Men at Arms by Terry Pratchett

think that moving this tube down the barrel forces the, er, six chambers to slide along, presenting a new one to the, er, firing hole. That seems clear enough. The triggering mechanism is really just a tinderbox device. The spring… here …has rusted through. I can easily replace that. You know,” he said, looking up, “this is a very interesting device. With the chemicals in the tubes and all. Such a simple idea. Is it a clown thing? Some kind of automatic slap-stick?”
    He sorted through a bin of metal offcuts to find a piece of steel, and then selected a file.
    “I’d like to make a few sketches afterwards,” he said.
    About thirty seconds later there was a pop and a cloud of smoke.
    Bjorn Hammerhock picked himself up, shaking his head.
    “That was lucky!” he said. “Could have been a nasty accident there.”
    He tried to fan some of the smoke away, and then reached for the file again.
    His hand went through it.
    AHEM.
    Bjorn tried again.
    The file was as insubstantial as the smoke.
    “What?”
    AHEM.
    The owner of the strange device was staring in horror at something on the floor. Bjorn followed his gaze.
    “Oh,” he said. Realization, which had been hovering on the edge of Bjorn’s consciousness, finally dawned. That was the thing about death. When it happened to you, you were among the first to know.
    His visitor grabbed the device from the bench and rammed it into a cloth bag. Then he looked around wildly, picked up the corpse of Mr. Hammerhock, and dragged it through the door toward the river.
    There was a distant splash, or as close to a splash as you could get from the Ankh.
    “Oh dear,” said Bjorn. “And I can’t swim, either.”
    THAT WILL NOT, OF COURSE, BE A PROBLEM, said Death.
    Bjorn looked at him.
    “You’re a lot shorter than I thought you’d be,” he said.
    THIS IS BECAUSE I’M KNEELING DOWN, MR. HAMMERHOCK.
    “That damn thing killed me!”
    YES.
    “That’s the first time anything like that has ever happened to me.”
    TO ANYONE. BUT NOT, I SUSPECT, THE LAST TIME.
    Death stood up. There was a clicking of knee joints. He no longer cracked his skull on the ceiling. There wasn’t a ceiling any more. The room had gently faded away.
    There were such things as dwarf gods. Dwarfs were not a naturally religious species, but in a world where pit props could crack without warning andpockets of fire damp could suddenly explode they’d seen the need for gods as the sort of supernatural equivalent of a hard hat. Besides, when you hit your thumb with an eight-pound hammer it’s nice to be able to blaspheme. It takes a very special and strong-minded kind of atheist to jump up and down with their hand clasped under their other armpit and shout, “Oh, random fluctuations-in-the-space-time-contiuum!” or “Aaargh, primitive-and-outmoded-concept on a crutch!”
    Bjorn didn’t waste time asking questions. A lot of things become a shade urgent when you’re dead.
    “I believe in reincarnation,” he said.
    I KNOW.
    “I tried to live a good life. Does that help?”
    THAT IS NOT UP TO ME. Death coughed. OF COURSE,…SINCE YOU BELIEVE IN REINCARNATION…YOU’LL BE BJORN AGAIN.
    He waited.
    “Yes. That’s right,” said Bjorn. Dwarfs are known for their sense of humor, in a way. People point them out and say: “Those little devils haven’t got a sense of humor.”
    UM. WAS THERE ANYTHING AMUSING IN THE STATEMENT I JUST MADE?
    “Uh. No. No…I don’t think so.”
    IT WAS A PUN, OR PLAY ON WORDS. BJORN AGAIN.
    “Yes?”
    DID YOU NOTICE IT?
    “I can’t say I did.”
    OH.
    “Sorry.”
    I’VE BEEN TOLD I SHOULD TRY TO MAKE THE OCCASION A LITTLE MORE ENJOYABLE.
    “Bjorn again.”
    YES.
    “I’ll think about it.”
    THANK YOU.
     
    “Hright,” said Sergeant Colon, “this, men, is your truncheon, also nomenclatured your night stick or baton of office.” He paused while he tried to remember his army days, and brightened up.
    “ Hand you will look after hit,” he shouted. “You will