look.
    He’d seen something like this out in the red country, although he’d not been certain that it was art in the way Ankh-Morpork understood it. It was more like a map, a history book and a menu all rolled together. Back home, people tied a knot in their handkerchief to remind them of things. Out in the hot country there weren’t any handkerchiefs, so people tied a knot in their thoughts.
    They didn’t paint very many pictures of a string of sausages.
    “’s called Sausage and Chips Dreaming ,” said Dibbler.
    “I don’t think I’ve seen one like that,” said Rincewind. “Not with the sauce bottle in it as well.”
    “So what?” said Dibbler. “Still native. Genuine picture of traditional city tucker, done by a native. A fair go, that’s all I ask.”
    “Ah, suddenly I think I understand. The native in this case, perhaps, being you?” said Rincewind.
    “Yep. Authentic. You arguing?”
    “Oh, come on .”
    “What? I was born over there in Treacle Street, Bludgeree, and so was my dad. And my granddad. And his dad. I didn’t just step off the driftwood like some people I might mention.” His ratty little face darkened. “Coming over here, taking our jobs…What about the little man, eh? All I’m askin’ for is a fair go.”
    For a moment Rincewind contemplated handing himself over to the Watch.
    “Nice to hear someone siding with the rights of the indigenous population,” he muttered, checking the street again.
    “Indigenous? What do they know about a day’s work? Nah, they can go back where they came from too,” said Dibbler. “They don’t want to work.”
    “Good thing for you, though, I can see that,” said Rincewind. “Otherwise they’d be taking your job, right?”
    “The way I see it, I’m more indigenous than them,” said Fair Go, pointing an indignant thumb at himself. “I earned my indigenuity, I did.”
    Rincewind sighed. Logic could take you only so far, then you had to get out and hop. “A fair go, that’s what you want,” he said. “Am I right?”
    “Yep!”
    “So…is there anyone who you don’t want to go back where they came from?”
    Fair Go Dibbler gave this some deep consideration. “Well, me, obviously ,” he said. “And my mate Duncan, ’cos Duncan’s me mate. And Mrs. Dibbler, of course. And some of the blokes down at the fish and chip shop. Lots of people, really.”
    “Well, I’ll tell you what,” said Rincewind. “I definitely want to go back where I came from.”
    “Good on yer!”
    “Your socio-political