Toran Finniff didn't scream when he was riffed, but merely exhaled like a punctured bladder. When he hit the ground, he groaned in despair at his sudden demise. The groan wafted like one of the Gutter's smells through the gloomy halls and corridors of the Museum.
The Gutter was pleased by this effect.
It would scare the living shit out of them.
The Jiggler was an assassin who specialised in the use of a blow pipe loaded with poison darts. The environmental drawbacks of the Museum of Darkest Arts displeased him.
He had found himself emerging from a staircase onto a causeway suspended over a space of darkness which he took to be some kind of architectural feature.
He leaned over the railing and peered.
Nothing.
He leaned back and flinched when he heard the lingering groan of someone dying. He froze and listened.
The noise of the groan was coming from everywhere.
The Jiggler hastened across the causeway and entered a meandering corridor where the Gutter was waiting for him with a grin on his lips that writhed like worms.
A blow pipe was useless under such circumstances.
Even as the Jiggler backed off from his attacker, the blows were reigning down on his chest, splitting his ribs like bits of kindling and bursting the organs underneath.
The Jiggler neither screamed nor groaned. He spluttered.
And the splutters resonated like an underground stream across the awkward vaults of the Museum.
And, once again, the Gutter was pleased.
Mattosis was drawn by the sound of the splutter ― first one way, then the next.
He didn't like it. Not one bit at all. He was a big man who carried a war hammer under his cloak. But there was no room to swing his mighty weapon in this musty confusion of thwarted pits and warped passages.
He drifted into a stairwell that took him deeper into the murk of a lower level of display chambers. A single torch-light blazed in one of them. Like a moth to the flame, Mattosis was drawn.
The restricted illuminations revealed a multitude of obscure paintings screwed to the walls; and, for a moment, Mattosis lost himself in the fantastical array of artistic fiascos of bygone epochs.
He smiled when he recognised a post-Apocalyptic landscape created by Meral of Skitten, a pioneer of the Catastrophist Movement whose works were later diminished by the greater accomplishments of his successor, Potriech of Skow. While Potriech's masterpieces took pride of place in the city's galleries, Meral, it seems, had been demoted to the Museum of Darkest Arts, which appeared to Mattosis to be rather unfair.
He fixed his eyes on the canvas splattered with motley shades the colour of gangrene. The Wrath of Ages it was called. And, if truth be told, it was an appalling work that conveyed little beyond a congregation of blurs.
Mattosis reflected on the fact that perhaps the work of Meral of Skitten had found an appropriate place of exhibition, after all. He took a step backwards so he could consider the painting in its entirety.
And walked directly onto the point of the Gutting Knife, which pierced his lower back, then slid up at an angle and severed his spine.
Mattosis fell like a piece of timber. His scream was loud but quickly hushed when his vocal chords succumbed to his paralysis. Nevertheless, it tumbled through the gloom of the Museum like a boulder through a gorge.
And the Gutter's lips twitched, which was the nearest thing he would ever come to a smile.
Sweet Dena'han was described by many as the most beautiful woman they had ever seen. Her form was near perfect ― her face a living image of grace ― and, inside, she was as twisted and gnarled as a withered root.
The curve of her blade matched the curve of her body: they were equally deadly. Sweet Dena'han was an expert at finding her way into the beds of lovers who were actually her victims. They didn't know this until they woke up in the small hours of the night, choking on their own blood. But it was all part of her delicious charm, which was remarkably false for one so beautiful.
Sweet Dena'han was a Catastrophist fundamentalist who was prepared to allow the violation of her body for the sake of achieving her philosophical aims. It was not that she was cold-blooded in some mentally detached or subjectively callous way. She did what she did with a selfless dedication to the task, and with an admirable disregard for her personal ambition (prior to joining the Psychomatics, Sweet Dena'han had been one of the most promising scholars of her generation).
She searched the precincts of a muddled anteroom that was over-furnished with figures and busts that vied with each other for the absurdity of their composition. Comically hideous faces stared at her from rough-hewn pedestals. Contorted plaster-cast carcasses stooped and lurched as she wove her way between them.
