and led the way. Gregor followed, and the elevator whispered shut behind them. “He’s quiet tonight.”
“As long as he isn’t dead,” Gregor said.
“Nah, he’ll live forever.” Nicolette seemed amused by the idea. “He told us so himself, right?” She pushed open the flimsy door at the end of the corridor with her foot. It squeaked on its hinges. Gregor winced. “Hey, laughing boy! Chow time!”
Gregor looked at her questioningly.
“He likes those oatmeal cookies,” Nicolette said, patting yet another pocket. “I got him a couple.”
“I didn’t realize you two were so close,” Gregor said.
“I had a dog for a while, when I was on the street. The Giggler reminds me of that dog—dumb, but kind of loyal, you know? My dog wasn’t as creepy, of course.”
“Of course.” Gregor inhaled from the handkerchief deeply, then stepped into the dark room to confront the Giggler. They’d tried locking him up, keeping him in cells or in bare white rooms where he couldn’t make a mess or a stink, but the measures always failed. The Giggler couldn’t be held. He had resources Gregor didn’t understand, capabilities beyond anything Gregor had studied. They would lock him away, only to find him outside the cell the next morning, drawing cartoon animals with his feces, using frothy spittle for the highlights, the door still locked behind him. Giggling, of course. Surveillance equipment malfunctioned when trained on him, and guards fell asleep when assigned his watch. Some strange power had touched the Giggler, and while that touch had damaged and twisted him, it had given him talents as well.
The Giggler
had
to live in the midst of mess and profusion. His previous owner had understood that, and after a time, Gregor had accepted it, too. The Giggler needed disorder for his fragile mental well-being, and more important, he needed it for his work. Where Gregor saw clutter, the Giggler saw the secret traceries of the universe.
Nicolette flipped a switch, and cold fluorescent light flooded the room. “He didn’t break this light yet, at least.” The Giggler’s living quarters were revealed, a pile of blankets, a jug of water, and a bag of salty pretzels beside the pillow. The Giggler himself was nowhere in evidence.
Gregor had inherited the Giggler from the city’s former chief sorcerer, Sauvage, although “stolen” might have been a more accurate word. But Sauvage had been past caring, and the Giggler didn’t care where he went, as long as he got pillows to sit on and food to eat and things to play with. Little animals to disembowel. Tea leaves to stir with his finger. Yarrow stalks. Ancient coins. Small bones, from the feet of children and the limbs of lizards. He even possessed a dirty, well-thumbed deck of Tarot cards, though he never laid them out in any pattern Gregor had heard of. He kept big sheets of posterboard to wipe his boogers on, and often propped the sheets against the wall and gestured to them when talking to Gregor, like a marketing executive noting pertinent points on a graph at a meeting. Gregor stood in the middle of the room, away from the moldering cat pelt nailed to the wall, away from the shelves with their algae-infested aquariums, away from the wooden boxes full of different kinds of mushrooms, some of which the Giggler ingested, some of which he studied for omens.
The frayed black drape at the back of the room fluttered and parted, and the Giggler emerged, pulling his stained corduroy pants up. He wore a surprisingly clean white undershirt with round eyes drawn all over it with a black laundry marker. He tugged the drawstring in his pants tight and smirked at his visitors. His black hair was greasy as always, and his clogged pores looked big enough to drive trucks through. Wiping his perpetually runny nose with one hand, he waved shyly at Nicolette with the other. “Feed me.”
Nicolette tossed him a cookie, and the Giggler caught it one-handed, still rubbing away at his
“As long as he isn’t dead,” Gregor said.
“Nah, he’ll live forever.” Nicolette seemed amused by the idea. “He told us so himself, right?” She pushed open the flimsy door at the end of the corridor with her foot. It squeaked on its hinges. Gregor winced. “Hey, laughing boy! Chow time!”
Gregor looked at her questioningly.
“He likes those oatmeal cookies,” Nicolette said, patting yet another pocket. “I got him a couple.”
“I didn’t realize you two were so close,” Gregor said.
“I had a dog for a while, when I was on the street. The Giggler reminds me of that dog—dumb, but kind of loyal, you know? My dog wasn’t as creepy, of course.”
“Of course.” Gregor inhaled from the handkerchief deeply, then stepped into the dark room to confront the Giggler. They’d tried locking him up, keeping him in cells or in bare white rooms where he couldn’t make a mess or a stink, but the measures always failed. The Giggler couldn’t be held. He had resources Gregor didn’t understand, capabilities beyond anything Gregor had studied. They would lock him away, only to find him outside the cell the next morning, drawing cartoon animals with his feces, using frothy spittle for the highlights, the door still locked behind him. Giggling, of course. Surveillance equipment malfunctioned when trained on him, and guards fell asleep when assigned his watch. Some strange power had touched the Giggler, and while that touch had damaged and twisted him, it had given him talents as well.
The Giggler
had
to live in the midst of mess and profusion. His previous owner had understood that, and after a time, Gregor had accepted it, too. The Giggler needed disorder for his fragile mental well-being, and more important, he needed it for his work. Where Gregor saw clutter, the Giggler saw the secret traceries of the universe.
Nicolette flipped a switch, and cold fluorescent light flooded the room. “He didn’t break this light yet, at least.” The Giggler’s living quarters were revealed, a pile of blankets, a jug of water, and a bag of salty pretzels beside the pillow. The Giggler himself was nowhere in evidence.
Gregor had inherited the Giggler from the city’s former chief sorcerer, Sauvage, although “stolen” might have been a more accurate word. But Sauvage had been past caring, and the Giggler didn’t care where he went, as long as he got pillows to sit on and food to eat and things to play with. Little animals to disembowel. Tea leaves to stir with his finger. Yarrow stalks. Ancient coins. Small bones, from the feet of children and the limbs of lizards. He even possessed a dirty, well-thumbed deck of Tarot cards, though he never laid them out in any pattern Gregor had heard of. He kept big sheets of posterboard to wipe his boogers on, and often propped the sheets against the wall and gestured to them when talking to Gregor, like a marketing executive noting pertinent points on a graph at a meeting. Gregor stood in the middle of the room, away from the moldering cat pelt nailed to the wall, away from the shelves with their algae-infested aquariums, away from the wooden boxes full of different kinds of mushrooms, some of which the Giggler ingested, some of which he studied for omens.
The frayed black drape at the back of the room fluttered and parted, and the Giggler emerged, pulling his stained corduroy pants up. He wore a surprisingly clean white undershirt with round eyes drawn all over it with a black laundry marker. He tugged the drawstring in his pants tight and smirked at his visitors. His black hair was greasy as always, and his clogged pores looked big enough to drive trucks through. Wiping his perpetually runny nose with one hand, he waved shyly at Nicolette with the other. “Feed me.”
Nicolette tossed him a cookie, and the Giggler caught it one-handed, still rubbing away at his
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