Sir Terry Pratchett was not remotely in the vicinity of Fucking-Around, and had never even heard of that ridiculous thing some of his esteemed colleagues referred to as “Chill.” (1)
(1) In point of fact, he had heard of it, on numerous occasions, most often when a friend or well-meaning-but-politely-horrified acquaintance advised him to locate some, but he always studiously ignored this in favor of a much more productive righteous fury, which he kept hot enough to boil the kettle for his afternoon tea. If the world was not going to work as it should, then damn it all, he would create one in which people had some blasted sense for a change. And he did. Spite, as it turns out, makes for an excellent motivator.
The most powerful love wraps around a core of white-hot fury. How dare you, it says. How dare you treat us this way. We are worth so much more.
