Besides, Carcer was a nightmare. Vimes was used to the other kinds of nutjobs, the ones that acted quite normally right up to the point where they hauled off and smashed someone with a poker for blowing their nose noisily. But Carcer was different. He was in two minds, but instead of them being in conflict, they were in competition. He had a demon on both shoulders, urging one another on. And yet, he smiled all the time, in a cheerful, chirpy sort of way, and he acted like the kind of rascal who made a dodgy living selling gold watches that go green after a week. And he appeared to be convinced, utterly convinced, that he never did anything really wrong. He’d stand there, amid the carnage, blood on his hands and stolen jewelry in his pocket, and with an expression of injured innocence, declare “Me? What did I do?” And it was believable, right up until you looked deep into those cheeky, smiling eyes, and saw, deep down, the demons looking back.