Below are the 2 most recent journal entries recorded in Carcer's LiveJournal:

Thursday, February 3rd, 2005
11:44 pm	It is a sad fact of unlife that pubs cost money. Even the most diligent of drinkers finds this to be the case eventually. For some this is more easily dealt with than for others; they pay their tabs and leave. Others merely leave and are later made to pay their tabs by quite large gentlemen with lumpy bits where their noses ought to be. And some, well... some check their purses beforehand, and consider the company they've met in their fine new drinking house ercently, and decide that perhaps a change of scenery is in order. No one is going to miss a few unlicensed thieves in Ankh-Morpork, anyway. That's the beauty of the Guild system. An unlicensed thief found dead having been hit so hard his nose ended up in one of his own ears is generally assumed to have encountered one of the more zealous members of the Guild. It's a terribly easy thing to assume. The second unlicensed thief who turns up dead is assumed not to have heard about the first, especially since his purse is slit almost as widely as his throat. That's Guild justice for you. It's the third thief, the one whose manner of presentation leaves the city's ravens weeping with joy, who catches the attention. Not much, true- in a city like Ankh-Morpork, already on edge with the Watch's attention firmly rivetted on Cockbill Street, there's not much attention to be spared- but what there is, turns this way. The attention, in this case, came from a fellow named Frentzel. He was a new copper, as were so many these days, and as was also the case with many others, he'd just arrived in town. Cities all over the Sto Plains had taken to sending young men and dwarves to work in the Ankh-Morpork Watch, then come home and spread the wealth, such as it was. Frentzel, for his part, hailed from Bönk. His cousin Tantony was a guardsman there. He'd known the Ankh-Morpork Watch Commander- it had been Tantony's idea for his young cousin to get a good close look at what real law was like, and so Frentzel had happily deferred to his cousin's judgment. Frentzel had thought he'd seen it all back home, between the werewolves and the vampires and the people who rushed in to fill up space when the werewolves were persuaded to find somewhere else to be vicious, but the sight of the third thief suspended from an overhead bit of building, surrounded by happy ravens... that wouldn't have happened back home. Too wasteful. Too gratuitous. His companion (no one patrolled alone these days, under Commander Vimes' orders) took one look and was sick into his helmet. Frentzel got thoughtful instead. They walked back to the Watch House in silence. Frentzel presented his notes and went off shift. This was still far too much like something from home for his liking. Something excessive, something weirdly joyful. It put him in mind of... of... He didn't know. He was still trying to put his finger on it when he slipped out of the Watch House and started making for Mrs. Cosmopilite's boarding house, where he was renting a room with a small, smiling fellow in saffron robes. He knew about the Thieves' Guild here, but this didn't square up with what he'd read about them on the coach from Bönk. They believed in educative violence, it was true, but this didn't smell right. It seemed far too- "Excessive," he said suddenly, stopping in mid-stride despite the stench of the local streets. "That's the word." "Word for what?" asked a curious voice from behind him. Frentzel blushed, realising he'd been caught out. "Sorry, I was just thinking about something I saw today," he said. He turned to see who had spoken, but there was little enough light on this particular street. All he could make out was the outline of a fellow about his own height, and an odour that spoke of some of the more unusual members of the Beggars' Guild. He started patting down his pockets at the thought. "It was a thief-" "Oh, that's right, in Easy Street?" said the other man, shuffling nearer. Frentzel nodded. "You're right. It was excessive, wasn't it?" "You saw, then?" He'd found a few pence. That ought to do with most beggars; he held out his hand. "Oh, yes," said the other man. One hand reached for Frentzel's, suddenly clapping around the young fellow's wrist in an iron grip. "Here, let go-" Frentzel stopped, stared. The beggar's skin was a peculiar shade of greyish-green. "Haha," Carcer said. (Comment on this)
Wednesday, January 26th, 2005
3:11 pm	The thing about being a zombie is that, to a certain kind of mind, it is very nearly the best existence in the world. The need to perform such biological niceties as eating and sleeping falls away, as do such pesky tagalongs as pain. Add in the peculiar strength that comes of one's body being subject only to will and purely mechanical considerations, and the only real competition a decently comported zombie has for first place in the physically enviable arena is, well, golems. To a certain kind of mind this is an eminently desirable condition. They are, of course, still dead. There is very little enjoyment to be had in the old senses of touch and smell and taste when you are dead- it has to do with the glands, which are generally quite unreasonable about not being alive any more and usually shut down in protest long before the zombie gets up for the first time. Most zombies are also generally rather lower on the social desirability ladder than the average vampire. The living are a bit peculiar about grayish-green skin and repeatedly reattached limbs*. Fangs, yes, peculiar accents, yes, stylish evening dress on all occasions and a fondness for young ladies' necks, yes; zombies, no. Of course, to a certain kind of mind there is very little to recommend social intercourse anyway. Add in the kind of mind that is perfectly capable of taking all its pleasure from simple things like knowing that, in a small but significant way, one has made a very real difference in the life of the urban poor, and there is going to be trouble. *The Igors of Uberwald are all too aware of this prejudice, but having their own rather vigorously unusual attitudes towards the dead, there has yet been no talk of an Igors / Vitally Challenged joint pressure group. Thank Io. # # # # # His name in life was Carcer; if he had any other name, nobody knew it. He hadn't particularly expected to find himself staring at the inside of his coffin lid. He hadn't expected to find himself staring at anything, really; men like Carcer don't usually give much care or thought to the future in general, let alone the afterlife. It came as rather a surprise to him that the afterlife was this one. Not that he let the surprise stop him; if the hangman's noose hadn't stopped him, why should a little thing like this? He made good his escape and tidied up after himself- no sense disturbing the city's undertakers, after all- before wending his way off through the streets of Ankh-Morpork in search of a quiet spot to think. He found the Shades. And, a little later, he found Cockbill Street. And he remembered, oh, yes, he remembered- this was where Sam Vimes had once lived. Commander Vimes, now, and off living a nob's life, but once… Even a zombie may still retain a sense of aesthetics. Whether it focuses on the intellectually aesthetic, such as a well-turned bit of irony, or the purely physical, like the colour of the last bit of candlelight through the blood on the edge of a knife, is of course a matter of the individual. It still provides enjoyment, of course, and when you cannot get enjoyment through the normal channels it quite often means that you are just going to have to repeat the ones that you know work. Sometimes, you repeat them quite a lot. Current Mood: predatory (Comment on this)