taught us how to do this.
Now there is a little man between our hands, a puppet, a cartoon character made three–dimensional. He is naked, and brown, and sexless. His eyes are absurdly big, and green, and they shine like glass. He looks out at the crowd and waves. He says, “Annyeong Hassaeyo! Hello! I am made of wood! Are you made of skin? Wood burns! It keeps you warm! If you burned your skin, would it keep me warm?”
Then we close our hands around him, and the little man disappears. And the crowd cheers. I know how they feel. There is a filter in your brain, something designed to reject things like this. The trick is to slip through it, to infiltrate. Magic is an addictive animal, and it only takes a little taste. After that, you want more. You crave it. You will follow it into the crevasse and fall for years just to brush the tips of your fingers against the rough, unfriendly bristles over its shapeless spine. They’ll do whatever we want now, if we promise them another chance to stroke that great feral eyeless cat.
We walk, shouting into our megaphones, “End of Days! End of Days! End of Days Parade!”
§
When I had known him for three weeks, Kidu told me about the book. He said, “If you knew all about the end of the world, you would do what?”
I stole one of his cigarettes and lit it with his lighter. “Get drunk,” I said, because I was drunk.
He laughed, but it sounded fake when he did it. Then he said, “No. I’m serious. Pretend you know all about the end of the world. You do what?”
I groaned and let my head fall back against the back of the booth. Then I thought about it. “I don’t know. Try to stop it, maybe?”
“Bullshit,” Kidu said. “That’s the wrong feeling. That’s the wrong…” here he looked down and pounded lightly on the table, searching for the word. “The wrong attitude.”
“Oh,” I said. “Okay, Kidu. Enlighten me.”
“What does this mean?”
“It means tell me what you’re talking about.”
“Okay, okay,” he said, and filled my glass with another shot of soju. “The world is ending. Every day, it’s ending. All of the universe is eating itself until it is gone. There is chaos like a blister beneath the skin of the world, and the blister is… What is it… it is bleeding. And soon it will burst completely.”
“Fancy words, Kidu! Impressive.”
“They aren’t my words. I read them in a book I have. Where was I?”
“Bleeding blister, end of the world, etcetera.”
He snapped his fingers and then pointed at me. “Good. Yeah. So what you will do? Try to stop it? No. This is foolish to think. What you will do is, um… enjoy the ride.”
“Okay,” I said. Because I was drunk, and I didn’t know what he was talking about.
“In the book I have,” Kidu said, and drew with his finger in the condensation on the table, “it says that the only thing to do is drink the blood of the blister. To be drunk on the…
taeryo
… the ingredients… beneath the skin of the world.” He looked suddenly sheepish and childlike, staring up at me from beneath the uneven fringe of his bangs. “Do you want to do that with me?”
I said, “Kidu, I don’t understand what you’re — ”
“This is your only chance. You can be someone special. Someone better than anyone else. Or at least you can feel that way for a while.”
We locked eyes then. I couldn’t look away from him. He looked like he might cry, or maybe reach out and grab my face and kiss me. Behind us, someone shouted something at the soccer game on the bar TV.
“Fuck it,” I said. And we clicked glasses and took our shots. Then I said, “Sounds like a hell of a book. Can I read it?”
“No,” said Kidu.
§
They follow us up the hill, we the pied pipers, they the rats and the children of this place, hooting and singing and weaving around our stilts. We perform tricks for them as we walk. Little things to keep them entertained, to keep them interested. I summon up a magpie from
Now there is a little man between our hands, a puppet, a cartoon character made three–dimensional. He is naked, and brown, and sexless. His eyes are absurdly big, and green, and they shine like glass. He looks out at the crowd and waves. He says, “Annyeong Hassaeyo! Hello! I am made of wood! Are you made of skin? Wood burns! It keeps you warm! If you burned your skin, would it keep me warm?”
Then we close our hands around him, and the little man disappears. And the crowd cheers. I know how they feel. There is a filter in your brain, something designed to reject things like this. The trick is to slip through it, to infiltrate. Magic is an addictive animal, and it only takes a little taste. After that, you want more. You crave it. You will follow it into the crevasse and fall for years just to brush the tips of your fingers against the rough, unfriendly bristles over its shapeless spine. They’ll do whatever we want now, if we promise them another chance to stroke that great feral eyeless cat.
We walk, shouting into our megaphones, “End of Days! End of Days! End of Days Parade!”
§
When I had known him for three weeks, Kidu told me about the book. He said, “If you knew all about the end of the world, you would do what?”
I stole one of his cigarettes and lit it with his lighter. “Get drunk,” I said, because I was drunk.
He laughed, but it sounded fake when he did it. Then he said, “No. I’m serious. Pretend you know all about the end of the world. You do what?”
I groaned and let my head fall back against the back of the booth. Then I thought about it. “I don’t know. Try to stop it, maybe?”
“Bullshit,” Kidu said. “That’s the wrong feeling. That’s the wrong…” here he looked down and pounded lightly on the table, searching for the word. “The wrong attitude.”
“Oh,” I said. “Okay, Kidu. Enlighten me.”
“What does this mean?”
“It means tell me what you’re talking about.”
“Okay, okay,” he said, and filled my glass with another shot of soju. “The world is ending. Every day, it’s ending. All of the universe is eating itself until it is gone. There is chaos like a blister beneath the skin of the world, and the blister is… What is it… it is bleeding. And soon it will burst completely.”
“Fancy words, Kidu! Impressive.”
“They aren’t my words. I read them in a book I have. Where was I?”
“Bleeding blister, end of the world, etcetera.”
He snapped his fingers and then pointed at me. “Good. Yeah. So what you will do? Try to stop it? No. This is foolish to think. What you will do is, um… enjoy the ride.”
“Okay,” I said. Because I was drunk, and I didn’t know what he was talking about.
“In the book I have,” Kidu said, and drew with his finger in the condensation on the table, “it says that the only thing to do is drink the blood of the blister. To be drunk on the…
taeryo
… the ingredients… beneath the skin of the world.” He looked suddenly sheepish and childlike, staring up at me from beneath the uneven fringe of his bangs. “Do you want to do that with me?”
I said, “Kidu, I don’t understand what you’re — ”
“This is your only chance. You can be someone special. Someone better than anyone else. Or at least you can feel that way for a while.”
We locked eyes then. I couldn’t look away from him. He looked like he might cry, or maybe reach out and grab my face and kiss me. Behind us, someone shouted something at the soccer game on the bar TV.
“Fuck it,” I said. And we clicked glasses and took our shots. Then I said, “Sounds like a hell of a book. Can I read it?”
“No,” said Kidu.
§
They follow us up the hill, we the pied pipers, they the rats and the children of this place, hooting and singing and weaving around our stilts. We perform tricks for them as we walk. Little things to keep them entertained, to keep them interested. I summon up a magpie from
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