Blood Wore Them First
The Origin of Crimson Giggle
Long after Chuckles crafted the first Red Nosed Reapers, he found himself haunted—not by the screams, but by the silence. The laughter had stopped. The shoes had done their work. Souls devoured. Trails erased. And yet… something inside him itched. Not guilt. Never guilt. But boredom.
One night, under the broken lights of an abandoned funhouse, Chuckles heard it again: a laugh. High, wet, choking on itself. Not from joy—but from madness. It came from the mirror maze, behind the reflection of his own grinning face. When he smashed the glass, he found nothing but a pool of blood and an old pair of his own shoes, twitching.
He took them home.
He dissected them, stitch by stitch, thread by thread. What he found inside wasn’t fabric or foam. It was something alive—still warm, still smiling. Something that remembered. And from that discovery came the next evolution of his art: Crimson Giggle.
These weren’t meant to walk quietly. These were born to mock the dead. He soaked the leather in a concoction he refused to name. He painted with his hands, not brushes. And when they were done, they pulsed. The giggle was back—not a laugh, but a warning, echoing out of the tongues like breath through a wound.
He gave one pair to a dancer in New Orleans. She vanished mid-performance, leaving nothing but footprints and teeth. Another pair made it onto a runway in Berlin—until the model collapsed, grinning with her eyes torn open. Chuckles smiled. His shoes were alive again.
They say if you wear them too long, the giggle moves from your feet to your lungs.
And when it reaches your throat?
That’s when you stop being the one wearing the joke—
and start becoming it.
Crimson Giggle – Laugh 'til you bleed.
Long after Chuckles crafted the first Red Nosed Reapers, he found himself haunted—not by the screams, but by the silence. The laughter had stopped. The shoes had done their work. Souls devoured. Trails erased. And yet… something inside him itched. Not guilt. Never guilt. But boredom.
One night, under the broken lights of an abandoned funhouse, Chuckles heard it again: a laugh. High, wet, choking on itself. Not from joy—but from madness. It came from the mirror maze, behind the reflection of his own grinning face. When he smashed the glass, he found nothing but a pool of blood and an old pair of his own shoes, twitching.
He took them home.
He dissected them, stitch by stitch, thread by thread. What he found inside wasn’t fabric or foam. It was something alive—still warm, still smiling. Something that remembered. And from that discovery came the next evolution of his art: Crimson Giggle.
These weren’t meant to walk quietly. These were born to mock the dead. He soaked the leather in a concoction he refused to name. He painted with his hands, not brushes. And when they were done, they pulsed. The giggle was back—not a laugh, but a warning, echoing out of the tongues like breath through a wound.
He gave one pair to a dancer in New Orleans. She vanished mid-performance, leaving nothing but footprints and teeth. Another pair made it onto a runway in Berlin—until the model collapsed, grinning with her eyes torn open. Chuckles smiled. His shoes were alive again.
They say if you wear them too long, the giggle moves from your feet to your lungs.
And when it reaches your throat?
That’s when you stop being the one wearing the joke—
and start becoming it.
Crimson Giggle – Laugh 'til you bleed.
