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The Dweller Somewhere, under the sidewalk, in a catacomb subterranean city apartment seldom thought about or imagined, there lived a man with a name that hadn't been uttered or scrawled in a length of time unknown to any including himself. He spent untold amounts of time collecting the unnamed residue that collects around the nozzle of plastic milk jugs, sorting batches of it by month in cigar boxes and emptied soup cans. He had pets. They varied in species - some dog, some rabbit, some rat, a variety of bird, some others here and there, coming and going to be fed or eat the smaller among them. They were all utterly insane. The man, though he never abused, tortured, or otherwise tormented the beasts, must have exuded an effluvium of dementia, for all life forms that came into repeated contact with him inevitably went insane. It even seemed to afflict the mold and weeds that had discovered his lair; they grew in unnatural, unexplainable ways, contrary to tried truth of biological good sense. An observer, if there ever could be one, could tell which of the pets had been "in his care" and which were new arrivals. The new ones lacked certain subtle facial paroxysms, a vague uncomeliness and asymmetry, a neurotic gaze strangely as infectious as a common cold. Soon enough, they all had it, all caught The Madness. Every animal in the man's unsettling company soon became unfit for nature or public street, a milling patchwork sideshow circus never to be seen beneath the countless feet shuffling to and from work and homes. Somewhere, burrowed in the glue between day and night, good and evil, they exist. |
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