And, suddenly, one of them moved.
It was fortunate for Sweet Dena'han that she had been on her guard. When the Gutter swung the Gutting Knife at her, she raised an arm in her defence, her torcs deflecting the blow successfully.
She span on her feet with her dagger whistling, expecting to land a slash across the Gutter's chest.
But he was gone.
No. He had ducked under the trajectory of the swinging blade and was leering up at her out of a pool of shadows. When he thrust the Gutting Knife up at her, it slammed like a shaft of ice between her legs. Sweet Dena'han produced a scream that filled the entire Museum with a declaration of agony few others could rival.
And there were many would say that her manner of death was perfectly fitting.
After the Psychomatics had followed the Gutter into the Museum of Darkest Arts, the Sisters of No Mercy had followed after them.
But nobody knew that they were there.
Now they were in the basement examining the corpses of the elderly servitors who, after a long life of easy living, had died in monstrous pain at the behest of the Gutting Knife.
"Serves the fuckers right, really," observed Little Sister.
"Damn right it does," said Big Sister.
"Still," said Little Sister, "it's a crime."
"It's an absolute fucking atrocity," said Big Sister.
Little Sister stood up from the body she'd been bending over.
"But this," she said, now walking over to the corner of the cluttered holding, "is the biggest fucking crime of all."
Big Sister followed her. She was speechless.
"We couldn't have wished it any other way," said Little Sister. She took hold of the lid of the Gutter's churn and began to twist.
Big Sister said nothing. The tear in her eye surely said it all.
The Gutter was pleased he had found the linear stragglers, but disappointed he hadn't found her.
But not surprised.
He was surprised, however, when she found him.
He was in the Room of Charmless Faces, where you could find some of the most abysmal portraits of leading figures ever seen. Anyone else might have been unnerved by the dozens of sightless eyes staring down at them, but the Gutter was oblivious. He stepped lightly across the floorboards ― paused and sniffed. He cocked his head to one side and listened, sure of the fact that his quarry was within range.
She was.
The attack not only came from the shadows ― it was the shadows. The Gutter reeled away from the clawing hands of the Light That Never Shines, unable to see them. The hands, he knew at once, were her Weapons. The fingers of the Light That Never Shines had been fitted with barbs designed to get under the skin, quite literally, of her adversaries. But the Gutter's attire was giving her problems.
The Gutter's smock was thick and greasy with the collective slime of his activities over the years. Unbeknown to him, it had provided him with an impenetrable defence mechanism against the kind of assault he was facing now.
The smock was layered in the bodily juices of a thousand victims whose guts he'd eaten with a messy voracity that had soaked the thing repeatedly in liquid filth. The result was the formation of a reptilian integument that was both slippery and
tough as lead. When the Light That Never Shines tore at the smock, her fingers slid harmlessly off its surface without purchase; and her desperation, with each failed attempt, was beginning to show.
The Gutter spun away from her frantic grasps until it dawned on him their effect was minimal. He immediately increased the frequency of his counterattacks, while cautiously avoiding her swipes at his exposed head. Patience, he decided, was the key. He would bleed her dry ― bleed her to death, if necessary.
The Gutter teased her rather than retaliated; but the effect was the same. Within minutes, the Light That Never Shines began to show signs of wilting. The Gutting Knife drew fresh wounds across her arms and legs and upper body, diminishing her strength to a point of weakness. Finally, exhaustion overcame her, and she slumped to the ground with a breathless acceptance of her doom.
The Gutter leaned over her with a mind to savouring her distress. But the look of melancholy on her face (the Gutter had expected terror, rage, contempt or incredulity) unbalanced him.
"Gutter," she panted, her staring eyes like distant moons. "Tell me," she gasped, "what are we, Gutter? What are we and why?"
The Gutter's lips tightened. There was a gleam in his eye that might have been sorrow.
"I eat guts," he said at last. "How the fuck would I know?"
