Scumble. from the Wonderful World of Sir Terry Prachett. -- Anon Guest
[AN: I suspect this is you, Knitnan]
"It's made from apples," said the grinning local.
"Mostly apples," amended the barman.
The visitor from another dimension picked it up. "I like apple juice," said the brass machine, and downed the thimble-full in a trice. The steam-powered machine smacked its lips for a few seconds. "Kinda fizzy," he said. "Is it supposed to taste rotten?"
"Er," said one of the formerly-guffawing locals. "We don't drink it for the taste..."
Some of the people in the bar began to creep under their tables. They knew how this went and any minute now...
The machine made to look like a man belched a great gout of fire.
"Oh cool, I have a flamethrower now! Wait 'till Rabbit sees this!" It did not help that his every word was punctuated with flames.
It really didn't help that the fancy, colourful liquors behind the bar spontaneously ignited.
In a way, some visitors to Kazooland had been right. The Jon did get along with the Discworld like a house on fire. Flames, screaming, and people running for safety included.
 A wooden thimble. On account of what it does to metal.
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