Eric by Terry Pratchett

room for statues, priests, slabs, gutters, knife-chipping production lines and all the other things the Tezumen needed for the bulk disposal of religion. In front of Rincewind several priests were busily chanting a long list of complaints about swamps, mosquitoes, lack of metal ore, volcanoes, the weather, the way obsidian never kept its edge, the trouble with having a god like Quezovercoatl, the way wheels never worked properly however often you laid them flat and pushed them, and so on.
    The prayers of most religions generally praise and thank the gods involved, either out of general piety or in the hope that he or she will take the hint and start acting responsibly. The Tezumen, having taken a long hard look around their world and decided bluntly that things were just about as bad as they were ever going to get, had perfected the art of the plain-chant winge.
    “Won’t be long now,” said the parrot, from its perch atop a statue of one of the Tezumen’s lesser gods.
    It had got there by a complicated sequence of events that had involved a lot of squawking, a cloud of feathers and three Tezuman priests with badly swollen thumbs.
    “The high priest is just performing a wossname in honor of Quezovercoatl,” it went on, conversationally. “You’ve drawn quite a crowd.”
    “I suppose you wouldn’t kind of hop down here and bite through these ropes, would you?” said Rincewind.
    “Not a chance.”
    “Thought so.”
    “Sun’s coming up soon,” the parrot continued. Rincewind felt that it sounded unnecessarily cheerful.
    “I’m going to complain about this, demon,” moaned Eric. “You wait till my mother finds out. My parents have got influence, you know.”
    “Oh, good,” said Rincewind weakly. “Why don’t you tell the high priest that if he cuts your heart out she’ll be right down to the school tomorrow to complain.”
    The Tezuman priests bowed toward the sun, and all eyes in the crowd below turned to the jungle.
    Where something was happening. There was the sound of crackling undergrowth. Tropical birds erupted through the trees, shrieking.
    Rincewind, of course, could not see this.
    “You never should have wanted to be ruler of the world,” he said. “I mean, what did you expect? You can’t expect people to be happy about seeing you. No one ever is when the landlord turns up.”
    “But they’re going to kill me!”
    “It’s just their way of saying that, metaphorically, they’re fed up with waiting for you to repaint the place and see to the drains.”
    The whole jungle was in an uproar now. Animals exploded out of the bushes as if running from a fire. A few heavy thumps indicated that trees were falling over.
    At last a frantic jaguar crashed through the undergrowth and loped down the causeway. The Luggage was a few feet behind it.
    It was covered with creepers, leaves and the feathers of various rare jungle fowls, some of which were now even rarer. The jaguar could have avoided it by zigging or zagging to either side, but sheer idiot terror prevented it. It made the mistake of turning its head to see what was behind.
    This was the last mistake it ever made.
    “You know that box of yours?” said the parrot.
    “What about it?” said Rincewind.
    “It’s heading this way.”
    The priests peered down at the running figure far below. The Luggage had a straightforward way of dealing with things between it and its intended destination: it ignored them.
    It was at this moment, against all his instincts, in great trepidation and, most unfortunately of all, in deep ignorance of what was happening, that Quezovercoatl himself chose to materialize on top of the pyramid.
    Several of the priests noticed him. The knives fell from their fingers.
    “Er,” squeaked the demon.
    Other priests turned around.
    “Right. Now, I want you all to pay attention,” squeaked Quezovercoatl, cupping his tiny hands around his main mouth in an effort to be heard.
    This was very embarrassing. He’d enjoyed being