And the Gutting Knife fell with a hideous glimmer and finished her off.
The Gutter entered the basement dragging the wasted frame of the Light That Never Shines behind him. He dumped her corpse amid a heap of broken effigies that had lain there for years.
The churn was in the corner, where he had left it during his encounter with the Psychomatics. He hastened towards it and drew it over to the still-warm body of the Light That Never Shines. He unscrewed the lid, set it aside, and proceeded to slice open her belly and shovel her guts into the churn with cupped hands that were used to this manoeuvre.
The guts of the Information Master were already in there, and the remnants of others from previous weeks. The brine had kept them reasonably fresh or, at least, succulent. The stench that erupted from the churn was making the Gutter drool like a cur.
When he'd emptied the belly of the Light That Never Shines, he squatted over the churn and began to scoop large portions of innards into his eager mouth. He sucked on wet strands of disgorged viscera that slithered between his gums like snakes, and thrust his palms into his face to lick up the remainder. He must have been about halfway through his feast when he ladled one of Whorefrost's testicles into his mouth and swallowed it whole. As far as the Gutter was concerned, it was just another piece of deliciously stinking meat.
But the Sisters of No Mercy knew otherwise.
It only took a matter of minutes for the testicle to succumb to the initial stages of the digestive process.
It was enough.
The Gutter's body suddenly stiffened without his effort. He groaned weirdly, like a fish on a hook might do if it could make one.
The Sisters stepped out from their place of hiding. The Gutter fell to one side, his head at an angle staring up at them in disbelief. His confusion, however, was secondary to the sensations that were rifting through the internal parts of his physique. The crippling immanence of Whorefrost's sperm was doing its worst, feeling its way through the labyrinth of his anatomy. The Gutter squirmed like a maggot on a pinhead. Guttural sounds came from his throat. It appeared that he no longer possessed the vocal capacities to issue a scream.
"Well, well, well," said Little Sister. "What have we here?"
Big Sister rested an arm on her sister's shoulder and said:
"Well, blow me hard if it's not the little fucker who killed our Middle Sister, Sister."
Little Sister said: "You don't fucking say."
"Oh yes," said Big Sister, "I fucking do."
"In that case," said Little Sister, "maybe we shouldn't bother to explain what the fuck he's eaten."
"You mean the demon semen of that motherless fuck whose balls we clipped the other day?"
"That's the one."
"Naw," said Big Sister, "I wouldn't want to know if I was in his fucking position."
"Right," said Little Sister. "So let's shut the fuck up and watch the fucker die like the fucker he is."
Which is exactly what they did. And the Gutter didn't disappoint them. He lasted for about three hours, as long as someone of his constitution would be expected to.
After it was done, Little Sister sighed and said:
"So that's that."
Big Sister bowed her head and said:
"So it was."
"It was good to watch the bastard die so fucking horribly," said Little Sister.
"Damn right," said Big Sister. "It was the fucking best."
"But," sighed Little Sister, "I kind of feel it could've been better."
Big Sister took her Little Sister in her arms, her eyes full of tears.
"I know," she said, her voice no more than a whisper. "I know."
SYMPOSIUM
The New Weird Discussions: The Creation of a Term
IN APRIL 2003, M. John Harrison asked a question on his Third Alternative Message Board that eventually led to the creation, promulgation, mutation and distortion of the term "New Weird." This was an offshoot, as far as we can tell, of a conversation that originated on Steph Swainston's message board, but only reached critical mass with Harrison's question.
We've reproduced the first part of that public discussion below, filling in full names where we know them. We have preserved many idiosyncrasies of punctuation and phrasing that are in keeping with online communication.
