‘ In this city of cheap human material, no instincts can flourish, no dark and unusual passions can be aroused—there is only a photo montage of a candy coated world cut out of last years mouldering newspapers’
In every century, in every society known to exist there is always a being, a man of exceptional intelligence and ruthless charm. A man so lost and devoured by his own madness and unrivaled depravity, one that sees the world through smoky blood stained lenses. Obsessed with the human mind, with life, love, sex, anatomy, death and re-birth—he seeks to find perfection, a means to rid the world of its putrid black filth hollowed within the worlds beauties. Aptly named at birth by his mildly abusive mother—but rather not greeted by his father as the man was away on holiday in the south of France rather constantly—more or less taking his “business meeting” f*cking some two bit whore in a seedy Parisian motel. Vincent Mangors mother Amelia Mangor was a somewhat destitute Hollywood hotshot runway model, overthrown once she reached the peak of her age—and more or less found herself pregnant with child—wherein depressed in her maniacal post mortem mid-life crisis, made fast friends with the ‘bottle’.
Vincents madness hadn’t spurned with the escalated abuse of his mother, his fathers absence in his life, nor did it start when he cheerfully removed the decaying filth of amassing life in his mothers body—leaving nothing but a hollowed out soulless bleeding shell—or in otherwords, separated the ugliness that lurked inside from the beauty that was on the outside. It started when he reached puberty—when he started noticing girls..and girls started noticing…how much of a sad pathetic loser he was. Then came the solution…the means to solve this problem with the courting of the opposite sex. If one could separate the ugliness from the beauty that was skin deep as he done so with his mother—then perhaps like all the others girls good both in and out, they would be the same—and thus the police hired on this particular grisly investigations of murders—would call the man, the genius behind his own Wonderland—Vincent, the infamous ‘Toymaker.’ Seeking to preserve life in it’s greatest, healthiest of forms—seeking out toys, vying only pretty faces that taunt him with rosy cheeks and paper thin smiles—mocking him with laughter, venomous ridicule, and thoughts addressed to crack a sneer in a stitched up heart that had been broken and mended far too many times. Sickly fascinated with the skin deep beauty—the Toymaker seeks to seperate the delicious purity, the fragrance of loveliness from the putrid black, rotten core decayed with cruelty, cutting away the flesh in crimson bloodied strips from the heart.
To the eyes one could surmise very little of the Toymaker—seeing the way his…’dolls..his toys’ were mangled in such a way..one might picture a large man with meaty hands and a sinister scowl like Mr.Hyde—Vincent however appeared much of the wisened, perhaps over zealous Dr.jekyll. He is bent slightly crooked, walking lowly—down on himself-seeming to disappear and hide under a lush black silk opera cape. In bony bandaged alabaster hands, artistic fingers raw with stitched up self mutilation, he often leans upon a cane—brandishing a severed hand clutching a silver skull. Vacant dark eyes mask wisdom beyond the ages, un-marred by a tarnished youthful face. This wiry thin, blonde haired man, admires the beauty of deaths decay—like the feel of a new glove—his assistants, images of beauty stripped of their vile cores walk like robotic stop motion dolls—alluring eyes made to ensnare the heart and mind in a deadly vice, in shackles as it is made to watch it’s own painful breaking. These windows too the dark soul within—removed with forceps—plucked out like a tasty appetizer stabbed with a crab fork leaving hollow cavities in a deadened bone white face. The brain—the powerhouse of wicked thoughts—purged with a simple laceration of the scalp—a pounding crunch as the cranial cavity is broken—and the clogged stem—of the exposed brain cleared away with one cup of drainol—eating the flesh away, removing all thoughts of deaths decay. These dolls—all newly made beautiful fantasies inspired by the inner glimpse of true beauty—driven by mere mechanics rather then sheer will or force, because the Toymaker has yet too meet a machine with a heart that can love—and a heart that can break.
Shayra- More or less a prize won for his brooding elder sibling Esriel, in a technicality by pure vile trickery and cruelty on his part. Shayra had been a runaway slave, while escaping her previous master--she lost her sibling in the effort. Vincent appeared too her posing an offer she was not able too refuse. If she promised too serve his brother as a slave and bring that fathomable smile upon his face again, Vincent would give Shayras sister her life back--the very moment before her death. After she'd agreed he literally gave her sister her life back the moment before her death--so she was screaming, crying, choking up water while on land trapped in an un-ending torment. After he'd met her begging of him too just end it, he did so--taking her without another word.
((To get a good idea of this…Toymaker watch ‘The Street of Crocodiles’ by the brothers Quay, or if you can’t manage to aqquire a copy…watch the “doll” scene in the movie ‘The Cell’ you’ll get a pretty good picture of this nutjobs perfect little world.))
Below are one of Toymakers "theme songs"
"Empty" by Emperor