The entire discussion took place over several months and many thousands of words. Several other individuals, including Jeffrey Ford, Michael Cisco, Kathryn Cramer, one of the editors of this very anthology (Jeff VanderMeer), and, perhaps most notably, China Miéville, eventually entered into the fray. An archive of the entirety of this very public investigation of New Weird exists on Kathryn Cramer's website at:www.kathryncramer.com/kathryn_cramer/2007/07/the-new-weird-a.html. ― THE EDITORS
M. John Harrison (Tuesday, April 29, 2003 ― 10:39 am): The New Weird. Who does it? What is it? Is it even anything? Is it even New? Is it, as some think, not only a better slogan than The Next Wave, but also incalculably more fun to do? Should we just call it Pick'n'Mix instead? As ever, your views are the views we want to hear ―
Zali Krishna: Is it a bit like science fantasy but with more than a passing nod towards horror? Presumably the "Weird" refers back to Weird Tales ― a pre-generic pulp era where SF, fantasy and horror were less well defined. I'm guessing here, based upon the Miéville attribution. Personally I think "Weird Shit" would be a better label ― I'd like to see bookshops with a Weird Shit section.
Jonathan Oliver: Who coined the phrase The New Weird? I haven't seen it in use before?
Al Robertson: Would definitely rush to Weird Shit shelves, think they should be balanced with Heavy Shit also. Dictionary Weird ― "Strange or bizarre.supernatural, uncanny" Uncanny's nice ― makes me think of unheimlich, which I suppose is a v. good definition of it ― uncomfort-ing fiction.
Krishna: I'm not sure I'd go near uncanny shelves. I've seen what sort of injuries falling books can cause. "Excuse me miss, can I see the Heavy Shit librarian?"
Harrison: Nuevo Weird? [Zali], the Heavy Shit librarian, sums things up as ever. It makes that exact allusion to Weird Tales and especially the fact that, back then, in that marvellous & uncorrupted time of the world, everything could still be all mixed up together ― horror, sf, fantasy ― and no one told you off or said your career was over with their firm if you kept doing that. I heard it in conversation with China Miéville his self, and cheekily reapplied it in a preface to "The Tain" (mainly so I could use the title "China Miéville & the New Weird", which I thought was second in impact only to "Uncle Zip and the New Nuevo Tango"). He writes it. But who else? And what are its exact parameters? Indeed, do we want it to have exact parameters? Do we even want it? Is it, as Ste
ph says, instantly rendered Old by being spoken of as New?
Stephanie Swainston: The New Weird is a wonderful development in literary fantasy fiction. I would have called it Bright Fantasy, because it is vivid and because it is clever. The New Weird is a kickback against jaded heroic fantasy which has been the only staple for far too long. Instead of stemming from Tolkien, it is influenced by Gormenghast and Viriconium. It is incredibly eclectic, and takes ideas from any source. It borrows from American Indian and Far Eastern mythology rather than European or Norse traditions, but the main influence is modern culture ― street culture ― mixing with ancient mythologies. The text isn't experimental, but the creatures are. It is amazingly empathic. What is it like to be a clone? Or to walk on your hundred quirky legs? The New Weird attempts to explain. It acknowledges other literary traditions, for example Angela Carter's mainstream fiction, or classics like Melville. Films are a source of inspiration because action is vital. The elves were first up against the wall when the revolution came, and instead we want the vastness of the science fiction film universe on the page.
There is a lot of genre-mixing going on, thank god. (Jon Courtnay Grimwood mixes futuristic sf and crime novels). The New Weird grabs everything, and so genre-mixing is part of it, but not the leading role. The New Weird is secular, and very politically informed. Questions of morality are posed. Even the politics, though, is secondary to this sub-genre's most important theme: detail.
The details are jewel-bright, hallucinatory, carefully described. Today's Tolkienesque fantasy is lazy and broad-brush. Today's Michael Marshall thrillers rely lazily on brand names. The New Weird attempts to place the reader in a world they do not expect, a world that surprises them ― the reader stares around and sees a vivid world through the detail. These details ― clothing, behaviour, scales and teeth ― are what makes New Weird worlds so much like ours, as recognisable and as well-described. It is visual, and every scene is packed with baroque detail. Nouveau-goths use neon and tinsel as well as black clothes. The New Weird is more multi-spectral than gothic.
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